1 I had some free time on my hands, so I decided to clear out the junk photos in the shared cloud album I kept with my husband, Michael. A sync notification suddenly popped up at the top of the screen. “First gift for our baby has been uploaded.” I tapped on it. It was a photo of an ultrasound scan, taken from a very deliberate, aesthetic angle, with a fresh bouquet of red roses resting right next to it. The caption on the photo read: “Michael, the baby is perfectly healthy! We miss you so much!” My knuckles turned white as I gripped my phone. I immediately dialed Michael’s number. He was supposed to be out of town on a business trip. “Why is there an ultrasound picture in our shared cloud album?” The line went dead silent for a few seconds. Then, his relaxed, easy laughter came through the receiver. “Oh, you mean that? It is from one of my frat brothers. His wife just got pregnant and he sent it to me to share the good news. I must have accidentally hit sync when I saved it. Do not overthink it, babe.” I forced a smile, said okay, and hung up the phone. Then, I tapped the information icon on that photo to pull up the metadata. Location: Our master bedroom. Time: Nine o clock last night. The exact same time he told me he was stuck in a client meeting and told me to go to sleep early. I took a deep breath, fighting down the sudden wave of nausea rising in my throat, and started scrolling back through our recently synced photos. There were hundreds of them. A total mess. Most of them were architectural blueprints I had taken pictures of, mixed with random daily snapshots. I kept scrolling until I hit a selfie he had sent me exactly one week ago. In the photo, he was wearing the expensive dress shirt I bought for his birthday. He was sitting in a hotel room with floor to ceiling windows, a gorgeous city skyline glowing in the background. His text that night had said: “Honey, just checked into the hotel. Absolutely exhausted. Miss you.” I had replied: “Work hard, but get some rest.” Now, I pulled up the metadata for that exact selfie. Location: The Grand Plaza Hotel. Less than three miles away from our own house. A freezing chill shot straight up my spine, paralyzing my limbs. The blood drained from my face. His so called business trips were just him booking a room down the street to screw his younger brother’s wife. My phone buzzed against my palm. It was a text from Michael’s mother, Martha. “Stella, pick up some fresh fruit on your way over for dinner tonight. Brooke is not feeling well today. I am making her a special pot of chicken soup to build her strength.” I stared at the text message and a hollow laugh escaped my throat. My smile was absolutely freezing. I typed back: “Sure, Martha.” Carrying a basket of imported fruit, I rang the doorbell of Martha’s suburban house. The door was opened by Wyatt, Michael’s younger brother. He gave me a goofy, good natured smile. “Hey, Stella. Come on in.” I nodded and walked into the foyer. Martha was just walking out of the kitchen with a steaming bowl of chicken soup. When she saw me, her face broke into an exaggerated, wrinkly smile. “Stella, you made it. Have a seat. Brooke is feeling a bit weak today, so she is resting in the guest bedroom.” Without missing a beat, she carried the soup straight toward the bedroom, muttering loudly enough for me to hear: “Oh, my precious grandchild, you need to grow up big and strong.” I sat perfectly still on the living room sofa. Listening to Martha dote on Brooke with absolute devotion, my heart sank like a heavy stone, feeling numb and completely frozen. Michael and I had been married for three years, and we still did not have kids. My career as an architect was hitting a massive upward trajectory. A massive commercial project called The Zenith Project was the absolute culmination of my blood, sweat, and tears over the last two years. It was about to enter the final bidding and review stage. Michael had always played the supportive husband, telling me we were in no rush to have a baby. Martha never said anything directly to my face, but every time she looked at Brooke, her envy and her deep dissatisfaction with me practically spilled out of her eyes. Now I understood. It was not that they were not in a rush. It was because they already had a better option incubating in the next room. Wyatt poured me a glass of water and sat across from me, rubbing his hands together awkwardly. “So, is Michael’s business trip going well?” “Very well.” I picked up the water glass, my eyes drifting lightly toward the closed bedroom door. “What is wrong with Brooke? Did you take her to the doctor?” Wyatt’s face flushed red immediately. He scratched the back of his head with a foolish grin. “Not yet. Brooke said she probably just ate something bad. She just needs to sleep it off.” I nodded slowly and stopped asking. A few minutes later, Brooke walked out of the bedroom, leaning heavily on Martha’s arm. She was wearing a loose cotton nightgown, her face intentionally bare of makeup to look pale. The second her eyes met mine, she flinched and looked away like she had been burned. She forced a weak, fragile smile onto her face. “Hi, Stella.” “Hey. You look a little pale. Are you going to be okay?” I asked, my voice dripping with gentle concern. “I am fine, really. Just an old stomach issue acting up,” she said, her hand subconsciously drifting down to shield her flat stomach. My gaze drifted down, landing on her other wrist. She was wearing a stunning pink tourmaline bracelet. The color was rich and vibrant. One look and you knew it cost an absolute fortune. Last month, right before Michael’s birthday, I asked him what he wanted. He told me he did not want anything, and instead, he bought me a fancy fountain pen. He had looked me in the eyes and said: “My wife is going to be the most famous architect in the city. Only this pen is worthy of your sketches.” A few days later, I accidentally saw his credit card statement. There was a jewelry purchase for ten thousand dollars. When I asked him about it, he smoothly lied and said he bought a bracelet for his mother to make the old lady happy. And now, that exact bracelet, the one meant for his mother, was resting securely on his mistress’s wrist. Martha’s eyes glued themselves to the jewelry, the wrinkles on her face practically blooming with pride. “Michael is just so thoughtful. He knew Brooke loved this style, so he went out of his way to have a friend bring it back from Europe. My Michael just knows how to treat people right.” She finished her sentence with a sharp, pointed glare in my direction. “Unlike some people, who only care about their jobs all day and completely neglect their own family.” Brooke immediately stepped in to play the peacemaker, her voice so soft and pathetic it could squeeze out water. “Mom, please do not say that about Stella. It is a good thing that she is so dedicated to her career.” She shot me a comforting, apologetic look, playing the role of the most innocent, kindhearted victim in the house. I laughed. “Martha is absolutely right.” I set my water glass down on the coffee table and slowly stood up, shattering their pathetic illusion of domestic harmony. “I really have been too focused on my work. It is definitely time I started paying closer attention to family matters.” My eyes locked onto the tourmaline stones catching the light on Brooke’s wrist. They stared back like sharp little nails. “For instance, I really should start paying attention to exactly whose wrist is wearing the ten thousand dollar bracelet my husband supposedly bought for his mother.” 2 The color drained from Martha and Brooke’s faces in an instant. I stared dead into Brooke’s eyes, speaking slowly and clearly, making sure every single syllable echoed in the silent living room. “After all, some things just lose their sparkle when they are worn by a thief.” Every ounce of blood vanished from Brooke’s cheeks. Martha did not catch the hidden meaning behind my words. She just assumed I was throwing an irrational tantrum. Her wrinkled face instantly contorted into a furious scowl. “Stella, what kind of attitude is that? If Michael gave something to Brooke, then it belongs to Brooke! Do not think just because you make a decent paycheck you can act like a tyrant in this house! You have zero respect for your elders!” Wyatt jumped up from his chair, his eyebrows furrowed in anger. “Stella, Brooke is already sick! How can you say something so cruel to her?” I looked at the three of them. One playing dumb to cover her tracks, one genuinely stupid enough to defend the woman cheating on him, and one aggressively protecting her golden boy’s secret. It was utterly pathetic. “I am tired.” I refused to waste another breath on them. I turned on my heel and walked straight out the front door. Behind me, Martha’s shrill insults pierced the air. “You are completely out of control! What a lack of manners! Michael is cursed for marrying a wretched woman like you!” When I returned to my cold, empty house, I went straight to my home office and booted up my computer. I logged into the shared cloud drive Michael and I used to store important documents and old vacation photos. I clicked on the search bar and typed out three words. The Zenith Project. A long list of email logs and file transfers populated the screen. Sender: Michael. Recipient: An anonymous email address. I clicked on the oldest file transfer. The date was exactly three months ago. The attachment was the very first preliminary sketch I had poured my soul into for The Zenith Project. Michael’s attached note read: “Brooke, here is the first draft. Take a look and let me know your thoughts so we can adjust it.” My fingertips began to tremble uncontrollably against the mouse. I clicked on the second file. The date was two months ago. The attachment contained the revised structural blueprints and 3D rendering files. Michael wrote: “I had her change the lighting in the central atrium just like you wanted. It looks much more spacious now. What do you think?” Third file. Fourth file. I clicked through them all until I reached the very last one. The timestamp was from exactly three days ago. The exact day he claimed he was leaving for his business trip. The attachment was my final, perfected design proposal, containing all the core architectural parameters and the complete material inventory list. The message attached to it contained only one sentence. “Baby, it is all done. Just wait for the show.” That single line of text slithered through the screen like a venomous snake, sinking its fangs directly into my brain. My entire body went completely rigid. Ice flooded my veins. He had betrayed much more than our marriage. He had conspired with his entire family, using his gentle, loving facade to completely steal my career, my dreams, and everything I had built. The Zenith Project. That name had been carved into my soul since the day I graduated. It was the child I had birthed through hundreds of sleepless nights and thousands of discarded sketches. And now, my own husband was wrapping my entire life’s work in a neat little bow, handing it to his mistress so she could step on my corpse and climb her way to absolute glory. A violent wave of nausea hit my stomach. I rushed into the bathroom and threw up until my throat burned. When my stomach was entirely empty, I slowly lifted my head and stared at the pale, ruined woman looking back at me in the mirror. The fragile heartbreak in her eyes shattered completely, replaced by a razor sharp, freezing absolute fury. Michael. Brooke. You want my life’s work? Fine. I will give it to you. I just hope you survive the weight of it. I walked back to my desk and dialed the number of my closest friend, Valerie. She was the most ruthless divorce attorney in the city. Cold, calculating, and holding a flawless winning record. “Valerie,” I said, my voice completely dead and calm. “I need you to run a deep background check on two people. Michael and Brooke.” Valerie’s efficiency was terrifying. By the very next afternoon, a thick manila envelope was sitting on the table in front of me at a quiet coffee shop. “Stella,” she looked at me, her eyes heavy with serious concern. “You need to brace yourself for what is inside this envelope.” I tore the seal open. The first page was a master list of hotel bookings for Michael and Brooke. Starting exactly six months ago, the list was densely packed. At least twice a week. From boutique motels to five star luxury suites, the locations covered the entire city. The second page detailed the transaction history of Michael’s private bank accounts. The designer bags, the luxury jewelry, the limited edition clothes he bought for Brooke. The total amount easily crossed into the seven figure mark. And the absolute most expensive gift he had ever given me was that five hundred dollar fountain pen. The irony was physically sickening. The third page was a corporate registration document. Company Name: Aura Design. Legal Representative: Brooke. But the business was registered using my social security number and my professional architecture credentials. He used my identity to open a design firm for his mistress. This meant that if this company ever faced a single legal dispute, a massive lawsuit, or crippling debt, the person legally responsible for burning to the ground would be me. 3 “It gets much worse.” Valerie tapped her manicured finger against the final page of banking records. “Starting six months ago, Michael has been systematically draining your joint marital assets. The vast majority of that liquid cash has been funneled directly into the corporate accounts of Aura Design.” I stared at the numbers. “What is his endgame?” My voice was incredibly soft, almost unnervingly calm. “He is burning your house down while you are still inside.” Valerie did not sugarcoat a single word. “First, he uses your money and your blueprints to elevate Brooke and Aura Design to the top of the industry. Then, he bankrupts the joint company you share with him, files for dissolution, leaves you completely penniless, and forces you to shoulder a mountain of debt you can never repay.” I stared at the cold, hard text printed on the paper. I had known Michael for five years. We had been married for three. I used to genuinely believe he was the light of my life. When I worked late at the design firm, he would drive across the city at midnight just to bring me dinner. He tracked my cycle on his phone, always having painkillers and a heating pad ready before I even asked. He treated me like a princess completely sheltered from the cruelty of the real world. He made me blindly believe I had married the greatest love story on earth. But it was never love. It was a meticulous, psychotic manipulation spanning years. While he was smiling and kissing my forehead, his hands were hidden behind his back, sharpening the blade he planned to plunge into my spine. “Stella, how do you want to play this?” Valerie’s voice broke through my thoughts. I closed the manila folder and looked up. The afternoon sun filtering through the cafe window was blindingly bright. “Valerie, start drafting the divorce papers.” “But before I sign them, I am going to rip the sky open and watch his entire family plummet to the concrete.” The final review panel for The Zenith Project was scheduled for the following week. It was the grand, glittering stage they had built for themselves. And it was the perfect place for me to burn it all down. On the day of the review panel, I wore a striking, blood red dress. When I walked into the convention center, the main hall was already packed. The audience was filled with the absolute titans of the architectural industry and dozens of media outlets. I found a quiet, inconspicuous seat in the very back row. My eyes cut through the crowd and locked onto the radiant woman standing near the front of the stage. Brooke. She was wearing a custom white Chanel suit, her makeup absolutely flawless. She moved with practiced elegance, smiling and charming the judges with total confidence. Sitting dead center in the front row was Michael and his family. Martha was wearing a tailored silk dress, her face glowing with triumph. She grabbed the arm of the executive sitting next to her, loudly bragging about her perfect family. “My Brooke is just brilliant! Designing a masterpiece like this at her age!” “Exactly! Not like some wives I know, who do absolutely nothing but drain their husbands bank accounts.” Michael’s eyes never left Brooke. The adoration and pride on his face looked exactly like a man admiring a priceless painting he was about to unveil to the world. They looked like the perfect, happy family, glowing with success. It made me look like the bitter, shadowy villain lurking in the dark. The panel officially began. The host took the microphone, his voice booming with excitement as he introduced The Zenith Project to the eager crowd. Then, using his most dramatic tone, he invited the lead designer to the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give a massive round of applause to the brilliant rising star of the architecture world, Brooke, as she presents her incredible vision!” A massive spotlight hit Brooke. She walked up the steps to the podium, every single step radiating confidence and grace. The massive LED screen behind her lit up, displaying the 3D renderings I had drawn a thousand times. It showcased the design philosophy I had rewritten until my fingers bled. My blood. My sweat. My soul. All being presented in her soft, gentle voice, calmly claiming it as her own. She delivered the presentation perfectly. She had memorized my notes flawlessly. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause. Down in the front row, Martha was wiping joyful tears from her eyes with a tissue, muttering about how blessed their family was. Michael’s face was a portrait of pure, unadulterated victory. The presentation ended, and the floor opened for the Q&A segment. A senior judge stood up, his face full of genuine admiration. “Miss Brooke, your design is absolutely breathtaking. The spiral staircase in the central atrium, mimicking the blooming vines of a wisteria tree, is a stroke of absolute genius. Could you share the inspiration behind that specific detail?” The confident smile on Brooke’s face froze for a fraction of a second. She clearly had not prepped for a question diving that deep into the emotional core of the design. Panic flashed in her eyes. She stammered for a few painful seconds before forcing out a generic, fabricated answer. “The inspiration comes from… my deep love for life, and my admiration for the resilience of nature.” A wave of polite, appreciative laughter rippled through the crowd. I laughed, too. The inspiration for that staircase came from the massive, century old wisteria tree growing in my late grandmother’s backyard. What the hell did that have to do with her love for life? A few minutes later, the host returned to the stage to announce the final verdict. “After a unanimous vote from our distinguished panel of judges, the development contract for The Zenith Project is officially awarded to Aura Design!” The applause was deafening. Camera flashes exploded across the room like a lightning storm. Brooke stood in the center of the stage, overwhelmed with emotion, bowing over and over again to the cheering crowd. Michael and Martha rushed the stage. Under the blinding lights and the gaze of the media, the three of them pulled each other into a massive, tearful hug. It was the absolute peak of their lives. I sat quietly in the dark corner, watching them. Like watching a pathetic comedy right before the curtain drops. Brooke turned to walk off the stage, ready to step into her new life of fame and luxury. But in that exact second, every single massive LED screen in the convention center instantly went pitch black.

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Seafood allergy. I was struggling to breathe, slipping rapidly into anaphylactic shock. Yet my husband pinned down my trembling hand, refusing to call an ambulance. “What’s the rush? The bill is 500 bucks. You haven’t sent me your half of 250 yet.” His childhood friend, Vanessa, was sitting right across the table, frowning at me. “Stop acting. Vanessa isn’t even full yet.” I clawed at my throat, unable to force out a single syllable. His expression turned cold as he shoved the restaurant check right into my face. “Don’t try to dodge the bill! We agreed to split everything down the middle. Even if you drop dead, you still owe me!” Suddenly, Vanessa dropped her fork, whining that a piece of lobster shell had scratched her hand. Carter instantly panicked. He cradled her fingers, screaming at the waiter for a first aid kit, tenderly blowing on a wound that was completely invisible. As I used the absolute last ounce of my strength to dial 911, he was still barking at me for ruining the mood. In that terrifying, suffocating moment, the truth finally hit me. It wasn’t that he lacked common sense. It was just that my life, in his eyes, was worth less than 250 dollars. I was entirely done with this meticulously calculated, nickel-and-dime marriage. … 1 “Roselyn, stop playing dead.” “The bill is 500 bucks. Your half is 250. Venmo me.” Carter’s voice sounded like it was coming from underwater, muffled and miles away. A tide of suffocation crashed over me. I clawed desperately at my own throat. My windpipe felt like it was filling with wet cement. Seafood allergy. Severe, fatal anaphylactic shock. I opened my mouth as wide as I could, but not a single sound came out. I used every last ounce of strength in my body to grab Carter’s arm. “Help… me…” Smack. Carter slapped my trembling hand away. His eyes were filled with absolute disgust. “What’s the rush? We haven’t even settled the check.” He pulled out his phone, opened his payment QR code, and shoved the screen roughly into my face. “We agreed before we got married. We go fifty-fifty on all expenses. Rules are rules.” “Don’t even think about skipping out on the bill, Roselyn. Even if you drop dead right here, you still owe me that 250 bucks.” Black spots danced across my vision. My consciousness was shattering. This was my husband of three years. As I lay dying, the only thing he cared about was 250 dollars. Sitting across the table was Vanessa, Carter’s childhood friend. She looked at me with a deep frown, her tone dripping with impatience. “God, Roselyn, your acting is so over the top. You had one bite of a vegan dumpling. Is this really necessary?” “You know Carter hates it when people act like drama queens. Just drop the act. I’m not even full yet.” Her words sent a freezing chill straight through my heart. I had told them both, very clearly, about my severe seafood allergy. I couldn’t touch anything from the ocean. But that “vegan” dumpling she just fed me? It was stuffed with pureed shrimp. Vanessa had placed it on my plate with her own hands. She had smiled and said, “Try this one, Roselyn. The vegan menu here is to die for.” I believed her. And then, I plunged straight into hell. “Ouch,” Vanessa suddenly gasped softly, dropping her fork. “Carter, I think a piece of lobster shell just scratched my finger.” The face that had just looked at me with freezing indifference instantly melted into absolute panic. Carter leaned over the table, gently cradling Vanessa’s hand in his own, shouting at the top of his lungs. “How could you be so careless! Waiter! Get a first aid kit! Now!” He blew gently on a wound that didn’t even exist, his eyes pooling with nauseating tenderness. “Does it hurt? Should we go to the ER?” Meanwhile, I, his actual wife, was collapsing onto the expensive restaurant floor, convulsing in the grip of anaphylactic shock. He didn’t even spare me a single glance. Pure survival instinct forced my shaking hands into my purse. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911 with the last flicker of life I had left. “Hello… please help…” Before I could finish the sentence, Carter whipped his head around, snatched the phone right out of my hand, and ended the call. “Are you insane?” he roared. “Vanessa is right here. Why the hell are you calling an ambulance? You’re ruining the mood!” “I told you, pay me the money first! Stop embarrassing me in public!” In that fractured moment, the truth finally dawned on me. It wasn’t that he lacked common sense. It was just that my life, in his eyes, was worth less than 250 dollars. And it was certainly worth less than an invisible scratch on Vanessa’s finger. I looked at his handsome, stone-cold face. The very last ember of love I held for this man sputtered and died. I was entirely done with this meticulously calculated, nickel-and-dime marriage. My eyelids grew impossibly heavy. Right before the darkness swallowed me whole, I heard Vanessa’s sickeningly sweet voice. “Just ignore her, Carter, she’s such a buzzkill. Let’s go somewhere else. I’m still hungry.” 2 When I woke up, the sterile bite of rubbing alcohol flooded my senses. I was lying in a hospital bed in the emergency room. There was an IV dripping into my vein and an oxygen mask strapped over my face. The attending doctor let out a heavy sigh of relief when he saw my eyes open. “Thank God you’re awake. Five minutes later, and even a miracle wouldn’t have brought you back.” “Severe anaphylactic shock with laryngeal edema. Do you have any idea how close you came to checking out?” I opened my mouth, feeling terribly weak, but my vocal cords refused to work. The doctor shook his head. “You called 911 yourself, didn’t you? Thank God your phone’s GPS was accurate. Where is your family? Something this critical, and you’re all alone?” Family? My so-called family, Carter Pierce, was probably sitting in some other five-star restaurant right now, gazing lovingly into Vanessa’s eyes. I closed my eyes. A single, cold tear slipped down my cheek. A nurse walked in to change my IV bag. She looked at me with deep pity. “Your husband was just here. The billing department was pressing him, so he fronted the money for the resuscitation and then left.” She paused, looking incredibly awkward. “Oh, right. He asked me to pass on a message. He said the total emergency fee was 3000 dollars. He covered it, but he wants you to remember to Venmo him your half. 1500 dollars.” My eyes snapped open. A wave of absurd, boiling rage washed over me. I almost died, and he was still trying to go fifty-fifty with me? This marriage had been a pathetic joke from day one. Three years ago, Carter’s tech firm was hemorrhaging money. The supply chain broke, and bankruptcy was breathing down his neck. It was my father, Arthur Croft, who stepped in with a massive capital injection to save him. To repay the favor, and to permanently tie himself to the Croft family’s vast network, he proposed to me. I had been in love with him for ten years. I genuinely thought my dreams had come true. But on our wedding night, he threw a printed contract on the bed. A postnuptial financial segregation agreement. He had looked at me with dead eyes and said, “I married you for business, Roselyn. Don’t flatter yourself into thinking I’ll ever fall in love with you.” “From today on, every single expense is split down the middle. Rent, utilities, groceries. Down to the last cent.” “These are the rules. It is the absolute bare minimum of respect I expect in this corporate merger we call a marriage.” Like an idiot, I thought my devotion would eventually melt the ice around his heart. I was so incredibly wrong. For three years, I lived like a glorified roommate. When I cooked dinner at home, I had to calculate the market value of the ingredients and send him the invoice. If I turned on the AC, I had to track the kilowatt-hours I consumed. We even bought our own separate rolls of toilet paper. He wasn’t broke. He was a multi-millionaire. He was just exclusively stingy with me. He would buy Vanessa designer bags worth tens of thousands of dollars without blinking an eye. But he would give me the silent treatment for three days if I left a hallway light on for too long. I thought I could endure it. Until today, when I nearly died over 250 dollars. I ripped the IV needle out of the back of my hand. Ignoring the violent trembling in my muscles, I forced myself to sit up. I wanted a divorce. Right here. Right now. The moment my feet touched the cold linoleum floor, the hospital door swung open. Carter and Vanessa walked in. He was holding a ludicrously expensive gift basket of imported organic supplements. Clearly, it wasn’t for me. Seeing me out of bed, his brow furrowed in deep annoyance. His tone was like scraping ice. “What kind of tantrum are you throwing now, Roselyn? The doctor said you need to stay under observation.” I stared at him, my eyes completely hollow. “We’re getting a divorce, Carter.” Carter froze. Then, he let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “A divorce? Have you completely lost your mind?” “Over 250 dollars? Can you be an adult for five seconds?” Vanessa chimed in, leaning against the doorframe. “Honestly, Roselyn. Carter just has strong principles. You don’t have to be so petty.” “Married couples fight all the time. It’s normal.” “Principles?” I locked eyes with Carter, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Your principle is watching me die?” Carter’s face darkened with rage. “Don’t push your luck, Roselyn. If it weren’t for your father’s influence, do you really think you’d be sitting there as Mrs. Pierce?” “I know exactly what game you’re playing. You faked a reaction to guilt-trip me into giving you more attention. Well, guess what? Keep your pathetic pity-party to yourself!” He slammed the gift basket onto the bedside table and turned to Vanessa, his voice instantly softening. “Does your finger still hurt? Have some of this tea, it’ll help calm your nerves.” Vanessa shot me a triumphant smirk and wrapped her arms around Carter’s waist. “You’re the best, Carter.” Watching them play out this sickening soap opera in my hospital room made my stomach heave. I pointed a shaking finger at the door and screamed with every shred of breath in my lungs. “Get out! Both of you, get the hell out!” My hostility finally struck a nerve. Carter stepped forward, raising his hand high in the air as if to strike me. “Remember your place, Roselyn!” I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even blink. I just stared right through him. “Touch me, Carter. I dare you.” Maybe it was the absolute, glacial finality in my eyes. His hand froze in mid-air. Finally, he scoffed, grabbed Vanessa’s hand, and spun around. “You are completely unreasonable.” The moment the door clicked shut, I collapsed back onto the mattress, utterly drained. I pulled out my phone and dialed my father’s private number. “Dad. I need your best divorce attorneys.” “I want Carter Pierce stripped down to his last dime.” 3 When my dad heard what happened, he nearly had a heart attack. He rushed to the hospital in the middle of the night. Looking at my ghostly pale face, his eyes turned rimmed with red. “I am so sorry, sweetheart. I should never have let you marry that animal.” I gripped his warm hand tightly. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Dad. I’m going to make him pay.” He nodded, his jaw set in stone. “You have my word. Even if it costs me everything I have, I will get you justice.” First thing the next morning, my father’s elite legal team walked into my room. I handed over three years’ worth of agonizing ledgers. The exact fifty-fifty expense spreadsheets, the Venmo receipts, and the audio recordings of Carter’s relentless emotional abuse. The lead attorney reviewed the file, his expression grim. “Ms. Croft, this postnuptial agreement is ironclad. It clearly dictates a strict separation of assets and liabilities.” “Furthermore, Carter is incredibly cunning. Even though his firm has skyrocketed in value over the last three years, he funneled the vast majority of his assets into pre-marital trusts or shell companies under his parents’ names.” “Taking him for everything he has is going to be an uphill battle.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Difficult doesn’t mean impossible.” “The only reason he’s sitting on an empire is because of the capital my dad injected into his dying firm. And he repaid us by nickel-and-diming me into the dirt.” “But this isn’t just about money anymore.” I looked the lawyer dead in the eye. “Subpoena the security footage from that restaurant yesterday.” I had a gut feeling. That shrimp puree was no accident. The lawyers moved with lethal efficiency. By noon, I was watching the CCTV footage on a tablet. The video was crystal clear. While I had stepped away to the restroom, Vanessa reached across the table. She took a specialized container of shrimp puree and dumped it directly into my boiling vegan hotpot. Her movements were slick, practiced. Carter was sitting right across from her, scrolling on his phone, completely oblivious to the poison she was preparing for me. My hands turned to ice as I watched the screen. This wasn’t negligence. This was premeditated murder. Vanessa wanted me in a body bag. I backed up the file to three separate cloud servers. This was my opening move. I stayed under observation for two more days. Carter didn’t visit once. Instead, he sent me an itemized invoice every morning at 8:00 AM sharp. “Hospital room: $2000/day. Your share: $1000.” “Medication: $800. Your share: $400.” Looking at those sterile numbers, I felt absolutely nothing. I didn’t transfer a single cent. Instead, I had the lawyers draft the divorce papers and served them directly to his executive office. The moment he received them, he finally showed up at the hospital. He stormed in and hurled the legal documents right at my face. He was vibrating with rage. “Roselyn! You’re actually serious about this?” “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? My company is weeks away from a massive IPO! If you file for divorce now, it’s going to tank the stock price!” I looked at him with eerie calm. “Am I really worth less than your stock options, Carter?” “Stop acting like a lunatic!” He tore at his designer tie, panting heavily. “If you want a bigger allowance, just say so. I’ll write you a check. Stop this circus, get discharged, and go home.” He truly believed I was still the same submissive, desperate girl who worshipped the ground he walked on. “I don’t want your money. I want your head on a spike,” I said, my voice completely flat. Carter froze. He definitely didn’t expect to hear that tone coming from my mouth. “You’re sick in the head,” he muttered, taking a step back as if looking at a stranger. “I’m not sick. I’m finally awake.” Right on cue, Vanessa walked into the room. She was carrying a designer thermos. The moment she saw Carter, her face morphed into a mask of pure innocence and worry. “Carter, I brought you some homemade soup… Roselyn, please stop fighting with him. He’s been under so much stress lately.” She walked up to the edge of my bed. Leaning down, she whispered so only I could hear. “You’re a tough bitch to kill, Roselyn. Too bad it didn’t work.” Staring at her sickeningly flawless face, something inside me snapped. I lunged upward, grabbing a fistful of her expensive hair extensions, and slammed her face down against the metal edge of the bedside table. “Did you honestly think nobody was watching, Vanessa?” She shrieked like a banshee. “Ah! Let go of me! Carter, help me!” Carter’s face drained of color. He bolted forward and physically ripped me off her. “Are you insane! Don’t you dare touch her!” He shoved me backward. My weakened body hit the hospital wall hard, the impact forcing a sharp gasp from my lungs. He pulled Vanessa up, his hands hovering over her like she was made of glass. “Are you okay? Did she hurt you?” Vanessa covered her cheek, crying perfect, cinematic tears. “I just wanted to check on her… why is she attacking me…” “Apologize to her! Right now!” Carter screamed at me, his veins popping. I smirked, wiped a smudge of dust off my hospital gown, and picked up the tablet. I hit play and turned the screen toward him. “Open your eyes, Carter. Watch exactly how your precious little angel tried to put me in a coffin.” On the screen, Vanessa’s hand clearly dumped the lethal seafood directly into my broth. Carter’s face instantly went rigid.

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1 My wife, the city’s top crisis negotiator, had saved countless hostages. But when our daughter was kidnapped, her negotiations failed, and the kidnapper killed her. I sat on the cold floor, clutching our daughter’s blood-stained plush toy. She, meanwhile, calmly sorted her files, ready to leave the station. “The kidnappers were irrational, their demands kept shifting. No one could have reached them. I did everything I could.” But that night, her young assistant Doug posted on his private Instagram story: [First live negotiation and I messed up—said the wrong thing, angered the kidnappers, nearly got the hostage killed. My mentor saved the day and comforted me.] [She’s going to teach me all her secrets. A special perk just for me? My heart is fluttering~] The photo showed her wrist, wearing the braided bracelet our daughter made for her birthday. My hands shook as I typed a reply: [No need to wonder. Let her husband answer: Yes, it’s a perk just for you.] Seconds later, my phone rang. Monica’s usually gentle voice was tight with anger. “That was just the assistant’s dumb joke. Are you really overreacting? You’ll ruin his career!” “You’re not thinking straight. Delete that comment now, or we’re—” I hung up. The people responsible for my daughter’s death were laughing and living freely. What right did they have? … An hour later, I had over twenty missed calls from Monica. I didn’t answer a single one. The text messages kept chiming. “Since you insist on blaming him for this, then there’s no point in us continuing. I’ll have the divorce papers sent to the house. Just sign them.” I stared at the screen for a long moment before replying with a single word: “Okay.” She went completely silent. No follow-up questions, no further threats. I packaged all the photos from Doug’s Instagram, the group dinner selfies, and a leaked audio snippet of him provoking the kidnappers during the negotiation. I tried to send the file to her. “Monica, our daughter is dead. Are you really telling me he bears absolutely no responsibility?” A red exclamation mark popped up. Message failed to send. She had blocked my number. When I refreshed Instagram, Doug’s profile had been scrubbed clean. The previous stories were gone, replaced by a single new post: [I was so nervous shadowing Captain Monica today. I misspoke and almost ruined everything, but thankfully her quick reflexes saved the situation. The team dinner tonight was just Captain Monica worrying that I might develop PTSD, so she was counseling me. I’m so sorry if anyone misunderstood.] The photo attached showed him looking down, hands clasped in prayer, looking incredibly innocent. Monica commented underneath: [Don’t be scared. We learn from our mistakes. I’ll guide you.] A flood of comforting replies immediately followed. “It’s totally normal for rookies to make mistakes! Captain Monica is so protective of her team!” “Someone is being way too sensitive, aren’t they? Yes, it’s tragic the kid didn’t make it, but you can’t just take it out on innocent people.” “Doug is so lucky to have such an amazing boss.” I forced a bitter smile, silently committing every single one of those names to memory. Back then, I had pulled every string and burned every favor I had to get Monica transferred into the elite Crisis Negotiation Unit so she could realize her potential. I exhausted my family’s resources to build her case portfolio and establish her reputation. Now she was an industry legend. Naturally, everyone around her basked in the glory, to the point where even a rookie assistant felt entitled to walk all over me. They probably assumed that without her, I was nothing, forced to swallow whatever disrespect they threw my way. Doug replied to every comment with a shy emoji, and to Monica, he sent an animated sticker with heart eyes. When the doorbell rang, I was packing away my daughter’s old photos and toys. Standing on the porch was one of Monica’s colleagues. He held a manila envelope and a small cardboard box. “Captain Monica asked me to drop this off,” he said, shifting awkwardly. “These are the divorce papers. And… Doug said you might be feeling down, so he told me to give you this to calm your nerves.” “The box says it’s some kind of herbal sleep aid.” “Though, honestly, Alec, you look pretty calm to me.” I shoved the box back into his chest. “Tell him I am perfectly calm.” I closed the door, pulled the divorce papers from the envelope, and meticulously signed my name on the dotted line. 2 My phone buzzed. It was a message from the Director of the Negotiation Bureau. “Alec, can you reconsider? The other transfers are fine, but how can you reassign Monica and Doug to the border conflict zone?” “I know you’re grieving your daughter, and I understand you’re angry with Monica. But you can’t be this reckless with departmental operations. This isn’t a game. You’re ruining two top-tier negotiators. Think about all the hostages who won’t be saved without them.” I replied coldly, “You’re right. I completely forgot about you. You are suspended pending review. Command will send someone to replace you.” Without waiting for a reply, I called Internal Affairs and instructed them to seize full control of the Negotiation Unit’s personnel roster. “Anyone—and I mean anyone—who pleads for leniency on behalf of Monica or Doug is to be immediately reassigned to the conflict zone rotation. If they refuse, terminate them and demand full reimbursement for their tactical training costs.” I stroked my daughter’s favorite stuffed bunny, enunciating every word clearly. Every single team member who had defended Doug in those comments had been recruited through my influence. I was the one who ran their simulation drills, analyzed their case studies, and trained them from the ground up. Now, all they cared about was kissing up to Monica, completely forgetting who gave them their badges in the first place. Birds of a feather. They were all sycophants. People with corrupted morals have no business being crisis negotiators. They needed to go to the most dangerous, volatile regions to test their courage and learn what responsibility and boundaries actually meant. After hanging up, I noticed over twenty missed calls from Monica. She must have been going insane. She even sent a new contact request on a secondary app. The verification message simply read: ANSWER THE PHONE NOW! As I was reading it, a new call came through. The moment I answered, her rage exploded through the speaker. “Are you out of your mind?! I’m about to be nominated for the International Crisis Envoy, and Doug is slated for the core tactical team! You reassigned us to a war zone?!” “Alec, what happened to our daughter was a tragic accident! I am hurting just as much as you are!” “Those kidnappers were complete psychopaths! No negotiator on earth could have saved her! It wasn’t my fault, and it wasn’t Doug’s fault!” “I’ve explained this to you a hundred times, but you just won’t let it go! The reason I didn’t let you listen to the audio logs was because I knew it would break you! And how do you repay me? You spread malicious rumors and abuse your administrative power to ruin his career!” Her usually composed voice was trembling with fury. I asked quietly, “When you rushed out that night, did you really have an emergency dispatch? And was Doug’s ‘slip of the tongue’ truly an innocent mistake, and you were just giving him psychological counseling?” “Or did you two plan it all along, using a field assignment as a cover for a date?” The heavy breathing on the other end abruptly stopped. Two seconds of dead silence passed. Then, she feigned outrage. “What the hell are you talking about… you’re completely irrational…” Then, I heard Doug’s smug voice in the background. “Captain, don’t argue with Alec. We finally got a chance to relax, let’s not let him ruin the mood. When we get back, I’ll apologize to him personally. I’ll take whatever punishment he wants.” The call immediately disconnected. I guess she didn’t want this little argument ruining her romantic getaway. I clutched the plush bunny to my chest, tears streaming uncontrollably down my face. “Daddy is going to get justice for you, sweetie.” I didn’t know how long I cried before I passed out. I only knew that when I woke up, my head felt like it was splitting open. The next morning, rubbing my temples, I walked downstairs for a cold coffee. Monica walked into the living room holding a storage box. Seeing me, she paused, her expression softening into forced gentleness. “You’re awake? I organized all of Lily’s drawings. See if this looks okay.” “I know how much these mean to you. I didn’t let anyone else touch them. I drove back overnight to do it myself.” Before I could tell her I’d do it myself, a figure walked out of the guest room wearing my pajamas. They were a matching set Monica had bought for us, something I only ever wore around the house. He was holding a microfiber cloth and quickly jogged over to Monica. “Captain, take a break. Let me wipe down the tables. If Alec doesn’t mind, I can help organize too?” Monica shifted slightly, avoiding his hand, her tone slightly awkward. “No need. Alec can handle it.” She turned to me, offering a quick explanation. “It was pouring rain when we drove back. Doug’s clothes got soaked. I told him to go back to the barracks to change, but he insisted on helping out to make amends, so I gave him a set of your clothes for now.” Doug wrung the cloth in his hands, speaking softly. “Alec, I am so sorry about yesterday. I didn’t dare touch any of Lily’s things. I just wanted to help dust. Please don’t hold a grudge.” “Enough. The past is the past,” Monica interrupted him, her tone softening as she looked at me. “Alec, he means well. Don’t overthink it.” She paused, adding, “I cleared my schedule for next week. I’ll stay home with you for a few days. We won’t talk about work until after her memorial service.” I didn’t answer. My eyes were fixed on the corner of a drawing sticking out of the storage box—it was Lily’s family portrait. She had drawn the three of us holding hands tightly. As Doug was wiping the table, his elbow ‘accidentally’ knocked into the box. A few drawings spilled out onto the floor. He scrambled to pick them up, but he lost his footing and stepped squarely onto the family portrait. His shoe left a thick, muddy footprint right over the drawing. “Oh no!” he gasped, his face turning pale. “I’m so sorry, Alec! I swear I didn’t mean to!” Monica frowned deeply, but her anger wasn’t directed at Doug. She turned to me. “Look what happens when you don’t secure the box properly.” She bent down, picked up the drawing, and tried to rub the dirt off with her thumb. Her tone was impatient. “Forget it. I’ll get it framed later. The glass will hide the stain.” I watched her brush it off so casually, my entire body shaking. “That was my daughter’s last drawing.” My voice trembled. “You told him not to touch anything. Is he deaf?” Doug was still frantically trying to wipe the paper, his tears falling and blurring the crayon lines. “I really didn’t mean to… Captain, I…” “Enough!” Watching the drawing smear further, I violently shoved him backward. “Who gave you the right to touch her things!” Doug lost his balance and hit the floor hard. Tears streamed down his face instantly. “Alec… I…” “Alec! Are you crazy?!” Monica screamed. She rushed over and helped Doug up. “He just stepped on a piece of paper by accident! Did you really have to hit him?” She glared at me with absolute venom. “Lily is gone. I am just as heartbroken as you are. But you can’t act like a rabid dog, treating everyone like your enemy!” She grabbed Doug’s arm and dragged him toward the door, throwing one last threat over her shoulder. “Take my name and Doug’s off the transfer list right now, or I’m filing the divorce papers tomorrow!” I stared at the ruined drawing on the floor, my fingernails digging so hard into my palms they bled. From the day my daughter died, I never wanted her back anyway.

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When I finally said “divorce,” the room fell silent. Carter, my husband, kept a half-naked goddess statue in his art studio, a room I was forbidden to enter. Two months after I gave birth, he became obsessed with drawing that statue, locking himself in there 29 days a month. He never flinched when our newborn cried. I had had enough. I wanted out. My father-in-law, Richard, seemed confused, asking if I was divorcing over Carter spending a little too much time on art. I stared back: it was about that statue. My mother-in-law, Eleanor, sneered, defending her hardworking son. If I could not handle the baby, she said, we could hire a nanny. I did not argue. I just repeated: divorce. Carter stared, eyes red with rage. He shouted that he had not cheated, that he had not touched another woman, that he just needed space to paint. Was emotional distance really grounds to break our family? People called me controlling, a suffocating wife. I laughed dryly, pointing toward his studio. Since only that carved stone seemed to satisfy him, I said, I would step aside and let them be happy together. I slammed the freshly printed divorce papers flat onto the dining table. “Sign it.” Carter stared at me, his face pale with shock. “Audrey, what the hell is wrong with you?” His voice was tight, dripping with forced patience but hiding genuine annoyance. “I already admitted I messed up by hiding in the studio this month. I know I neglected you. I said I was sorry. I will make it up to you, okay? Do you really have to pull this stunt in front of everyone?” I slowly let my gaze drift around the room. Today was our fifth wedding anniversary. Carter had organized an intimate dinner party to celebrate, inviting our closest friends and family. A chance for everyone to get together and be merry, he had said. Yet from the moment the appetizers were served, his eyes had not landed on me once. He even did the traditional anniversary champagne toast with Brooke, his childhood best friend. Dragging this farce out any longer felt completely pointless. “Since you do not want to make a massive scene in front of our guests, just do the smart thing and sign the paper.” I dropped the words like ice and crossed my arms, refusing to say another syllable. A suffocating quiet swallowed the dining room. Guests exchanged nervous, wide-eyed glances. For the past five years, we were the golden couple of our social circle. Everyone thought we were practically glowing with marital bliss. The color drained from Carter’s face. He furrowed his brows, stepping into my personal space. “I am begging you,” he whispered, his voice cracking with a pathetic edge. “Audrey, let us just go home and talk about this. Please stop making a scene. You are stressing my parents out.” I yanked my arm away from his reaching hand. “Do not touch me.” Seeing my completely merciless attitude, the mood in the room shifted. Friendly faces morphed into cold, judgmental glares. Richard slammed his crystal whiskey glass onto the table. Eleanor’s expression darkened into a nasty scowl. Because I pushed him away, Carter stumbled backward. He conveniently lost his footing and landed squarely in Brooke’s waiting arms. “Are you even human, Audrey?” Brooke exploded, stepping around Carter to get in my face. “Did you conveniently forget how he treated you when you were pregnant? When your stomach was covered in stretch marks, Carter came home from the office exhausted every single night and massaged oil into your skin. He did that for a year!” She raised her voice, making sure the entire room heard her crusade. “Did you forget he drove five hours across state lines just to buy you those specific organic white peaches you were craving? Now that the baby is here, he spends a few weeks in his studio to breathe, and you lose your mind. Why are you so damn suffocating?” She took a breath, practically vibrating with righteous anger. “So what if he did not help rock the baby to sleep lately? You are the mother, you are right there! The man just wanted a break. And over this tiny little bump in the road, you want a divorce? Have you no shame?” Standing on her high horse, Brooke painted me as the ultimate ungrateful, wicked wife. The room murmured in agreement, the verbal slaps hitting me from all sides. Brooke lunged forward, raising her hand to physically slap me. Before she could even make contact, I smoothly stepped out of her strike zone. I locked eyes with her, my lips curving into a mocking sneer. “My husband rubbed stretch mark oil on my naked stomach late at night behind closed doors. Tell me, Brooke, how exactly do you know those intimate details? Do you two share absolutely everything?” Brooke panicked, her face flushing bright red. “It is common knowledge! Ask anyone in this room, everybody knows!” A few guests awkwardly nodded, trying to back her up. Richard cleared his throat, putting on his stern patriarch voice. “Audrey, marriage is not a game you quit when you get mad. We all saw how devoted my son was during your pregnancy. He is flesh and blood, not a machine. He needs downtime. The newborn phase is the ultimate test for a young couple. You cannot just abandon ship when things get tough.” Eleanor crossed her arms, letting out a sharp, suspicious scoff. “I always knew there was something off about you. Demanding a divorce out of nowhere? I bet my life you have a side piece hiding out there.” She rolled up her designer sleeves, looking ready for a brawl. “Spill it. Who is the guy? Is your little toy boy pressuring you to leave my son?” She patted Carter’s shoulder. “Do not worry, honey. I will personally chase off whatever trash she is sleeping with. I will save your marriage and my granddaughter.” I laughed out loud. It was entirely devoid of warmth. “The problem is not me, and it never was. You can all talk until you are blue in the face, but I am leaving him today.” Carter’s eyes were so swollen they looked bruised. He took a shaky breath, stepping forward to gently grab my hand. “Baby, please just tell me what is really going on. This is not you. Do you remember our vows? For better or for worse, in sickness and in health…” Looking at his flawless mask of devotion, bile rose in my throat. “Cut the crap. Stop acting.” I spat. “Get away from me.” I shoved him away with all my strength. He let out a dramatic groan, falling to the floor and perfectly scraping his elbow on the hardwood. “I have had enough of you, Audrey!” Brooke shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at my face. “If you try to divorce him today, I swear to God I will beat you half to death!” She bared her teeth like a feral dog. “You ungrateful bitch. I would rather Carter be a widower than let you drag his name through the mud in a divorce!” Brooke totally lost her mind. She charged at me, grabbing my shoulders to tackle me to the floor, fully intending to do some real damage. Instead of panicking, I just smiled. “What are you so panicked about? This is between a husband and wife. Who gave you the right to open your mouth?” “We grew up together! I am practically his sister!” Brooke screamed. I tilted my head. “The kind of sister he takes to bed?” “You are sick!” “Your mind is filthy, so you think everyone else is too.” While she was screaming, I took advantage of her distraction and threw a hard, calculated punch right at her jaw. Fast, precise, ruthless. Brooke loved to brag about taking kickboxing classes at her fancy gym, but it was all fake cardio nonsense. She had no idea I had spent years actually training. Seeing his precious friend take a hit, Carter completely lost his composure. “Audrey, stop it right now!” he shrieked. “Do not hurt her!” I had my hand firmly gripped around Brooke’s collar, cutting off her air supply. Her face was rapidly turning an ugly shade of purple. In a sheer panic, Carter grabbed a heavy antique ceramic vase off the hallway console table. Without a second of hesitation, he swung it directly at my head. The dining room erupted into pure chaos. Deafening screams bounced off the walls. “Oh my god, so much blood!” “Call an ambulance, right now!” Thick, warm liquid poured down the side of my face, stinging my eye. The elegant dining room blurred into smeared colors, and the screaming faded into a dull, echoing hum. I could hear Carter’s voice shaking violently above me. “Baby, I am so sorry, I did not mean to. I just thought you were going to kill her, you were squeezing so hard. I dialed 911!” As my knees buckled and the darkness pulled me under, I knew exactly what my final expression was. A bitter, hollow smile. Look at the man I married. Just to protect his sweet childhood friend, he cracked my skull open with a heavy piece of pottery. When I finally forced my heavy eyelids open, the blinding fluorescent lights of a hospital room assaulted my vision. My head throbbed with a sickening, explosive rhythm. “Do not move, Audrey.” Carter’s voice hovered near my ear. “They just gave you over a dozen stitches…” I closed my eyes, letting out a weak, raspy laugh. “Did you sign the papers?” I mumbled. “The second they discharge me, we are going straight to the courthouse to file.” Carter’s quiet sobbing stopped instantly. “How can you still be talking about divorce?” he gasped, completely appalled. Hot tears dripped off his chin and splattered onto the back of my bruised hand. “I love you so much, Audrey. The second you went down, I called the paramedics. What kind of demon possessed you tonight?” I could not hold back a cold sneer. “You love me? Is that why you smashed ceramic over my skull?” If that was his version of love, I would gladly let him give it to someone else. Carter choked on his own words, desperately scrambling for an excuse. “It was pure instinct, Audrey! You looked possessed. You were strangling Brooke, you terrified all of us.” He wiped his nose, his voice taking on a whining, pleading tone. “You know our families have lived next door to each other for decades. Brooke and I were in diapers together. She just wanted to help us fix our marriage. How could you say those disgusting things to her?” “Stop talking.” I cut him off, my voice devoid of any emotion. “I do not care about your excuses. I am done listening to you. I only have one word for you. Divorce.” Even Richard and Eleanor, who had been eavesdropping out in the hallway, looked completely stunned. They clearly had not expected me to be this ruthless. They barged right into the hospital room. “Audrey, you have never been this cold-hearted. Tell me the truth. Did Carter do something unforgivable? Tell me, and I will set him straight myself.” It was Richard playing the good cop. But the mask slipped almost immediately. Before I could even open my mouth, he flipped the script. “Or is Eleanor right? Did you find a new lover?” He crossed his arms, looking down at me from the foot of the bed. “Listen to me, girl. You just had a baby. You finally built a real family. Do not let some smooth-talking stranger ruin your life and make you do something you will regret forever.” Eleanor rolled her eyes, chiming in with zero sympathy. “Exactly. Couples fight. You scream in the living room and make up in the bedroom. Stop acting like a spoiled brat.” She pointed a manicured finger at me. “A real woman knows how to swallow her pride. If you threaten divorce every time you throw a tantrum, how do you expect to survive in the real world?” Carter knelt by the bed, playing the patient, battered husband. He gripped my fingers tightly. “Whatever is going on in your head, just tell me. We will fix it together. Are you… suspecting me of something?” There was a frantic, terrified flicker in his eyes. He was sweating. More fake tears spilled down his cheeks. “No matter what crazy things you are thinking, I am not giving up on us. I will stay by your side forever.” I stared blankly at his weeping face. For years, his tears were my ultimate weakness. The second he cried, I surrendered. Whatever he wanted, I gave it to him. He wanted an entire master bedroom converted into his private art sanctuary? I paid the contractors. He slapped a ridiculous sign on the studio door that read No Dogs or Audrey Allowed? I just laughed it off as a quirky artist joke. But I was entirely done being the punchline. “Save your breath, Carter. I just do not love you anymore.” Carter reacted like I had shot him in the chest. His eyelashes trembled violently. “What did you just say?” His breathing turned erratic, his chest heaving. “We literally just had a child together. Do you have no conscience at all?” Seeing Carter absolutely shatter, Richard finally dropped the supportive father-in-law act. He let out a vicious scoff. “Fine, Audrey. You want to play hardball?” He pointed a stiff finger at me. “If you walk out that door, you leave with absolutely nothing. I will make sure you are tossed out on the street without a dime.” I ignored him and simply closed my eyes. My utter indifference pushed them over the edge. They cursed me out, hauled a violently sobbing Carter off the floor, and dragged him toward the door. “Stand up straight, son!” Richard barked. “With your money and looks, you can have any woman you want. She is not worth your tears. We are leaving!” They stormed out, furious and fundamentally confused. In their minds, we were a perfect couple. They could not fathom how things escalated to a brutal, bloody point of no return. My best friend Zoe came to the hospital the next morning after hearing about the bloodbath. “Okay, seriously, how did your life turn into a true crime podcast?” she asked, pulling up a chair. She had already seen the local gossip blogs. Carter smashing a vase over his wife’s head to protect his childhood best friend was trending locally. I was officially the neighborhood joke. Zoe winced at the heavy bandages wrapped around my forehead. She took a deep breath. “I thought you guys were the ultimate couple goals. How did you go from that to a literal crime scene?” I stared at the stark white ceiling for a long time before my voice finally cracked the silence. “Have you ever seen that famous half-naked goddess statue?” Zoe blinked, thrown off. “You mean the classic European one? The masterpiece without clothes?” “Yes.” Zoe leaned back, waiting for me to connect the dots. “Carter has one locked inside his art studio.” Zoe paused, then let out a confused chuckle. “No way. It has to be a cheap replica.” “Exactly,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “It is a fake.” I turned my head to look her dead in the eyes. “And Zoe… it moves.” Zoe’s mouth dropped open. The realization hit her like a freight train. “Are you saying…” She did not even finish the sentence. Her face went through five different shades of disgust and shock.

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The System bound my fate to my wife a long time ago. If we ever got a divorce, I would be entirely wiped from this world, never to see her again. She, of course, had absolutely no idea. That morning, my wife’s young personal assistant threw a tantrum online. He posted a cryptic story on Instagram, whining about how he could no longer stand being a secret, how he hated their vague relationship. Winona, a woman who built her empire on being completely cold and calculating, panicked. I had never seen her look so desperate. She rushed into our penthouse, her heels clicking frantically against the marble floor. She looked me dead in the eye and said, “Toby is making a massive scene this time. Let us just file for a fake divorce to calm him down. You can go stay at your parents’ old cabin for a few days until this blows over.” She grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly. “Ian, please trust me. This is just a temporary fix to keep him quiet. You are my only real husband, I promise.” Watching her sweat over another man’s feelings, I just silently nodded. After I agreed, Winona wasted no time. She drove us straight to City Hall. I sat in the passenger seat, remembering a time when I asked her to grab a snack from the pantry for me, and she complained that I was wasting her time. Now, she was breaking speed limits for him. Standing in the lobby of City Hall, she held my hands, her eyes wide and pleading. “Ian, just give me seven days. I just need a week to coax him out of this mood, and then we will file the paperwork to remarry, okay?” She forced a bright smile, pulling out a velvet box. “Once I smooth things over with him, I will buy you whatever you want. Anything.” I gave her a numb, mechanical nod. She lined up the expensive watches and designer cufflinks she bought me as a “divorce gift” on the waiting room table. I did not even glance at them. These shiny little trinkets were just tools. Bribes to clear her conscience so she could go sleep with her assistant. I left them on the table and quietly walked out the glass doors. Winona always had a string of young, pretty boys around her. Even after we got married, her “assistants” had a suspiciously high turnover rate. They were always gorgeous, fresh out of college, and desperate for her attention. In the early years, I fought with her. I screamed, I begged, I threatened to leave. She would always cry, apologize, shower me with affection, and then go right back to her old habits. Eventually, I just stopped caring. I accepted that this was her nature. As long as she still came home to me and called me her husband, I swallowed the pain. But this new boy was different. She had genuinely fallen for this kid. She blew hundreds of thousands of dollars just to make him smile. She left me alone on holidays to take him on secret trips to Europe. She ignored my emergency phone calls just because Toby got jealous when her phone rang. And now, just to stroke his ego, she dragged me here to terminate our marriage. She was even planning to throw him a massive, multimillion-dollar fake wedding just to prove her devotion. Her heart had packed its bags and left me a long time ago. We walked out of the double doors together. Toby was already waiting by the curb, leaning against her sleek black Porsche. The second he saw us, his eyes lit up. He jogged right past me and practically threw himself at Winona. “Winona! You are finally done. I missed you so much, let us get out of here!” He completely ignored the dark, warning look on Winona’s face. He turned to me, plastering on a fake, overly sweet smile, and offered a dramatic little bow. “Thank you so much, Ian. Your exit finally gave me a real chance. Do not worry about Winona, I am going to take amazing care of her!” He opened his mouth to gloat some more, but Winona stepped forward and slapped him hard across the cheek. The crack echoed in the street. “Shut your mouth!” she hissed. “Did I not tell you to stay hidden in the car? If you pull a stunt like this again, you are fired. Do you hear me?” Toby clutched his red cheek, his eyes filling with dramatic, calculated tears. “But you guys are divorced now! Why are you still protecting him?” Winona shoved him hard against the car door. “I warned you about crossing the line. Do not make me repeat myself.” Sensing that Winona was genuinely furious, Toby finally backed down. He ducked into the passenger seat, letting out a pathetic little whimper. Winona watched him get in. Her hand twitched, reaching out as if she wanted to comfort him, but she forced herself to pull it back. She turned to block my view of the car, playing the role of the fiercely protective wife. Years ago, Winona swore to me that no matter how much she messed around, she would never let her dirt touch my shoes. She promised I would never have to face her mistakes. That was why she was panicking now. She looked at me, her face pale and frantic. “Ian, I am so sorry. I swear I did not know he was going to ambush us like this. I have been spoiling him too much lately, he forgot his place. I will deal with him.” I slowly shook my head. I signaled that it was fine. I had seen her do much worse things behind closed doors. A little public gloating from her sugar baby did not even register on my radar anymore. “Since he is already here, you should go be with him,” I said, my voice completely flat. “I do not need your help. I will call an Uber, pack my bags, and disappear.” Winona froze, clearly thrown off by how calm I was. She swallowed hard. “Ian, wherever you want to go, just send me the bills. Take a nice vacation. Spend whatever you want.” I nodded, saying nothing, and started walking down the block. The moment I stepped off the curb, a cold, mechanical voice chimed inside my skull. “Ian Pendelton. The System has confirmed your legal divorce and separation from Winona Croft. The companion mission is officially terminated.” “In exactly seven days, you will contract a terminal illness and pass away, permanently exiting this world.” Eight years ago, I fell asleep on my couch reading a fantasy novel and woke up in this universe. I was bound to the Companionship System and dropped right into Winona’s life. The System gave me a choice. I had to either stay by her side for eight full years, or help her achieve massive wealth and happiness to complete the game. With my guidance, Winona’s tiny startup exploded into a tech empire worth hundreds of millions. Her happiness meter maxed out years ago. I could have left then. But I chose to stay. Over those eight years, I made the fatal mistake of actually falling in love with her. I could not bear the thought of leaving. The System told me that if I simply stayed married to her until the eight-year mark, I would be granted permanent residency in this world. I truly thought I was going to grow old with her. But I was exactly seven days short of the finish line when she demanded this divorce. And because the mission failed, my punishment was death and a forced eviction from this reality. With nowhere else to go, I booked a quiet hotel room downtown. On the cab ride over, I stared out the window. Every digital billboard, every bus stop poster was plastered with leaked paparazzi photos of Winona and Toby. The media was going absolutely crazy over the billionaire CEO preparing a “secret fairy-tale wedding” for her young lover. Seeing the photos of them trying on designer tuxedos and custom gowns, it finally clicked. No wonder she was in such a frantic rush to sign the divorce papers. She needed the legal freedom to give her little pet the ultimate romantic surprise. My mind drifted back to my very first day in this world. The System had pointed me toward a struggling, exhausted Winona. The second her eyes met mine, she looked at me like I was the only light in a pitch-black room. From that day forward, she swore I was the love of her life. She promised she would burn the world down just to keep me safe. And for a long time, she actually proved it. She remembered my coffee order, the exact temperature I liked my shower, the way I folded my shirts. I felt like the absolute center of her universe. When her wealthy, old-money parents refused to let her marry a nobody like me, she stood in the freezing rain outside their estate for two whole days. She caught a terrible fever, practically starving herself until they finally caved. At our modest little wedding, she held my hands, looked up at the sky, and screamed her vows. “I, Winona, swear to love Ian Pendelton for the rest of my life! Forever and ever!” She lied. I walked into my hotel room and lay down on the crisp white sheets. Before I could even kick off my shoes, a violent tickle erupted in my chest. I coughed, and a mouthful of dark crimson blood splattered all over the pillows. I stared at the red stains, wiped my mouth, and hailed another cab to the hospital. It seemed the System was not going to let these final seven days be peaceful. The doctors ran every scan in the building. They stared at the charts, completely baffled. Physically, my organs were just shutting down for absolutely no scientific reason. They handed me a bottle of heavy painkillers and sent me away. Sitting in the hospital lobby, I chuckled bitterly. I wondered what kind of face Winona would make when she found out I was actually dead. But before I expired, I had one last errand to run. I needed to say goodbye to her parents. They were the only people in this foreign universe who treated me like actual family. Since my days were numbered, it was only right to give them a quiet warning. I took a cab to their sprawling suburban estate. As I walked up the driveway, I heard shouting through the open living room window. Winona was standing in the center of the room, shielding Toby behind her back. “Mom, Dad, please! Ian is busy. I brought Toby here to drop off some gifts. There is no need to smash the crystal!” Her father was red in the face, pointing a shaking finger at the door. “You ungrateful brat! Let me make this crystal clear. Ian is my only son-in-law!” “Tell this little parasite to get the hell out of my house! Get out!” Her mother was clutching her chest, looking pale and furious. “Listen to your father, Winona! Take him and leave! Ian has never done a single thing to hurt you. How can you be so cruel?” Hearing them defend me, a tiny sliver of warmth cracked through the ice in my chest. Back then, I spent years trying to win them over. I cooked for them every Sunday, drove them to their doctor appointments, and fixed up their garden. Eventually, they loved me like their own flesh and blood. Winona gritted her teeth, her pride wounded. “I already talked to Ian. He signed the papers. He agreed to this.” “I am not asking you to adopt Toby. I just brought him to say hello. Do you really have to be this incredibly toxic and disrespectful? Come on, Toby. We are leaving.” Winona grabbed Toby’s wrist, her face burning with anger, and stormed toward the front door. It was a spitting image of the day she dragged me out of this exact house, screaming that she would choose me over her family. Only this time, I was the one being replaced. I quickly set my sealed medical report on the porch, intending to slip away into the garden. But the front door swung open violently. Winona froze on the welcome mat, locking eyes with me. “Ian?” Pure, unfiltered panic flashed across her face. She clearly had not expected me to catch her playing playing house with her new boy. I did not say a word. I just pointed to the envelope on the mat, turned around, and walked down the long driveway. I was almost back to my hotel when my phone buzzed. A barrage of texts from Winona. “Ian, I swear I only brought him there because he was throwing a fit. He was crying about wanting a real wedding, so I took him to meet my parents to shut him up.” “I promise you, the wedding is just a massive theatrical production. It is completely fake. You are my actual husband.” She typed incredibly fast. She had clearly rehearsed this exact lie in her head a million times. I did not know how many months she had been secretly planning this extravagant wedding. I did not know how long I had been completely erased from her heart. All I knew was that in exactly five days, I would never have to look at her face again. I wandered aimlessly through the downtown streets. My feet carried me entirely on autopilot, stopping in front of the rustic little coffee shop where Winona and I had our first date. The bells on the door jingled. The smell of roasted beans was painfully familiar. But the two people sitting at our favorite corner booth were Winona and Toby. Toby was holding a cocktail glass, wrapping his arm tightly around Winona’s neck. They were both flushed, their eyes heavy with alcohol and pure lust. “Come on, Winona,” Toby purred, holding up his glass. “Let us link arms and take a shot. Like a real married couple.” A couple’s toast. My memory violently ripped me back to our wedding night. She looked angelic in her cheap, rented white dress, her eyes shining with tears as we linked our arms and drank champagne. But for the last three years, she refused to drink with me. Every time I poured us a glass, she claimed she was too tired or had an early meeting. Yet here she was, linking arms with Toby, throwing back shot after shot. The shop owner, who knew me well, noticed me standing by the door. His eyes darted between me and the couple in the corner, his jaw dropping in pure shock. To the outside world, Winona and I were the ultimate power couple. Only I knew the rotting, hollow reality of my marriage. Following the owner’s awkward stare, Toby turned around. The moment he saw me, his smug grin vanished into a deep frown. He put his drink down and marched over to me, putting on his best puppy-dog victim face. “Ian, seriously? I told you I just needed her for a few days. Do you have to stalk us?” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I am not going to steal her from you forever. Please, just let us have this week. Just give me these last few days, and I swear I will never bother you guys again!” Winona finally noticed me. The drunken, lustful flush drained from her face instantly, leaving her completely pale. “Toby, back off,” she snapped, her voice sharp. “Do not talk to Ian like that. Watch your mouth.” Toby flinched, biting his lip. He slowly backed away, sinking into a bar stool and staring at the floor. Winona rushed over to me. She grabbed my arm, her grip painfully tight. Her brow was deeply furrowed. “Ian! I told you, he is not a threat to you. You are my husband, and you always will be!” She lowered her voice, her tone turning frantic. “Once this stupid fake wedding is over, we will sign the papers and go back to normal. But please, you cannot keep showing up like this. Do not ruin this for me. Just stay away until it is done, okay?” By the end of her sentence, she was practically raising her voice, a harsh, desperate edge bleeding into her tone. I did not scream. I did not beg. Just like the day she asked me for a divorce, I simply gave her a quiet, dead nod, pulled my arm free, and walked out the door. Winona reached out to grab me again, her mouth opening to say something, but no words came out. The greatest tragedy of a broken heart is dead silence. When you finally give up on someone, even the desire to be angry completely vanishes. For the next few days, I did not leave the hotel room. The System’s illness was ravaging my body, turning my muscles to jelly. I lay in bed, waiting for the clock to run out. On the final morning, my phone lit up with a text from Toby. “Hey Ian. Today is my wedding day with Winona. You coming?” My legs were incredibly weak. I had to buy a heavy wooden cane from the hotel lobby just to keep myself upright. I honestly could not explain why I wanted to go to their wedding. Maybe a dark, twisted part of me just thought it would be incredibly funny to drop dead right in the middle of their perfect fairy tale. The venue was crawling with Winona’s high-society friends and corporate partners. I was an alien in this world. I had no friends, no family, no one to talk to. Winona was my entire universe. The guests noticed me limping through the garden. They shot me looks of pity, mockery, and pure disgust. I had seen those exact looks a million times during her previous affairs. I was totally immune to it. The internet was already blowing up with live streams of the event. Everyone was talking about the billionaire’s ex-husband showing up to crash the party. I hobbled over the manicured grass, taking in the scenery. The stage was set up right against a stunning, crystal-blue lake. Fluffy white clouds reflected perfectly in the water. The aisles were lined with thousands of imported white roses, Toby’s absolute favorite flower. When Winona and I got married, we were dead broke. We signed a piece of paper at a dingy courthouse. She always told me her dream was to have a massive outdoor wedding by the water, drowning in white flowers. I promised her I would give it to her. I promised that the second we made our first million, I would rent out a lake and give her the dress of her dreams. But the moment we finally had the money, before I could even book the venue, she decided to wear the dress for another man. Everything here was bought with the blood, sweat, and tears I poured into her company. And she used it to build a shrine for Toby. The string quartet started playing. Winona walked down the aisle in a custom, diamond-encrusted gown. She looked at Toby with a smile so bright it actually hurt my eyes. “Toby,” she whispered, tears of pure joy spilling over her lashes. “You have no idea how many nights I dreamed of this exact moment.” She reached out, gently cupping his face. “Marrying you has been my ultimate fantasy. And today, I finally get to make it real. My true love.” Toby squeezed out a few tears of his own, but his eyes were gleaming with pure, unfiltered greed and victory. “Winona, the very first day I walked into your office, I fell madly in love with you. Being yours forever is all I ever wanted.” They leaned in and shared a deep, passionate kiss. The crowd erupted. Billionaires and socialites stood up, clapping, cheering, and whistling for the happy couple. Eleven years ago, a much smaller crowd gave me that exact same applause. Everyone was screaming, celebrating the triumph of true love. I just sat in a folding chair in the very back row, leaning heavily on my cane, watching the beautiful nightmare unfold as tears quietly slipped down my cheeks. Toby pulled away from the kiss and immediately scanned the crowd. He spotted me in the back. A nasty, venomous smirk spread across his lips. He tapped the microphone, signaling the crowd to quiet down. He looked directly at me. “I really need to take a second to thank someone very special for making this marriage possible.” Every single head in the venue whipped around to stare at me. Everyone knew who I was. The tragic, discarded ex-husband. They were all holding their breath, waiting for me to cause a scene so they could laugh at me. I looked past the crowd, locking eyes with my wife. Winona looked utterly terrified. She ripped the microphone out of Toby’s hand, leaning in to whisper furiously in his ear. But she forgot to mute it. Her frantic voice echoed over the massive speakers. “What the hell are you doing? I told you not to provoke him today!” She turned to look at me, her eyes practically begging. After spending a decade with her, I knew exactly what that look meant. She was begging me to swallow my pride and stay quiet so I would not ruin her perfect aesthetic. I let out a dry, rattling laugh. I spent eight years giving her my actual soul, and she could not even grant me an ounce of human decency at the very end. She knew Toby was going to publicly execute my dignity, and she just wanted me to take it quietly. I ignored the whispers. I ignored the mocking stares. I leaned on my cane and slowly, agonizingly, dragged myself down the aisle and up the steps onto the stage. I took the microphone from Winona’s trembling hand. I did not care what she had to say anymore. Her heart belonged to Toby, and my time was up. I looked at the two of them standing there in their expensive wedding clothes. I started laughing. The laughter bubbled up from my chest, mixing with thick, hot tears. “System,” I whispered into the cold air. “Let me leave.”

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After collapsing at my desk from pulling a string of all-nighters, I dragged my exhausted body to the hospital. The doctor wrote me a prescription for an IV drip, and I settled into the hospital bed, hoping to finally catch some sleep while the fluid did its work. I’d just drifted off when a sharp voice jolted me awake. “You can’t just fall asleep while you’re on a drip alone! What if something happens and no one’s watching?” Her tone was pure accusation. I pointed to the IV alarm clipped to my arm. “I bought this,” I explained, my voice raspy. “It’ll beep when the bag is almost empty.” The young nurse just rolled her eyes dismissively and walked away. A few minutes later, she was back, shaking me awake again. “Why isn’t your little gadget beeping? What if it’s broken? It’s a big deal if we miss changing the bag,” she said, her brow furrowed in exaggerated concern. My head was pounding. I fought back a wave of irritation. “The bag isn’t finished yet. It’ll go off when it’s time.” I turned over, desperate for sleep. The second I closed my eyes, a searing pain exploded across my cheek. The nurse had slapped me. The shock of it ripped me back to full consciousness. She was smiling, a smug look on her face. “Since you trust this alarm so much, why don’t you sign this?” “Once you sign,” she said, shoving a piece of paper at me, “anything that happens to you during this drip has nothing to do with me.” 1 I had fainted at my desk after powering through several sleepless nights to finish a project proposal. My boss, panicked, had rushed me to the hospital himself. He even gave me his blessing to go straight home and rest after the drip, knowing I had to face our demanding client tomorrow. The infusion room wasn’t quiet, but I was so sleep-deprived that the low hum of voices was a lullaby. After one last check of the blueprints I’d brought with me, I finally let my eyes close. I was deep in a dream when a piercing voice shattered the peace. “Hey! You can’t sleep while you’re on an IV, not when you’re here alone!” My eyelids felt like they were weighted down with lead. I tried to open them, but they wouldn’t budge. “Hey! What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you hear me talking to you?” “Don’t pretend! I know you’re awake. I saw your eyelids twitch!” The voice was a drill boring into my skull. Even a corpse would have been woken up by now. I finally managed to pry my eyes open. A young nurse was standing over my bed, hands on her hips, looking down at me like I was something she’d stepped in. “I knew you were faking,” she sniffed. “Making me call you all those times. What, you enjoy the feeling of being waited on?” I recognized her. She was the one who had set up my IV. It had taken her five tries to find a vein. I hadn’t said a word, but she’d been the one with tears welling in her eyes, as if I were the one bullying her. I sighed, my throat raw. “Is there a problem?” Honestly, I had no idea how someone with her attitude became a nurse. Even if I wanted to feel “waited on,” a hospital would be the last place I’d choose. Who enjoys being in a hospital? She gave a slight roll of her eyes. “What’s your deal? Coming in for a drip and not even a boyfriend to keep you company? And then you just pass out. What happens if the bag runs out?” Her voice was high and loud. The room fell silent. Everyone turned to stare at me, as if not having a boyfriend here was some kind of capital offense. Being woken up like that after finally finding a moment of peace was starting to piss me off. Still, I kept my anger in check and asked in the calmest voice I could manage, “Don’t you have nurses who make rounds? When the bag is empty, someone will come change it, right?” This wasn’t my first time getting an IV. On previous visits, there were always nurses keeping an eye on things. You didn’t need a chaperone. That’s why I’d told my boss he didn’t need to have a coworker stay with me. At my words, the young nurse’s thin eyebrows shot up. “Easy for you to say. Can’t you see how many people are in here? How am I supposed to take care of everyone by myself?” she snapped. “Just because you paid for the drip doesn’t mean you can act like a queen and expect us to serve you. Nurses are people too. A little consideration would be nice. We’re not your personal maids, you know.” I wanted to tell her that staffing was the hospital’s problem, not mine. And I wasn’t dying; if I needed a personal maid, I wouldn’t be hiring a nurse. But as I opened my mouth, a wave of nausea hit me. I clamped it shut to keep from throwing up. That just seemed to encourage her. “Hey, you look old enough to know better. You’re not considerate at all. No wonder you don’t have a man here with you.” She then muttered under her breath, “No boyfriend, not even any friends? I can tell you’re not a very popular person.” 2 Rage flared in my chest, making my headache even worse. How did getting an IV drip turn into a referendum on my love life and my character? Are single people not allowed to get sick? I wanted to fire back, but I was too dizzy, too drained. All I wanted was to sleep. I gave a weak wave of my hand. “Thanks for your concern,” I said quietly. “I’ll handle it.” She stared at me. “How are you going to handle it? You gonna call your boyfriend to come over?” I had no idea why she was so obsessed with my non-existent boyfriend. My life was just work, work, work. I was so exhausted I couldn’t even stand the sight of my own reflection, let alone have the energy for a relationship. Honestly, if I did have a boyfriend, I’d be starting to suspect this nurse was his side piece. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said wearily, “but that won’t stop me from handling this.” For some reason, that just seemed to make her angrier. I pulled out my phone, opened a delivery app, and ordered an IV alarm from the nearest pharmacy for rush delivery. I used to use one all the time; it would start beeping when the drip was about to finish. But since I’d come straight from the office, I didn’t have it with me. While I waited for the delivery, I sat up, too afraid of being woken up again to lie down. I glanced around the room and saw the young nurse whispering with another nurse. She was laughing, and she pointed in my direction. The other nurse covered her mouth in shock, then started laughing too. Annoyed, I turned away and took a few sips of water. The alarm arrived quickly. The delivery guy was nice enough to help me clip it onto the IV tube and even tested it to make sure it worked before he left. Just then, the nurse returned. She was changing the IV bag for the patient in the bed next to mine, talking to them in a sickly-sweet, passive-aggressive tone. “You know, some women think they can use their looks to flirt with every man they see. Even the delivery guy. It’s just so classless.” I was just about to lie down, but her words stopped me cold. “Who are you calling a flirt?” I demanded. My eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. The constant interruptions had me on a hair trigger. My glare must have been terrifying, because she flinched and her eyes darted away. “I wasn’t talking about anyone in particular,” she muttered, biting her lip before scurrying off. I fell back onto the bed, completely drained. I’ve never seen this nurse before in my life, I thought, bewildered. What did I ever do to her? She butchered my arm five times and I didn’t say a thing, and this is how she repays me? I should have filed a complaint after the second failed attempt. Muttering curses under my breath, it took me a long time to fall back asleep. I dreamed I had wowed the client. My boss gave me a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus and a month-long vacation. I was cheering in my dream when suddenly, someone shoved me, hard. The sensation was like being pushed off a cliff. My eyes flew open. And there she was. The nurse. A persistent, walking nightmare. She pointed at the alarm on my IV line. “This thing hasn’t made a sound. Are you sure it even works? If it’s defective and we miss the bag change, that could be a problem.” I gasped for breath, my heart hammering in my chest. For fuck’s sake, I screamed in my head. “The bag isn’t finished yet, of course it’s not beeping,” I said, my voice trembling. “It will alert me when it’s time.” The sudden shove had left me shaken, my heart pounding like a drum. The nurse eyed me suspiciously. “Why are you shaking? You don’t sound very confident. Are you lying?” I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to calm down. “I’m shaking because you scared the hell out of me! And why would I lie to you? What could I possibly gain from that? All I want is to sleep. Please, just leave me alone.” The frustration and exhaustion of being repeatedly disturbed finally boiled over, and my voice rose with each word. Her eyes widened, and tears instantly filled them. I had to laugh, a bitter, humorless sound. With acting skills like that, she should be in Hollywood, not here. The girl started crying, waving her hands defensively. “Ma’am, you must have misunderstood! I was just trying to be helpful, looking out for your well-being.” “You can’t blame me for your heart trouble, that’s not fair,” she sobbed. “You came to the hospital because you were already sick. Your health issues are your own problem, they have nothing to do with me.” 3 The nurse was young, probably just out of her teens, with a pale, innocent-looking face. Her tear-streaked performance was apparently very convincing, because it didn’t take long for someone to jump to her defense. A burly guy from a few beds over yelled at me, “Hey, the nurse is just doing her job! What’s with the attitude?” Seeing she had a supporter, the nurse’s sobs grew louder. “Thank you, sir. I’m just an intern… I’m so glad someone understands.” “If she blamed me for this, I could lose my job,” she whimpered. Her little act unleashed a wave of sympathy. “Come on, lady, she’s just a kid. You remember what it was like starting your first job, right? Don’t make things hard for her,” an older woman chimed in. “Yeah, I saw you when your coworker brought you in. You looked awful. You can’t blame the nurse for you being sick.” “I’ve heard about girls who get super catty and competitive over nothing. I guess they’ll even pick a fight with a pretty nurse…” The chorus of accusations completely chased away any hope of sleep. I sat up straight and fixed my gaze on the burly guy. “You saw me raise my voice at her, but you were blind when she was harassing me over and over?” Then I turned to the old woman. “I may be older than her, but when I was starting out, I knew how to respect people. I told her I have an IV alarm. I specifically asked her not to wake me. But she wouldn’t listen. She waited until I was asleep to bother me every single time. I have every reason to believe she’s doing it on purpose!” I scanned the room. “And all of you, you know I’m not well, yet you’re ganging up on me to defend her. If my condition gets worse because of this, every single one of you will be hearing from my lawyer!” It’s easy to be righteous when it’s not your problem. The moment I mentioned their own potential liability, they all shut up. With her backup gone, the nurse’s performance ended. She wiped away her crocodile tears and stalked off. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself and looked up at my IV bag. There was still a fair bit left, probably another half hour to go. I lay back down, thinking, Finally, I can get some real rest. But just as I was drifting off, I heard a sharp smack. A searing pain shot across my face. I jerked my eyes open. The nurse was just pulling her hand back. It hit me. She had just slapped me.

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When I opened my eyes again, I was five years old, on the very day my birth parents brought me back to the Carrington estate. Alistair Carrington, my brother, blocked their path, his finger jabbing toward my face. “Dad, Mom, I made a mistake,” he said, his voice laced with ice. “She isn’t my sister.” Seeing the undisguised disgust on his face, I understood instantly. Like me, he had been reborn with the memories of our past life. Disappointment washed over my parents’ faces. They turned and walked away without a backward glance. Alistair pressed a hard candy into my palm, the cellophane crinkling in the tense silence. “The Carringtons only need one daughter, and that’s Isabelle,” he said, his voice flat. “Your kidney couldn’t even save her life. There’s no reason for you to be here.” Flashes of my previous life seared through my mind: at eighteen, I donated a kidney to the family’s beloved adopted daughter, Isabelle, who was suffering from renal failure. She died from organ rejection anyway. Before I had even fully recovered from the surgery, the Carringtons threw me out. Soon after, my surgical wound became severely infected. I died alone on the streets. … My fist clenched around the candy, its sharp edges digging into my palm. He was right. In our past life, my only purpose to him was as a spare blood bank and organ bank for Isabelle. Since my kidney had failed to save her, and she had died regardless, my useless self had no place in their family this time around. I smiled, but a tear escaped and rolled down my cheek. I wiped it away fiercely, telling myself that the girl from that life, the one who craved their love, was dead. The one living now was me. I turned and walked back to a quiet corner of the orphanage. Not long after, the purr of an expensive engine broke the silence as a sleek black Bentley glided to a stop at the curb. The director scurried out, ushering in an elderly gentleman with silver hair. The orphanage erupted. Children flocked around him like a chattering of sparrows, all vying for his attention. “Hello, Grandpa!” “Grandpa, I can sing for you!” “Grandpa, look at my drawing!” Only I remained in my inconspicuous corner, an outsider to the frenzy. The old man, Mr. Preston, noticed me. He gently moved through the crowd, leaning on his cane as he made his way toward me. “Little one, why are you all by yourself over here? Don’t they like you?” I shook my head and looked up, offering him the candy, now warm from my tight grip. “For you, Grandpa.” I forced a calm maturity into my voice, one far beyond my years. He paused, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He took the candy, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth, a gentle smile spreading across his face. “Mm, it’s very sweet.” He studied me for a long moment. “What’s your name?” “The director calls me Ava.” “Ava…” he repeated, nodding slowly. “Would you like to come home with me? To be my granddaughter?” The orphanage fell silent. Every child’s gaze, sharp with envy, was fixed on me. Without a shred of hesitation, I nodded firmly. “Yes.” He let out a hearty laugh that boomed through the quiet hall. “Good! Excellent! From this day forward, your name is Ava Preston.” He took my hand, his palm warm and dry. “Ava, it means life, a precious thing. I want you, my child, to become a priceless gem.” I understood the weight of his words, the hope he was placing in me. In that moment, I squeezed his hand back, hard. I became the cherished jewel of the Preston family. Mr. Preston, my new grandfather, treated me like a treasure. He taught me to read and write himself, and shared with me his wisdom on life and character. His own children, my new aunts and uncles, though busy, never failed to bring me fascinating gifts and showered me with genuine affection. But the one who doted on me most was my new brother, Noah, who was ten years my senior. The first time he saw me, a gentle smile broke through his cool, handsome features. “This is our little princess,” he’d declared. “No one gets to hurt her.” It became his mantra. Wrapped in so much love, the scars of my past life began to fade. I threw myself into my studies, consistently ranking first from elementary school through high school. My room overflowed with trophies and certificates from countless competitions. When it came time for college, I chose to study medicine without a second thought. I knew Isabelle’s illness was the unending ache in the heart of the Carrington family. It was also the sword that had once hung over my own head. Twenty years later, I had become one of the country’s youngest and most renowned physicians and medical researchers. Life was peaceful and fulfilling. I believed the Carringtons had vanished from my life forever. Until the day my assistant knocked on my office door. “Dr. Preston, there’s a Mr. Alistair Carrington here to see you. He specifically requested our most expensive consultation to have you see his sister.” The name sent an involuntary jolt through my heart. I took a deep breath, pushing down the surge of emotion, and kept my voice perfectly even. “Send him in.” A tall man in a tailored suit walked in. The boyishness of his youth had sharpened into a handsome, brooding intensity. The moment Alistair saw me, he froze. His deep-set eyes were wide with shock and disbelief. He could never have imagined that the medical expert he had gone to such lengths to find was the sister he had cast away twenty years ago. It took him a long moment to find his voice. When he did, it was thick with suspicion. “You’re Dr. Preston?” I simply nodded. “Mr. Carrington, please have a seat. Tell me about your sister’s condition.” He ignored my invitation, his eyes still scanning me critically. “Are you really a doctor? What are the chances you can actually cure my sister?” His tone suggested I was a fraud, a charlatan. My assistant, standing beside me, could barely contain her indignation. “Sir, Dr. Preston is the leading expert at this hospital. Her time is extremely valuable…” I looked at Alistair, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching my lips. “It seems you don’t trust my professional capabilities, Mr. Carrington.” “In that case, let’s cancel this consultation.” “Chloe, show the gentleman out.” Alistair’s face darkened instantly. He clenched his jaw, but in the end, he turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. My assistant stomped her foot in frustration. “Dr. Preston, that man is so rude! Who does he think he is?” I just gave a nonchalant shrug. “It’s fine. He’s just another patient.” To me, it was nothing more than a minor interruption. My life had long since moved on from them. After work, as I was leaving the research building, Alistair appeared, blocking my path. His expression was a dark, complicated storm. My brows furrowed. “Can I help you?” He stared at me, his gaze intense. After a long silence, he finally ground out the words. “I’m warning you.” “I don’t care who you are now. You will not harm Isabelle.” I almost laughed out loud. Twenty years ago, he was the one who cruelly stopped me from being a Carrington, and now here he was, calling me by that name again, warning me not to hurt the very person he chose over me. As if I would waste a single second of my life on her. I looked at him as if he were a raving lunatic. “Mr. Carrington, my last name is Preston. Ava Preston. Please get it right.” “Furthermore, I don’t know you, and I certainly don’t know your sister. As a doctor, my job is to save lives, not to harm them. So why, exactly, would I want to hurt a complete stranger?” Alistair was taken aback, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “You don’t remember me?” He seemed unable to accept it, his voice rising. “Twenty years ago! At the orphanage! I was the one who stopped my parents…” He trailed off, the words catching in his throat, as if even he found his past actions shameful. Seeing his discomfort, a chilling coldness settled in my heart. Of course, I remembered. I remembered every look of disgust, every hateful word. I remembered how he personally pushed me away, shattering every fantasy I ever had about family. But I would pretend. I feigned a moment of deep thought, then let my expression clear into one of dawning realization. “Ohhh,” I drew out the sound. “So it was you.”

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After Grayson Cole broke off our engagement, he immediately started pursuing his young secretary. That secretary, however, had a backbone. She repeatedly rebuffed his advances, claiming she would never bow to money. In the end, though, Grayson bought his way into her heart. The real irony? The woman then gloated to the world, proclaiming that what she truly enjoyed was this kind of pure, simple love. Now, only a year later, word is that their fairy tale has devolved into a bitter war. When I heard the news, I pulled up a chair, grabbed some popcorn, and settled in for the show. 1 “Mr. Cole took a woman home last night.” I didn’t pay much attention when my assistant told me. It wasn’t the first time, after all. “To the house at Riverside Manor.” I snapped the file in my hands shut, my brow furrowing. My engagement to Grayson had been a business merger, and the villa at Riverside Manor was meant to be our marital home. The plan had been to move in after the wedding. I could accept that he didn’t love me. I could even accept him having other women. But I could not accept him so blatantly disrespecting me. I rubbed my temples. “Take me to Cole Corp.” The receptionist saw me and was about to call up to Grayson’s office, but I stopped her. “I want it to be a surprise.” She understood immediately, gesturing for me to go ahead. I took the private elevator straight to the 28th floor. Pushing the door open, I was greeted by quite a scene. Grayson had a woman pinned against the wall. Her face was pale, her expression one of defiant resistance. What was this? Some kind of toxic romance novel fantasy? The girl saw me and shoved the man away. She ran over to me, tears streaming down her face, her voice a mix of hurt and warning. “Ms. Shaw, you need to control your fiancé. I’m not just a prop in one of your rich people games.” Well now, that was a spicy little line. But she was threatening the wrong person. “Then why not just quit?” I asked calmly. “Stay far away from us rich people.” She blinked, stunned, then clenched her fists. “I earned this job with my skills. I haven’t done anything wrong. Why should I be the one to leave?” Stubborn, I’ll give her that. I frowned slightly. “Fine. In that case, I’ll have Mr. Cole reassign you. You just can’t be his secretary anymore.” She was still not satisfied. “I’m a good secretary. Why should I be moved? You wealthy people love to abuse your power.” Right. So now being wealthy was our original sin. Grayson had heard enough. He stepped forward, putting himself between us. “Victoria, stop bullying her,” he said, his voice low and protective. “Anna is too pure-hearted to play your games.” So, her name was Anna. Pure-hearted? Or just simple-minded? Grayson used the excuse to dismiss Anna, then turned to me. “What did you want?” I looked at the man before me—tall, handsome, the picture of a perfect catch—and got straight to the point. “Did you take a woman to our house at Riverside?” He didn’t flinch. Instead, he pulled out a checkbook. “Our engagement is off,” he said flatly. “This is your compensation.” I took the check he wrote and glanced at it. A very generous three hundred million. I was a little curious. “Are you sure this woman is what you really want?” Grayson met my gaze, a strange light in his eyes. “I want a wife. A safe harbor. Not someone who comes home after a day of negotiating deals only to start negotiating our personal interests.” “My wife doesn’t need to be strong. I’m strong enough for both of us.” Ah, so that’s where Anna’s strength came in. “Right. I get it.” I pocketed the check and walked away without a second thought. I’d been eyeing the multi-billion South Hill development project, and thanks to Grayson’s friendly contribution, funding was no longer an issue. See? While other women were trapped in some CEO’s twisted power fantasy, I was already soaring. I ran into Anna in the hallway, carrying a tray of coffee. She saw me and immediately stood taller, her chin held high. “Ms. Shaw, I know you look down on love between people like us, who aren’t rich.” “But I’m telling you, if I love someone, it has absolutely nothing to do with whether or not he has money.” Her little speech just left me confused. So… did she like Grayson or not? 2 Fueled by the superpower of cash, Anna was eventually won over. Six months later, they held their wedding of the century at a castle in France. The guest list was a who’s who of high society, and the event dominated the headlines for weeks. Even a year later, people still talked about it with envy. But for those of us on the inside, it was a different story. I ran into Grayson at a birthday gala. He came over with a glass of champagne, trying to make small talk. As he reminisced about our past, I kept my responses polite but distant. He was alone. No Anna in sight. “Trouble in paradise, Mr. Cole? Making you miss your ex?” It was meant as a joke, but his expression turned serious. “What if I said yes? Could we start over?” My face remained a placid lake. I looked at him coolly. “You went to great lengths to win her over. Are you telling me you’re already bored?” A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face. I could smell the gossip, but I had no desire to get tangled up with him again, so I resisted the urge to ask for details. I remembered how Grayson had bought out every billboard in the city to declare his love. Subway stations, office lobbies, building light shows—all broadcasting their “pure” romance. It reeked of money, but when a reporter interviewed Anna, she had bashfully claimed, “I just love this kind of simple, down-to-earth affection. I don’t need fancy cars or mansions, as long as he loves me with all his heart.” Right. My mistake. She was wrong about one thing, though. I wasn’t the one looking down on their love. I was just another prop in their game. After the gala, Grayson tried to add me back on social media. I gave him my assistant’s contact info. “If you need something, contact my assistant. He’ll pass it on.” Just because the marriage was off didn’t mean the business had to be. The next day, in a torrential downpour, Anna threw herself in front of my car. She looked like a drowned rat. I took her to a nearby cafe and had my assistant call Grayson. Anna’s jaw was set stubbornly. “Don’t call him. I don’t want to see him.” So they’d had a fight. “You must be feeling pretty smug right now, huh?” she muttered, staring down at her hands. “What would I have to be smug about?” This was ridiculous. Her head snapped up, and she glared at me. “Why are you trying to seduce him? Don’t tell me you’re still not over him.” I scoffed. “I swear, I haven’t even had his number since we broke up.” She didn’t believe me. She pulled out her phone and showed me a video she’d taken the night before. In it, Grayson was drunk, slouched on a sofa, muttering to himself. “Victoria, I can’t forget you. Let’s start over, please.” “Victoria, I was wrong. You’re the one I really love.” I couldn’t listen to any more of it and reached over to stop the video. “As you can hear, he’s the one who’s not over me. I don’t do leftovers.” Anna pushed her luck. “Then promise me you’ll stay away from him from now on.” I leaned back in my chair and flatly refused. “Can’t promise that. We’ll likely have professional dealings.” Before I could react, she threw her cup of coffee in my face. The warm liquid streamed down my cheeks. The cafe erupted in gasps. Someone was already recording on their phone. I pressed my tongue against the inside of my cheek, already calculating how much I was going to bill Grayson for this. 3 Tonight’s headline: #Ex-Fiancée of Cole Corp CEO Exposed as Homewrecker, Confronted by Wife. #Wedding of the Century a Joke as Grayson Cole Cheats. The accompanying photo was of me, coffee dripping down my face, an infuriatingly defiant smirk on my lips. Grayson showed up at my office uninvited. He sat across from me, radiating guilt and self-loathing. The perfect picture of a cheating husband. “Name your price.” I had to admit, dealing with people who spoke my language was much easier. I played coy. “What do you mean?” He chuckled humorlessly. “I know you, Victoria. You always get your pound of flesh. You didn’t go after Anna yesterday because you knew you could get something better from me.” Fine. No more games. “The Crestfall property development. I want in.” “I can give you half.” “Sixty percent.” “Done.” A moment of silence passed, then his clear, low voice filled the space. “Victoria, did you ever love me?”

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The meeting was in full swing when Nicholas’s new executive assistant decided to make her move. She snatched the iced latte from the conference table and, with a swift, vicious motion, flung its contents squarely in my face. The sticky cold shocked my skin. “You think a useless leech like you, who hides in her office playing games all day, has any right to question my proposal?” Her voice was a shrill, grating sound that cut through the silence. Then, she pointed a perfectly manicured finger toward the door. “You’re fired,” she snarled. “Get the hell out. Now.” I rose slowly from my chair, dabbing at the sticky brown mess on my face with a napkin. My eyes found Nicholas. He deliberately avoided my gaze, a frown creasing his brow, but he said nothing. His silence was his answer. He was letting this happen. A small, humorless smile touched my lips. I pulled out my phone and tapped the speaker icon. “Dad,” I said, my voice calm. “I assume you heard all of that?” A pause. “Yeah, someone just told me to pack my bags and get out.” 1 It had started on Monday, as most terrible weeks do. I was deep in a raid, my focus entirely on the screen, when a sharp rap sounded on my office door. “Ms. Ashford? Suzanne asked me to inform all department heads that there’s a mandatory meeting in ten minutes in the main conference room.” It was Maria from Admin, looking flustered. I didn’t look up, my fingers a blur across the keyboard. “Not going. I’m busy.” In the six months I’d been an employee here, I’d made a point of skipping every single meeting. It wasn’t that I couldn’t go; I simply didn’t want to. “But…” Maria hesitated. “Suzanne was very specific. She said no one is excused. It’s an order from Mr. Blackwood himself.” My fingers faltered. On the screen, my character was instantly annihilated by the final boss. As the screen faded to a dismal gray, I cursed under my breath and snapped the laptop shut. The conference room was already packed when I arrived. As soon as I walked in, conversations died down, replaced by a wave of whispers and curious stares. “What’s Olivia Ashford doing here?” “I thought she didn’t do meetings.” “Who knows. Must be Suzanne’s doing. She’s been gunning for her since day one.” “This should be good.” I ignored the gossip, found a seat in the farthest corner, and pulled out my phone to respawn in my game. A full thirty minutes passed before Nicholas Blackwood and Suzanne finally graced us with their presence. Suzanne clutched a stack of files, a triumphant, self-satisfied smirk plastered on her face. “Thank you all for taking time out of your busy schedules to be here,” Nicholas began, his gaze sweeping the room. It flickered over me for less than a second before moving on. “Suzanne has a major new proposal to announce.” Suzanne cleared her throat and launched into a long-winded speech about her “revolutionary” new marketing strategy. I continued playing my game, half-listening, and the more I heard, the more ridiculous it sounded. The budget was astronomical, and the entire concept was completely misaligned with our company’s market position. “…and so, I propose we immediately invest eighty million dollars to dominate the luxury market within the next three months!” Suzanne concluded, her voice ringing with passion. A few scattered, obligatory claps echoed in the room. I couldn’t help myself. Without looking up from my phone, I said, “For eighty million, you could just throw cash off the roof of this building. You’d get more buzz and better press for your money.” The room went dead silent. Nicholas’s brow furrowed. “What did you just say?” Suzanne’s voice shot up an octave. I finally lifted my head, my expression bored. “I said your proposal is a train wreck.” I ticked off the points on my fingers. “First, your target demographic is wrong. Second, your chosen media channels are ineffective. Third, your entire ROI calculation is a fantasy.” I leaned back in my chair. “That eighty million might as well be flushed down the toilet. At least then it would make a sound.” Suzanne’s face turned a shade of crimson I didn’t think was humanly possible. She grabbed her drink, stormed across the room, and stood looming over me. “You—a lazy, good-for-nothing freeloader who does nothing but play video games—you dare question my work?” she shrieked. And then… splash. The icy, sweet liquid drenched my face, dripping down my neck and soaking the front of my white dress, staining it a sickening brown. The room held its breath, a collective, silent gasp. “Olivia Ashford,” Suzanne bellowed, her chest heaving, “as the CEO’s executive assistant, I’m telling you you’re fired! Get out!” 2 Suzanne glared down at me, a queen banishing a peasant. I stood up slowly, pulling a handkerchief from my pocket and methodically wiping the sticky residue from my skin. Then I looked at Nicholas. He frowned, shifted his weight, and looked away. He chose silence. I actually laughed. A real, genuine laugh. I held up my phone, the call still active on speaker. “Dad, you get all that?” I asked into the receiver. “Someone’s telling me to get lost.” After two seconds of silence, a deep, powerful voice came through the line. “Understood. I’ll make the arrangements.” The only reason I was working here in the first place was because of an old family pact, a betrothal arranged by my grandfather when I was a child. Nicholas Blackwood was my fiancé. I hated the idea of an arranged marriage, but my father had pleaded, pulling out every trick in the book, including the classic “you’re breaking your old man’s heart” routine. So, I’d caved. To “foster our relationship,” my father had insisted I take a position at Blackwood Corporation. For six months, I’d played the part of a slacker, spending my days gaming. But behind the scenes, I was secretly pulling strings, leveraging my family’s resources to quietly steer the company toward unprecedented success. Blackwood Corp’s profits had soared, culminating in a wildly successful IPO that had landed Nicholas a spot on the Northwood City Rich List. Despite my help, our interactions were minimal. During our handful of awkward, stilted dates, I’d realized he knew I was the girl from the family arrangement, but he had absolutely no idea who my family really was. … I sank back into my corner seat, picked up my phone, and resumed the game that had been so rudely interrupted. On the screen, my character respawned, and my fingers flew across the glass, the chaos in the room fading into the background. Suzanne’s face went from red to a blotchy purple. She clearly hadn’t expected me to so thoroughly ignore her. She slammed her hand on the table. “Olivia Ashford! What do you think this is?” she screeched. “Everyone here is working, and you’re playing games?” “I’ve already hit my sales targets for the entire year,” I retorted with a cold smile. “What’s wrong with a little game?” “If you don’t get out, I’m calling security!” “Be my guest,” I said without looking up. The other executives exchanged uneasy glances. Some buried their noses in their files, while others shot nervous looks at Nicholas, waiting for him to act. Finally, Nicholas stood. He was wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, his expression a mask of cold authority. His eyes, when they met mine, were filled with impatience and disdain. “Olivia, your performance has been satisfactory,” he began, his voice quiet but laced with an undeniable command. “But this is a company, not your living room. I need you to leave this meeting now. Do not disrupt it any further.” My fingers paused. My character died again. I looked up, meeting his cold gaze, and let a playful smile curve my lips. “Are you absolutely sure you want to kick me out, Nicholas?” His frown deepened, his voice turning to ice. “I won’t repeat myself. If you have any professional integrity, you’ll know when to stop.” “And if I don’t want to go?” “Then don’t blame me for what happens next.” Seeing Nicholas firmly on her side, Suzanne’s courage surged. She lunged forward and slapped the phone out of my hand. CRACK! It hit the marble floor, the screen instantly spider-webbing with fractures. “Don’t push your luck, Olivia!” she spat, grabbing the collar of my dress and yanking me forward. “The CEO gave you an order! What are you still doing here? Get out!” From the day she was hired, Suzanne had made it her personal mission to make my life difficult. I once overheard her in Nicholas’s office, her voice just loud enough to carry into the hallway. “Mr. Blackwood, this company isn’t a charity. It’s not fair to the other employees that we pay a fortune to someone who just plays games all day.” Nicholas hadn’t responded, but through the glass, I saw his hands pause over a document. After that, Suzanne grew bolder. She’d make passive-aggressive comments in department meetings about my “achievements.” “Some people draw a huge salary but can’t even be bothered to show up for a meeting. I guess some of us are here to work, and others are here on vacation.” Soon, the rumors spread like wildfire. I was a spoiled rich girl who’d gotten the job through connections. I slept in my office all day. There was even a betting pool on when I’d finally be fired. I knew about all of it. I just didn’t care. 3 But my indifference only seemed to fuel her aggression. Now, seeing her chance, her arrogance was off the charts. I was done being patient. I caught her wrist in a tight grip and twisted. Hard. “Ah!” Suzanne cried out in pain, her hand flying open. As she stumbled back, her arm slammed against the edge of the conference table. The sound of crystal hitting solid wood was sickeningly sharp. She staggered, looked down at her wrist, and her face went completely white. A prominent scratch now marred the crystal face of her absurdly expensive Patek Philippe watch, glinting under the overhead lights. “You… you…” she stammered, her hand trembling as she held up her wrist, her eyes blazing with fury. “Olivia, do you have any idea how much this watch costs? It was a birthday present from Nicholas! It’s worth a hundred thousand dollars!” I calmly smoothed the wrinkled collar of my dress. “You were the one who lost your balance. Who’s to blame for that?” “Olivia Ashford!” Nicholas’s voice finally boomed through the room, sharp and furious. “That’s enough! You disrupted a meeting, and now you’ve deliberately damaged personal property. As CEO of this company, I am officially terminating your employment. Pack your things and leave. Immediately.” Suzanne, emboldened, shrieked, “Nicholas, don’t let her off that easy! She has to pay for the watch!” The room was silent. Every eye was on me, a mix of pity and malicious glee on their faces, all of them waiting for the show to begin. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll pay.” I bent down to retrieve my shattered phone. The screen was a disaster, but it still worked. “A hundred thousand, was it?” I was about to dial when Suzanne sneered, “What hundred thousand? I meant a million!” I paused and looked at her. “Are you sure?” “Of course, I’m sure!” she said, her chin held high. “A gift from Nicholas is priceless! A million dollars is a bargain!” She looked around the room for support. “Am I right, everyone?” She was cornering me. She knew my official salary; there was no way I could afford that. This was about humiliation. The other executives, eager to curry favor, chimed in. “She’s right. A gift from the CEO can’t be measured in money,” the CFO said, pushing up his glasses. “You should just pay it, Ms. Ashford.” “This company isn’t a charity. You break it, you buy it,” the head of marketing added with a smirk. “Though at your salary, Ms. Ashford, you’ll probably be paying it off until you retire.” A ripple of cruel laughter went through the room. They had always resented me, and now they were savoring my downfall. Nicholas stood by, his brow furrowed, but he did nothing to stop them. Their taunts didn’t bother me. I looked straight at Suzanne. “One million dollars. Final offer?” Suzanne blinked, then let out a derisive snort. “Olivia, who are you trying to fool? How much do you make in a month? You couldn’t pay that if you sold a kidney.” I ignored her and put the phone to my ear. “I need one million dollars in cash delivered to the Blackwood Corporation conference room. As fast as possible.” Suzanne rolled her eyes. “Please. Who do you think you’re fooling with a fake phone call?” I didn’t answer. I just waited. Less than ten minutes later, the conference room doors swung open. A man in an impeccably tailored suit walked in, followed by three uniformed bank couriers, each carrying a heavy-duty briefcase. The man walked directly to me and bowed respectfully. “Miss Ashford,” he said. “Here is the one million dollars you requested.” I nodded. “Thank you for your trouble. You can leave it there.” One by one, the couriers opened the cases. Stacks of crisp, hundred-dollar bills gleamed under the lights, a breathtaking sight. A stunned silence fell over the room. Every gaze was fixed on the money, the air so thick you could cut it with a knife. Even breathing seemed to have stopped. Suzanne’s face was a mask of disbelief, her jaw slack. She stared at the cash, then at the man in the suit. Suddenly, the CFO gasped, his face draining of all color. “Mr… Mr. Kensington?!” 4 It was James Kensington, president of the largest national bank in the country. A man so powerful that even Nicholas’s grandfather couldn’t get a meeting with him on short notice. And here he was, bowing to me, calling me “Miss Ashford.” Nicholas, after a moment of stunned silence, hurried forward, his hand outstretched. “Mr. Kensington! What an honor. My grandfather speaks of you often, he’s been hoping to see you again.” Kensington didn’t even grant him a full look, offering only a curt nod in his direction. His attention was solely on me. “Miss Ashford, if there is anything else you require, you need only ask.” With that, he turned and led his men out of the room, as briskly as they had arrived. Nicholas’s hand was left hanging in mid-air. His face flushed a deep, humiliating red. Suzanne’s bravado had completely evaporated. Her legs were trembling so badly she could barely stand, and beads of sweat dotted her forehead. I casually reached into one of the cases, pulled out a thick stack of bills, and lightly patted her cheek with it. “One million dollars, Suzanne. Not a penny less,” I said coolly. “Now, that watch is mine.” Before she could react, I snatched the Patek Philippe from her wrist and, in front of everyone, dropped it into the nearby trash can. “You!” she gasped, her eyes wide with fury. I turned to Nicholas, a placid smile on my face. “Mr. Blackwood, the watch is paid for. Now, I believe we need to discuss compensation for my phone.” Suzanne, after a moment of shock, burst out laughing, a hysterical, mocking sound. “Compensation?” she jeered, crossing her arms. “It’s a damn phone! How much could it possibly be worth?” I held up one finger. “You’re right, it’s not worth much,” I said. “Only about a hundred million dollars.” The room erupted. First with shocked silence, then with riotous laughter. The Head of Marketing slapped the table. “A hundred million? Olivia, did that iced latte scramble your brain?” The CFO pushed his glasses up his nose, adding with mock seriousness, “Company policy states that damaged items are compensated at market value. I’m afraid your phone’s market value wouldn’t even be a rounding error, Ms. Ashford.” Seeing the room on her side again, Suzanne’s confidence returned. She stepped toward me, a vicious smirk on her face. “Tell you what, I’ll be generous and call a psychiatrist for you. Delusions of grandeur are a serious illness, you know. They need to be treated.”

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Our daughter was only four when a car crash stole her from us. On the day of the hearing, I watched in horror as my husband, Nathaniel, a star attorney at one of the country’s top law firms, stood on the other side of the aisle. He was defending her killer. I sank to my knees and begged him to fight for our daughter, to get justice for Kitty. He looked down at me, his eyes cold. “She’s gone, Brooke. She’s not coming back. Can’t you just let the living move on?” I tried to believe he was just being principled, a slave to his profession. That was until I saw him with my own eyes, holding the woman who killed our child, whispering tenderly, “Isabelle… let’s have another baby.” … Just yesterday, she was a whirlwind of giggles and bouncing curls. Now, my daughter lay still on a gurney in the emergency room, a forest of tubes and wires obscuring her tiny body. My mother was weeping beside me, but my own hands, clutching my phone, were shaking too violently for tears. The call went straight to voicemail, over and over again. Kitty’s lips moved, her voice a faint, muffled whisper. “Mommy…” I choked back a sob, forcing my voice to be steady. “It’s okay, sweetie. Just hold on. The doctors are going to fix you all up, and then you’ll see Mommy again.” But her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, slowly drifted shut, and the only reply from the other end of the line was the same cold, automated voice. “The person you are calling is unavailable. Please try again later.” Two hours later, a doctor emerged from the operating room. I launched myself at him, grabbing his shoulders, my world tilting on its axis. “Doctor, how is she? How is my daughter?” He didn’t resist, his face etched with a weary familiarity for scenes like this. He took a deep breath, his voice laced with a gentle sorrow as he uttered the words that shattered my universe. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Crane. We did everything we could.” The world spun. Images of Kitty flashed through my mind—her first steps, her toothy grin, the sound of her laughter echoing in our home. I couldn’t accept it. The vibrant, living girl from this morning was now just… a body on a cold, steel table. A dizzying roar filled my ears. Through the fog, I heard my mother’s anguished cry. “Oh, Brooke, it’s my fault! I wasn’t watching her closely enough! You have to find the driver, Brooke! You have to make them pay for what they did to my grandbaby!” A crisp, white sheet was pulled over my daughter’s face. I followed the stoic-faced medical staff as they wheeled the gurney down the long, sterile hallway toward the morgue. I was numb, a hollowed-out shell moving on autopilot, my heart a raw, bleeding wound. The silence was broken only by the squeaking wheels of the gurney, until the shrill ring of my phone cut through the quiet. It was Nathaniel. Finally. “I told you not to call me when I’m working,” he said, his voice clipped and annoyed. “I had Kitty’s birthday present sent over yesterday. I’m busy, Brooke. Stop bothering me with trivial things. And I won’t be home tonight; something’s come up.” He hung up before I could even speak. He didn’t even ask why I’d been calling him so frantically. My heart turned to stone. I opened his social media profile. Eight minutes ago, he had posted a new picture. It was taken in a sleek, private lounge. A woman in a tight, white dress was nestled against his shoulder, her head resting on him possessively. A dark mark, a hickey, was starkly visible on his neck. The caption was a single word: Finally. I knew that woman. It was Isabelle, his stepsister, his high school sweetheart, the untouchable, idealized “one that got away.” For her, Nathaniel had missed the last moments of his own daughter’s life. After making the final, horrible arrangements for Kitty, I stormed out of the hospital. The location tag on his post led me straight to them. I found them in a dimly lit corner of the bar, lost in each other. They were so engrossed that they didn’t notice me until I was standing right behind them, my shadow falling over their table. “Brooke? What the hell are you doing here?” Nathaniel’s face twisted in anger. His hand flew up, striking my cheek—a familiar, stinging motion. The pain was sharp, but for the first time, my voice was hard as steel. “Do you know what your daughter’s dying wish was? It was to see you one last time. And where were you? In here, satisfying your own selfish urges.” I expected shock, grief, maybe even guilt. But what I saw on his face was… panic. “Dead?” Isabelle blurted out, her eyes wide. “No, that’s impossible. I had someone check on her; she was only supposed to be injured.” She realized what she’d said and tried to shrink away, but it was too late. “What do you know about this?” I demanded, my intuition screaming. I lunged toward her, but Nathaniel stepped between us. “Brooke, we’re in the middle of something important. We can talk about this later.” “You knew,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “You knew something, didn’t you? Nathaniel, she was your daughter!” SLAP! His hand connected with my other cheek. “Brooke, for God’s sake, pull yourself together!” He grabbed Isabelle’s arm and dragged her away, leaving me standing there, stunned and broken. Pull myself together? My daughter was dead, and he was with her killer, telling me to be calm? He couldn’t even be bothered to say goodbye to his own child, and now he wouldn’t even help me get justice. The wait for the trial felt like an eternity. I had to have Kitty cremated first. Swallowing my grief, I clung to one last, desperate hope and called Nathaniel, praying he would at least come to see his daughter one final time. Before I could even speak, his angry voice cut through the line. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m busy during the day. My clients have life-or-death matters, and you keep distracting me!” “And what about your daughter’s life? Isn’t that a life-or-death matter? Kitty is being…” My words were cut off by a familiar female voice in the background. “Zoe, come back here. Don’t bother your daddy while he’s on the phone.” Zoe. Isabelle’s daughter. In a twisted way, I had her to thank. If Zoe hadn’t been born, Isabelle wouldn’t have been forced to go abroad and get married, and Nathaniel would never have settled for me, the girl who had worshiped him for years. “That’s enough!” Nathaniel snapped, his attention completely diverted. The line was still open as I heard him rush away from the phone. “Zoe, sweetie, don’t run off. How about Daddy takes you to the amusement park this afternoon, huh?” “Listen to your daddy,” I heard Isabelle coo. Daddy? What a joke. Your real daughter is dead, Nathaniel. She’s about to be turned to ash in a cold, lonely crematorium, and you’re here playing happy families with someone else’s child. I could almost picture the scene—the doting father I had always dreamed he would be for our Kitty. How had he treated our daughter? When Kitty was just learning to walk, he’d make her fetch his drinks. If she spilled a drop, he would scream at her, sometimes even hit her. He never once showed her an ounce of tenderness, never took her to the park. Maybe her death was a relief to him. Ten minutes before the trial began, my lawyer informed me that the defendant wanted to settle. I refused instantly. This was my child, a human life. There would be no settlement. As everyone took their seats, my heart pounded with anticipation. Today, the person who killed my daughter would finally face justice. And then I saw him. My husband, Nathaniel, walked calmly across the courtroom and took his place at the defense attorney’s table. A moment later, Isabelle strode in, dressed like a supermodel on a runway, a relaxed, almost bored expression on her face. When she saw me, a contemptuous smirk touched her lips. I shot to my feet, my chair clattering loudly behind me. In that instant, every last shred of my composure vanished. I flew at her like a wild animal, ignoring the shouts and restraining hands, tearing at her expensive clothes, my fists flying. I was going to rip that smug, fake mask off her face. “Brooke, get a hold of yourself!” Nathaniel threw himself in front of me, shielding Isabelle from my rage. “Are you insane?” I shrieked, my voice raw. “She killed your daughter! She’s the murderer, and you’re defending her?” The realization hit me like a physical blow. He had known Kitty was dead from the very beginning. He knew everything. And he was still here, using all his skill and intellect to protect her killer. My heart felt like it was being carved out of my chest with a dull knife. “If I don’t take this case, someone else will,” he said, his voice maddeningly calm. “I have to make a living, Brooke. I have to support myself.” He looked me straight in the eye. “I’m sad that Kitty is gone, but people die. They don’t come back to life. Why can’t you just let this go?” I stared at him, speechless. How could he stand there, in front of the woman who killed our child, and spout such twisted, self-serving logic? I tore myself from his grasp and slapped him across the face, just as he had done to me so many times. His eyes widened in disbelief. “Brooke… you hit me?” The courtroom descended into chaos, and the judge was forced to call a recess. “Can we talk?” Isabelle approached me, a sly, mocking smile on her face. “There’s nothing to talk about,” I snarled, my hands clenched into fists. “You can’t possibly think I would ever agree to a settlement.” She laughed, a light, carefree sound. “A settlement? Oh, honey. I don’t think I’ll be needing your signature for that.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “424988”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel