At seven years old, I shoved my childhood sweetheart out of the path of a speeding car. The impact shattered my skull, and when I finally woke up, the bright, quick-witted girl I used to be was gone. I was simple. But Wesley didn’t abandon me. He stayed. He laughed at my nonsensical jokes, played make-believe with me, and the moment we turned twenty-two, he made me his wife. But after the wedding, everything changed. Wesley claimed he had developed a severe case of sensory aversion—a hyper-sensitivity to order and germs. If I touched a dish on the table, he deemed it contaminated. He would throw the entire meal into the trash and go to bed hungry rather than eat it. If I drank from a cup, it went straight into the garbage. Even in sleep, if my arm accidentally brushed against his, he would bolt upright in the dead of night, rush to the bathroom, and scrub his skin with a coarse sponge until it was raw and angry red. I didn’t understand the medical jargon of his condition, but I hated seeing him in pain. So, I quietly ordered a bulk box of latex gloves. I wore them to bed. I wore them to cook. When I handed him a glass of water, I kept my bare hands tucked away, letting only the cold, blue rubber touch the glass. Then came the afternoon my mother asked me to bring him lunch at his office. Mallory, his new assistant, intercepted me in the lobby. She took the warm thermos from my hands, and with her other hand, she casually offered Wesley her half-finished iced latte. Without a moment’s hesitation, Wesley took it. He wrapped his lips around the straw she had just used and took several deep, contented sips. I stood frozen, my mind struggling to process the scene. Was his condition gone? Had he been cured? Mallory looked over her shoulder at me, a slow, knowing smirk pulling at her lips. Then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Only a simpleton like you would believe a grown man has a “sensory aversion” disorder. He isn’t sick, Daisy. He’s just physically repulsed by your broken brain. For once, my slow mind grasped the weight of the word repulsed. My chest ached so deeply that I bit my lip until it bled, tasting copper. And then, a memory flickered. Elliot. Elliot was the neighborhood pest when we were kids—the boy who always teased me, who had spent his entire life picking fights with Wesley. Two days ago, he had sent me a text out of the blue. He had called Wesley a fraud, a parasite. He told me his research lab in Boston had made a breakthrough in neuro-reconstruction—a procedure that could fix my damaged brain. He asked me if I wanted to leave with him. At the time, I had assumed he was just being cruel, trying to mess with me like he always did. But now, looking at Wesley’s lips on Mallory’s straw, I stared at my phone and typed a single word: Yes. 1 Wesley looked up and saw me standing there, his eyes dropping to the thermos in Mallory’s hands. He stepped forward, snatched it away, and shoved it back into my chest. “I told you, I don’t eat food cooked by outsiders,” he said, his voice flat. “Take it back.” Outsiders. The word stung. Instinctively, my eyes drifted past his shoulder. Mallory had made herself comfortable on Wesley’s private leather sofa, tearing open a bag of potato chips. “It’s lunchtime,” she said with a shrug, popping a chip into her mouth. “I’m starving.” Salty crumbs spilled onto her lap, tumbling down into the deep crevices of the expensive leather. Wesley followed my gaze, but instead of the cold rage he usually reserved for messes, he simply let out a fond, helpless sigh. “Those are dry. Do you want me to grab you something to drink?” I stared at the crumbs on the sofa. My mind dragged me back to last winter, when Wesley had driven me to the clinic for my routine neurological checkup. After the blood draw, my blood sugar had plummeted. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely hold myself upright. I had taken a half-eaten bagel from my bag, desperate to stop the trembling. The moment I took a bite, Wesley slammed on the brakes. His face was entirely expressionless as he opened the passenger door. “Get out of my car. I don’t tolerate crumbs. You’re ruining the leather.” It was pouring rain that day. I had begged him, crying, promising I would be so careful, that I wouldn’t let a single speck fall. But he had pushed me out anyway, locking the doors and driving away. I couldn’t remember the way home. My geography was a jumbled mess of colors and wrong turns. By the time my mother found me shivering under a bus stop hours later, I was on the verge of passing out from hypoglycemia and burning up with a high fever. When my furious mother confronted him, I had held her back, weeping. Wesley is sick, Mom. He didn’t mean to. His illness makes him do it. But now, watching him smile at Mallory’s mess, I couldn’t make the pieces fit. I stubbornly held the thermos higher, my hands trembling. “I spent three months learning how to make this from Mom. Your stomach has been acting up, Wesley. It’s healthy. And I wore my gloves the whole time—it’s perfectly clean. No crumbs.” He didn’t reach for it. His face hardened. “How can you even compare yourself to her?” he muttered, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You’re nothing but a burden—” He cut himself off, but the damage was done. With a sharp, impatient thrust of his hand, he shoved the thermos away. “Just go home, Daisy. Stop making a scene.” The thermos slipped from my grip, crashing onto the marble floor. The lid popped off, and the boiling hot broth splashed directly over the back of my hand. Blisters bloomed instantly across my skin, pale and agonizing. The pain was so sharp my eyes filled with tears. Around us, the office staff began to whisper, their eyes burning into me. I knelt down, my hand throbbing, and picked up the dented metal canister. A few of the blisters had already popped, leaving a raw, sticky mess against my skin. Wesley stared down at my hand, his lips parting slightly. “I’ll… I’ll take you to the ER,” he muttered, his voice suddenly sounding hollow. 2 I took a step back, cradling my burnt hand to my chest. “No,” I whispered. “I can go by myself.” He froze, a look of genuine shock crossing his face. I suppose he was used to the old Daisy—the girl who would chase after any scrap of kindness he threw her way, keeping herself happy for days on a single smile. But today, I didn’t want his kindness. I was slow, and I knew I would probably forget which bus to take, but I didn’t want to call my mother either. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this. Gathering what little courage I had, I tapped the shoulder of a kind-looking woman on the street. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice shaking. “Could you tell me how to get to Cherry Creek?” The woman gave me a sympathetic look and patiently wrote down the directions. I took three wrong buses, getting lost twice in the sprawling transit system. By the time I finally reached my mother’s front door, I collapsed into her arms, sobbing. “Mom,” I wept, “how do I get a divorce?” My mother’s face drained of color. She gripped my shoulders. “Daisy, sweetie, look at me. Did Wesley hurt you? What did he do?” I thought about it carefully, trying to find the words to explain the ache in my chest. “Mom… he lets other people eat chips on his sofa. But he threw me out in the rain for eating a bagel.” My mother’s eyes brimmed with tears. She brushed a stray curl from my forehead. “My sweet girl,” she whispered. “Do you know what divorce means?” “Yes,” I said softly. “It means we don’t live together anymore. And… it means I don’t have to wear the gloves.” I pulled the blue latex gloves from my pockets and placed them on the kitchen table. “Mom, I don’t want to wear them anymore.” My mother turned her face away, her shoulders shaking as she tried to hide her tears. By the time I returned to the apartment I shared with Wesley, my phone screen lit up. If you’re coming to Boston, Elliot’s message read, how are you going to get that bastard to let you go? I checked my call history. There wasn’t a single missed call or text from Wesley. With clumsy fingers, I typed my reply: My mom said she will help me with the divorce. In a month, I’ll be free to come to Boston for the surgery. I told my mother I wanted to pack my things myself. A few sweaters, a favorite blanket… I folded them slowly, placing them one by one into a duffel bag. I was only halfway through when the front door clicked open. Mallory was supporting Wesley, who was heavily intoxicated, his face flushed a deep, sluggish red. The moment Mallory saw me, she called out sharply, “Go make him some hangover broth. You’re simple, but surely you can manage a basic soup.” She paused, lowering her voice. “And don’t tell him I told you to do it. He’ll throw it up if he knows. If it weren’t for you embarrassing him at the office today, he wouldn’t have drunk himself into this state!” She walked past me toward the hallway bathroom to grab a damp towel. She moved with an easy, practiced familiarity, as if this were her home, not mine. I found myself following her to the doorway. “How do you know where our bathroom is?” I asked quietly. She turned, a smug, pitying smile playing on her lips. “Oh, Daisy. Where do you think Wesley brings me when you’re away at your therapy sessions three days a week?” I stood frozen in the hallway. Three days a week, I spent my afternoons at the rehabilitation center. Wesley had never accompanied me. He always said he was drowning in meetings. I watched her return to the living room and gently wipe Wesley’s face. Wesley reached up, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. He pressed her hand against his cheek, nuzzling into her palm with the soft, vulnerable sigh of a cat greeting its owner. They always called me simple. But I wasn’t blind. I had watched enough movies to know what a loving husband looked like. It looked like this. It had never looked like us. I remembered a night last winter when Wesley had come down with a sudden, raging fever. He was shivering, drenched in cold sweat. I had tried to place a cool washcloth on his forehead to help him. But the moment he opened his eyes and saw my face, his expression twisted. With a burst of frantic, feverish strength, he shoved me away. “Don’t touch me!” he had screamed. I had stumbled backward, my head cracking violently against the sharp edge of the coffee table. The gash was deep; it took twelve stitches to close. Yet here he was, perfectly calm, letting Mallory touch him, a soft smile gracing his lips. A dull, heavy ache settled deep in my chest. I walked back to the bedroom and continued packing. Reaching into the back of the closet, my fingers brushed against two small, hand-painted ceramic figurines. When I first became simple after the accident, the nightmares were relentless. I would scream in my sleep, dreaming of massive black tires rolling over my chest. To soothe me, Wesley had taken a pottery class. He had molded two little figures—one of him, one of me—and painted them himself. He had told me that as long as I kept them close, he would always protect me. I had kept them on my nightstand for fifteen years. I stared at the little clay faces, my heart torn. Just then, Wesley groaned and sat up on the sofa. I walked out, hesitating, and held the figurines out to him. “Do you want these?” I asked. 3 In my rush, I had forgotten to put on my gloves. Wesley’s eyes flared with instinctual disgust. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he slapped my hand away. “I told you, don’t bring things you’ve touched near me!” The figurines flew from my hand, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor. Miraculously, they didn’t shatter. I scrambled down, desperately gathering them back into my arms, clutching them to my chest. Mallory watched my frantic movements, a cruel amusement dancing in her eyes. “Oh, those are actually so retro and cute,” she purred, turning to Wesley. “I love them.” Wesley’s expression softened instantly as he looked at her. “They’re just cheap junk,” he said carelessly. “If you want them, take them.” I squeezed the little ceramic figures tighter, their cold edges digging into my palms. They weren’t cheap junk. They were my childhood. Mallory crouched down to my level, her eyes searching mine. “Do you mind, Daisy?” I looked at the painted smiles on the little clay faces. Together forever, he had promised. But forever was over. “Sure,” I whispered. “You can have them.” Later, when Mallory went downstairs to call a cab, I walked into the kitchen to pour a glass of water. Wesley was sitting alone on the sofa. “Why are you acting so strange today?” he asked suddenly, his voice tight. I paused, holding the glass. “Wesley, what would happen if we got a divorce?” He bolted upright, his face instantly darkening with fury. “Are you doing this on purpose?” he spat, stepping toward me. “Is this a threat? Are you trying to make sure the entire town brands me as an ungrateful monster?” He stopped just inches from me, his jaw clenched, before flinching back as if my very presence made him sick. “Do you think I wanted this life?” he hissed, his voice trembling with a lifetime of buried resentment. “Who in their right mind wants to be shackled to a simpleton forever?” He froze, the words hanging heavily in the quiet room. I froze, too. Simpleton. Since the day I woke up in that hospital bed at seven years old, I had heard that word whispered behind my back a thousand times. But hearing it from Wesley’s lips felt sharper than the boiling broth that had blistered my hand. When we were children, the kids at school would circle me, clapping their hands and chanting, Daisy is a dummy! Daisy is a dummy! Wesley would throw himself into the fray, fighting them until his knuckles were bloody and his face was bruised, screaming at them that I wasn’t stupid. Now, he turned away, his voice cracking as he retreated toward the bedroom. “I wanted you to have a normal life, Daisy. But you’re just… broken.” I didn’t want to be broken. My mother always told me that before the crash, I was the brightest girl in school, my bedroom walls lined with spelling bee ribbons and science fair medals. But after my seventh birthday, all of that was erased. The next day, I went to visit Wesley’s parents. They had always treated me like their own daughter, kissing my forehead and calling me their sweet girl. Years ago, when I had accidentally caught my arm on a hot stove, his mother had even offered her own skin for my graft. Knowing I was leaving made my chest ache for them. “Dad,” I said softly, hugging his father. “Please don’t forget to take your heart medicine. Set an alarm on your phone.” “And Mom,” I turned to his mother, “is your back still hurting? Don’t lift the heavy laundry baskets anymore.” “Make sure to water the hydrangeas in the garden, or they’ll wither.” They smiled warmly, patting my hands and praising me for being so thoughtful. But that evening, after I returned to the apartment, I heard Wesley’s phone ringing through the thin walls. His parents were on speakerphone. “Are you mistreating Daisy?” his father’s voice boomed, thick with anger. “And what is this nonsense about that girl from your office?” “There is a charity gala tomorrow night,” his mother commanded. “You will bring Daisy. You will stand by her side and show everyone that she is your wife.” When the call ended, Wesley slammed his door open. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a terrible, desperate rage. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging so deeply into my flesh that his nails bit into my skin. “Daisy! Is this all you know how to do? Running to my parents to force my hand?” I gasped from the pain. “I didn’t tell them anything. I promise.” He let go of me, shaking, and locked himself in his study. Soon, the sound of breaking glass echoed through the door. He was drinking again. Over the two years of our marriage, he had drank more and more. I knew from the public health pamphlets that alcohol was poison. I stood in the dark hallway for a long time, listening to the muffled sounds of his despair. Finally, I took out my phone and messaged Elliot. Can we do the surgery sooner? My mom says the divorce papers are almost ready. I want to leave. That night, I slept in the guest room. In the middle of the night, a sudden, suffocating pressure seized my throat. I gasped, waking to find Wesley hovering over me in the dark. The man who had refused to touch me for two years was finally touching me—his hands wrapped tightly around my neck. His voice was a broken, ragged whisper. “I never asked you to save me.” 4 “Why do I have to spend my entire life paying for a debt I didn’t ask for? Why do I have to be ruined because of you?” Was saving his life a mistake? Was loving him a crime? I remembered when we were children, how he would hold my hand tightly on the playground and declare to anyone who would listen: “Daisy is going to be my bride. When we grow up, I’m marrying her.” He had been so happy then. I tried to claw at his hands, to breathe. But then, a hot tear fell from his cheek onto my forehead. Wesley was crying. “Do you have any idea how much I hate you?” he sobbed. His tears felt scalding, like acid against my skin. Being married to me was slowly killing him. My hands fell away from his wrists. I stopped fighting. The grip around my throat tightened, the room spinning into darkness as the air left my lungs. Just as the blackness was about to swallow me whole, he suddenly let go, stumbling backward out of the room. I lay there in the quiet dark, staring at the ceiling, my fingers gently tracing the bruises forming on my neck. On the night of the gala, Wesley still made me go. But he walked so fast, his long strides leaving me far behind in the crowded foyer. The ballroom was grand, filled with people in glittering gowns and sharp suits, holding sparkling champagne flutes. But their eyes on me were cold and sharp. “Why did he bring the simpleton?” “His parents probably threatened to cut him off if he didn’t.” “Poor Wesley. Tied to a mute anchor for the rest of his life.” A group of younger guests began to snicker, deliberately stepping in my path, pulling at the hem of my dress to make me stumble. In an instant, I was seven years old again. I remembered the kids who used to mimic my uneven walk, mocking my slurred words, locking me in the school bathroom for an entire afternoon while I cried in the dark. I had developed a crippling terror of crowds. But back then, Wesley had held back a grade just to stay in my class and protect me. He would hold my hand through the hallways, whispering: “Don’t look at them, Daisy. I’m right here.” Now, my knees shook, and my chest felt tight. I looked toward Wesley, silently begging him to save me. But he didn’t even look my way. He was guiding Mallory through the crowd, introducing her proudly to the senior partners and executives. “This is my personal assistant, Mallory,” he said, his voice warm and respectable. “She’s brilliant. Keep an eye on her.” I retreated to a dark corner of the ballroom, trembling like a ghost. Suddenly, a deafening crack echoed from the ceiling. The massive crystal chandelier groaned, its iron supports snapping as it began to plunge toward the center of the ballroom. Screams erupted. People scrambled in wild panic. Wesley stood frozen directly beneath it, paralyzed by shock. Without thinking, my legs moved. I ran toward him, desperate to push him out of the way, just like I had done when we were seven. Let this be my final gift to him. A final thank you for the boy he used to be. I lunged forward, shoving his chest with all my might. “Wesley, run!” But even in that split second of mortal danger, his physical repulsion won. “Get off me!” he snarled, shoving me back with a look of pure disgust. He reached past me, grabbing Mallory’s hand to pull her to safety. And then, the chandelier crashed. The weight of the heavy metal and glass slammed into my left leg, pinning me to the floor. A sharp, blinding pain tore through me, and the world began to pool with blood. Before the darkness took me, I caught a glimpse of Wesley’s face. He was pale as death. When I woke up, the scent of antiseptic filled my nose. My left leg was wrapped in thick layers of white gauze, throbbing with a dull, white-hot agony. My mother sat by my bedside, her face red and swollen from crying. “You’re safe, sweetie. Mom is here.” “I was so wrong,” she sobbed, pressing her forehead against my hand. “We should have never let them force him into this marriage…” So it was true. He had been forced. The door clicked open, and Wesley walked in. One side of his face was heavily bruised and swollen—my mother had clearly confronted him. But there was no remorse in his eyes. Only a wild, unhinged resentment. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you, Daisy?” he screamed, kicking a metal tray beside the bed. “You just want me to owe you forever! First you saved me as a kid, making me feel like a criminal if I didn’t marry you. Now I finally find someone I love, and my parents fire me because of you! Are you happy now?” “I never asked for your stupid sacrifices! Why didn’t you just die in that car crash fifteen years ago?” I clutched the hospital blanket tightly. I wanted to tell him I was sorry. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. Wesley stared at me, his chest heaving, before turning on his heel and walking out. He never came back. The doctors told my mother my leg had suffered a complex compound fracture. She cried until she had no tears left. “She did everything for him,” she wept. “How could he be so cruel?” He wasn’t there for my surgeries. He wasn’t there when the doctor told me I might walk with a permanent limp. I only found out where he was when Mallory sent me a text message. So what if they fired me? You’re stuck in a hospital bed, and Wesley is here in Vermont with me, taking care of me. 5 So, Mallory was upset, and they had gone to Vermont to clear their heads. My mother handed me a thick envelope. Inside was a set of divorce papers. Slowly, carefully, I signed my name at the bottom of the page, tracing each letter with precision. Elliot called me as soon as he heard about the accident. “Do we need to push back the surgery?” he asked, his voice uncharacteristically tense. I looked down at my cast. No, I typed back. Keep the date. It didn’t matter. My leg and my brain were two different things. If the surgery failed, at least the pain would finally end. On the day of my discharge, my mother held me close in the back of the car. “Are you absolutely sure about this surgery, Daisy? No matter what, you will always be my perfect little girl.” I wanted to cry, but I forced myself to smile. “But Mom, I want to be smart again.” Her tears spilled onto my shoulder. “But the risks… what if something goes wrong?” “I’m not afraid.” I was terrified. But I had to try. I insisted on going alone. Elliot had made it clear that the procedure carried a high mortality rate. If I didn’t make it, I wanted my mother to be spared the immediate sight of it. She held me so tightly I could barely breathe, her quiet sobs filling the car. The next day, I asked her to drop me off at the apartment one last time. I wanted to say a proper goodbye. Propping myself up on my crutches, I spent the afternoon in the kitchen. I made a simple dinner: chicken pot pie, roasted green beans, and a warm tomato soup. Simple, comforting dishes. People always said I was a useless burden, but I wanted to do one last thing for him before I left. My hands were blistered and burned from my clumsy handling of the hot pans, but I pushed through the pain. This was all I knew how to do. But Wesley had never once eaten a meal I cooked. When Wesley finally walked through the door, he stared at the spread on the table, his brow furrowing. “What is all this?” I held up my gloved hands, trying to smile. “I wanted to make you dinner. Just one bite?” He checked his watch impatiently. “Mallory is meeting a client alone. It’s not safe. I need to go.” I reached out, catching the hem of his coat. “Please don’t go. I have something to tell you.” I wanted to say I’m sorry, Thank you, and Goodbye. His expression twisted into disgust, and he violently ripped his coat from my grip. “What is wrong with you? Mallory is waiting!” “She already lost her job because of you. What more do you want?” The heavy oak door slammed shut. I stood alone in the quiet kitchen, staring at the steaming food. Slowly, I picked up the plates and scraped every single dish into the trash. I pulled off the blue latex gloves, placed them neatly in the center of the empty table, and walked out. Elliot was waiting for me outside. My parents met us at the airport. My mother held back her tears as she hugged me one last time. “Go, my darling. I’ll make sure he signs those papers if I have to drag him to court myself.” “Okay,” I whispered. The flight to Boston took several hours. As the wheels touched down on the tarmac, I realized I would never see Wesley again. The realization didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. But the moment I turned my phone back on, a flood of desperate messages from Wesley began to pour in, lighting up the screen like a dying star.

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On my wedding day, my husband killed himself. Before he cut his own throat, he left two letters on the vanity of our bridal suite. The first accused me of murder—specifically, of orchestrating the car crash that had wiped out the Cross family years ago. The second was a love letter, a confession of his undying devotion to Mallory Cross. In it, he claimed that I had been so desperate to marry him that I staged the accident to get Mallory out of the picture. Though Mallory had survived, she was left with severe psychological trauma and was currently receiving treatment at a private facility in Europe. Galen wrote that he couldn’t live with the weight of this ugly truth anymore. His suicide was an act of penance. As amends, he left his entire estate to charity, hoping the law would finally find me and make me pay. The scandal tore through the media like wildfire. Yet, I didn’t panic. Because a ten-years-older version of Galen had just crossed the boundaries of time to tell me the truth. 1. When I walked into the bedroom, Galen was already gone. He was still dressed in his tailored, pristine wedding tuxedo, but the dark crimson from his carotid artery had sprayed across the cream-colored ceiling, dripping slowly onto the white rug. Within minutes, the soft, romantic acoustic melody playing in the courtyard was drowned out by the shrill wail of police sirens. The police cordoned off the estate. Every guest was detained for questioning. But as the prime suspect, I was locked alone in the library. The heavy oak windows were bolted shut. Any object sharp enough to cause harm had been cleared from the room. I was left in the stifling silence of that massive room, left to drown in the sheer absurdity of the day. Then, the heavy door clicked open. Framed in the doorway was the very face I had been mourning. “Galen?” I took a step forward, my hands trembling, my chest tight. “But… you’re dead. I saw you.” My mind was spinning. The man I loved had accused me of killing a family, killed himself to escape me, and now… here he was. I pinched the soft skin of my thigh, hard enough to bruise, to make sure I wasn’t trapped in some sleep-deprived nightmare. But the urgency on his face was entirely real. He scanned the room, his eyes turning bloodshot. “I’m too late,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Iris, I don’t have much time. You have to listen to me. Every single word.” He closed the distance between us, grabbing my shoulders. “I am from ten years in the future. Today… this whole wedding, this suicide—it’s a trap. A carefully orchestrated scam.” “I didn’t die. I’ve been having an affair with Mallory for years, but I was too much of a coward to break our engagement.” “So we faked my death. The plan was for me to slip out of the country and start a new life with her in Europe. The charity donation? It was just a legal loophole to transfer our marital assets out of your reach so we could live comfortably abroad.” I stood frozen, the breath knocked out of me. Years ago, my father had died in a tragic accident while saving Galen’s life. After that, the Barrett family took me in. Galen’s father, Uncle Hector, knew about our feelings and happily arranged our engagement. To ensure I would always be secure, he wrote a clause into his will: Galen would only inherit the family fortune if he married me. This entire performance—the blood, the letters, the grief—was nothing but a grand exit strategy to bypass his father’s will. I stumbled back, my boots heavy on the hardwood floor. The man in front of me had Galen’s face, his tall frame, the faint scent of sandalwood and rain that I had loved for a decade. But the words coming out of his mouth were monstrous. “That’s impossible,” I stammered, shaking my head. “Galen loves me. He would never do this to me.” Galen’s eyes welled with tears. He grabbed my hands, his grip tight and desperate. “I am so sorry, Iris. I regretted it. I spent a decade drowning in remorse, and I built this machine to stop it. You have no idea what happens to you over the next ten years.” 2. Galen checked the glowing watch on his wrist and pulled me down onto the leather sofa. He took a ragged breath, steeling himself. “In the first year after I left, you were ruthlessly doxed. The internet tore you apart. You lost your job at the firm, and under the immense stress, you miscarried.” My heart stopped. A baby. My hand instinctively drifted to my lower stomach. My father’s final wish before he died was to see me married, happy, and holding a child of my own. But my health had always been fragile, and the doctors told me the chances of conceiving were slim. The Barrett relatives had whispered behind my back, but Galen had always shielded me. He had stood by me through every painful injection, every fertility clinic visit, holding my hand and whispering promises when the tests came back negative. I thought we would never have a child. To find out I was pregnant now, amidst this horror, felt like a cruel joke from a sadistic god. “And my job?” I managed to ask, my voice barely a whisper. “How did they find out?” Galen lowered his gaze, unable to meet my eyes. “I didn’t think the firestorm would grow so big,” he muttered. “But Mallory and I… we knew you. We knew how smart you were, and I was terrified you’d find a crack in our story and track us down. So I hired online PR firms to keep you distracted. It was only supposed to keep you busy for a few weeks. But it spiraled out of control. You lost your career… and my mother disowned you.” “Your mother?” My eyes widened. But then the pieces clicked. Mallory had a degree in mass communications and investigative journalism; she knew exactly how to manufacture a villain. If she wanted to destroy someone, she didn’t just ruin their reputation—she erased their humanity. My mother, a proud, highly respected academic, could never bear the shame of having a daughter branded as a cold-blooded killer. A sharp pain bloomed in my chest. I could almost see her face—pale, cold, turning away from me in disgust as she signed the papers to cut me out of her life. “Galen, how could you?” I shoved him away, the tears finally spilling over. “Have you forgotten? When my father died, you knelt by his headstone and swore to God that you would protect my mother and me. If you wanted to hurt me, fine! But why did you have to drag her into your hell?” Galen reached for me, his expression frantic. “I didn’t mean for it to go that far! I swear, Iris, I didn’t.” “Once the news took off, I tried to check on you. But Mallory got pregnant with our first child. We were high-risk, and I had to focus on her. By the time things settled, I received the news that your mother had locked herself in her apartment and lit a charcoal grill. She died of carbon monoxide poisoning. And you… in your grief, you lost the baby. The complications were so severe they had to perform an emergency hysterectomy.” His voice was soft, but every word felt like a serrated blade sawing through my ribs. I closed my eyes, forcing down the violent, black tide of rage rising in my throat. “And then?” “You had nothing left,” he whispered. “No family, no career, no money—because I took it all with me. In your desperation, you took a job at a high-end lounge downtown, hosting wealthy clients. But because of the murder accusations, the other girls targeted you. You were treated like dirt.” 3. I fought for breath, trying to keep myself from unraveling in front of him. “When you saw what I had become, did you ever think to come forward? All it would have taken was one phone call. If you showed your face, the murder charge would have vanished. Did you do anything?” Galen hesitated, his fingers twitching. “I wanted to. I swear I did.” “But?” “But Mallory was running for a seat on the board of a major international human rights foundation. Her public image had to be spotless. If the truth came out about me, she would have been ruined.” “So… you let me rot.” I stared at him, the tears drying on my cheeks. “Did you forget that working for an international foundation was my dream? That was the career I went to school for.” Galen looked away. “I know. But I didn’t have a choice.” I cut off his excuses with a cold laugh. “Galen, I know myself. No matter how low I fell, I wouldn’t have stayed in the mud forever. What else did you do to make you build a time machine just to beg for my forgiveness?” If I had simply ended up a broken hostess, the Galen I knew would have felt a momentary pang of guilt and moved on. There had to be something more. Galen remained silent for a long moment, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. “You didn’t give up,” he admitted. “You studied during the day and worked the night shifts. You got accepted into a prestigious graduate program in London. And because the police never found any physical evidence linking you to the Cross accident, they finally dropped the investigation. You were on the verge of starting over.” “But?” Galen’s lip trembled. “The campus you got into… it was only twenty minutes from our estate in Hampstead. I was terrified you’d run into us, that you’d see me. So I forged a whistleblower letter. I used my connections on the board of trustees to pressure the university. They revoked your admission and blacklisted you from every major academic institution in Europe.” “You took the last piece of hope I had left.” Looking at him, I felt a deep, chilling hollow open in my chest. The girl I would have been… staying up under the dim yellow light of a cramped apartment, memorizing foreign policy terms, pushing through the shame and the physical exhaustion just to prove she was still worth something. And with a single stroke of his pen, Galen had wiped her out. “You are a monster, Galen,” I whispered, shaking my head. “A literal monster.” Galen reached out, trying to steady my shoulders, his own eyes brimming with tears. “Iris, please, hear me out. I realized I was wrong. The guilt was eating me alive, so I came back to find you. I left an envelope of cash at your apartment so you’d at least be financially secure. But Mallory found out. She thought I was still in love with you, and in a fit of rage, she tipped off the police. The old wedding ring I had left behind in the safe—the one they found near the ‘suicide’ scene—was suddenly tied to a forensic match. They convicted you. You were sentenced to three years in a state penitentiary. While you were inside, some of the inmates… they broke your leg.” He didn’t need to finish the story. I could piece together the rest. A disfigured, crippled ex-con, unable to find even a decent cleaning job, let alone host at a lounge. Left to rot in a damp, cheap rental on the edge of the city. I closed my eyes, grieving for the woman I would have been. “I regretted it, Iris. I truly did,” Galen pleaded, his voice breaking into a sob. “My life with Mallory wasn’t a fairy tale. She is demanding, ruthless, and entirely self-serving. To her, I was just a step on the ladder. Our marriage was constant warfare. She didn’t have your warmth. She didn’t support my dreams. She didn’t wake up to make me coffee, and she didn’t even remember that I’m deathly allergic to peanut butter.” “I missed you so much. I wanted to fix it. But by the time I finally swallowed my pride and went to look for you… you were already dead. You died alone in a basement apartment. Your body was so badly decomposed that the neighbors only noticed because of the smell.” “That image… it haunted me. I divorced Mallory, poured every dime of my inheritance into quantum research, just for a chance to see you again. To hear your voice.” I looked at the faint lines around his eyes, the deep fatigue etched into his face. “So,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “You want me to forgive you? You want us to play house and pretend you didn’t systematically destroy my life?” “Why on earth do you think I would ever give you another chance?” 4. Galen broke down, weeping openly, his face buried in his hands. “I know I don’t deserve it. I know I have no right to ask. But every single day after you died, I lived in a living hell of my own making. I just want to stop this from happening. We can have the life we were supposed to have.” Growing up, everyone said Galen and I were written in the stars. Until Mallory Cross moved in next door. She was loud, vibrant, and possessed an old-money confidence that drew Galen in. I watched him shift from cold indifference to quiet hesitation whenever her name was mentioned. I had my doubts back then. But I chose to trust him. I chose to trust the boy who had knelt at my father’s grave and promised to love me forever. That trust had cost me everything in another lifetime. “Galen,” I asked, my voice flat. “When did it start? Before or after we got engaged?” Galen took a ragged breath. “Before. She was my first love, Iris. She always held this idealized space in my mind. When she first came back to the States, I wanted to break things off with you, but then her family had that accident, and she vanished before I could say anything. When she returned years later, we ran into each other… and it just happened.” He looked up, desperate. “But I was wrong. The nostalgia blinded me. She isn’t the angel I thought she was. You… you were the one I should have cherished.” He choked on his words, his chest heaving. “I saw the autopsy report from your future self, Iris. Your body… it was covered in old, poorly healed fractures. Your fingers were misshapen. You had blunt force trauma to the back of your skull. I can’t bear the thought of what you went through.” He reached out to grab my hand again. “I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell them I faked my death. Just… please, give me a chance to make it right.” This was the first time in our lives I had ever seen Galen look so small, so utterly broken. It was the first time he had ever begged me for anything. He expected me to soften. He expected the good, gentle Iris to wrap her arms around him and offer absolution. But he didn’t know me at all. I reached out, gently wiping a tear from his cheek, and leaned in close. “Thank you for the story, Galen. It was very illuminating.” I leaned closer, my voice a quiet, freezing whisper. “But there’s one thing you got wrong.” “The car crash that killed the Cross family? I actually did it.”

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On the eve of our wedding, a video of my fiancée in bed with her best male friend found its way to my phone. When I confronted her, she didn’t even flinch. “We just slept in the same bed, Gilbert. We didn’t actually do anything. Can you not be so disgusting?” Her best friend wore his indignation like a shield. “Come on, Gilbert. If Mona and I wanted to be together, do you really think you’d even be in the picture?” Seeing her friend’s wounded pride, Mona didn’t hesitate to throw down an ultimatum. “If you’re going to keep accusing us like this, then maybe we shouldn’t get married at all.” I looked at her, and suddenly, the urge to argue vanished. If that was how she felt, then fine. The wedding was off. …… “Go easy… that hurts…” The video cut off abruptly right there, but my heart had already skipped a violent beat. I watched it three times. The tiny, distinct mole right between her eyebrows was impossible to mistake. It was her. Mona, my fiancée. And the man in the frame was someone I knew all too well. Brody, her self-proclaimed “brother” and best friend. “What are you doing? Go pay the tab. This is our rehearsal dinner after-party—you aren’t seriously going to make everyone else pay, are you?” Mona’s voice drifted over my shoulder, cutting through the noise of the lounge. I locked my phone, turning slowly to face her. Meeting her slightly annoyed gaze, a part of me still struggled to accept the reality of her betrayal. We had been together for five years. Five years of building a life, or so I thought. But as I stared at her, the pieces of the past half-decade began to click into place, forming a picture I had spent years refusing to see. We had fought about Brody more times than I could count. Every single time, Mona would offer the same tired defense: “We grew up together, Gilbert. He’s like a brother to me. Trust me, I don’t see him that way, and he doesn’t see me that way. It’s purely platonic. We’re just bros.” Purely platonic. Did platonic friends wreck bedsheets together? “Do you want to explain what this is?” I turned my phone around and slid it across the marble bar toward her. I expected panic, or at least a flicker of guilt. Instead, she barely glanced at the screen before rolling her eyes. “Oh, please. We were just playing a game. What’s the big deal?” “A game?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” Mona bristled at my tone, her eyes turning icy. “Gilbert, seriously, what is wrong with you? Did you hire someone to follow me? Where did you even get this? Brody and I are completely innocent. We fell asleep in the same bed—that is it. And of course, your mind immediately goes to the gutter.” She stepped closer, her voice rising in defensive anger. “You are so suffocating. Is it honestly that impossible for you to believe that men and women can just be friends?” Before I could utter a word, Brody walked out of the VIP booth. His eyes darted to the screen of my phone, and almost instantly, his face fell into an expression of wounded innocence. “Hey, Mona, don’t get upset with him,” Brody said, his voice dripping with gentle reason. “He probably just doesn’t trust me.” He turned his gaze to me, looking remarkably earnest. “Gilbert, man, I swear to you, Mona and I have nothing going on.” It was the same script they had run a hundred times before. In the past, whenever they played these roles—the misunderstood free spirit and the patient, peace-making friend—I would cave. I would apologize for my jealousy, feeling like the villain in their indie movie. But tonight, the spell was broken. Sensing my silence, Mona finally lost her patience. “Gilbert, I swear, I don’t even know who you are anymore. If you’re going to keep letting your insecurity poison us, then maybe we shouldn’t get married tomorrow. The wedding is off.” Brody looked more panicked than I was. “Mona, come on, don’t say that. Gilbert’s just acting out because he loves you so much. He didn’t mean it…” “Stop it, Brody,” Mona snapped, grabbing her coat. “Stop defending him. He just has a sick, dirty mind.” She turned on her heel and stormed out of the lounge. Brody glanced between me and the exit, letting out a heavy, theatrical sigh before jogging after her. But as he rounded the corner near the exit, he paused. He looked back at me, and the mask of worried innocence slipped away, replaced by a smug, mocking smirk. In that split second, everything became crystal clear. He was baiting me. He wanted me to see it. And I had been playing the fool for five long years. Once their shadows disappeared down the hall, I walked back toward our private lounge to grab my coat and keys, planning to leave quietly. But as I approached the heavy mahogany door, the muffled sound of laughter drifted through the crack. “Do you think Gilbert actually believes them?” a male voice asked, snickering. “Oh, he’s absolutely clueless,” one of Mona’s bridesmaids chimed in. “I mean, who else would let their fiancée hang all over another guy like that? It’s pathetic.” “And all that ‘we’re just besties’ crap… please. Did you see that video from last weekend? If my fiancé did that, I’d throw his ring in the trash.” Their words cut through the muffled bass of the lounge music, settling like lead in my chest. They all knew. Every single one of her friends knew exactly what was going on. Whenever I had expressed even a hint of discomfort at past parties, these same people would pat my shoulder, offering reassuring smiles. “Aw, Gilbert, you’re overthinking it. We’ve all been tight since college.” “Yeah, man, they’re practically siblings. Don’t ruin a good night.” It had all been a joke to them. I was the punchline. I let out a quiet, bitter laugh to myself, then pushed the door open. The laughter in the room died instantly. The silence was deafening. “Oh, hey, Gilbert,” someone said, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “Where did Mona and Brody go?” “No idea,” I said, my voice deadpan. I grabbed my coat off the leather sofa. As I headed for the door, one of Mona’s friends stepped into my path. “Wait, Gilbert, you’re leaving? Mona invited us all out for her bachelorette send-off tonight. You’re still covering the tab, right?” I looked at him, letting a slow, empty smile spread across my face. “You should probably call Mona for that. After all, I was just a guest tonight.” The guy caught the coldness in my eyes. His smile faltered, and he awkwardly stepped aside, letting me pass without another word. Walking out of the venue, the cool night air hit my face, and for the first time in five years, I felt like I could breathe. I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to my parents: Cancel the preparations. There won’t be a wedding tomorrow. Within seconds, my phone lit up with a barrage of texts from my mother. What do you mean? Gilbert, what happened? Then came the call. I let it ring twice before picking up. Before they could ask, I laid it all out. The video. Brody. Mona’s defense of him. The years of lies. My father’s voice boomed through the speaker, tight with fury. “Are you kidding me? After everything our family has done for the Wards?” “I knew it,” my mother breathed, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and vindication. “I never liked that girl, Gilbert. If you hadn’t been so utterly blind, I would have never let this marriage happen in the first place.” They spent the next ten minutes venting about the Ward family, letting loose years of bottled-up frustration. Listening to them, I realized how much they had swallowed their pride just to support my happiness. I felt a pang of guilt, but also a profound sense of relief. When they finally quieted down, I took a deep breath. “So, tomorrow’s ceremony… we call it off, right?” “Absolutely not,” my father said. I blinked, stunned. “What? Why would we still go through with it?” A heavy silence fell over the line, followed by my father’s calm, calculated tone. “Gilbert, how much money have you spent on Mona over the last five years?” I froze. I had never actually sat down to do the math. But Mona’s monthly allowance alone was fifty thousand dollars. On top of that, there were credit card bills, luxury vacations, designer bags, and jewelry she “just had to have.” All in all, it easily amounted to several million dollars. A multi-million-dollar betrayal. Our family wasn’t hurting for money, but that didn’t mean I was willing to let her walk away with my inheritance in her pocket. “Can we even get it back?” I asked, my chest tightening. “We can,” my father replied, his business instincts kicking in. “But we have to play this smart. If we handle this correctly, we won’t just get your money back—we’ll make the Wards pay for every single thing they’ve done to you.” “Okay,” I said. “Tell me what to do.” When it came to high-stakes leverage, my parents were seasoned professionals. They quickly outlined a plan. Mona and I had already signed our legal marriage papers at the courthouse a month ago to simplify the paperwork; tomorrow was supposed to be the public celebration. If I simply walked away now, the legal fallout would be messy and expensive. I needed to let her hand me the perfect leverage. My plan was to wait until after the ceremony to quietly discuss an amicable divorce. If she agreed to cooperate and return a reasonable portion of the assets, I was willing to let her off easy without dragging her through the mud. But Mona, in her infinite selfishness, didn’t even give me the chance to be generous. On the morning of the wedding, she stood me up. When I arrived at the Ward estate with my groomsmen, I was met not by a blushing bride, but by her deeply uncomfortable parents and a handful of whispering relatives. “Where’s the bride?” my best man whispered, glancing at the maid of honor. The maid of honor offered a tight, forced smile. “She’s… she’s still getting ready. Hair and makeup took longer than expected.” She shot a desperate, pleading look at Mona’s parents. I knew immediately that something was wrong. Stepping away from the crowd, I pulled out my phone and checked Brody’s public social media profile. Sure enough, he had been posting updates since they left the club the night before. Every single post was a direct jab at me, wrapped in the guise of friendship. One post from 3:00 AM read: Thank you for always choosing me when things get tough. The photo was a shot of a rumpled hotel bed, with Mona’s distinct designer purse sitting on the nightstand. The implication was sickeningly clear. But the final post, uploaded just ten minutes prior, was a photo of them at the beach, watching the sunrise. Brody’s caption read: Even on your wedding day, you’re by my side. That’s how I know what we have is real. They were wrapped in a blanket, holding each other tightly against the ocean breeze. If I still loved her, that image would have torn me apart. But standing there in my tuxedo, surrounded by her lying family, all I felt was a cold, hollow pity. I had already been hurt enough. The tank was empty. There was nothing left to break. I let out a soft, mocking laugh. Mona’s parents hurried over to me, their faces pale. “Gilbert, sweetheart…” her mother started, reaching out a trembling hand. “Don’t,” I said, stepping back. “Don’t call me that. I don’t think we’ll be family after today.” Their faces fell, panic flaring in their eyes. They tried to steer me toward a private study, desperate to keep the peace and hide the scandal from their guests. But I wasn’t going to help them protect their reputation. “Excuse me, everyone,” I called out, my voice ringing clear through the crowded foyer. “I’m afraid there won’t be a celebration today.” I walked over to the large media screen in the living room, connected my phone via AirPlay, and cast Brody’s social media page directly onto the display. The photos of Mona and Brody embracing at the beach filled the screen. The room erupted into gasps and furious whispers. Right on cue, my phone buzzed. It was a message from the private investigator my father had hired the night before. He had delivered. It wasn’t just last night. The files showed that Mona and Brody had been sleeping together for months. The folder was filled with dated timestamps, hotel check-ins, and photos of them entering and leaving his apartment in the dead of night. Looking at the sheer volume of evidence, a tremor of residual anger ran through my body. But I took a deep breath and channeled that heat into resolve. I forwarded the entire file to my family’s attorney, instructing him to file for divorce immediately. Five minutes later, my attorney replied: Understood, Gilbert. With this level of documented infidelity and marital misconduct, we have more than enough leverage to ensure she leaves with absolutely nothing. Do it, I texted back. When I saw his thumbs-up emoji, a genuine smile touched my lips. For the first time in years, the crushing weight on my shoulders lifted. I was finally free of her games. “Gilbert, what the hell is this? Are you trying to humiliate me?” Mona’s voice cut through the murmuring crowd as she marched through the front door. But she wasn’t wearing her wedding dress. She was dressed in a casual oversized knit sweater and leggings. And standing right beside her was Brody, wearing a matching casual outfit. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think they were the ones who had just returned from a cozy honeymoon. I let out a cold laugh. “Do you honestly think a wedding is still happening today, Mona?” I had originally planned to play along just long enough to secure my assets, but seeing her stand before me with her lover, completely devoid of shame, I realized I didn’t need to play nice. She had never respected me. Not for a single second. And now, I was going to strip away everything she took for granted. Instead of showing any remorse, Mona crossed her arms and glared at me. “Oh, I get it. Now that we’ve signed the papers and you think you ‘have’ me, you think you can treat me like garbage? Is that it?” “Do you honestly think I won’t just walk away from you, Gilbert?” There it was again. The same empty threats she had used to keep me in line for years. She knew how desperately I loved her, so she had weaponized my affection, taking more and more while giving nothing in return. She hadn’t just spent my money on herself; she had used my accounts to fund Brody’s lavish lifestyle and finance their little circle of wealthy enablers. I used to let it slide because I thought that was the price of keeping her happy. But the tab was closed. I looked at her and smiled, a chill settling over my expression. Mona mistook my smile for capitulation. She tossed her hair back and looked at my groomsmen with an arrogant smirk. “Well? Are you guys here to escort me to the venue or what?” The guys remained silent, keeping their anger in check as they looked to me for a cue. I didn’t say a word. I wanted to see exactly how far her delusion would go. Mona scanned the room, then took a step toward me, holding out her hand palm-up. “Fifty thousand dollars,” she said casually. “And I’ll go put on the dress.” “Another fifty thousand to get into the limo, and fifty thousand more to actually walk down the aisle.” She was shaking me down at our own wedding. She was asking for nearly a quarter-million dollars just to show up to her own ceremony. “Well?” she asked, her patience wearing thin when I didn’t immediately reach for my checkbook. Within a minute, her expression soured. “Come on, Gilbert. It’s not like you don’t have the cash.” “Oh, I have the money,” I replied, my voice remarkably calm. “I’m just wondering why on earth I would give it to you.” Mona blinked, completely thrown off by my defiance. It took her a moment to find her footing. “Why? Because we’re married, Gilbert. My security is your responsibility.” “Oh, so you do remember we’re married,” I said, tilting my head toward the large TV screen behind her. Mona and Brody finally turned to look at the screen, realization slowly dawning on them as the slideshow of their intimate photos continued to loop. Brody’s face twisted in righteous indignation. “Gilbert, are you out of your mind? Turn that off! Do you have any idea how much this could ruin our reputations?” He turned to Mona, his eyes welling up with tears that looked practiced. “Mona… I don’t think I can do this anymore. I can’t be in your life if it causes this much trouble.” “Goodbye, Mona.” He turned to walk out, but Mona panicked. She lunged forward, throwing her arms around his waist to pull him back. “No! Brody, don’t leave me!” “If you go, what am I supposed to do?” “You are the most important person in my life, Brody. Please don’t do this…” Her desperate confession clearly fed Brody’s ego, but he kept up his tragic act, shaking his head and looking down at her. “Mona, you’re a married woman now. If we keep staying this close, your husband…” He trailed off, cutting his eyes toward me with a look of manufactured fear. Mona whipped her head around to glare at me, her eyes filled with absolute venom. “Gilbert, did you threaten him? Is that what this is?” “How many times do I have to tell you to leave Brody alone? Are you deaf?” Before I could even process her words, she stepped forward and slapped me across the face. The blow stung, ringing in my ears. She had put her entire weight into it. She stood there, chest heaving, expecting me to shrink back, to apologize, to beg for her forgiveness just like I always did. But as the stinging in my cheek faded, so did the very last trace of warmth I had ever held for her. I slowly turned my head back, looking her dead in the eye, and rolled my eyes. “Mona, do you honestly think that just because I loved you, I was blind?” Mona let out a mocking, incredulous laugh. “Aren’t you? How many times have I told you how things work, and when have you ever actually listened?” She turned her gaze back to Brody, her expression softening into a look of pure devotion. “I have told you a thousand times that Brody is my best friend. But you just have to drag everyone through the mud, don’t you?” She looked back at me, her face hardening into familiar contempt. My groomsmen had finally had enough. Before Mona and I got engaged, my closest friends had tried to warn me. “There’s something incredibly fake about her, Gilbert,” they’d said. “She’s a user.” But I had been blinded by infatuation, determined to make things work with her. Because my friends weren’t the type to gossip behind people’s backs, once they saw how committed I was, they stopped bringing it up. They even supported me through the rough patches when I was losing sleep over her relationship with Brody. Real friends protect you; users just drain you. “Seriously, Gilbert, are you kidding me?” my best man, Luke, stepped forward. “Why are you still standing here listening to this garbage? A guy with your credentials could have anyone he wanted.” “Exactly,” another friend chimed in. “Mona, you are completely out of line. This is disgusting.” They stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me, their voices steady and firm. Mona’s relatives immediately bristled, trying to defend her. “Excuse me? Marriage is between two people. You can’t just lay all the blame on Mona!” “Exactly! Gilbert is hardly innocent here. He’s always been incredibly insecure.” “A girl shouldn’t have to cut off her childhood best friend just because she got married!” They parroted the exact excuses Mona had been feeding them for years. The room dissolved into a tense standoff between our two camps. All the while, Mona’s parents kept their eyes locked on my face. I knew exactly what they were doing—they were calculating. If I showed signs of giving in, they would step in to play peacemakers. If I stayed quiet, they would let their daughter continue to walk all over me. That was how they had always handled our conflicts. Mona pulled Brody close, her heart seemingly breaking for his distress. “Fine,” she said, nodding slowly. “So you really don’t want this wedding. Good. Message received.” I ignored her, pulled out my phone, and called the police, putting them on speaker so the entire room could hear me request an dispatch unit to the address for grand larceny. When I hung up, Mona finally tried to de-escalate, changing her strategy to play the victim. “Gilbert, I’ve given up so much for you over the years,” she said, her eyes glistening with tears. “I’ve changed so much of who I am just to make you comfortable. I thought you’d at least appreciate that, but I guess I was wrong.” I let out a dry laugh. “Changed? What exactly did you change, Mona?” “Before I met you, Brody and I hung out every single day,” she said, as if presenting a crown of thorns she had worn for me. “Because of your constant jealousy, I cut it down to once a week. Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? That was a massive compromise.” “And by ‘hanging out once a week,’ you mean checking into five-star hotels and sharing a bed?” I asked, laying the truth bare before everyone. Her face paled. “What are you talking about?” “Am I lying?” I asked, pulling up the investigator’s logs on the screen. When she didn’t answer, I began reading the dates aloud. “May 1st, dinner at Monsieur Benjamin. May 2nd, lunch at the Ritz. May 3rd…” “Stop it!” Mona screamed. I looked at her, my expression completely blank. “So, that was your ‘once a week’ schedule?” I tapped the screen, playing the surveillance footage from the boutique hotel downtown dated May 8th. “Is this the compromise you were talking about?” A deep part of me was incredibly grateful that I had already stopped caring. Watching those videos again still stung my pride, but it no longer broke my heart. Mona’s face went from pale to a deep, burning crimson. “Enough, Gilbert!” Brody shouted, stepping in front of Mona. “We only went to those hotels because we had business to discuss. You’re just using this as an excuse to back out of the wedding. How can you be so incredibly petty?” He rallied his friends, and soon the room was filled with voices condemning me for “ruining what should have been the happiest day of Mona’s life.” I stood there in silence, listening to the noise, thinking about how I had let things get to this point. In a way, this was a monster of my own making. My endless patience and constant forgiveness had convinced them that I would tolerate anything. Finally, Mona’s parents decided to end their silence. Her father cleared his throat and stepped forward, adjusting his tie. “Gilbert, look, the guests are already arriving at the venue. Why don’t you just wire Mona the money she asked for so we can get this ceremony started? We can sort out these little misunderstandings later.” They wanted me to pay them. The sheer audacity of it broke something inside me. I started to laugh. It started as a chuckle, but soon turned into full, roaring laughter until tears gathered in the corners of my eyes. “Forget it, Dad,” Mona snapped, crossing her arms. “I’m not marrying him anyway. Since he clearly—” “Fine,” I interrupted, cutting her off. “Let’s not get married.” It was the very first time in five years I had ever agreed to her threats of breaking up. In the past, whenever she threw that ultimatum in my face, I would panic, apologize, and do whatever it took to keep her. Later on, I had learned to just stay silent, which she took as a quiet surrender. She had spent our entire relationship holding the threat of leaving over my head because she knew how desperately I wanted to build a family with her. But I was done being handled. “What did you say?” Mona whispered, her jaw dropping. “Say that again.” I wiped a tear of laughter from my eye. The joke was finally over. “I said, you have your wish. The wedding is off.” “You… you…” Mona stammered, her hands shaking with rage. Her parents panicked, trying to salvage the situation. “Gilbert, please, think about what you’re saying! This isn’t something you can just call off on a whim!” “Maybe I should just leave,” Brody murmured, his eyes red as he took a step backward. “I don’t want to be the reason your wedding gets ruined.” This time, nobody stopped him. Mona’s eyes were locked onto mine. “Gilbert, did you plan this? Did you set this whole thing up just to humiliate me?” “Mona, don’t be mad at him,” Brody said, still lingering by the door. “He’s probably just acting out because he’s insecure. Don’t let him get to you.” His voice was smooth, but his eyes were gleaming with triumph. “Stop making excuses for him, Brody,” Mona hissed, glare burning into me. “Men like him don’t deserve real love anyway.” “Excuse me, did someone call the police?” The heavy oak front door opened, and several police officers walked in, accompanied by my attorney. I turned to them, a calm smile on my face. “Yes, officers. I called. I’d like to report a theft of personal property totaling over half a million dollars.”

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When Wright—my childhood sweetheart and secret partner of five years—suddenly announced his wedding to my best friend, I didn’t cry. I didn’t make a scene. I simply signed my military discharge papers, changed my name, and headed down South. I settled in a coastal town and opened a quiet little flower shop. One afternoon, the bell above my door chimed, and an old buddy from my army days walked in. He froze, staring at me in absolute shock. “Charlie? You’re alive? Why the hell didn’t you look for Wright? Do you have any idea what you did to him? He literally ran away from his own wedding looking for you. He’s still single.” I only smiled faintly, letting the simple gold band on my left ring finger catch the light. “But I’m already married.” The moment the words left my mouth, the air in the shop turned freezing. My old friend began gesturing frantically with his eyes, desperately hinting at something behind me. I turned around slowly. Wright was standing near the display of hydrangeas, staring at me with a face twisted in silent fury. But looking at him, I felt nothing but a dull, hollow confusion. For five years, Wright and I had kept our relationship entirely secret. Throughout all that time, he had consistently refused to come home with me to meet my parents. It wasn’t until my mother’s fiftieth birthday that I finally went home alone. But when I walked into her living room, my eyes fell on a thick, cream-colored invitation sitting on the coffee table. Groom: Wright Collins. Bride: Chelsea Davis. My mind went completely blank. Just as my trembling fingers found my phone to call him, his voice drifted in from the front door. “Martha, do me a favor and don’t tell Charlie about the wedding just yet. She’s been attached to my hip since we were kids. If she finds out I’m getting married, she’ll make a massive scene…” He froze mid-sentence when he saw me standing in the living room. The easy smile on his face vanished. My mother, completely oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature, walked out of the kitchen with a warm smile. “Charlie, you’re back! Look, Wright is getting married to Chelsea. By the way, sweetie, when are you finally going to bring that boyfriend of yours home for us to meet?” A bitter, cold laugh bubbled up in my chest. I stared straight at Wright. “He’s dead.” “He died yesterday.” … My mother gasped, dropping her dish towel. “What? So suddenly? But when you got home yesterday, you said his unit was called out on a last-minute deployment, and that’s why he couldn’t make it. He even sent that beautiful birthday gift!” A sharp, familiar ache bloomed in my chest. My mother had known I had a boyfriend for years, but she didn’t know his name. Every holiday, every birthday, she prayed I would bring him home so we could finally make things official. But Wright always refused. He always insisted it wasn’t the right time. To spare my mother the worry and the embarrassment, I bought the gifts myself every year. I spent my own savings, wrote the cards in a generic masculine hand, and pretended they were from the loving boyfriend who was “just too busy with special ops.” Wright never knew about any of this. And he had never cared enough to ask. Now, standing in my mother’s living room, Wright merely raised an eyebrow. While my mother hurried back to the kitchen, shaking her head in grief, he stepped closer to me, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “Chelsea’s dad was severely injured in a training exercise. They’re drowning in medical debt. I wanted to just give her the money, but you know how stubborn she is. She has too much pride to take a handout. This wedding… it’s just a legal formality. It’s the only way I can give her the money as a dowry without crushing her self-respect.” “Don’t speak like that,” he added, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “If Martha ever finds out about what we were… she’d be devastated.” “She won’t find out,” I said quietly. She would never know. Not about the late nights, the stolen kisses behind the barracks, or the five years I had spent building a future in my head with a man who was now standing in her house, planning to marry someone else. A complicated emotion flickered in Wright’s eyes. “Suit yourself. But Chelsea and I are getting married next week. She wants everything to be perfect, and since you’re her best friend, I know you’ll help her out. Right?” He looked at me with that same easy, charming smile he always used. As if we hadn’t spent the last five years tangled in each other’s arms. As if he hadn’t held me close in the dark after lights-out, whispering breathless promises of forever into my collarbone. “Charlie! Wright!” Chelsea’s bright voice echoed from the porch. She walked in, looking radiant and completely untroubled, and immediately slipped her arm through mine. “My mom cooked a massive dinner with all our favorite dishes. She sent me over to make sure you guys come over to eat with us!” Our families had lived next door to each other for decades. We grew up sharing barbecues, Thanksgiving dinners, and scraped knees. To me, Chelsea wasn’t just a friend; she was the sister I never had. Looking at her now, her eyes seemed as bright and innocent as ever. But if I looked close enough, I could see the faint, guarded tremor of guilt lurking beneath the surface. “You knew I loved him,” I whispered, leaning in just enough so my mother wouldn’t hear. My voice was a fragile, trembling thread. “You knew he was the boy I cried over, the boyfriend I couldn’t talk about openly. Chelsea, how could you do this to me?” The night before we shipped out for basic training, she had stayed over at my house. She’d found my journal tucked under my mattress and read my secret, messy confessions about Wright. She had rolled around on my bed, laughing hysterically, before teasing me. “If you love him so much, why don’t you just tell him, you coward? If you’re too scared, I’ll do it for you! When you guys finally get married, I expect to be at the head table!” But now, there was no laughter. Her beautiful eyes held no remorse, only a calculated softness. She bit her lower lip and whispered back, “Charlie, I love him. And he chose me. When you guys were together, I truly wished the best for you. But things changed. I’m the one marrying him now. You’re my sister-in-arms and my best friend. I know you’ll find it in your heart to be happy for us.” The sheer absurdity of her words washed over me, closely followed by a wave of crushing, suffocating betrayal. It felt like the ground had been pulled out from under my feet, leaving me free-falling into a cold, dark void. My eyes burned, and my limbs felt heavy, drained of all strength. Sensing the sudden tension, my mother stepped in, gently placing a hand on my shoulder. “You know what, Chelsea? Charlie is actually feeling a bit under the weather from her trip. We won’t keep you two. Let’s save the big family dinner for my actual birthday next week.” Wright gave me a long, unreadable look. Without another word, he took Chelsea’s hand and led her out the door. Once the door clicked shut, my mother turned to me, her eyes brimming with maternal worry, still believing my fake boyfriend had tragically died. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around me. “You’re so young, and you have so much life ahead of you. If he couldn’t stay to marry you, then it was his loss. I promise you, the right man is out there.” Looking at her kind, anxious face, I managed to force a tight, painful smile. “I know, Mom. I’m okay. I’m just really tired from the drive. I think I’m going to lie down.” I dragged my suitcase into my old bedroom and shut the door. On the wall opposite my bed hung a framed piece of hand-drawn calligraphy. It was a quote Wright had penned for me: Meet Me at the Summit. During my first year in the special ops training program, the grueling physical demand had nearly broken me. I had cried myself to sleep, ready to pack my bags and quit a thousand times. Wright, who hated writing more than anything, had stayed up all night drafting a comprehensive, step-by-step training manual tailored just for me. “If you read this and still fail your physicals, don’t bother coming back to me, Charlie,” he’d told me, his voice gruff but his eyes warm. “I have a reputation as an instructor to uphold.” Along with the manual, he’d given me that framed quote. A promise of a shared future at the top of our careers. And I had done it. I had pushed through the sweat and blood, eventually earning a transfer to his elite special tactical unit. But remembering his words today, the memory soured. I walked over, took the frame off the wall, pulled out the parchment, and ripped it down the middle. I tossed it into the trash can without a second thought. Next was the framed photo on my desk. It was a picture of the three of us taken on a weekend leave right after basic training. I was standing in the middle, laughing, while Wright and Chelsea leaned in close. I still remembered that day vividly. Chelsea had deliberately nudged me closer to Wright, whispering in my ear, “This is your chance to stand next to your man, Charlie. Don’t waste it. There are too many gorgeous girls in uniform; if you don’t mark your territory, someone else will steal him.” My expression hardened. I swept the frame off the desk and dropped it into the wastebasket. If they could so easily throw away our years of friendship and love, why should I cling to the wreckage? I spent the next hour purging my room. I gathered everything connected to them: Chelsea’s old military magazines, the birthday gifts Wright had given me over the years, and a stack of unsent love letters I had written to him since I was eighteen. After dinner, I carried the heavy black trash bags down to the dumpsters behind our building. “That looks heavy. Why didn’t you call me to help?” A familiar, low voice drifted from the shadows. I turned. Wright was leaning against a lamppost in a casual gray hoodie, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking effortlessly handsome. I used to hate taking out the trash. Whenever my mother asked me to do it, I would text Wright, and he would always jog over to do it for me. During our five years together, it had become an unspoken routine. “Still giving me the silent treatment?” He smiled slightly, stepping closer to take my hand. I took a deliberate step back, keeping my hands inside my coat pockets. Wright froze, a flicker of confusion crossing his face before his brows knit together. I didn’t look away. “Everyone in this neighborhood knows you’re getting married next week, Wright. It’s not appropriate for us to be seen together like this. Let’s not contact each other anymore.” He let out a soft, dismissive scoff. “Charlie, come on. I told you, marrying Chelsea is just a favor. We’ll get a quiet divorce in a year or two. The neighbors don’t know the truth, but you do. Why are you acting like this is real?” Just yesterday, before we boarded the train back to our hometown, I had asked him three times if we should finally tell our parents the truth about us. He had looked down at me with his usual lazy grin. “Are you really that desperate to marry me, Charlie? I didn’t know you were such a hopeless romantic.” I had swatted his chest in mock anger, and he’d wrapped his arms around me, pulling me against his chest and kissing the top of my head. “Okay, okay, I’m teasing. Soon. I promise, when the time is right, we’ll tell them.” For five years, I had lived on those crumbs. I had spent every single day dreaming of the moment he would hold my hand in public, wanting the whole world to know that I was his and he was mine. I wasn’t raising my voice now because I didn’t care. I was quiet because I refused to beg. I refused to let my mother and me become the laughingstock of our close-knit military community. “Wright! There you are!” Chelsea appeared at the entrance of the courtyard, holding a small purse. Her mother was standing nearby. “My mom’s stomach is acting up again and she needs me to pick up her prescription, but I don’t know which pharmacy has it on file. Can you come with me?” She smiled warmly, addressing Wright’s mother with a natural, familial affection that made my stomach churn. She sounded like she had been calling her “Mom” for years. Wright pressed his lips into a thin line, shooting me a lingering look before turning to follow her out of the courtyard. Watching their retreating figures, my mother sighed softly. “You know, Charlie, for years I secretly hoped you and Wright would end up together. I’m glad I never pushed it. It would have been so awkward now that he’s marrying Chelsea.” I kept my mouth shut, staring at the gravel. “You should take a page out of Chelsea’s book when you look for a husband,” my mother continued, adjusting her cardigan. “No matter how busy Wright is at the base, he always finds a way to take leave whenever Chelsea’s family needs him. But look at your late boyfriend… I swear, every time I invited him for a holiday dinner, he always had some ‘urgent deployment.’ I don’t even know what you saw in him…” My mother’s voice faded into a dull static. The world around me went completely cold and quiet. Every holiday, every long weekend, I had begged Wright to come home with me. And every single time, he had looked at me with those earnest eyes and said, “Charlie, baby, I just got promoted to Major. Things are crazy at the unit right now. Once things settle down, I promise I’ll go back with you.” He told me there were drills, unexpected briefings, red-flag exercises. And I, like a fool, had believed him without question. But the truth was much simpler. Every time he told me he was too busy, he was actually taking leave to be with Chelsea. “Mom,” I said, my voice barely a whisper through the tightness in my throat. “Do they… do they come back here often?” “Oh, all the time,” she replied. “Just last month, on your birthday actually, Chelsea’s mom slipped on the porch stairs. Wright rushed straight down here. He coordinated with the best orthopedic surgeons at the military hospital and stayed at their house for days to help take care of her.” My chest felt like it was caving in. Last month. On my birthday. We had been sitting in my apartment near the base, about to blow out the candles on my cake, when his phone rang. He had hung up, tossed a hastily wrapped jewelry box onto the counter, and grabbed his keys. “An emergency popped up at the base, Charlie. I have to go supervise. I’ll be gone for a few days. Don’t be mad, okay? I’ll make it up to you when I get back.” Before he walked out, I had blocked the door, tears welling in my eyes. I had asked him, “Is your job really more important than me? Just this once?” He had sighed, looking at me with a cold, disappointing stare. “Charlie, we’re both soldiers. Don’t ask such childish questions.” I had felt so guilty. I had spent the rest of my birthday feeling like an unsupportive, selfish partner. I thought his only choices were duty and me. I never realized there was always a third option. Chelsea. My mother noticed the hollow look on my face and sighed deeply, pulling me close. “Charlie, listen to me,” she said gently. “A man who lies to you, who avoids responsibility and runs away when things get tough… he isn’t worth a single tear. When you look for a partner next time, keep your eyes wide open. Don’t let yourself get fooled again.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and whispered, “I won’t, Mom.” Over the next few days, Wright and Chelsea were consumed by wedding preparations—picking out floral arrangements, organizing invitations, and finalizing the reception venue. I kept myself busy helping my mother plan her birthday dinner, trying my best to ignore their existence. But they wouldn’t let me. “Charlie, we always promised we’d be each other’s maid of honor,” Chelsea said, cornering me in our shared driveway one afternoon, her voice soft and pleading. “Now that it’s finally happening, please say you’ll stand up there with me.” Before I could even open my mouth to refuse, Wright stepped up behind her. “Your dress has already been tailored,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The boutique is delivering it this afternoon. My mom saw it and said it looks perfect on you.” I didn’t care about the dress. My eyes were locked onto their left hands. They were already wearing matching bands. Simple, brushed white-gold bands. But I knew exactly what was engraved on the inside—their initials, intertwined in a specific, custom script. It was a design I had sketched when I was twenty. I had shown it to Chelsea late one night in our dorm room, telling her, “One day, when I marry the love of my life, we’re going to wear these. I want to design them myself.” And now, they were wearing them. “I’ll take your silence as a yes! Thank you, Charlie,” Chelsea said, taking my cold hands in hers. She flashed a warm smile, but her eyes were cold, calculating. “Our parents will be there, and so many officers and commanders from the base. Everyone just wants a beautiful, peaceful ceremony. I know you want that too, Charlie.” The underlying threat was clear. She knew my mother’s pride. She knew I would never cause a scene that would turn my family into a subject of military gossip. I gently pulled my hands back, forcing a polite, empty smile. “Of course. I hope you get exactly what you deserve.” Wright wasn’t paying attention to our exchange. His eyes were wandering around my mother’s living room. He stopped when he noticed the coffee table—the framed photo of us had been replaced by a portrait of my mother and me. As they turned to leave, Wright lingered for a second, catching my arm. “Chelsea’s right, Charlie. Don’t take it to heart. When you and I finally have our wedding, she’ll be your maid of honor. Just think of this as a dress rehearsal for our future.” I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. What made him think I would ever wait for him? What made him think I would want another woman’s hand-me-down? The days blurred together, and soon, the wedding morning arrived. Throughout the ceremony, both Wright and Chelsea kept casting nervous glances my way, clearly terrified I would ruin their perfect day. But they had nothing to worry about. I kept a polite, seamless smile pinned to my face, smoothly handling any minor hiccups behind the scenes. By the time the reception started, they finally let their guards down. But just as the DJ announced their grand entrance and they walked hand-in-hand toward the stage, a furious roar shattered the applause. “Wright! You absolute piece of trash!” A tall, muscular figure in dress whites marched into the center of the ballroom. It was Declan Burke, Wright’s rival from the academy and a fellow captain in our division. His face was flushed with pure rage. “You stood in my face and told me Charlie was your girlfriend, warning me to stay away from her!” Declan yelled, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “And now you’re marrying someone else while forcing her to stand there as your maid of honor? Are you trying to humiliate her?”

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Even after eight years of marriage to William, I was still a ghost in his family home, forbidden from sitting at the dining table. It was all because of a promise he had made to his deceased fiancée, Victoria. He had sworn that the seat of the matriarch of the family would eternally belong to her. During his father’s sixtieth birthday gala at the country club, a hurried waiter bumped into me. I stumbled, losing my balance, and landed right in the empty chair that had been meticulously reserved for Victoria. William’s face instantly darkened. He marched over, grabbed my arm with bruising force, and yanked me out of the seat. “How can you be so calculating?” he hissed, his voice low but sharp enough for the surrounding guests to hear. “Deliberately sitting in Victoria’s chair in front of everyone—are you really that desperate to replace her?” “Why are you trying to compete with a dead woman?” his mother added, her eyes cold with disdain. “Check your jealousy, Isabel. It’s pathetic.” His father joined in, calling me shameless and telling me to get out of the venue immediately. I stood there, blinking back tears, trying to ignore the sharp, throbbing pain in my sprained ankle. I opened my mouth to explain, but my eight-year-old son, Toby, cut me off, his little face twisted in embarrassment. “You’re so embarrassing, Mom,” Toby spat, looking at me with pure disgust. “If Victoria were here, she would never stoop to your level. I wish she were my real mother.” That night, William locked me in the windowless basement study. Through the heavy wooden door, I could hear him introducing Victoria’s memory to the guests as his one true wife. Later, I heard Toby telling a family friend that I was nothing more than his nanny. Something inside me went cold. The final ember of my warmth died out. When William finally opened the door the next morning, he looked down at me, his expression a mixture of irritation and cold charity. “You went too far last night,” he said. “Go to Victoria’s grave. Stay there and reflect on what you did.” He thrust a bouquet into my arms. It was yellow chrysanthemums—Victoria’s favorite, but the one flower that triggered my severe pollen allergy. The last time I was near them, I had gone into anaphylactic shock. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply looked at him, my voice flat and empty. “William, let’s get a divorce.” 1 William froze. Then, a mocking laugh escaped his lips. “All this because I made you spend one night in the study? You really are made of glass, aren’t you?” He stepped closer, his shadow looming over me. “Victoria and I were betrothed since childhood. She is the only daughter-in-law my parents will ever recognize. Even if you carved your name onto that chair, you couldn’t change that. I’m telling you this for your own good, Isabel. You need to know your place.” I had heard variations of this speech a thousand times over the last eight years. In the past, because of my love for him and my devotion to Toby, I had swallowed every insult. I told myself that the dead deserved respect, and so I let myself be pushed into the shadows. But my silence had only invited more cruelty. This time, I was done retreating. I threw the bouquet of chrysanthemums onto the floor. The yellow petals scattered across the cold hardwood. I looked up and met his eyes. “If she was so irreplaceable, why did you marry me? Why did you have a child with me? Why didn’t you just remain celibate for the rest of your life to honor her?” I asked, my voice rising. “The truth is, your grand, tragic love is a sham. It’s completely worthless.” The air in the room seemed to solidify. William’s face turned an ugly, dangerous shade of red. “Isabel, you are being utterly irrational.” He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. “I know how much you’ve done for this family over the years. I see it. If you just go to Victoria’s grave, kneel, and apologize, I will finally arrange a proper wedding. We can make our marriage public.” There it was again. That patronizing, charitable tone. When we first spoke of marriage, I knew Victoria was an insurmountable mountain in his parents’ minds. They refused to accept any other woman. So, William and I agreed to a private commitment ceremony, keeping our union a secret until his parents came around. For eight years, I woke up before dawn to prepare three meals a day. I cleaned, I ironed, I managed the household like an unpaid servant, all to prove that I was worthy. But every time I brought up a legal marriage or a public wedding, William had an excuse ready. “I’m too busy with the firm right now. Let’s talk about it later.” “My parents still grieve for Victoria. You’ve only been here a few years—you can’t expect them to change overnight. Just wait.” “Why are you so materialistic? Are you that desperate to show everyone you married into wealth?” So I waited. I waited until the hope in my chest dried up and turned to dust. And now, when I no longer cared, he was offering it to me like a treat thrown to a dog. “I don’t want a wedding,” I said, my throat tight, the first waves of the allergy beginning to make my eyes itch. “Just give me the divorce. I’ll have the paperwork ready.” Without waiting for his response, I brushed past him and walked out. But as I hurried down the hallway, the itching in my eyes grew unbearable. Red, angry hives began to bloom across my arms, itching fiercely. The pollen from the chrysanthemums had already done its work. I rushed into the living room and grabbed the medical kit from the shelf, desperately searching for my antihistamines. Just as I managed to pop the blister pack, a violent force shoved me from behind. I crashed onto the floor, my temple striking the sharp edge of the coffee table. A blinding pain shot through my skull. I looked up, clutching my bleeding forehead, and saw Toby standing over me. His small face was twisted in disgust. “Are you blind?” Toby yelled, pointing at the table. “You put that stupid medical kit right on top of Victoria’s handkerchief!” “You’re so clumsy and malicious. How did someone like you give birth to me? It’s humiliating.” Dizzy and shivering, I looked down. Beneath the plastic box was a small yellow silk handkerchief. It was Victoria’s. William had given it to Toby as a keepsake, and Toby treated it like holy relic, forbidding anyone—especially me—from touching it. My eyes were swelling shut, and my vision was tunneling. I could barely see the pills in my hand, let alone a tiny handkerchief on a cluttered table. But Toby didn’t care about my pain. He carefully picked up the handkerchief, blew the nonexistent dust off it, and then snatched the packet of allergy pills from my trembling fingers. “Victoria is gone, and you still try to ruin everything she left behind,” the boy said coldly. “You need to learn a lesson.” With a vicious flick of his wrist, he threw my medication out the open window, deep into the thick, thorny hydrangea bushes below. “No…” I gasped, curling into a ball on the floor, my fingers desperately clawing at my burning, itching skin. Toby didn’t even look back as he strolled out of the room. 2 Watching his small, retreating back, a tear slipped down my cheek, hot against my swollen skin. Toby hadn’t always hated me. When he was two, he was a deeply insecure child. He cried whenever anyone else tried to hold him. Once, when William tried to pick him up, Toby had scratched his father’s face until it bled. Back then, I was his entire world. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt me. On our fifth anniversary, William stood me up to go to an auction to buy a rare collection of sketches Victoria had loved. Toby had gone on a hunger strike for an entire week, demanding his father apologize to me. But William’s parents blamed me for “corrupting” the boy. They forcibly took Toby away to their estate and barred me from seeing him. I knelt outside their iron gates for three days and three nights in the rain. Finally, they relented, allowing me to visit Toby once a month, for no more than ten minutes at a time. Over those isolated years, Toby’s love for me faded, replaced by a carefully manufactured devotion to a woman he had never met. The anaphylactic reaction was peaking. My throat felt as though it were closing, and my consciousness began to slip away. Through the haze, a muffled, frantic voice echoed in my ears. “Isabel!” Before darkness took me, I saw a flash of sheer terror on William’s face. When I opened my eyes, the stark white ceiling of a hospital room came into focus. The room was empty, but the door was slightly ajar. From the hallway, familiar voices drifted in, their words sharp and clear. “If she wants a divorce, let her leave,” my mother-in-law said, her voice dripping with contempt. “It’s not like your marriage certificate is real anyway. She can’t touch a single penny of our estate.” My heart stopped. “She’s just throwing a tantrum to force your hand for a wedding,” she continued. “Delusional girl. A charity case from the slums thinks she deserves to carry our family name?” William’s father chimed in, patting his son on the shoulder. “I’ve seen her type a thousand times. She’s social climber. We tested her for eight years, and she still couldn’t control her greed. You should have thrown her out long ago.” William was silent for a long moment. “I know,” he said quietly. “You don’t need to worry about this. I’ll handle her.” It felt as though a bolt of lightning had struck my chest. The blood in my veins turned to ice. For eight years, I had worked myself to the bone for this family. I had believed that even if his parents despised me, William’s love for me was real. But it was all a lie. Our marriage wasn’t even legal. He had exploited my body, my heart, and my labor for nearly a decade, and I had absolutely nothing to show for it. Rage, pure and hot, surged through me. I pulled the IV line from my hand, swung my legs out of bed, and threw the door open. “How could you do this to me?” I demanded, my voice trembling with a mixture of fury and betrayal. The three of them jumped, their faces turning pale and awkward. William’s eyes flickered with a brief flash of guilt before hardening into his usual mask of irritation. “Why are you out of bed? Were you eavesdropping? Is that how you behave now?” I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Are you angry because I finally know the truth?” “Ten years, William. We knew each other for ten years. We lived together for eight. I never even asked you for a ring. How could you play with my life like this? What did I ever do to deserve this?” William frowned, his voice dropping into a cold, defensive tone. “You brought this on yourself. When we were supposed to get married, you made a scene. My parents were worried that if we registered the marriage immediately, you would become arrogant and tarnish our family’s reputation. It was a precaution.” His words dragged me back to my twenty-first birthday. William had promised me a beautiful birthday dinner. But when I arrived at the venue, the party had been transformed into a somber memorial service for Victoria. The balloons I had spent hours picking out were popped. The banner wishing me a happy birthday was shredded in the corner. My cake had been tossed into the trash. His parents had screamed at me: “You haven’t even married into this family and you’re already trying to assert dominance? Today is Victoria’s death anniversary! How dare you celebrate your birthday on this day?” “Kneel and apologize to Victoria, or you will never enter our doors!” I had never felt so humiliated. I broke up with William on the spot. But he pursued me relentlessly for six months, begging for forgiveness, promising he would protect me. Foolishly, I believed him. I agreed to a private ceremony, thinking he was standing by my side against his parents. Now I realized the chase hadn’t been about love. It had been about control. It was a punishment. “If you had just apologized to Victoria back then, none of this would have happened,” William said, looking down his nose at me. “You publicly embarrassed my parents. This was your consequence.” “But now that you know, we can put it behind us. Once you’re discharged, we will go and register the marriage properly.” Slap. My hand struck his cheek before he could finish the sentence. The sound echoed down the sterile hallway. “You disgust me,” I whispered. “I will never sign a single piece of paper with you. We are finished.” William’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening. “Are you serious? If you walk away, you will never get custody of Toby.” I looked him dead in the eye, my voice devoid of emotion. “A child who doesn’t love me? You can keep him.” Without another word, I turned and walked toward the exit. I took a cab back to the house to pack. Behind me, the sound of hurried footsteps followed. William had chased me all the way from the hospital. Ignoring him, I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. But as I reached the living room, I froze. A young woman was sitting gracefully on the sofa, sipping tea. When she saw me, she offered a sweet, practiced smile. “Hello,” she said softly. “I’m Victoria. William’s fiancée.” 3 William pushed past me, his eyes wide, his entire body trembling as he stared at the woman on the couch. “Victoria… is it really you?” Victoria’s eyes welled with tears. Before she could speak, Toby ran out from the kitchen, throwing his arms around her waist. “Yes, Dad! Victoria isn’t dead! She’s back!” Toby looked at me, his eyes flashing with triumph. “She’s even prettier than her pictures. No wonder you don’t love Mom. I wouldn’t either if I had Victoria.” My hands clenched into fists, the nails biting into my palms. My heart felt as though it were being slowly torn to pieces. Victoria looked up at me, her gaze lingering on my faded clothes. “And this is…?” William cleared his throat, his eyes darting away from mine. “Just… someone who helped take care of the house. To keep things running.” He paused, casting a quick glance at me to gauge my reaction. When I remained silent, he let out a subtle sigh of relief. Victoria let out a soft gasp of feigned realization. “Oh, I see. I honestly thought she was the housekeeper.” The words felt like physical blows. Victoria’s skin was flawless, her long dark hair falling like silk over her shoulders. She looked like a painting. I, on the other hand, was three years younger than her, but years of sleepless nights, endless chores, and emotional neglect had left my skin dull and my eyes hollow. Standing next to her, I looked like a servant. No wonder his family always said I couldn’t compare to a single hair on her head. Victoria looked at me with a flicker of smug satisfaction before turning back to William, her expression melting into delicate sorrow. “I’m so sorry, William. I didn’t mean to disrupt your life,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I just wanted to see you. After the traffickers took me all those years ago, I managed to escape, but the trauma caused me to lose my memory. I lived in a remote mountain village, completely lost. As soon as my memories returned, I ran to find you… I didn’t know you had moved on.” William’s face filled with a deep, consuming tenderness. He reached out, gently wiping her tears away. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured. “As long as you’re back, the place of the mistress of this house is yours. It always has been.” Victoria blinked in surprise. “But… what about her?” William hesitated, but before he could speak, I stepped forward. “We aren’t married,” I said, my voice steady. “He is single. You don’t need to worry about me.” William looked at me, stunned by my coldness. I ignored him, walked upstairs, and began packing my suitcase. Thirty minutes later, I dragged my bag down the stairs, only to find Victoria standing at the landing, blocking my path. The sweet, victimized look was gone, replaced by a cold, mocking sneer. “You’re smarter than I thought, knowing when you’ve lost,” she whispered. “But I still don’t like the fact that you lived in my house for eight years, sleeping in my bed. That belonged to me. I think you owe me some interest.” Before I could react, she reached over to the hallway table, grabbed a heavy crystal vase, and threw it onto the hardwood floor. It shattered into a hundred jagged pieces. Then, she fell to her knees, clutching her head, screaming in terror. “No! Please, don’t hurt me! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she wailed, shrinking into the corner. “Please don’t hit me! I’m scared!” Within seconds, a hand grabbed my shoulder and shoved me violently against the wall. William rushed past me, throwing his arms around Victoria. “Victoria! I’m here, I’m here. You’re safe.” Victoria sobbed hysterically, burying her face in his chest. “William, she… she hates me. She thinks I’m stealing you away. She knew about my trauma, she knew the sound of breaking glass triggers my memories of the traffickers… she threw the vase on purpose to torture me!” I straightened up, rubbing my bruised shoulder. “I didn’t touch it. Check the security cameras if you don’t believe me.” Crack. Before I could finish, William’s hand struck my face, sending me sprawling onto the floor. He lunged forward, his hands wrapping around my neck, his eyes wild with rage. “You monstrous woman! Victoria barely survived that hell, and you dare to torment her? Do you think I won’t kill you?” Toby ran over, kicking my leg with all his might. “Bad woman! You don’t deserve to be my mother! Go away and die!” Looking at the two of them—the father and the son I had loved with every fiber of my being—I felt the last shred of my pain dissolve into numbness. In eight years, they had never once defended me like this. I used to tell myself they were just emotionally detached, that it was their nature. But they weren’t cold. They were capable of fierce, protective love. They just didn’t love me. From the corner of the room, Victoria watched me, a tiny, triumphant smile playing on her lips. I took a deep, steady breath, looking directly into William’s furious eyes. “Go ahead then. Kill me,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “But if you do, you’ll never find out who Victoria really is.”

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After my dad’s ninety-ninth business venture went down in flames, he announced his next big plan: conquering the internet. He had been scrolling through social media, obsessed with the viral plastic Natasha doll trend, and insisted he was going to get head-to-toe plastic surgery to look exactly like her. I tried to warn him. “Viral fame is a flash in the pan, Dad. Plastic surgery is a permanent scar.” He chickened out and gave up. But his childhood buddy went through with it instead, became a massive internet sensation, and made so much money his entire family relocated to a tax haven in Europe. My dad, consumed by the belief that life-changing wealth had been stolen from him, spiraled into a bitter rage. One night, he slipped rat poison into my dinner. When I opened my eyes again, I was sitting at the dinner table on the exact day he first brought up the surgery. 1 “If a plastic Natasha doll can pull in millions in sales, the real-life version—me—is bound to make billions!” At the dinner table, my dad’s face was flushed red, slurring his words as he bragged to his friends. I lifted my head and looked at him. The realization hit me slowly: I had actually gone back in time. Back to the night he announced his plan to reconstruct his face into the likeness of that creepy viral doll. In my past life, after yet another failed business, my dad had invited his best friend over for drinks to drown his sorrows. During the dinner, his childhood buddy, Chuck, pulled out his phone and showed us a TikTok of the viral Natasha doll. “Greg, listen to me,” Chuck said, leaning in close. “Our last project—opening a drive-thru vape lounge by the highway—was just rushed. We didn’t do market research, that’s why we lost money.” “This time, I asked ChatGPT. As long as we lean hard into the Natasha meme and sell gourmet hot dogs on the boardwalk, we’ll make a killing!” Lean into it? Like cosplay? My jaw twitched. I felt entirely numb. But my dad was already clapping frantically, his eyes shining with manic excitement. “Yes! That’s brilliant! Chuck, you’re a genius!” “But buying those realistic masks and costumes is expensive, and anyone can copy us… What if I just get plastic surgery to look exactly like the doll?” “I mean, look at those women who get filler to look like Kim Kardashian just to bag a billionaire!” His buddies slammed their fists on the table, cheering and howling like they’d already hit the jackpot. But my chest tightened with panic. My dad was a high school dropout who had never held a real job but was completely obsessed with being a “CEO.” Pet speed-dating, construction-site crossfit, custom adult novelty urns, silent disco funeral services… whatever trended online, he fell for it. To fund his “startups,” he had already mortgaged two of our properties and drained every penny of our savings. The Natasha doll was a creepy, uncanny-valley novelty toy. Actually reconstructing a human face to look like that would be horrific. Plus, our family was completely broke. I couldn’t take it anymore. I begged my mother to stop him, but she just scoffed. “What do you know? A psychic in Vegas told me your father was destined for greatness, like a king. I’m just waiting to take my place as his queen.” My Nana chimed in from her rocking chair. “Kids shouldn’t meddle in grown-up business. After dinner, go search for the best plastic surgeons in the city.” Desperate, I had looked up dozens of graphic, botched-surgery photos to show him. I told him: “Viral fame is a flash in the pan, Dad. Plastic surgery is a permanent scar.” He was thoroughly disgusted by the videos. He hesitated, lost his nerve, and backed out. But Chuck didn’t. Chuck went ahead with the surgery, became a viral sensation overnight, and made so much money his family relocated to a tax haven abroad. My dad blamed me. He believed I had robbed him of his destiny. One night, he slipped rat poison into my pasta. “I was one step away from making it big, and you ruined my entire life!” he screamed as I lay dying on the floor. “I’m ruined, and you don’t deserve to live either!” After I died, my soul lingered. I watched my mother and Nana, and neither of them shed a single tear. Instead, they spat on my memory. “Good riddance,” my mother muttered. “If she hadn’t stopped my sweet husband from getting that surgery, I’d be living in a mansion by now!” “She was always a nosy little brat,” Nana grumbled. “I should have left her in a dumpster the day she was born.” Fine. You think I meddled too much? This time, I won’t stand in the way of your fortune. If my dad wants to turn himself into a plastic freak—hell, even if he wants a sex change—I will support him unconditionally. 2 I started to slide away from the table, but suddenly, every eye in the room locked onto me. Apparently, my dad had already polled everyone else. Now it was my turn. He held up a photo of the Natasha doll next to his face, grinning like an idiot. “Emily, you’re the college kid. You know how the internet works. Do you think I’d go viral if I looked like Natasha?” I forced a wide, supportive smile and gave him a big thumbs-up. “No one on the internet has actually gotten the surgery to look like Natasha yet, Dad. You’d be the absolute first. The views and followers would be insane.” “You’re my father. Of course I support you.” My dad lived for flattery, especially when he had a few beers in him. “Go find out which clinic has the best surgeons,” he ordered, his chest puffing out. “I want to book the consultation tomorrow!” He immediately Venmoed me $200. In my entire life, my dad had never given me a dime. Even when I was working part-time to pay off my student loans, he would hit me up for cigarette and beer money. He was dead serious about this. Once the party cleared out, I washed the dishes alone, not crawling into bed until 1:00 AM. Just as I started to drift off, my bedroom door slammed open. My heart jumped into my throat. My mother stood over my bed, her face twisted in a cold sneer. She snatched my phone off the nightstand. Venmo Notification: $200 received. She immediately transferred the money to her own account, then hard-pinched my arm, digging her nails into my skin. “Bitch! Why are you taking my husband’s money? Emily, are you trying to play his little side-chick?!” The sheer absurdity of her words nearly gave me a stroke. But I forced myself to stay calm and explain. “Mom, you know he only has eyes for you. That $200 is just for the clinic consultation fees.” Her gaze didn’t soften. She stared at me, eyes burning with paranoia. “I saw the way you were smiling and batting your eyes at him at dinner. Don’t lie to me.” “I’m warning you, Greg is my man, and my man only. Don’t you dare try to steal him.” I had to raise my hands and swear to God to keep her from losing her mind. My mother was a textbook codependent, deeply insecure woman. She lived by the twisted logic that daughters are their fathers’ “past-life lovers,” treating me like a romantic rival since I was a child. Actually, she treated every female on the planet as a threat. A few years ago, when one of my dad’s businesses briefly showed promise, a female client had a professional dinner with him. My mother tracked them down, burst into the restaurant, and beat the woman so badly she put her in the hospital. It cost us over twenty thousand dollars in legal fees, and the business went under. My mother didn’t care; she was just proud she had “defended her territory.” She smirked at my panicked explanations, clearly enjoying the toxic sense of superiority. Then, as if remembering something, she let out a dry chuckle. “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. You won’t have the chance to tempt him much longer. Old man Roy next door asked about you. He’s offering a forty-thousand-dollar cash settlement, and he already gave me a ten-thousand-dollar deposit. We’re getting the papers signed this weekend.” My blood ran cold. “Mom! Roy is a violent sociopath!” She shrugged, completely unfazed. “He did time, sure, but he’s out now.” “He’s a real man—built like a tank. You can smell the testosterone on him from a mile away. You should be grateful a man like that wants you.” 3 Hearing the envy in her voice made me want to scream. Roy was a monster. He had beaten his first wife to death on their wedding night and served a ten-year sentence. Since his release, the police had been called to his house dozens of times. Everyone avoided him like the plague, yet my mother was practically throwing me into his cage. In my past life, I had fought my father on the surgery, which made my mother despise me even more. This time, because I had agreed with my father, her “threat radar” had gone off. If I married Roy, he would kill me. For a split second, I wanted to burn the whole house down with them inside. But it wasn’t time yet. I had to play along. I forced a sycophantic smile. “Mom, Roy might be a man, but he doesn’t compare to Dad. Nobody does.” “But plastic surgery is a massive procedure. There are so many shady clinics, and his face could literally rot if it’s done wrong. Do you or Nana know what a rhinoplasty or cheek implants entail? I’m younger, I can talk to the doctors and make sure they don’t screw up.” I looked at her perfectly manicured hands, which had never done a day of hard labor in her life. “Besides, after the surgery, he’ll need constant, intensive care during his recovery. If I’m married off, who’s going to look after him? You don’t want to be doing heavy lifting and cleaning up after him every day, do you?” At the mention of physical labor, my mother hesitated. “Fine. We can wait a bit. Your father’s face is the priority.” “But you make sure you grill those doctors. If anything happens to your dad, I’ll make your life a living hell.” I nodded eagerly, promising to treat him like royalty. Just as she opened her mouth to say more, a violent, retching sound echoed from the living room. My mother instantly forgot about me and scrambled out. “Oh, my sweet baby! I told you not to drink so much! Look at you, you’re hurting!” “Let mommy make you some hangover soup.” The baby talk made my stomach turn. But what followed was even worse. My dad slurred, “Silence, woman! Who do you think you’re talking to?” My mother giggled in a high-pitched, childish voice. “It’s your queen, my lord.” “Ah, my queen. Come here.” “Oh, stop it~ You’re so bad~” The neighbor started pounding violently on the shared wall, screaming at them to shut up. Meanwhile, my Nana opened her bedroom door just a crack, watching them with a proud, beaming smile. “That’s my boy. Still as virile as ever! God bless, hopefully we’ll get a grandson out of this!” I put on my headphones to drown out the noise, the urge to escape this madhouse burning like acid in my chest. I spent the rest of the night researching plastic surgery clinics. Finally, I found a listing and sent a photo of the Natasha doll to their inbox. I want a one-to-one replication. Price is not an issue. Recovery is not an issue. Just make him look exactly like this doll. 4 My mother’s toxic devotion to my father was entirely based on one thing: in his youth, he looked strikingly like a 90s Brad Pitt. If that face disappeared, would her devotion survive? Not a chance. When I was in middle school, my dad went to South America for six months to sell counterfeit sunscreen. During that time, I saw my mother bring different men home constantly. Back then, Nana didn’t have her pension yet, so she spent her evenings rummaging through neighborhood recycling bins for extra cash, which is why she never caught her. But eventually, my mother caught an STD. The physical symptoms were so obvious that Nana figured it out. Nana beat her raw in the living room until my mother wept and swore on her life she’d never stray again. If my dad’s face was ruined, my mother would run. And Nana would lose her mind. It would be an absolute bloodbath. The thought made me giddy. I requested a week of paid leave from my job first thing the next morning. I pretended to go to work but spent the day wandering around the mall. If they knew I had time off, they’d have me scrubbing floors at a local diner to bring home extra cash. To them, I wasn’t a daughter; I was a draft horse. I expected my dad to call me by 2:00 PM about the surgery. But by the time I had to go home, my phone hadn’t buzzed once. Had he changed his mind? Panicked, I hurried back, only to find an unexpected guest in the living room: Chuck. And next to him sat a slick-looking man in a designer suit and gold-rimmed glasses. I recognized him instantly. He was the chief surgeon and owner of Aesthetic Edge. During my late-night research, Aesthetic Edge had stood out because of its horrific track record. Botched surgeries, necrosis, and thousands of active lawsuits. The place was a notorious chop shop, and its reputation was completely shot. I looked at Chuck, then at the doctor. A classic kickback scheme. My dad looked up at me, holding a pen over a contract. “Emily, Chuck brought over this specialist. You’re the smart one—take a look at this paperwork for me?” My dad was clever in his own petty way. He wanted to shift the blame to me if things went south. But I wasn’t going to play his game this time. I gave a polite, apologetic shrug. “Honestly, Dad, cosmetic surgery isn’t really my area. Maybe you should call around and get a second opinion?” Chuck jumped in, visibly sweating. “Greg, come on! We’re closer than brothers. You think I’d screw you over?” The doctor gave me a slow, predatory look that made my skin crawl. Sensing danger, I excused myself to the kitchen to “start on dinner.” Through the door, I heard Chuck making grand promises. “Man, I’ve been with you through thick and thin. I’d never snake you. If I’m taking a kickback on this, may God strike my family dead!” He was a childless bachelor; he’d swear on anything. My dad still looked hesitant. But then my mother chimed in. “Honey, internet trends move fast. If we wait, the Natasha craze will be over.” That did it. My dad signed the contract. As the guests were leaving, I walked out of the kitchen with a plate of food. I caught my mother lingering by the door, tugging lightly at her bra strap while looking at the slick doctor. Her eyes were practically dripping with lust.

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My best friend posed as a clinic nurse during my husband Wyatt’s annual physical, stole his genetic material, and successfully impregnated herself. She did it all for one reason: the dying words of our family patriarch, Charles Stafford. On his deathbed, the multi-billionaire had declared that whichever woman bore his first great-grandson would inherit his entire ten-billion-dollar empire. But I had severe fertility issues. Three years of marriage, endless hormone injections, and failed IVF cycles had left my body bruised and my womb empty. Miranda, my closest friend, had spent those years comforting me, brewing holistic teas and praying over my belly. Then, she turned around, checked herself into the hospital suite directly adjacent to Charles’s hospice room, and gave birth to a baby boy right there. “Fiona, I did this for your own good,” she had told me, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “The Stafford legacy has been passed down through single sons for generations. I couldn’t let the line end with you.” “And besides, I’m a traditional woman. Wyatt took my innocence that night, so he needs to take responsibility.” “As for you… if you agree to walk away from this marriage with nothing, I might still let the baby call you Aunt Fiona.” Her face had been alive with triumph as she slapped the prenatal DNA test report directly onto my face. I stared at the paperwork scattered across the floor, my eyes catching the bold, undeniable print: The genetic markers confirm a biological father-son relationship between Wyatt Stafford and the male infant. Everyone in the room expected me to shatter. But as my eyes drifted to a small, easily overlooked line of text in the bottom corner of the report, a slow smile crept onto my face. … The DNA report fluttered to the ground, scattering across the polished marble floor. At Grandpa Charles’s funeral, the atmosphere was heavy with grief. Everyone wore stark, somber black, except for my former best friend, Miranda. She stood in the center of the room in a vibrant, blood-red designer dress, cradling a baby boy who was barely a few days old. Her smile stretched so wide it nearly reached her ears. She looked less like a mourner and more like a woman who had just won the lottery. “Once the pregnancy was confirmed, I moved straight into the Stafford estate to rest,” Miranda said, her voice carrying across the quiet room. “You shouldn’t blame Wyatt, Fiona. After all, the boy in my arms is the only male heir to the Stafford legacy. It’s only right that he claims his birthright.” The air grew deathly still. The mourning guests turned their heads, their eyes darting between us, waiting for my tears, my rage, my collapse. Instead, I looked at the tiny font in the bottom corner of the page and smiled. Suddenly, Miranda’s phone chimed. She picked it up, putting it on speaker. My mother-in-law, Beatrice, squealed with delight from the other end. “Miranda, darling! Is it true? The Stafford line is secured? I have a grandson?” Miranda cast a smug, lingering look in my direction. She spent several minutes cooing about how beautiful and perfect her son was before hanging up with an arrogant tilt of her chin. I looked at her, my voice entirely flat. “That child will never inherit a single dime of the Stafford estate.” Miranda let out a sharp, mocking laugh, clearly assuming I was just grasping at straws. “Fiona, have you let your jealousy drive you mad?” “The DNA test is right there. It proves, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Wyatt is Dylan’s biological father.” “According to the terms of the trust, Dylan is the sole legal heir. If you pack your bags and leave quietly now, I might still let him recognize you as his godmother.” An hour later, Beatrice burst through the doors of the memorial service, her coat half-falling off her shoulders in her rush. The moment she saw the infant’s face, she let out a breathless gasp. “He looks just like him. Oh, he looks exactly like Wyatt did as a baby.” Anxious that I might snap and harm the child, Beatrice quickly gestured for two security guards to stand between me and the baby. “This child is our crown jewel,” Beatrice declared, her eyes watering. “We must protect him at all costs.” She turned to Miranda, taking her hands with a warmth she had never once shown me. “Miranda, sweetie, you’re still recovering. Sit down, don’t strain yourself. I’ve already summoned the family estate lawyers. We are going to transfer the trust into your name immediately!” Then, she cast a cold, venomous look in my direction. “Unlike some people, who couldn’t even manage to produce a single egg in three whole years.” “If I were you, Fiona, I’d pack up my things and slip out the back door before we have you thrown out. Save yourself whatever dignity you have left.” But I didn’t move. My gaze remained fixed on the infant cradled in the nanny’s arms. “Don’t bother calling the lawyers,” I said softly. “Because she isn’t getting a dime.” Miranda looked me up and down, her expression turning into one of pitying disgust. “Fiona, accept reality. You’re barren because of your own bad karma. Back in college, you practically threw yourself at Wyatt. You walked around in those tight slip dresses—what kind of respectable woman dresses like that? It’s no wonder your body is broken.” “Only a decent, traditional woman like me is fit to carry the Stafford bloodline.” The guests whispered among themselves, their eyes lingering on my clothes, my face, my posture. This was a multi-billion-dollar empire at stake. The sheer scale of the inheritance made everyone in the room hungry for a piece of the drama. “This is a funeral. What is going on here?” My father-in-law, Richard Stafford, strode into the hall. The moment his eyes fell on Miranda, his stern face softened into a warm, patriarchal smile. “Miranda, you made it. The lawyers will be here shortly to finalize the trust transition.” He signaled to a server. “Bring over the bird’s nest tonic I had prepared for her. Drink up, dear.” “Yes, yes, you are the savior of our family,” Beatrice chimed in, hovering over her. “We need to build your strength back up. Once the paperwork is signed, we’re sending you to a private recovery villa in Aspen for six months.” Beatrice lovingly spooned the warm tonic, holding it up to Miranda’s lips. Watching the three of them play happy family was almost sickening. “Richard, Beatrice,” I spoke up, my voice cutting through their domestic bliss. “Lest you forget, Wyatt and I are still legally married. Aren’t you popping the champagne a bit early? What if she doesn’t qualify for the trust?” Miranda choked on her drink. She pushed Beatrice aside, clutching the baby tightly to her chest as she glared at me. “So what if you’re married? The Staffords would never keep a barren, loose woman in the family. Who knows what you’re doing when you stay out until ten tonight? You probably ruined your own body with your lifestyle.” “When my son grows up, I’ll make sure he never associates with women like you.” Beatrice helped Miranda sit down, sneering at me. “This baby is a Stafford, through and through. Look at those eyes. He’s the spitting image of Wyatt.” Miranda’s confidence flared up again. “Fiona, I get it. You’re bitter because I gave Wyatt a son. But lying to yourself like this? You’ve clearly lost your mind.” Every word out of her mouth was a calculated, baseless lie, but it was enough to catch the attention of the extended Stafford relatives standing nearby. “Did Wyatt really marry a woman like that? No wonder they couldn’t conceive.” “Thank God Miranda stepped up, or the Stafford name would have died out.” “But wait, why is Fiona so confident? Is there a chance the baby isn’t actually his?” Hearing the whispers, Miranda’s eyes welled with tears. She grabbed Beatrice’s arm, looking utterly helpless. “Mom, if anyone doubts me, they can look at his face. But if it makes everyone feel better, I’ll happily do another DNA test right now. I just want Wyatt’s family to have peace of mind.” She looked so fragile, as though she might faint from the sheer weight of the accusation. Beatrice’s face contorted with maternal fury, her voice rising to a screech. “I dare anyone to make my grandson go through that again! Look at his nose, his brow—he is Wyatt’s child! We don’t need any more tests. This child is a Stafford, and that is final!” I had loved Beatrice like my own mother. For three years, she was the one who held my hand after every negative pregnancy test, whispering that we would find a way. Now, her eyes held nothing but cold, transactional disgust. Richard had finally had enough. He gestured to the security guards. “Get her out of here. She has done nothing but upset a recovering mother since she walked in.” “Get your hands off her.” I took a deep breath, looking directly at my in-laws. “You really think Miranda’s son is going to inherit the estate? I’m telling you, even when the lawyers get here, she won’t get a single penny.” The room fell into a dead silence. Richard slammed his cane against the marble floor, his face flushed with rage. “Get her out! I don’t want to see this lunatic in my sight ever again!” The two guards stepped forward, grabbing my arms. I felt a surge of adrenaline, twisting my body and pulling away with a fierce, quiet intensity. “Don’t touch me. I’m pregnant.” Reaching into my designer bag, I pulled out a folded piece of paper and laid it flat on the table. There it was, in clear, clinical black and white: Gestation: 12 weeks. Richard and Beatrice exchanged a brief, stunned look before bursting into cold laughter. Miranda snatched the paper from the table, scanning it quickly before letting out a sharp giggle. “So what if you’re pregnant?” “You’re barely three months along. You don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl. How do you expect to compete with Dylan? My son is already here.” “Today, I am going to make sure you see exactly what is written in that trust.” Thirty minutes later, the family estate lawyer stepped out of a black sedan and walked into the hall. Every eye in the room was locked onto his leather briefcase. He unzipped the bag, pulled out the official trust documents, and read the crucial clause aloud to the gathered family. “In accordance with the late Charles Stafford’s final wishes, being of sound mind and body… the entirety of the Stafford trust shall be transferred directly to the biological mother of Wyatt Stafford’s firstborn son.” Miranda practically tore the document from the lawyer’s hands, shoving it in my face. “Did you hear that, Fiona? The mother of his firstborn son! Even if you somehow manage to carry a boy to term, he’ll be nothing but a shadow to my Dylan!” Beatrice and Richard glared at me as if I were a stain on their pristine floors. “I heard it. Loud and clear,” I said, my voice steady as I looked at the phrase mother of his firstborn son, and then shifted my gaze to Miranda’s pale face. “Let’s see how long you keep that smile when you realize you don’t qualify.” Beatrice wrapped a protective arm around Miranda, while Richard’s finger practically poked my nose. “You are a bitter, spiteful woman. You can’t have your own, so you try to curse Miranda’s child?” “Do you want our family line to end with you? This is a binding legal trust, Fiona! Not a game!” Wyatt’s older sister, Evelyn, stepped forward, her voice dripping with artificial sweet sympathy. “Fiona, we ignored your little side-adventures while Wyatt was away, but this is a family matter. You can’t just throw tantrums. No matter how jealous you are of Miranda, this behavior is beneath you.” With a few sentences, they had painted me as a loose, envious wife who was desperate to cling to power. The murmurs from the relatives grew louder. “I knew it. She probably knows Wyatt’s heart isn’t with her anymore.” “The Staffords treated her like royalty, and this is how she repays them?” “She should just sign the divorce papers and spare herself the embarrassment.” My hands clenched into tight fists, my knuckles turning white. I took out my phone and dialed the family’s private physician. “Dr. Fletcher, I need you to bring your diagnostic equipment to the Stafford memorial hall immediately. Run a full physical panel on Miranda’s baby.” Before I could finish, Richard swung his hand, knocking the phone out of my grip. It clattered against the marble, the screen shattering instantly. “What diagnostic panel? My grandson is perfectly healthy!” Richard roared. “How can you be so malicious? Wishing illness on a newborn baby!” My hand throbbed where his cane had brushed my wrist, but I kept my voice perfectly calm. “Once Dr. Fletcher runs the panel, you’ll understand exactly what I mean.” Richard’s face was dark with fury. “Fine! Let’s let Dr. Fletcher do his job. But I swear to God, Fiona, if that baby is healthy, you are finished.” Thirty minutes later, Dr. Fletcher arrived, flanked by two medical assistants carrying portable diagnostic cases. I pointed directly at the infant in Miranda’s arms. “A complete, head-to-toe clinical evaluation. Don’t miss a single detail.” Beatrice anxiously grabbed the doctor’s sleeve. “Dr. Fletcher, there’s nothing wrong with his heart or lungs, is there?” Dr. Fletcher didn’t answer immediately. He took the baby gently from the nanny, placing him on the portable sterile table as his assistants set up the monitors. The room was so quiet you could hear the hum of the medical equipment. Finally, Dr. Fletcher removed his stethoscope. “His cardiovascular and respiratory functions are perfectly normal. There are no signs of distress.” Miranda let out a long, theatrical sigh of relief. “I knew it,” she gloated, looking around the room. “During my pregnancy, I followed an elite holistic regimen. I drank organic paternal alkalizing enzymes every single day to ensure his health. Richard even helped by maintaining a strict alkaline hydration diet for his own biological output. We spared no expense for this child.” Beatrice clutched her chest, letting out a massive sigh of relief. Richard turned on me, his hand swinging fast and hard. Slap! The force of the blow sent a ringing sound echoing through my ears. “Fiona! I have tolerated your presence out of respect for your three years in this family, but you have pushed me too far!” Richard spat. “My grandson is healthy. If you dare utter another curse against him, the Stafford family will ruin you.” He threw a set of divorce papers onto the table. “Sign them. And get out.” My cheek burned with a sharp, throbbing pain, but the coldness in my chest was far worse. “I won’t sign,” I said, holding his gaze. “Not until we run another DNA test.” Beatrice lost her temper completely. “You lunatic! The baby has Wyatt’s eyes, Wyatt’s nose—do you think I don’t know what my own son looked like?” Miranda’s eyes flashed with venom. She lunged forward, grabbing my shoulders with a iron grip. “You think I faked the DNA test? You think everyone is as manipulative as you are?” she hissed. “Fine. If you want to play this game, let’s play.” She turned to Dr. Fletcher, her voice trembling with rage. “Run the test. Right now!” Then, she leaned in close, whispering in my ear like a demon. “But when the results come back and confirm Dylan is Wyatt’s son… you will abort that mistake in your belly, sign the papers, and disappear from this city forever.” None of the Staffords raised a single objection. The physical pain on my face was nothing compared to the deep ache in my chest. I looked at these people, realizing that if I backed down now, Wyatt would return to find his life completely stolen, bound to a child who couldn’t even inherit the legacy they were fighting for. Before I could say another word, Evelyn grabbed my arm, dragging me toward the adjoining private medical room. “Let’s go. I want to see your face when the truth comes out.” Dr. Fletcher, sensing the volatile atmosphere, quietly gathered the samples. A security guard rushed to Wyatt’s private quarters to retrieve his toothbrush for the paternal swab. The wait was agonizingly quiet. The Stafford elders sat in a row, staring at me as if I were a criminal awaiting sentencing. Wyatt’s aunt leaned forward, a cruel smirk on her lips. “I hope you have your bags packed, dear.” Finally, the diagnostic machine let out a sharp, cold beep. The printer began to hum, spitting out pages of data. Dr. Fletcher picked up the primary report. At the very top, the text read: Paternal match confirmed: 99.9% probability of relationship between Dylan Stafford and Wyatt Stafford. Beatrice snatched the paper from his hands before he could even speak. Seeing the results, she let out a loud, triumphant laugh. “Look at this! This is my grandson! The true heir!” She paraded the document around the room, showing it to every relative. Richard beamed, cradling the infant and rocking him back and forth. Evelyn grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward the door. “The car is waiting. We’re going to the clinic to get rid of that baby of yours right now.” “Let go of me!” I struggled, twisting my wrists to break her grip. This was the baby I had prayed for over three long years. I wasn’t going to let them touch him. “You insulted the savior of our family,” Evelyn sneered, her grip tightening. “An abortion is the least you can do to apologize.” I lunged forward, biting down hard on Evelyn’s arm. She shrieked, releasing her hold. “His child isn’t what you think!” I screamed, turning toward Dr. Fletcher. “Look at the bottom of the page, Dr. Fletcher! The additional findings!” “Keep quiet!” Miranda yelled from behind me, shoving me hard. My head clipped the edge of the car door frame, and my vision blurred. But I ignored the pain, keeping my eyes fixed on Dr. Fletcher. He was my only hope. Dr. Fletcher looked at me, seeing the absolute desperation in my eyes. Slowly, he reached down and picked up the discarded pages of the medical report. As his eyes scanned the text at the bottom of the sheet, his breath caught. “Wait! Stop!” he yelled, his voice cracking with panic. “Don’t touch her!” He ran toward the car, banging on the window. “We cannot abort this pregnancy! This baby is our only hope!” “Nobody leaves!” The driver put the car in park. Richard walked over, his brow furrowed in annoyance. “Dr. Fletcher, you ran the test yourself. What could possibly be the issue?” “Dylan is the sole heir to the Stafford legacy!” Dr. Fletcher swallowed hard, his face completely pale as he handed the report to Richard. “I think you should read this before making any decisions, sir.” Richard snatched the paper with a scoff. “Let’s see what ridiculous excuse she’s come up with now.” But the moment his eyes hit the bottom of the page, his expression froze.

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“A hundred million dollars or your dad’s smile—which would you choose?” It was after school at the preschool. A local reporter was standing near the gate, interviewing the kids. I chose the hundred million dollars. My twin brother, Mason, chose Dad’s smile. Dad, who had just stepped out of the car, overheard my answer. He flew into a rage, stormed over, and slapped me hard across the face. “You’re both my flesh and blood, but your brother actually cares about me. Where is your heart, Toby? Did you leave it in the gutter?” “If I’d known you’d turn out to be such an ungrateful, money-hungry brat, I would have never had you!” I stood there, clutching my burning, swollen cheek, tears streaming down my face as I tried to explain. “Dad is always sick and taking medicine. I wanted the money so I could cure you.” But Dad was convinced I was just making excuses. As we drove past a massive billboard—a wealthy family offering a million-dollar reward for their missing child—he slammed on the brakes, dragged me out of the passenger seat, and pointed at the address. “You love money so much? Go find those rich people. See if they’ll take you in. Don’t you dare come back home!” Mom tried to plead with him, telling him not to let his anger get the better of him, but he just sneered. “I’m teaching him a lesson. If he cares about me as his father, he’ll run after the car.” I scrambled up from the gravel, but before I could take a step, a hand clamped tightly over my mouth. A strange woman had appeared from the shadows. Muttering words like “fresh cargo” and “easy payday,” she shoved me into the dark trunk of her sedan. Through the crack before the heavy lid slammed shut, I watched Dad take Mason’s hand and walk away. The trunk was pitch-black and stifling hot. The air grew thick, and soon, my lungs couldn’t draw in enough breath. Then, slowly, my body felt weightless, floating up and away from the metal cage. Dad, I’m sorry. I was wrong. But the car kept driving, further and further, to a place from which I could never return. … The car jolted down the highway, my small, lifeless body curled up in the back. But my spirit remained, watching. I remembered how my hands had trembled as I clutched my toy smartwatch, desperately typing out messages to Dad. Dad, Mrs. Kelly said money can buy anything in the world. I wanted the hundred million to buy your health back. I’m sorry, Dad. It’s so dark here. I’m so scared. But the little loading wheel just spun and spun. No signal. Instead, the rustling caught the attention of the woman in the back seat. She popped the trunk, ripped the watch off my wrist, and tied it to the collar of a stray dog barking near the curb. Then she threw a heavy canvas sack over me, growling at me to shut up. The trunk slammed shut again. Darkness. No light, no breeze, just suffocating heat. My chest tightened, my breaths growing shallower and weaker until they stopped altogether. When I opened my eyes again, I was weightless. I didn’t feel the heat or the pain anymore. My first thought was to find my parents. I drifted back toward the school and found their sedan parked three blocks away. He did forgive me! He’s waiting for me! Warmth flooded through me. I floated toward the window, ready to lean into his arms, but then I saw Dad hurl his phone into Mom’s lap. “Look at this! His watch tracker is moving further and further away into the wealthy suburbs, and here we are, sitting like idiots waiting for him. He’s probably glad to be rid of us!” Panic seized me. No, Dad! I didn’t leave! The bad lady threw my watch on a dog! But my voice was nothing but a sigh of wind against the glass. Mom frowned, her fingers tapping anxiously against the steering wheel. “Let’s give him a little more time. Toby is usually so good. Maybe he just got distracted playing.” Dad sneered as he gently peeled a grape for Mason. “We’ve been sitting here for forty-seven minutes. Mason’s stomach has growled three times. I’ll give him thirty more seconds. If he isn’t here by then, I don’t have a son.” He set a timer on his phone. The numbers ticked down mercilessly to zero. The rearview mirror remained empty. Furious, Dad buckled Mason’s seatbelt. “We’re going home! I see him clearly now. Barely five years old and already obsessed with money. A heartless, ungrateful child.” Even Mom, who had been defending me, looked defeated. “We’ve only been struggling with your medical bills for the last couple of years. We never let him go hungry. I can’t believe he’d turn his back on us…” Dad slammed his foot on the gas. I flew alongside the window, screaming my explanations, following them all the way to our driveway. As the sky bruised into twilight, my panic spiked. Night was falling, and Dad’s pain was about to start. The moment we crossed the threshold, Dad locked himself in his room. Through the door, I could see his neck erupting in angry red hives. He clawed at his skin, his voice cracking with tears. “If it weren’t for those two boys, I wouldn’t have contracted this miserable skin condition. It claws at me every night. I can’t sleep, I’m constantly running to the clinic, it ruined my career, and now it’s dragging this whole family down.” Mom let out a long, heavy sigh. “Honey, please hold on. Once my quarterly bonus comes in, I’ll take you to the specialist hospital downtown for the treatment.” Mason crept to the door and slid a crayon drawing under the crack. “Don’t cry, Daddy. Look, I drew a family portrait. In my heart and Toby’s heart, you’re the best-looking dad ever.” Dad glanced at it, then coldly tore my figure out of the drawing. “Don’t mention that ungrateful boy in this house!” “I suffer in silence every single day. He is the reason I got sick in the first place, and yet he’s the one who turns up his nose at our empty pockets? If he doesn’t want to come back, then he can stay gone forever!” I waved my arms frantically. Dad, I’m right here! I’m staying right here beside you! But Dad was too far gone. He threw open the door, determined to purge every trace of me from the apartment. Mom tried to hold him back. “Stop it, Daniel! He’ll be devastated when he comes back and sees this.” Blind with rage, Dad wouldn’t listen. He stormed into my tiny bedroom, grabbing my clothes and backpack, hurling them onto the floor. As the backpack hit the linoleum, a small notebook slipped out. In it, in my clumsy, childish handwriting, was a list: Bubble machine: $2.00 Action figure: $5.00 Backpack keychain: $1.00 The silver bracelet from Dad: $57.00 Dad’s lips turned pale, his fingers trembling as he picked it up. “I knew those toys were disappearing for a reason! Toby sold them behind our backs! The toys are one thing, but that bracelet was his birthday present! He threw away my gift for cash. What a beautiful son we raised!” He spat the words out like venom. I hung my head, my ghostly fingers touching my bare wrist. I loved those toys, Dad. And I loved that bracelet more than anything. But I needed the money to ask my teacher to order that special soothing cream for you. The one that would let you sleep peacefully at night. Mom picked up the notebook, her eyes clouding with confusion. “Why would a five-year-old need all this cash?” Dad let out a bitter, hollow laugh. “Why else? He never spent it here, so he must have hoarded it. You didn’t see the greedy look on his face during that interview when he chose the hundred million without a second thought. For all we know, he’s probably cozying up to some wealthy folks right now.” With that, Dad scooped up the last remnants of my presence and shoved them into the trash bin, retreating back into his room. Looking at the chaotic living room, a cold ache bloomed in my chest. Dad, you really got it all wrong. No one slept that night. The silence in the apartment was heavy, suffocating. Dad lay in bed, endlessly scrolling through his phone. I floated beside him and froze when I saw the picture on his screen. It was the rusty silver sedan the strange woman drove. The headline read: Police dismantle child abduction ring near local preschools; body of young boy discovered in vehicle trunk… I pointed at the screen, a childish spark of hope lighting up my spectral heart. Mom, that’s me! I’m in that car! Please come and bring me home. In the other room, Mom suddenly sat up. The rustle of her throwing on her coat woke Dad. “Where are you going at this hour?” “I’m going to find Toby,” she said, her voice tight with a sudden, clawing panic. “The news says kidnappers have been operating around the school. He’s only five, Daniel. What if something happened to him?” Dad didn’t even look up from his phone. “Stay right where you are. Even a dog wouldn’t run away because its owner is poor. A greedy brat like him isn’t worth the effort.” “He’s our son, Daniel!” Mom’s voice cracked. “How can we leave him out there in the dark?” Her words reignited the embers of his rage. Dad shoved his screen in her face, pointing at the tracking app. “Open your eyes and look! Your precious son is sitting in the middle of the wealthiest zip code in the city, living the high life. He doesn’t need your pity!” Mom took the phone, her hand shaking as she stared at the glowing blue dot. The tracker pinned the watch in a lush, gated community. The app’s status indicator, synced to my “daily mood” feature, read Elated. Mom’s face crumbled. The panic in her eyes gave way to a cold, crushing disappointment, mixed with a deep, aching guilt. “It’s my fault,” she whispered. “I couldn’t give him the life he wanted.” I sobbed, trying to grab her hands. No! The watch is on a dog! Toby isn’t there! But they were deaf to my cries. Dispirited, Mom walked over to the balcony and sat staring into the dark until the first gray light of dawn broke over the horizon. “Go to sleep,” she said quietly to Dad. “I’ll take you for your checkup tomorrow. Once we get your health sorted out, we’ll go bring Toby back.” The next morning, Grandpa Sam came over to help watch us. Finding only Mason in the living room, he frowned. “Where’s Toby? Why is Mason playing by himself?” Dad kept his eyes on his coffee, while Mom stammered out a hasty lie. “He… he’s spending the weekend at a friend’s house.” Mason opened his mouth to say something, but Dad shot him a warning look that silenced him. I missed Grandpa so much. I threw my arms around his waist, but my body passed through him like a cool breeze. Grandpa sighed, pulling two crumpled tickets to the local amusement park from his pocket. “That’s a shame. I was hoping to take both my boys out today. I guess this old man will just have to make two trips.” I stared longingly at the bright yellow tickets. Ever since Dad got sick, Mason and I would watch the other kids go to the carnival while we stayed behind. We used to whisper to each other under the blankets: Let’s wish for Dad to get better. Once he’s cured, we’ll all go together. I didn’t realize Grandpa had overheard our little secret. He had saved up to make our wish come true. But I would never get to sit on the carousel horses with Mason now. I trailed after them all day, watching the bright smiles on their faces. It wasn’t until the park gates closed at nine that Mason finally let Grandpa lead him home. On their walk back, they passed the local police precinct. Under the dim streetlights, Mason’s eyes caught a sliver of faded red fabric poking out from the trunk of a silver sedan parked in the impound lot. His eyes lit up. He tugged hard on Grandpa’s sleeve. “Grandpa, look! That’s Toby’s shirt!” It was dark outside the station. Grandpa glanced at the car briefly, but quickly scooped Mason into his arms, hurrying past. “Don’t talk nonsense, buddy,” he murmured, patting his back. “Your brother is having fun at his classmate’s house. There are too many strange cars out tonight. Let’s get you home.” Sunday evening, Mom and Dad returned from the clinic. Before Grandpa left, he slipped the remaining amusement park ticket into Dad’s palm. “The doctor will find a cure, Daniel. When things settle down, take some time to be with the boys. Especially Toby. That kid worries about you so much. He kept asking me how much money he could get for recycling plastic bottles, saying he wanted to help pay for your treatments.” A flicker of emotion crossed Dad’s face, but he quickly masked it with cold indifference. “Well, I haven’t seen a single cent. He’s always been good with sweet talk.” Grandpa froze, blinking as if he had misheard. Dad quickly ushered Grandpa out the door. Inside, Mom was staring at the fresh stack of medical bills, her shoulders slumped in despair. She pinched Mason’s cheek, her voice filled with quiet apology. “Mason, sweetie… I know I promised we’d go to the beach for your birthday next week, but we might have to push it back a bit.” Mason shook his head, offering a bright smile. “It’s okay, Mom. Toby and I already got Dad a present anyway.” Mason unzipped his backpack and pulled out a cherry lollipop, holding it out to Dad with both hands. “This is from me. If you eat something sweet, Daddy, your heart will feel sweet too, and you’ll smile more.” Dad managed a soft smile, ruffling Mason’s hair. “Thank you, buddy. I love it. But as for your brother… let’s not make any more excuses for him.” Mason opened his mouth to protest, but Dad waved him off dismissively. “Go on, it’s past your bedtime. School starts early tomorrow. And let’s not talk about him anymore.” The next morning, Dad dropped Mason off at preschool. As he turned to leave, Mason’s teacher, Mrs. Kelly, called out to him. “Excuse me, Daniel. I have something for you. I was supposed to give it to you on Friday, but things got so hectic with the class that it slipped my mind.” She reached into her bag and placed a small, premium tube of imported medicated cream into his hand. Dad stared at it, bewildered. “Mrs. Kelly, what is this?” She smiled warmly. “Toby asked me to import this for him using his allowance. He talked about it every day, saying his daddy was in pain and he wanted to make him better. You’re incredibly lucky to have such a thoughtful little boy, Daniel.” Dad’s eyes scanned the price tag on the packaging. He gasped, his voice cracking. “One hundred and twenty dollars? Where on earth did he get this kind of money?” Mrs. Kelly reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a small notebook—identical to the one Dad had thrown in the trash. “He sold his favorite toys to his classmates. He also helped us tidy up the classroom after school, and we’d give him a few dollars here and there as a reward. Please don’t feel bad about accepting it, Daniel. This cream was bought with his hard work, driven entirely by his love for you…” Mrs. Kelly’s voice faded into a dull hum in Dad’s ears. He flipped through the little pages of the notebook. Sweeping the floor. Arranging the cots. Selling my toy robot… Every cent had been accounted for. His hands shook so violently he could barely hold the paper. He stumbled out of the school lobby, frantically dialing Mom’s number. “We’re going to get Toby,” he choked out, tears finally spilling over. “Right now.” Their sedan tore through the streets, following the GPS tracker deep into the affluent suburbs. Dad slammed the brakes in front of a sprawling brick estate. His eyes were glued to the blue dot on his screen. “This is it!” He bolted out of the car, pounding on the heavy oak door. “Toby! It’s Dad! I’m sorry, Toby! I’ve come to take you home!” The door swung open to reveal a young couple looking thoroughly confused. In the woman’s arms was a scruffy, rescued stray dog. “Can we help you?” she asked. Dad’s eyes dropped to the dog’s front paw, where a familiar blue smartwatch was loosely strapped. His face went entirely bloodless. “My… my son’s watch… why is it on your dog?” Before either of them could speak, Mom’s phone rang in her pocket. She answered it, her face freezing into a mask of pure terror. “Hello? Yes, this is the Medical Examiner’s Office. Are we speaking with the parents of Toby Vance? We apprehended a trafficking ring over the weekend, and… we have recovered the body of a young boy who fits your son’s description. We need you to come down immediately to identify him…”

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Just because a dish went out one minute late, the owner’s daughter accused me of slacking off. “Twenty-two minutes for the roasted short ribs? With this kind of efficiency, are you sleeping in the kitchen?” “The commissary kitchen down the street does it in five minutes, at half the cost.” Right then and there, the owner made the call. He was putting her in my spot. I turned off the burner, wiped my hands, and said absolutely nothing. She didn’t get it. She wasn’t improving kitchen efficiency; she was just accelerating the restaurant’s funeral. 1 The lunch rush had just wound down when a small army marched into the kitchen. Leading the pack was Evelyn, the owner’s daughter. An Ivy League grad, her vocabulary consisted entirely of corporate buzzwords like “standardization,” “supply chain optimization,” and “SOPs.” Ever since she’d climbed aboard, she spent her days trailing an entourage of suits through my kitchen, finding non-existent flaws under the guise of “surprise audits.” “Nina, I timed it,” Evelyn said, checking her diamond-encrusted wristwatch with an affected, sweeping gesture. Her tone carried a sharp, mocking edge. “Your red-wine roasted short ribs took twenty-two minutes today. That’s a full minute slower than your average. What makes you think our guests have that kind of patience?” She leaned against the stainless-steel prep table, her arms crossed. “With this kind of efficiency, are you sleeping in the kitchen?” The air in the kitchen instantly turned brittle. My hand froze on the gas knob of the range. Behind me, Cody, my apprentice, quietly set his spatula down. Every eye in the room locked onto me. Evelyn continued, tapping on her iPad to display a sleek, brightly colored infographic. “I’ve done the research. All the major restaurant groups are moving to commissary kitchens. Their proteins are pre-cooked, vacuum-sealed, and shipped directly to the location. All the kitchen has to do is reheat them. Five minutes, and it’s on the table.” Frank, her father and the owner of The Brass Lantern, squinted at the screen, his eyes gleaming with immediate interest. I finally spoke up. “Frank, this dish is all about the reduction. If you rush it, you ruin the soul of the dish.” Cody jumped in to defend me, his face flushed. “The beef we got this morning had too much silver skin. It took extra prep. You won’t find a faster chef in all of Bay Harbor than Nina.” Anyone who actually cooks knows that braising short ribs is a delicate dance of heat and timing. One minute too long and the fat renders into mush; one minute too short and the meat stays tough as leather. Trimming the silver skin, searing the edges, simmering the mirepoix, and slowly reducing the Cabernet glaze—it took fourteen years of muscle memory and precise knife work for me to condense that elaborate choreography into twenty-two minutes. And she was standing there telling me she could do it in five. “That’s because you aren’t utilizing modern technology,” Evelyn said, her expression dripping with the smug condescension of youth. “Every major culinary hub is adopting commissary kitchens. If The Brass Lantern doesn’t adapt, we’ll be left in the dust.” The floor manager immediately chimed in, eager to please. “She’s right about the speed. Just yesterday, the wait times were so long that a couple of customers lost their tempers. They had the servers in tears.” The chief financial officer nodded in agreement. “Evelyn has a sharp head for business. Based on the budget projections she shared with me, this could slash our kitchen labor costs in half.” I opened my mouth to counter, but Frank cut me off with a low, dry cough. “Nina, maybe it’s time we started listening to the younger generation.” With that single sentence, the writing on the wall was clear. “Understood, Frank,” I said. My voice sounded flat, hollow—almost unrecognizable to my own ears. Frank patted my shoulder, offering a patronizing smile. “You’ve worked hard all these years, Nina. Take a breath. Let Evelyn handle the staffing, the inventory, the logistics. You just focus on the line. Starting tomorrow, we’re implementing her system on the first-floor dining hall. I’ll need you to cooperate.” With a few casual words, I’d been stripped of my title. I was no longer the head chef. I was just a line cook. Outside, the afternoon sun cut across the prep station, glinting off the stainless-steel counters. The glare was so sharp it made my eyes water. Fourteen years. I’d started in this kitchen as a prep cook, scrubbing sheet pans and working my way up to executive chef. I’d watched this place grow from a cramped, drafty storefront into the most respected restaurant in the city. I remembered the night we hit our first major milestone, how Frank had looked me in the eye, his voice thick with emotion, and said, “Nina, I’m putting the heart of The Brass Lantern in your hands.” Now, he was telling me to fall in line. Once the entourage cleared out, Cody edged closer, keeping his voice low. “Chef, they’re trying to squeeze you out. You see that, right?” I didn’t answer. I stepped up to my cutting board. My knife flashed, slicing a bundle of fresh scallions into perfectly equal sections. My hands moved with a fluid, silent grace—trimming, sorting, preparing. This speed, this absolute precision—I had spent fourteen years of blood, sweat, and burns refining it. And now, some girl with a degree and an iPad was telling me my life’s work was obsolete. It was almost funny. I tossed the scallions into the hot pan. Sizzzzzle. A plume of fragrant, aromatic steam billowed up, filling the kitchen with the rich, deep scent of toasted alliums. That steam, that life—no commissary kitchen on earth could ever replicate it from a plastic bag. 2 Evelyn moved fast. By the next morning, my main prep station had been cleared out to make room for two massive commercial combi-ovens. She paced around them, admiring the stainless-steel towers before snapping her fingers with a triumphant grin. “Chef Nina, the kitchen’s a bit tight with the new gear. Mind stepping back a bit?” “Oh, and since the main dining room is moving to high-turnover seating, we’ll keep the second-floor private dining rooms as a slower service. They only book a few tables a night anyway—much lighter workload. Since you’re the fastest chef in Bay Harbor, I’m sure you can handle that section all by yourself.” With those marching orders, the line cooks who used to take my direction turned and followed her downstairs. Only Cody remained behind. He checked the tablet. “Chef, we’ve got four private dining rooms booked tonight. Parties of ten or more.” I tied my apron, my jaw set. “Let’s cook.” Evelyn was trying to break me. She was waiting for me to beg for help, to admit her automated, pre-packaged system was superior, or to get so overwhelmed that I’d abandon my standards just to survive the night. But I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. By the third day, half of our traditional ranges had been uninstalled. In their place were cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling, filled with vacuum-sealed plastic bags. Downstairs, the dining hall was packed, but the crowd was different now. Dozens of twenty-something food influencers sat under portable ring lights, lapel mics clipped to their collars, repeating identical, hollow compliments to their cameras. Cody told me Evelyn was paying them over a thousand dollars a video, not including their free drinks and high-end plates. Cody wiped down our remaining three burners, casting a nervous glance at the towers of boxes. “Chef, are we still prepping fresh ingredients?” “Yes.” “How much?” “Same as always.” Cody nodded and headed to the cold room. I stood before the blue flame of my range, letting the dry, intense heat wash over my face. The real battle was just beginning. On the fourth day, Evelyn fired four of our veteran line cooks and replaced them with four new hires. They were all in their early twenties, wearing custom white chef coats emblazoned with a loud, redesigned restaurant logo. They wore makeup, smelled of expensive cologne, and stood in a rigid, perfect line as Evelyn gave them her morning pep talk. “Remember, no plate takes more than six minutes,” she lectured, pacing like a corporate drill sergeant. “The portions are pre-packaged and color-coded. No seasoning, no sautéing, no pan-flipping. You load the tray, slide it into the combi-oven, and press the start button. Memorial Day weekend starts tomorrow, and the city will be packed. I need speed.” During their trial run, one of the new kids dumped a bag of pre-cooked short ribs onto a metal tray. He didn’t even bother peeling the plastic film entirely off before shoving it into the combi-oven and slamming the door. Four minutes later, the oven chimed. Ding. A plate of steaming, glistening roasted short ribs was ready. I watched him slide it onto a plate. A sudden wave of memory hit me—my first year of culinary school, spending three straight months doing nothing but dicing potatoes. If they weren’t translucent and perfectly uniform, I wasn’t allowed near a burner. Now, a career was defined by pressing a digital button. I let out a slow, quiet breath and walked back to my corner to prep. Friday morning of the holiday weekend arrived, and Evelyn launched her new system with absolute confidence. By eleven, the doors opened, and the dining room filled instantly. Evelyn stood by the host stand, hands in her pockets, watching her well-oiled machine run. The kitchen staff downstairs worked like high-speed factory workers. Within an hour, they had turned the tables twice. The dining room was buzzing with superficial praise. “The food is so fast here! We’ll actually make our afternoon movie on time,” one diner gushed. “Saw this place on TikTok,” another whispered, pointing to their screen. “Give us whatever this influencer ordered.” Evelyn whipped out her phone, snapped a photo of the packed dining room, and fired it off to the staff group chat. First battle won! Thanks for the hard work, team. Average ticket time is under twenty minutes—which, if you remember, used to be the time it took our former head chef to make just one dish. The chat flooded with thumbs-up emojis. Evelyn is a genius! one of the new cooks texted. So much faster, and the plating looks cleaner than what the old-school chefs do. Seriously, my station was a breeze this morning, another added. Cody stared at his screen, his jaw tight with worry. “Chef, they’re basically spitting in your face in the group chat. Aren’t you even a little angry?” I ran my knife cleanly down the belly of a fresh red snapper. “Why would I be angry?” “Because they’re going to fire us!” he burst out. I spooned a delicate glaze over the fish. “We are going to leave, Cody. But on our own terms.” His eyes went wide. I knew exactly what Frank was doing. Evelyn was young and reckless, but Frank wasn’t stupid. He wanted her cheap, high-margin model to work, but he was too cowardly to take the heat if it failed. So he hid in the shadows, letting her do the dirty work. He knew my reputation kept the regulars coming, but if her plastic-bag empire succeeded, he’d happily hand me a severance check and point me to the door. I patted Cody on the shoulder. “Remember when you asked me if I ever thought about opening my own place?” Cody stared at me for a beat. Then, a slow, knowing grin spread across his face. 3 By the third day of the commissary rollout, the first-floor revenue had doubled. Evelyn handed out cash bonuses to the new staff. Up on the second floor, however, the atmosphere was thick with resentment. The servers who used to trail behind me, calling me “Chef” with reverence, had suddenly found their claws. “Nina, the party in Room Three has been waiting thirty minutes. Can you pick up the pace?” “Is the pork belly still not ready? The kid downstairs already pushed out five tables.” “The guests canceled their remaining order. Evelyn said the food waste is coming directly out of your paycheck.” Cody snapped back at one of them and was slapped with a written warning by the end of the shift. Reason: Failure to cooperate with team members. I pulled out my phone and sent him two hundred dollars. “Patience, Cody. Soon enough, she’ll be begging us for help.” During Monday’s staff meeting, Evelyn projected a glossy slide deck onto the screen. “First-floor revenue is up fifteen percent year-over-year. Production efficiency has increased by two hundred percent, and customer satisfaction is holding steady at ninety percent.” I stared at that “fifteen percent growth” and felt a grim smile tug at the corner of my lips. The spike was artificially inflated by a promotion she was running—a free appetizer for every table, coded as a “marketing expense.” But that ninety percent satisfaction rate? It had an expiration date. “The new system is incredible,” the lead dishwasher piped up, clapping enthusiastically. “No grease, no heavy scrub pans. Cleanup takes half the time.” “And because the food is instant, guests leave Yelp reviews before they even pay. Our rating went up to 4.8,” a server added. “Technology is the future of dining. It’s about time we caught up.” Evelyn soaked up the praise, basking in it. She strolled over to where I sat, tapping her manicured nails on the table. “Chef Nina, you always talk about technique, soul, and experience. But what does any of that actually buy us?” she asked. “We live in a fast-paced world. Nobody wants to wait. Efficiency is king. It’s nice that you like to play artist, but you need to face reality.” Her voice hardened. “Taking twenty-two minutes for a single dish? Let’s call it what it is: slacking.” Slacking. The word stung like a physical slap, ringing in my ears. I slowly raised my head to look her in the eye. “You’re saving minutes, Evelyn, but you’re losing people,” I said softly. “The Brass Lantern didn’t survive fourteen years on first-time tourists. It survived on regulars. You’re burning our reputation for cheap, fast cash. Once they realize they’re eating reheated garbage, they won’t come back.” She let out a dry, dismissive click of her tongue. “Modern customers don’t care about that. Fast, pretty, and edible is more than enough. Your culinary philosophy is for food critics. We are running a business.” “A business?” “Yes, a business. My dad put me in charge to make a profit, not to worship your cast-iron pans.” I stopped arguing. You can’t explain flavor to someone who only tastes margins. “If your ticket times don’t meet our company standard by next week, we’ll start deducting it from your pay,” she warned, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “This isn’t a retirement home.” A wave of snickers went through the room. Back in the kitchen, I cut open one of her vacuum-sealed short rib bags, heated it, and drizzled the gelatinous red-wine reduction over it. I handed a fork to Cody. He took a bite, chewed, and frowned. “Chef… this is terrible compared to yours.” “Explain it to me,” I said. “It’s just… dead. The meat is mushy, and the sauce tastes like cornstarch and chemicals. They aren’t cooking together; they’re just on the same plate.” I knew that taste. It was the flavor of commercial mass production. The meat was chemically tenderized, the sauce stabilized with xanthan gum to give it a glossy shine that melted into water the second it hit your tongue. Did they really think the diners wouldn’t notice? I scraped the plate into the trash can, letting fourteen years of sweat, pride, and loyalty slide into the garbage bag with it. That night, after I got home, I dialed my real estate agent. “Is that corner lot on the east side still available?” “It is. Honestly, Nina, the foot traffic there is a bit light, and you’ve looked at it four times now. If you’re serious, I can try to squeeze the landlord on the lease.” I looked down at the notification on my phone. It was my digital paystub from finance. Deduction for insubordination: $500. Deduction for ticket time non-compliance: $1,200. Inventory waste charge: $2,500. Net pay: $412. Fourteen years as an executive chef, and my paycheck was lower than a dishwasher’s weekly wage. I took a deep, steadying breath. “Draw up the paperwork,” I told the agent. “I’ll sign it tomorrow.” Thank you, Evelyn, I thought. Thank you for finally pushing me out of the nest. 4 The Tuesday after Memorial Day weekend, the first-floor dining room fell apart. A loud slam echoed through the restaurant as a middle-aged man banged his fist against his table. “What the hell is this?” he roared. “This tastes completely flat! And the short ribs are half the size they used to be!” He poked at his plate. “The meat is cold in the middle. Did you guys fire your chef?” Evelyn, seeing a scene brewing, hurried over, putting on her best customer-service smile. “Sir, I assure you, our recipe standards haven’t changed. Perhaps your palate is just a bit sensitive today—” “Don’t give me that corporate garbage,” the man snapped, standing up. “I’ve eaten here weekly for eight years. You think I don’t know what Nina’s food tastes like? Get her out here right now.” Evelyn’s smile froze. “Chef Nina is currently managing our private dining rooms on the second floor. The main dining room has transitioned to our new, standardized menu—” The man scoffed. “Standardized? You think I’m an idiot? This is frozen, reheated airline food!” At the neighboring tables, diners began setting down their forks. An elderly woman frowned. “I knew something was off. When I asked them to hold the pepper, the server told me the kitchen couldn’t make any modifications.” “And this chicken pot pie,” another diner called out, “the meat is perfectly uniform cubes. There’s no bone, no texture. It’s industrial.” “Charging fifty bucks a plate for frozen food? Refund!” someone else shouted. Beads of sweat broke out on Evelyn’s forehead, but she tried to salvage the situation. “Our ingredients are prepared in a state-of-the-art facility under strict quality controls,” she raised her voice over the din. “I will have the kitchen remake your dishes immediately. Please, sit down.” She practically kicked the kitchen door open, her face pale with fury. She marched straight to my station. “I told you to adjust the seasoning on the short ribs! Why didn’t you do it? Do you have any idea how angry the customers are out there?” “Frank said the main dining room was your project, Evelyn. I only handle the private events,” I said, not looking up as I seasoned a rack of lamb. “Besides, the meat in those bags hasn’t even been properly trimmed of gristle. No amount of salt can fix bad prep.” “Are you going to cook for them or not, Nina?” she hissed. I finally looked up. “Get me fresh prime beef. Let me sear it by hand, let me reduce my own stock for three hours. If you give me the real ingredients, I’ll fire up the range right now.” Evelyn lost her mind. She swept her arm across my workstation, knocking my cutting board, prep bowls, and chef’s knife clattering to the tile floor. One of the line cooks rushed in, face white. “Evelyn, those tables are refusing to pay. They’re demanding full comps, and other guests are starting to film it. It’s going viral on local Facebook groups.” “Comp them!” Evelyn snapped, her voice trembling as she adjusted her blazer. “Just get them out before the local news crew gets here for the weekend feature.” She glared at me, her eyes spitting poison. “Every single dollar of those comps is coming out of your pocket. Starting tomorrow, you’re suspended. I’ll deal with my father myself.” The moment the door swung shut behind her, Cody spat on the floor. “Power-tripping brat!” He looked at me, awe in his eyes. “Chef, you called it. You knew she’d come crawling to you the second things went south.” I picked up my knife from the floor, washed it thoroughly, and went back to slicing. “During the holiday, the dining room was full of tourists,” I said, throwing the ingredients into Cody’s hot pan. The flame roared. “They came for the aesthetic and the convenience. Even if the food tasted off, they had flights to catch and itineraries to follow. They didn’t have the energy to complain. But our regulars? They know what my food tastes like. The tongue doesn’t lie, Cody. You can cheat a lot of things in this life, but you can’t cheat flavor.” Cody nodded, processing it. “But what about the money she docked from your pay? That’s thousands of dollars.” I adjusted the flame. “Don’t worry. She’s going to pay me back every single cent.”

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As the spring internship cohort wrapped up their onboarding, I was showing three new interns around the office when a strange, disembodied voice suddenly echoed in my mind. [The chat feed says this woman is the male lead’s ninth canary. Doesn’t that make her the villainous rival standing in my way?] [Locked away in an asylum in the end… classic villainess fate.] [Wait, my first meeting with the male lead is about to happen. She better not ruin it for me.] My steps faltered for a fraction of a second. I turned back, offering a polite smile to the three interns. “You girls might want to tie your hair back,” I said softly. “The CEO hates it when women leave their hair loose.” Ruin it for her? Far from it. I’d gladly hand over every single one of my benefactor’s quirks and preferences on a silver platter to this self-proclaimed “heroine.” After all… nobody wanted the arrival of the tenth canary more than I did. 1. Hearing my advice, the three girls paused, immediately reaching up to tidy their hair. One of them, a girl named Daisy Campbell, kept her eyes lowered. The tips of her ears flushed a faint pink, and she offered a shy, polite smile. “Thank you, Ms. Nancy.” Her voice was soft, sweet, and entirely unassuming. She looked like a girl who didn’t have a single scheming bone in her body. Yet, her inner voice crashed into my mind with crystal clarity: [What’s with the sudden kindness? There’s got to be a catch.] [The chat says she’s the classic villainess. Always playing dirty behind people’s backs. I can’t let her play me for a fool.] [Thank god I have this live feed, or she’d have me wrapped around her finger.] I kept walking, the smile on my face fading slightly. I didn’t bother to reply. A quiet amusement settled in my chest. Let her think what she wanted. I had no intention of hurting her; I just wanted her to secure her place quickly so I could finally be replaced. As we approached the main office floor, Daisy’s mental voice grew increasingly frantic and unhinged. [What is going on? Why does every single female employee have their hair up?] [In the hallways, the breakroom, the cubicles… not a single loose strand.] [Ugh! Why is the chat feed only telling me now that the CEO despises loose hair? She was actually helping me!] She instinctively reached up, running her fingers through her loose, long hair, her eyes darting around in a panic. A moment later, she scrambled to pull a hair tie from her bag, hurriedly weaving her hair into a messy side braid. I caught the movement in my peripheral vision and let my lips curl into a faint, silent smile. We entered the elevator, ascending to the executive suite. At the end of the long corridor was the CEO’s private office. Addison Pierce stepped out just as we arrived. Impeccable in a tailored black suit, he stood tall and imposing. His features were cold, sharp, and carried an oppressive weight that warned anyone against getting too close. His gaze swept over the group, finally lingering on Daisy. The look in his eyes was entirely different from the way he usually looked at me. There was a spark of undeniable, predatory interest. Daisy froze, her fingers clutching the hem of her blazer. Her cheeks burned red, and she ducked her head, looking very much like a startled fawn. Mentally, she was screaming: [It’s happening! Our first official frame together! He’s looking at me! He really is!] [The feed was right. We are absolutely destiny!] Addison didn’t linger. He turned to me, his tone characteristically cool. “Once you’re done showing the new hires around, come to my office.” I nodded. “Of course.” For the rest of the day, I guided the three interns through the standard procedures- introducing the departments, explaining the corporate policies, and outlining the daily routines. Daisy remained quiet and cooperative throughout, but she kept gravitating toward me, her eyes drifting toward the executive suite whenever she thought I wasn’t looking. Her mind was buzzing with excitement: [An easy start. Favorability maxed out. Success is just around the corner.] [Easier than the feed said. He’s practically mine already.] Listening to her, I could only find it tragic. The young always believed the world was simpler than it was. That evening, I returned to the estate. Addison arrived shortly after. He didn’t wrap his arms around me as he usually did, nor did he ask if my day had been exhausting. There was no touch, no warmth. Instead, he sat on the leather sofa, turning an unlit cigarette between his fingers, acting entirely casual. “That new intern, Daisy Campbell. What do you think of her?” Here it comes. I kept my face perfectly blank, taking a slow sip from my glass of water. “She seems sweet. Quiet. Unspoiled.” “Unspoiled?” He looked up, his gaze probing my face. “That’s all?” I lowered my eyes, my fingers tracing the rim of the glass. I let my voice soften, injecting a faint, carefully measured note of hurt and insecurity into my tone. “What else do you want me to say? She’s fresh out of college, young and vibrant. Unlike me. I’ve been with you for years, Addison. I’m sure the novelty wore off a long time ago.” A flash of irritation crossed Addison’s eyes, fast and cold. “Go get some rest,” he said, his voice dropping several degrees. Without another word, he stood up and walked upstairs, never looking back. I sat in the quiet living room, watching his retreating figure with absolute indifference. Perfect. The more annoyed he was with me, the faster this transition would go. Over the next few days, the shift in Addison’s behavior became glaringly obvious. He stopped requesting my presence for lunch, choosing instead to eat at the corporate cafeteria. And, “by sheer coincidence,” Daisy always seemed to cross paths with him there. Sometimes she would sit across from him with her tray, acting clumsy and flustered; other times she would bring a notebook to ask for professional advice, her demeanor perfectly balancing innocence and eagerness. With every encounter, her mind practically sang with triumph: [Too easy! He’s coming to the cafeteria every day just to see me.] [The feed is right. He’ll throw that old woman away soon. I’m the only one he sees.] [Poor thing, she’s like a discarded toy. I almost feel bad for her.] Whenever she passed my desk, Daisy would cast a lingering look in my direction. It was a look of unshielded amusement, laced with a patronizing pity. She kept repeating the same thoughts like a mantra: [So sad. She’s about to be discarded.] [Why did she have to stand in my way? Look at the miserable end she’s heading toward.] I kept my head down, ignoring her completely. Soon enough, she would realize who the pitiable one really was. 2. As the weeks bled into one another, Addison’s fascination with Daisy became public knowledge. The office rumors spread like wildfire. There wasn’t a soul in the building who didn’t know that the new intern was receiving special attention from the billionaire CEO. The gossip was discussed in the breakrooms, the elevators, and the private group chats. Naturally, I was dragged into the company-wide group chat as well. The messages flashed across my screen in rapid succession: – What’s Daisy’s deal anyway? She hasn’t even been here that long and she’s already got the big boss running to the cafeteria every day. – Who knows. She plays the innocent card well, but she clearly knows how to climb. – @Nancy, you’ve been with him the longest. Any inside scoop? – Yeah, Nancy used to be the only one who had his ear. What’s the vibe now? Everyone knew I was the ultimate legacy hire, brought into the firm solely because of my relationship with Addison. I looked at the screen, my fingers tapping out a cold, distant reply: – I have no idea. He doesn’t discuss those things with me. The chat fell dead silent immediately. No one sent another message. I assumed they had simply migrated to a separate, private channel to talk about me behind my back. It didn’t matter. I locked my phone and returned to my spreadsheets. A few days later, the real bomb dropped. HR issued a formal announcement: Daisy Campbell’s probation period was waived, and she was promoted to a full-time position effective immediately. But the real shocker was her new assignment. Addison had personally instructed HR to transfer her to the executive suite as his personal assistant’s aide. The news sent shockwaves through the office. A waiver of probation was rare enough, but a direct appointment to the executive suite was unheard of. All eyes naturally turned to me. Some looked with curiosity, others with pity, and a few with naked amusement, waiting for me to shatter. On the day Daisy moved her things to the executive suite, she made a conscious detour to pass my desk. She wore a pristine designer blazer, her hair tied back neatly. She offered a modest smile to the surrounding staff, but her eyes remained locked on me, heavy with silent mockery. Her mind was practically screaming in triumph: [Look at that. I’m in the executive office now. One step closer.] [The feed is spot on. She’s getting dumped.] [Eventually she’ll lose her mind and end up in a psych ward. Perfect villainess ending.] [Look at her trying to act calm. Hilarious.] The colleagues around us stole glances at me, their faces painted with varying degrees of sympathy. I sat straight in my chair, keeping my expression neutral as I organized my files, my fingers tightening slightly on the paper. None of them knew the truth. I wasn’t grieving. In fact, my chest was tight with an excitement so intense I could barely breathe. I was finally, finally reaching the end. I was finally going to be free of Addison Pierce. 3. Once Daisy settled into the executive suite, her relationship with Addison accelerated at an alarming pace. Many of the events and high-profile meetings that used to be my exclusive domain were now handed to her. High-level negotiations, exclusive galas, private board meetings- she was always by his side, quietly taking notes, pouring his drinks, and acting with perfect, calculated discretion. The only exceptions were the late-night business dinners where heavy drinking was required. Addison still insisted on bringing me. The reason was simple: I could hold my liquor, and Daisy couldn’t. Daisy didn’t mind this arrangement. In fact, she saw it as a sign of her own elevation. Her inner thoughts grew sweeter, more confident by the day: [He can’t live without me now. He consults me on everything.] [The feed says I’m his lucky charm, that I’ll help him reach new heights.] [Once I secure my place, that woman is history.] Armed with the “spoilers” from her mental feed, she began subtly advising him on upcoming projects, steering him toward lucrative municipal contracts before they even went public. Within months, the entire company was singing her praises, calling her Addison’s indispensable partner. Addison’s satisfaction with her was absolute. His visits to my estate grew sparser, until eventually, they ceased altogether. He either stayed late with Daisy or retreated to his private penthouse downtown. The sprawling suburban villa he had bought for me became nothing more than a quiet, empty cage. I welcomed the silence. The less I saw of him, the safer I felt. On Valentine’s Day, the city was practically dripping with manufactured romance. Social media was flooded with bouquets, jewelry, and luxury getaways. Daisy was in a state of high anxiety and excitement all day. Her mind kept looping the same thought: [The feed says he’s proposing tonight! I can’t wait!] [After all this preparation, the day is finally here!] [What kind of ring did he get? I’m going crazy!] That evening, Addison indeed took Daisy to the city’s most exclusive rooftop restaurant. I was there too, sitting alone in a dim corner, slowly nursing a glass of Cabernet. From across the candlelit room, I watched Addison sink to one knee, retrieving a velvet box from his pocket. He murmured something to her. Daisy’s eyes welled with tears as she nodded frantically, throwing her arms around his neck. They kissed as the surrounding patrons erupted into polite applause. I watched from the shadows, my fingers tightening around the stem of my glass. The cold glass sent a chill straight to my chest. If he had proposed, then my sentence was served. I could leave. But that night, Addison seemed to have forgotten my existence entirely. I waited in the corner until the restaurant closed, receiving nothing. The next morning, Daisy floated into the office, her face glowing with a sweet, arrogant pride. She walked past my desk, her gaze brushing over me with casual disdain. [Just a harmless villainess. She doesn’t even deserve my attention.] [Since she didn’t actually manage to hurt me, there’s no need to destroy her.] [I’ll just have Addison fire her, give her some severance, and send her on her way.] Sure enough, that very evening, Addison brought Daisy to the villa. He stood in the center of the living room, looking sharp and untouchable in his designer suit. His voice was flat, devoid of any warmth or history: “There’s a black card on the table. The balance is more than enough to ensure you never have to work again. Hand in your resignation tomorrow and leave the city.” There was no negotiation, no lingering affection. I looked at him, forcing a look of quiet heartbreak and submission onto my face while my chest hammered with absolute joy. “Okay. I understand.” Daisy stood beside him, her eyes narrowing as she watched me with sharp suspicion. [Is she planning something? The feed says she’ll pretend to agree but stab me in the back.] [That’s how villainesses are. Obedient on the surface, poisonous underneath.] She couldn’t help but speak up, her voice laced with warning: “You’d better not try any tricks, Nancy. Don’t think about revenge, or things will get very ugly for you.” I looked up, letting my gaze rest on her face for a moment before giving a small, weary smile. “Don’t worry. I don’t have the stomach or the courage for that.” “If it makes you feel safer,” I added, “I’ll pack my bags and buy a ticket tonight. You can watch me go through security.” Daisy blinked, clearly caught off guard by my compliance. She calculated the risks quickly in her head, then nodded. “Fine. Let’s do that.” I didn’t waste another second. I packed a single suitcase and drove straight to the airport with them tailing close behind. Under their watchful eyes, I purchased a ticket for the nearest outbound flight and walked through the security gates. Daisy let out a visible sigh of relief, wrapping her arm around Addison’s as they turned to leave. [Perfect. The villainess is gone. My happily ever after begins!] I watched their retreating figures through the glass. Once they disappeared into the crowd, I took a deep breath, walked to a ticketing kiosk, and booked a flight to a completely different destination.

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