Five years. Five years of loving him, and I still hadn’t managed to get a marriage license with my fiancé. Gavin lived his life by a transaction. He called it his “Relationship Points System.” Five points bought a hug. Ten points bought a kiss. A hundred points bought a night in his bed. And a marriage license? That required one hundred thousand points. To reach that impossible number, to finally become his wife, I spent years catering to everyone in the Pierce family, swallowing my pride to earn every single point. Finally, on our fifth anniversary, I hit the milestone. One hundred thousand points. But when I found Gavin, practically vibrating with excitement, his face was like stone. “Daisy, I can’t marry you,” he said, his voice devoid of warmth. “Cynthia reached her goal before you did. I have to keep my word.” Cynthia, my best friend, stood beside him with an innocent, wide-eyed smile as she pressed a gold-embossed invitation into my hand. “Daisy, we always promised we’d be each other’s maid of honor. You have to come!” She tilted her head, looking so sweet. “I was honestly just playing along. I never expected to hit ten points so quickly.” I stood frozen, the world tilting on its axis. “Ten points? What do you mean ten points? Why…” Gavin cut me off, cold and dismissive. “Her rules were different from yours.” He said it so casually, as if he were discussing a minor change in a corporate contract. “The system doesn’t stop here, Daisy. Once you earn another hundred thousand points, I’ll divorce her and give you another chance to pursue me.” I slowly shook my head, a hollow, self-deprecating laugh slipping from my throat. “I won’t be attending the wedding,” I whispered. “Keep the hundred thousand points. Consider it my wedding gift.” … Gavin let out a soft, amused sigh, reaching out to ruffle my hair the way he always did when he thought I was being difficult. “Alright, don’t be childish,” he said. “I’ll give you a goodnight kiss tonight. No points deducted.” I flinched, stepping out of his reach. Gavin’s brow furrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. Cynthia laughed, stepping forward to slip her arm through mine in a show of cheap affection. “Oh, Daisy’s just teasing. She’d never break a promise to me. Right, Daisy?” She nudged my shoulder, her eyes sparkling with a venomous sweetness. A bitter ache blossomed in my chest. I stared at her, searching the face of the girl I thought I knew. “Right,” I whispered. All my life, I had never said no to Cynthia. She was my only friend. My lifeline. Back in middle school, when the entire class ostracized me, locking me in bathroom stalls and screaming slurs at me, Cynthia was the only one who stood in front of me. She had absorbed their blows so I wouldn’t have to. Cynthia squealed, clapping her hands. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down!” Gavin exhaled, his shoulders relaxing. He looked at me, his voice returning to that smooth, patronizing warmth. “I hate that it had to be this way, Daisy. But a man has to keep his word. You’ve always been so mature, so understanding. You’re not going to hold this against us, are you?” Before I could even swallow the lump in my throat, Gavin leaned down and pressed his lips to Cynthia’s. A single kiss. Something I had to hoard five hard-earned points to receive. And he gave it to her for free, without her even asking. The kiss deepened. His hands slid down to cup her waist, while she slid her arms around his neck, pulling herself flush against him. They melted into each other, completely forgetting I was standing right there in the entryway. My nose stung, tears blurring my vision before I forced them back. Clutching the fabric of my skirt, I turned to slip away, to find any corner where I could breathe. “Daisy!” Cynthia’s voice cut through the quiet. She peeked over Gavin’s shoulder, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly swollen. “Hey, we’re out of condoms. Do you mind running down to the drugstore to grab some?” I froze. She blinked, as if suddenly remembering something, and reached into her purse to pull out a small sticker. “Oh, silly me. I forgot. This counts as a chore, which means you get a point, right?” She stepped close and slapped the tiny sticker right onto my forehead. “There. Now can you go?” In the reflection of the full-length mirror by the door, I saw myself. My nose was red, my eyes brimming with unshed tears, and stuck firmly to my forehead was a bright red “+1” sticker. I looked pathetic. An absolute joke. A clown in my own tragedy. Gavin glanced at me, a brief shadow of guilt crossing his features. “Cynthia, let her be. I think we have some in the drawer.” Cynthia giggled, kissing his jawline and gently pushing him toward the hallway. “Go take a shower first, babe. I want to chat with Daisy for a minute.” Gavin hesitated for a fraction of a second, then turned and walked toward the bedroom. Cynthia dragged my numb body over to the sofa. She pulled up her iPad, tapping open a gallery of wedding dresses. “Daisy, you have the best taste. Help me choose a dress.” She pointed to a stunning, low-backed silk gown. “What do you think of this one?” I stared at the screen. It was a Vera Wang. My favorite designer. Every time we went window shopping, I would drag her to the boutique display and whisper, “Cynthia, one day I’m going to wear a Vera Wang when I marry Gavin. And you’re going to be my maid of honor.” Back then, she would roll her eyes and laugh at how naive I was. “I don’t know what kind of spell Gavin has you under to make you agree to that ridiculous points system.” Cynthia’s voice shattered the memory, dripping with casual arrogance. “Oh, actually, I forgot to mention—I’m pregnant. So this fitted style probably won’t work.” My blood ran cold. I stared at her, my skin turning paper-white. “Why?” I choked out. Cynthia let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh, sweet Daisy. What do you mean ‘why’? We didn’t use protection, so I got pregnant. It’s basic biology.” She traced a finger slowly over her bottom lip. “Actually, the first time Gavin and I did it… was right here. On this very spot where you’re sitting.” My entire body locked up. “Remember that day you asked why I was limping, and I told you I tripped?” Cynthia smiled, leaning closer. “It wasn’t a fall. Gavin was just so rough with me that my legs gave out. I could barely stand.” Watching her lips move, hearing the words spill from her mouth, a wave of violent, bone-deep nausea hit me. I violently pushed her away, stumbled blindly into the bathroom, and collapsed over the toilet, retching until my throat burned. I splashed freezing water over my face and looked up. The mirror reflected a ghost—pale, hollow-eyed, trembling. Memories crashed over me in a suffocating wave. I remembered that day. I had noticed her limping and spent the entire afternoon brewing a bone broth to help her heal, thinking she had hurt herself. When Gavin saw what I did, he had smiled and credited my account with a hundred points. He had stroked my hair so gently. “You’re such a good girl, Daisy.” I had practically leaped for joy. A hundred points! It brought me so much closer to being his wife. I had blushed like an idiot, teasing him: “Are you just giving me points because you can’t wait to marry me, Gavin?” What I hadn’t seen—what I had been too blind to notice—was the knowing, mocking look he and Cynthia had exchanged right over my head. Cynthia sauntered into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe as she watched me struggle to breathe. “You okay, Daisy?” I wiped my mouth, turning to look her dead in the eye. “Why, Cynthia? Why are you doing this to me?” She blinked, and then she giggled. “Oh, Daisy. Because I wanted him.” She tilted her head, her expression a horrific blend of innocence and malice. “Think about it. Since we were kids, whenever I wanted something of yours, you always just gave it to me, didn’t you? Your dolls, your stationery set, that vintage dress you loved… why should this be any different? Are you suddenly getting greedy?” Tears finally broke through, scalding my cheeks. “Gavin isn’t a doll, Cynthia! He’s a human being! He’s not something you can just take!” My voice cracked, raw with agony. “I loved him. I loved him for five years!” I had built my entire existence around him. For five years, I counted every single point, dreaming of the day we’d finally stand at the altar. I treasured every hug, treated every kiss like a rare, precious gift. To me, Gavin was everything. After my parents died, he became my protector, my family, the anchor that filled the hollow ache in my chest. When I was sick, he would cancel multi-million dollar board meetings just to sit by my bedside. Once, when a sleazy investor tried to force me to drink with him, Gavin had thrown the wine right in the man’s face, pulling me out of the room by my wrist. “I swear to God, Daisy,” he had said, his eyes blazing, “I will never let anyone make you feel small again.” I believed him. I believed he was the one person in this world who would never break me. Cynthia sighed, a flicker of boredom crossing her face. “Daisy, you always say you love Gavin, and you love me. The two people you love most are together now. Shouldn’t you be happy for us?” The sheer absurdity of her words shattered something inside me. With a raw scream, I swept my arm across the vanity, sending the glass perfume bottles and jars crashing to the tile floor. “No, I am not happy!” I shrieked. Cynthia flinched, stepping back in genuine shock. Tears blinded me as I stood there, ignoring the sharp pain of glass slicing into my palm. Warm, dark blood began to drip from my fingertips, staining the pristine white tiles. Hearing the crash, Gavin rushed in, a silk robe thrown hastily over his shoulders. He froze when he saw the blood. “Daisy! What happened?” He stepped forward, reaching out to grab my wrist to inspect the cut. I violently twisted away. My eyes caught the faint, red scratch marks on his exposed collarbone, and my chest felt like it was imploding. “How much does this concern cost, Gavin?” I choked out, my voice trembling violently as I cradled my bleeding hand. “How many points do I have to pay to get you to care? Can I even afford it anymore?” Gavin’s face darkened, the concern instantly hardening into defensiveness. “Are you seriously blaming me for this, Daisy?” He let out a heavy, frustrated sigh, his tone shifting to that familiar blend of exhaustion and disappointment. “You have no idea how badly I wanted to marry you.” “Why couldn’t you have just worked a little harder? If you had, you would have won!” He rubbed his temples, pacing the small bathroom. “The points system was the only way I could protect you, the only way I could justify marrying you to my family! You didn’t push hard enough.” He stepped closer, his voice rising. “Did you ever stop to think about the pressure I was under? Do you think the board at Pierce Enterprises would ever let me marry an orphan with absolutely no family background or status? You’re being incredibly selfish, Daisy!” “Besides, Cynthia is your best friend. If she and I are married, the three of us can be together forever. Isn’t that the perfect solution?” I stared at him, my entire body shaking with a profound, terrifying disgust. “Do you even hear yourself, Gavin?” my voice was barely a whisper. “You want me to be your dirty little secret? Your mistress? A pet that you and your wife share?” A flash of shame flickered in his eyes, but he quickly covered it with anger. “Don’t make it sound so cheap!” he snapped. “I told you, once you earn another hundred thousand points, we’ll have our chance again!” I looked at him, truly looked at him, and realized I was staring at a stranger. “You are a monster, Gavin,” I spat, the words tasting like poison. “Move. Get out of my way. I’m going home.” Gavin let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Home? What home, Daisy?” Behind him, Cynthia let out a soft, mocking snicker. She stepped up, pretending to soothe me as she laid a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Daisy, stop making a scene. Gavin is right. Ever since your parents died, you lived with my family. And after graduation, you moved straight in here. Where else would you go? You don’t have a home of your own.” The memories of the crash hit me like a physical blow. The smell of burning rubber, the screech of metal, my parents using their own bodies to shield me as the car crumpled around us. Don’t be scared, sweetie. Mommy and Daddy are right here… I had watched their blood pool around my feet, unable to move, unable to save them. A second later, the tank blew, and the world dissolved into a roaring furnace of orange flame. Since that day, the concept of “home” had been an empty word. It was Cynthia who had held my hand at the funeral, Cynthia who had brought me into her house and whispered, “I’m your family now, Daisy. I’m never leaving you.” I collapsed onto the cold bathroom floor, curling into myself as the panic attack clawed at my chest. I couldn’t breathe. The air in my lungs felt like fire. Gavin watched me sink, and for a fleeting second, genuine worry flickered in his eyes. But Cynthia gently caught his arm, her voice light and dismissive. “Don’t fall for it, Gavin. She always plays the victim when she doesn’t get her way. She’s been doing this since we were kids to make me look bad. I’m sick of her little performances.” Gavin stopped. He looked down at me, his expression hardening back into that cold, detached mask. “Get yourself under control,” he said quietly. He took Cynthia’s hand and began walking back toward the bedroom, throwing one last sentence over his shoulder. “You’re not a child anymore, Daisy. Crying and throwing tantrums won’t solve anything.” I lay curled on the floor, the silent tears burning my eyes. I lost track of time. Minutes or hours could have passed before the silence of the apartment was punctured by a sound that made my stomach turn. From the master bedroom, muffled but entirely clear, came the soft, rhythmic groans of their intimacy. Gavin gasped out a low warning. “Shh… Daisy is still out there. She’ll hear us.” Cynthia’s laughter was loud, breathless, and utterly unbothered. “So what? Doesn’t that make it more exciting?” My eyes burned crimson. I staggered to my feet and rushed toward the front door, desperate to escape. But the deadbolt was engaged. I grabbed the brass handle, twisting and pulling with all my strength, but it wouldn’t budge. They had locked me in. Behind me, the sounds continued, a dull, rusted knife sawing slowly through my chest. Cynthia’s breathless gasps turned into sharp, needy whimpers, met by Gavin’s low, heavy grunts. I slid down against the locked door, pressing my palms against my ears until they hurt. But the noise still seeped through my fingers, sharp as needles, piercing my eardrums and carving directly into my heart until there was nothing left of me but blood. Finally, the bedroom door clicked open. Without the wall to support me, I slumped onto the hardwood floor. Cynthia stood above me, wearing one of Gavin’s crisp white button-downs. The collar was askew, doing nothing to hide the dark purple bruises blooming across her collarbone. She looked down at me, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. “Enjoy the show?” I was entirely hollowed out, my voice a broken rasp. “Why, Cynthia? We were supposed to be best friends. When those kids bullied me in high school, you fought them off. You told everyone that no one was allowed to touch me…” Cynthia let out a soft, mocking laugh, cutting me off. “That was a lie, Daisy.” She knelt down to meet my eyes. “They bullied you because I told them you were a thief. I set the whole thing up.” My chest seized. I stared at her, unable to process the words. “And… and the night I had that terrible fever, and you climbed down the fire escape from the second-floor dorm just to get me medicine?” “Also a setup,” she said smoothly. “You got sick because I had been pouring expired milk into your coffee for a week.” Tears dripped silently onto my lap. “The time those thugs cornered me in the alley, and you took a blow to the shoulder protecting me…” “Fake, fake, all of it!” Cynthia snapped, her eyes flashing with a mix of boredom and triumph. “Honestly, Daisy, how are you this gullible? The night you got locked in the gym equipment room? My idea. The girls who slapped you in the locker room? I paid them. You thought I was your savior, popping up at the perfect moment? No, I was standing just around the corner, watching you cry. Once you were broken enough, I’d step in so you’d worship me.” A single, heavy tear fell, my throat so tight it felt like it was filled with ash. “And when my parents died… when you brought me into your home, when we lived as sisters for ten years… was that all a lie too?” Cynthia’s gaze flickered, a complex shadow crossing her face before she quickly suppressed it. “No, that part was real,” she whispered. She paused, her voice dropping into a cold, venomous register. “But the car crash… I was the one who tampered with the brakes.” The room went completely silent. My mind went entirely blank, as if my consciousness had been violently ripped from my body. Cynthia continued, her voice light, as if she were reminiscing about a childhood game. “Did you know we’re actually half-sisters? Your perfect father abandoned my mother and me so he could marry yours and build that beautiful, happy family of yours. Why did you get to have the white picket fence while I was stuck in a cramped apartment, getting mocked for not having a dad? I didn’t think it was fair. But I knew the tables would turn eventually.” “So when my mom finally married a wealthy venture capitalist from Chicago, I had the resources to learn a few things. Like how to cut a brake line so it looked like normal wear and tear.” She stared straight at me, a horrific, satisfied smile stretching across her face. “Honestly, I was just shocked you survived the crash.” A violent wave of grief and fury exploded in my chest, hot and blinding. I didn’t know where the strength came from, but I surged upward and slammed my palm across her face. “You monster!” I screamed. “How could you? How could you do that to them?” The force of the slap sent Cynthia stumbling backward, a bright red mark instantly blooming across her pale cheek. Gavin stepped out of the bedroom just in time to see her fall. With a roar, he rushed forward and shoved me backward, pulling Cynthia protectively into his chest. “Are you out of your mind, Daisy? She’s pregnant!” The force of his shove sent me flying back. My lower back slammed violently against the low windowsill, a sharp, white-hot pain shooting up my spine that made me gasp for air. Gavin cradled Cynthia, his hands cupping her face as his eyes scanned her for injuries. “Are you okay? Does your stomach hurt? Talk to me.” Cynthia whimpered, burying her face in his neck, but over his shoulder, she locked eyes with me. And she smiled. A small, victorious smirk. The pain in my back pulsed in heavy waves, but it was nothing compared to the slow, agonizing death of my soul. I looked at the two of them. And I realized my entire life had been nothing but a punchline. “The worst thing I ever did,” I whispered, the words barely leaving my lips, “was letting either of you into my life.” I turned away from them, looking out the open window into the dark, silent city below. I remembered a night years ago. A younger Gavin had stood beneath my balcony, his arms spread wide, calling up to me with a brilliant, boyish grin: “Daisy, I’m going to build us a home. I promise.” That was the first time in my life I had believed someone would actually catch me if I fell. I let out a soft, beautiful laugh. I placed my bleeding hands on the windowsill, climbed up, and leaped. The wind roared in my ears, the hard concrete of the driveway rushing up to meet me. Far behind me, echoing from the window I had just left, came Gavin’s desperate, shredded scream: “Daisy, no!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “465198”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the morning of what should have been my golden wedding anniversary, I accidentally connected to a video call with myself from fifty years ago. The girl on the screen was in a bridal boutique, slipping into a lace gown, getting ready to marry Kelvin Holloway. My voice broke as I screamed at the screen: “Don’t marry him! Take off that dress. If you put it on, you’ll be a widow for fifty years.” “On your first morning as his wife, he’ll fake his own death and flee the country with his pristine, untouchable ideal—his first love, Mandy Olivia.” “Three months in, he’ll have his mother drug your food to make sure you lose your babies. It’s a pair of twins.” “Six months in, Mom and Dad will track him down overseas. To protect Mandy, he’ll let them die in a staged car crash.” “And today—the day of our golden anniversary—the news will broadcast that Kelvin has returned to the country as an esteemed research professor, with Mandy on his arm, basking in his glory. And he will cast you aside like a worn-out maid, after you spent fifty years caring for his paralyzed parents and raising his younger brother.” “I have swallowed this bitter pill of a life for fifty years. I am done.” I screamed at my phone again: “You stupid girl, Cathy! Every single piece of misery in your life starts the second you say I do to Kelvin.” From the screen, my own youthful, untouched voice filtered through: “Excuse me, ma’am… did Kelvin hire you to test my loyalty?” 1 The girl on the screen was only twenty-two. Her skin was flawless, radiant with youth—free of the deep-set wrinkles of labor, free of the jagged scar Kelvin’s younger brother would one day carve across her cheek. Her eyes were bright, reflecting a pure, unruined love. She saw nothing in this world but Kelvin. A girl like that shouldn’t have to suffer for fifty years. If I could rewrite the ending, I had to stop her from marrying him. “I’m not a test,” I said, my voice raspy, holding back a sob. “Cathy, I am you. Fifty years from now.” Naturally, my twenty-two-year-old self didn’t believe me. I desperately held up my right hand to the camera. It only had four fingers. “When Kelvin wanted to flee the country with Mandy, he took out loans from dangerous people. When they came collecting and couldn’t find him, they took my ring finger.” I lifted my faded shirt, exposing the thick, puckered scar on my side. “Kelvin’s little brother needed a kidney. His family starved and beat me until I agreed to donate mine.” I pulled out my old medical records, the yellowed pages clearly detailing a forced miscarriage—twins. “This is what Kelvin’s love looks like.” The young Cathy looked bewildered, a flicker of pity crossing her eyes. “Ma’am, I think you have the wrong number. If you’re in danger, I can call the police for you.” At seventy, I was nearly driven mad by the sheer innocence of my twenty-year-old self. “Do you see this psych-ward commitment slip?” I hissed, holding it up. “Kelvin is having me committed today so he and Mandy can finally live openly. If you marry him, this is where you end up. You won’t even get to retire in peace with your best friend, sipping cocktails and laughing at bad reality TV.” Perhaps it was that last, absurd detail that caught her attention. Her posture shifted. “Ma’am,” she said slowly, “if you really are me from the future… can you show me your ID? Or your marriage certificate with Kelvin?” I was always so careful, so cautious about everything—except when it came to Kelvin. I believed every lie he ever told, and it ruined me. I froze. The screen was silent save for her breathing. “If you can show me an ID to prove you are Cathy,” she prompted, “I’ll believe you.” The phone burned against my palm. After a long pause, I whispered, “I can’t.” I had no proof. Right after our wedding, Kelvin claimed he wanted us to belong to each other forever. He tore up our marriage license right in front of me, whispering that this meant nothing but death could ever part us. He confiscated my ID, my social security card, my passport. For fifty years, as the world moved online and grew modern, I lived as a ghost. A non-person. 2 Without papers, I couldn’t get a real job. I couldn’t even sign up to do food delivery. I had to take off-the-books work—scrubbing greasy dishes in back alleys, doing hard labor in illegal sweatshops. My body gave out piece by piece. Now that I was old, I couldn’t even afford a two-dollar bottle of generic painkillers. Every night had been a battle of endurance in the dark. Suddenly, a male voice cut through the video. It was Kelvin at twenty-five. He walked into the frame wearing a tailored suit, his eyes swimming with a deep, tender devotion that the young Cathy simply could not resist. Panic flared in my chest. “Mandy is in the bridal shop right now!” I yelled. “Search the dressing rooms. One by one. You’ll find her!” The moment the words left my mouth, the screen went black. The call was still connected, but the camera was covered; only muffled, chaotic background noise filtered through. I remembered that day so clearly. We were supposed to go to a local boutique run by a college friend, but Kelvin changed the venue at the last minute. He claimed his client owned a high-end, bespoke bridal salon, and he insisted I deserved the most expensive, hand-stitched gown in the world because nothing else was worthy of me. I didn’t know the dress had been custom-made for Mandy. I didn’t know that while I was trying on gowns, Kelvin and Mandy were tangled together in a back dressing room. He only confessed it to me today, upon his return. I clutched the phone, pressing it to my ear, trying to make out the noises over the static, but there was nothing. A heavy, suffocating defeat washed over me. Is this really how my life had to end? A knock rattled the bedroom door. Kelvin, now an old man, stood in the doorway. He threw a cheap, oversized plastic woven bag at my feet. “You’ve played the role of Mrs. Holloway long enough,” he said, his voice devoid of warmth. “It’s time to give the house back to Mandy. She has waited for me for fifty years.” Beside him stood Mandy. She was draped in an elegant, silk cheongsam, her posture graceful. Even in her seventies, she looked remarkably preserved, her skin smooth and her hair dyed a soft silver. Wealth keeps a person young. But the wealth that sustained her all these years was drained directly from my veins. When I didn’t answer, Kelvin grew impatient. “My parents are gone,” he said coldly. “You have no purpose left in this house.” He was right. His parents spent their last ten years bedridden and paralyzed. I was the one who bathed them, turned them, and fed them spoon by spoon. The doctors had given up on them, but I kept them alive, giving them one more day, one more afternoon in the sun. In Kelvin’s eyes, my only worth was that of an unpaid, glorified nurse. But I had no strength left to fight him. The phone vibrated in my pocket. I closed my eyes, taking a long, shaky breath. “Give me one day,” I said quietly. “Just twenty-four hours, and I will pack my things and go.” Kelvin nodded curtly, taking Mandy’s hand as they turned away. I pulled the phone out. The call was still active. The young Cathy was standing right outside a row of dressing rooms. “Are you saying…” her voice was hushed, trembling with a fragile innocence. “Kelvin and Mandy are in there? Right now?” “Yes,” I whispered. If she believed me just this once, everything would change. “Okay,” she whispered back. “I’ll trust you this one time.” She reached for the brass handle of the fitting room door, her fingers shaking. If I were right, how would she survive the truth? But before she could turn the knob, a bridal consultant pushed the door open from the inside. “Miss Wen, are you ready to try on the next gown?” The door swung wide, exposing the room to the bright showroom lights. 3 Time seemed to freeze. I held my breath, staring at the screen. The room was empty. No Kelvin. No Mandy. No secret, breathless affair. It was completely empty. On the screen, I heard my younger self let out a long, relieved sigh. “See, ma’am?” she said, her tone light and airy again. “My Kelvin would never do that. I don’t know how you know Mandy, but she’s my senior from college. She’s been so good to me. When those thugs cornered me last year, she was the one who stood up to protect me. Please don’t say these things about them. It makes me angry.” A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my chest. “Did you ever stop to think that those thugs were hired by her? That the whole thing was a setup to make you trust her?” The young Cathy frowned deeply. Because my first warning failed, she was convinced I was just a delusional old woman. “Ma’am, if you keep talking like this, I’m going to hang up.” In that moment, I finally understood why my best friend, Lucy, used to say she wanted to shake some sense into my younger self. I wanted to reach through the screen and shake her too. How could I have been so incredibly blind? “Don’t hang up,” I pleaded, my voice cracking. “Please. Just keep me company for a little while. As long as you don’t hang up, you can do whatever you want. Just let me stay on the line.” Maybe I looked too pathetic, or maybe the sheer misery in my eyes touched her. She didn’t disconnect. After trying on the dress, she accompanied Kelvin to the county registrar’s office. During the drive, through the shaky camera angle, I caught a glimpse of Mandy slipping out of the bridal shop’s back exit. So that was it. They hadn’t been caught because they used the service door. At the registrar’s office, Kelvin held her hands, his face a portrait of solemn devotion. “I swear, Cathy, I will buy you a beautiful home one day. No one will ever say I’m just living off my wife’s family.” “And thank you, my beautiful girl, for letting me put my name on the deed.” The house was bought entirely by my parents, paid in full. When Kelvin faked his death, he sold it overnight, pocketing the cash along with the high-interest loans before vanishing into thin air. I wanted to scream at her to stop, but they were already sitting in front of the clerk. The clerk’s voice was monotone: “If you both could just sign here to finalize the deed transfer…” “Thank you,” Kelvin smiled. I made frantic, desperate noises through the phone. Finally, the young Cathy stood up, walking over to a quiet corner of the lobby to look at the screen. “Ma’am, what lies are you going to tell me about Kelvin now?” In the background, I could see Kelvin sitting on the bench, his fingers flying across his phone screen. He was texting Mandy. I knew the rhythm of his thumbs. “Check his phone,” I said urgently. “He’s already booked two plane tickets to London for next week—one for him, and one for Mandy. And check his bank statements. He’s already taken out three million dollars in loans using your name as a co-signer.” “Ma’am, Kelvin and I aren’t even legally married yet. How could he use my name for a loan?” Kelvin’s voice called out from across the lobby, impatient. “Cathy? I’m all done. Just waiting on you.” “Coming!” she called back. I wanted to reach through the pixels and grab her shoulders. “Don’t sign! Just check his phone first. I am begging you.” “If I check and find nothing, I swear I will never bother you again.” She hesitated, looking at the phone, then looking back at Kelvin, who offered her a warm, perfect smile. “Fine,” she whispered. “One last time.” She walked back over to him. “Kelvin,” she said, trying to sound casual. “Give me your phone. I want to check your messages.” 4 She was so transparent, so painfully naive. Not a single defensive bone in her body, not a single drop of cunning. No wonder Kelvin played me like a fool for fifty years. A blank sheet of paper stands no chance against a charcoal heart. Kelvin was visibly taken aback, but he recovered quickly, pulling the phone from his pocket. “The password is your birthday, sweetheart. Look through whatever you want. Call history, search engine, anything.” Even now, his charm was effortless, defusing the tension with a light laugh. My younger self giggled. “I knew you were the best.” She glanced at the screen, a triumphant look in her eyes, as if to prove to me that her Kelvin was no villain. The search took less than ten minutes. Texts, emails, search history, banking apps—she went through them all, and found absolutely nothing. It was a masterclass in erasing tracks. Cathy wrapped her arm around his, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.” “Let’s go sign.” My heart dropped into a cold, dark abyss. Even with a lifeline to the past, was I still powerless to change my fate? Was Kelvin simply too clever to beat? True to my word, I didn’t say another word. But she didn’t hang up either. Perhaps out of pity. Time on her side of the screen seemed to warp, moving faster than my slow, agonizing day in this locked room. The next time I looked at my screen, it was her wedding day. She was radiant, a picture-perfect bride in white lace. My parents were there. They looked at her with tears in their eyes, and my own eyes welled up with tears of grief. My beautiful, loving parents, whom I condemned to a horrific death. I cared for Kelvin’s parents for fifty years, but I was never even able to bury my own. It all started with this wedding. This was my last chance. I could not give up now. But before I could speak, the door to my room was pushed open. Kelvin, now an old man, stepped inside. The fake warmth was entirely gone from his face, replaced by a cold, calculating sneer. “The reporters are downstairs,” he said coldly. “You’re going to tell them that you forced me to marry you, that you stole my birth certificate and threatened suicide to lock me down. Do this, and I’ll give you enough money to rot in a decent nursing home. Otherwise…” I have spent my whole life being a coward. I won’t bend my knee to him again. Seeing my silence, his tone softened into a manipulative plea. “If you don’t say this, Mandy will be branded a homewrecker. Have you forgotten that she saved you from being assaulted in college? You should show some gratitude, Cathy.” Mandy was innocent, and I was the villain? What a sick joke. “No,” I said. On my phone screen, the wedding was over. The young Cathy’s phone rang. It was the police. “Is this Cathy Wen? Your husband has been involved in a fatal car crash. We need you to come identify the body and sign the cremation papers.” I screamed at the screen: “He’s not dead! It’s a trick! Take his body to the crematorium on the east side, not the west side—” Before I could finish, the old Kelvin wrenched the phone from my hand, his face contorted in rage. “You’re insane,” he spat. “Out of your mind.” I don’t know if the young Cathy heard me. Because minutes later, the orderly arrived to drag me to the waiting ambulance bound for the asylum. 5 At the county morgue on the west side of town. Cathy held her breath. A week ago, she received a bizarre video call from an old, scarred woman claiming to be her from fifty years in the future. The woman had warned her that Kelvin’s death would be a hoax—a grand performance staged so he could escape to Europe with Mandy, leaving Cathy to slave away for his family for the rest of her life. She hadn’t believed it. The previous warnings had yielded nothing. But now, she stood before a sheet-draped body. The cold fabric covered the man she loved more than life itself. Kelvin’s parents were weeping on the floor. The old woman on the phone had also mentioned a younger brother, but Kelvin was an only child. How could he have a brother? Kelvin’s mother clutched Cathy’s hand, her face wet with tears. “Our family owes you so much, Cathy. My boy is gone…” “I have no son left.” “You’re all I have now. You wouldn’t leave us to rot alone, would you?” Cathy pulled her hand away slowly, staring at the white sheet. What if the old woman was right? “I want to see him one last time,” Cathy said. Kelvin’s father immediately stepped forward, blocking her path. The grief on his face flickered into sharp defensiveness. “The coroner said the injuries are severe. It’s too graphic, Cathy. You shouldn’t see him like this.” “Is that so?” His mother chimed in, grabbing her arm again. “Yes, sweetheart. Don’t look. Let him go in peace. We should cremate him quickly so his soul can move on.” Their urgency sends a chill down Cathy’s spine. If their only son had just died, wouldn’t they be clinging to his body? Why were they so eager to turn him to ash? “I need to see him,” Cathy said, her voice steadying. “I can handle it. He was my husband. I don’t care what he looks like.” She sidesteps Kelvin’s father and reached for the edge of the sheet. The room grew dead silent. Every eye in the room was pinned on her hand. She pulled the sheet back. Underneath was indeed Kelvin’s face. There were deep lacerations, dried blood, and bruising across his skin. His arms and legs were covered in horrific, raw cuts. His mother let out a loud, wailing sob. “My boy! Why did it have to be my boy?” As she cried, she shot a tense, furtive glance toward her husband. The father stepped in to pull the sheet back up. “That’s enough, Cathy. Let him rest.” “Wait,” Cathy said.

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At our girls’ night out, the conversation inevitably turned into a playful game of “spouse check-in” to see whose husband was the most generous. One by one, the girls FaceTime-called their partners, casually asking for digital cash or online shopping treats. Naturally, it became an exhibition of domestic bliss, everyone showing off how adored they were. Miranda suddenly turned her gaze to me, her eyes reflecting the dim restaurant light. “Do you think men lose their minds when they suddenly come into real money? Like, do they just forget where they came from?” I thought about the last three years—all those brutal, exhausting nights I’d spent helping Troy build his startup from nothing. I gave her a confident, easy smile. “Not Troy. The company is still in its infancy, barely turning a profit. He doesn’t even have the money to lose his mind with.” The table shared a knowing silence, letting the topic drop, but everyone’s eyes drifted back to Miranda. We all knew she’d recently started dating some wealthy business mogul who drove a sleek Mercedes, though none of us had actually met him yet. “Come on, Miranda,” Katie teased, nudging her shoulder. “Get your mystery millionaire to send over some champagne money!” Miranda’s smile faltered, a shadow of hesitation crossing her face. “He’s pulling an all-nighter at the office. It’s really not a good time.” A slight, awkward tension settled over the table. I was just about to open my mouth to bail her out when my phone buzzed on the dark wood. It was a text from Troy: Hey babe, caught in a late-night sprint at the office. Won’t make it home tonight. Love you. After the dinner wrapped up, I decided to take a detour to a late-night food truck market to pick up his favorite greasy comfort food—a little peace offering of hot, spicy street noodles for his long night. But as I rounded the corner near the downtown district, my heart stopped. I saw Troy step out of a brand-new Mercedes. He didn’t just greet Miranda; he pulled her tightly against his chest, his fingers digging into her waist, before guiding her toward the revolving doors of the five-star hotel across the street. … “Hey, babe. Are you still at the office?” I stood on the damp pavement opposite the hotel, my eyes locked on the polished brass frame of the revolving doors. “Yeah, sweetheart. Still chained to the desk,” Troy’s voice crackled through the receiver, heavy with a practiced, weary sigh. The early autumn breeze carried a sharp, biting chill. I looked down at the flimsy plastic bag in my hand. Inside was a container of hot, spicy street noodles. I’d stood in line for thirty minutes in the wind just to get it. “Have you eaten yet?” I asked, keeping my voice level. “Just choked down some instant ramen,” he sighed, the apology in his tone sounding incredibly genuine. “This new product launch is eating us alive. I’m sorry, babe. Don’t wait up for me. Get some sleep.” I kept my eyes on the other side of the street. Troy was whispering something into Miranda’s ear, his hand sliding down to cup her hip. Suddenly, her heel slipped on the curb. Troy reacted instantly, catching her and kneeling down on the pavement to gently massage her ankle. The tenderness, the easy familiarity of the gesture—it was a choreography we had shared a thousand times. They looked like a perfect, happy couple. “I drove past the Financial District earlier,” I said, my tone conversational, almost breezy. “I saw a Mercedes that looked exactly like the one you’ve been obsessing over.” On the other end, there was a microscopic pause. The sound of his breathing faltered for a fraction of a second. “Really? Must’ve been a coincidence,” Troy chuckled, his voice recovering its smooth, steady cadence. “I wish I could afford a machine like that. Let’s wait until the company’s margins double next year. First thing I’m doing is buying you a decent SUV so you don’t have to freeze on the subway during the winter.” “That sounds nice,” I said. “Since when do you do surprise check-ins?” His voice softened, taking on that low, intimate warmth he used to soothe me. “Are you feeling lonely at home? Hang in there, okay? Once this launch wraps up next week, it’s our anniversary. I’ll book us a trip to Maui. Just you, me, and the ocean.” “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my knuckles turning white around my phone. “Everything okay? You sound a little off.” “I’m fine.” I watched him scoop Miranda up into his arms, carrying her easily over the threshold of the lobby. “Alright, babe, my partner’s waving me over to go over some ledgers. I love you.” “Yeah.” The line went dead, leaving only the cold drone of the dial tone. I stood beneath the yellow hum of the streetlamp, watching the steam slowly vanish from the plastic bag. Condensation gathered inside the container, mixing with the red chili oil that slowly leaked through the seam of the paper bowl, staining my fingers. I remembered three years ago, when Troy first quit his stable job to build his dream. We lived in a cramped, drafty studio apartment, counting pennies just to order a cheap pizza. He would stay up until dawn writing code, and I would walk down to the nearest late-night cart to buy him a hot plate of cheap street noodles with extra eggs. He always refused to eat the best pieces, insisting on feeding the first bite to me. Rachel, he used to say, his eyes bright with ambition, once I make it, I swear to God you will never have to scrape by again. And I had believed him. I emptied my entire savings account—fifty thousand dollars left to me by my grandmother—to keep his fledgling company afloat when the first dry spell hit. I ate instant noodles with him, squeezed onto packed buses, and swallowed my pride at dinners to smile at obnoxious investors. Now, he had made it. He was driving a Mercedes, checking into five-star hotels, with my best friend curled against his chest. My phone buzzed again. It was a notification from our group chat. Miranda had posted a photo. It showed two glasses of Pinot Noir catching the soft light, set against a massive floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the glittering city skyline. Her caption read: He said the best views are only meant for the person you love most. Instantly, the other girls in the chat started flooding the thread. Oh my god, the mystery man finally took you out! That hotel looks incredibly expensive. You’re a lucky girl, Miranda! I tapped the photo and pinched to zoom. In the curved reflection of the crystal wine glass, I could clearly see the distinctive pattern of the designer shirt Troy was wearing. It was the birthday gift I’d bought him last month, spending my entire quarterly bonus. I didn’t reply to the group. I didn’t storm across the street to make a scene in the lobby. I walked over to the nearest trash can, opened my hand, and let the plastic bag drop. It landed with a heavy, wet thud. The warm noodles, along with every ounce of my hope and sacrifice over the past three years, sank into the garbage. The next morning, when Troy quietly slipped through the front door, I was sitting at the kitchen island, slowly sipping cold water. He carried the faint, crisp scent of high-end hotel soap—that expensive cedar and amber blend. “Morning, babe,” he murmured, tossing his keys onto the entryway table and setting a white paper bag onto the counter. “Brought you some breakfast.” He stepped closer, leaning in to press a kiss to my forehead. I tilted my head slightly, letting his lips miss my skin. He froze, his hand hovering near my shoulder for a fraction of a second before he pulled back, smooth as ever. He pulled out a barstool and sat down opposite me. “What’s wrong? Didn’t sleep well?” He loosened his tie, his voice dripping with gentle concern. “Just a bit of insomnia,” I replied, my eyes dropping to his hands. Those were the same hands that used to hold mine in the freezing winter, warming my fingers inside his coat pockets. “I keep telling you to stop late-night scrolling,” he said with a soft, affectionate laugh. He reached into the pastry bag and slid a clear plastic container toward me. “I stopped by that artisan bakery down the street. Got you the matcha crepe cake you’ve been craving.” I stared at the green, layered cake behind the plastic. I don’t eat matcha. I have a mild but painful allergy to one of the raw powder additives; it gives me terrible stomach cramps within an hour. Troy knew this. Years ago, during our first year of dating, he’d accidentally ordered a matcha latte for me, and I spent half the night in agony. Since then, he’d always been hyper-vigilant, questioning baristas and bakers about ingredients before buying me anything. But Miranda loved matcha. Her social media was practically a shrine to green tea pastries, which she called “the color of a healed soul.” “Not hungry?” Troy asked, his brow furrowing slightly when I didn’t open the box. “My stomach’s a bit upset,” I said, sliding the container back toward his side of the counter. “Your stomach again?” He instantly reached out to touch my forehead, his fingers cool. “Did you eat some of that greasy takeout again? I’ve told you a hundred times, those late-night trucks aren’t clean, Rachel. You never listen.” His tone was scolding, but his eyes swam with genuine worry. This specific brand of protective affection had once been the bedrock of my entire life. I looked at his handsome, familiar face, feeling a profound sense of vertigo. How could someone shatter a marriage so completely, yet still slip back into the skin of a loving husband without missing a beat? “Troy,” I said. “Yeah, babe?” He was already looking down at his phone, his thumb tapping out a rapid-fire text. “Were you really pulling an all-nighter at the office last night?” His thumb froze over the glass screen. The silence in the kitchen stretched, punctuated only by the soft click of the wall clock. He slowly raised his head, a flicker of panic darting through his eyes before a warm, easy smile smoothed it away. “Of course I was,” he said, setting his phone face down. He reached across and wrapped his hand around my wrist, his thumb gently tracing the pulse point there. “Where else would I be? Babe, have you been stressed out lately? You’re starting to get in your own head again.” Again. He loved that word. In his mind, I was always the insecure, fragile woman prone to irrational paranoia, while he was the long-suffering, saintly husband who constantly had to reassure me. “Maybe you’re right,” I said, quietly sliding my arm out of his grasp. “Don’t overthink things.” He picked his phone back up and stood, heading toward the hallway bathroom. “We’re in the middle of securing a major investment round. Once that wire clears, we’re house-hunting. You’ve always wanted that walk-in closet with the floor-to-ceiling windows, right? I’m going to make sure you get it.” He was always so generous with his promises when his conscience pinched him. It was his favorite trick—dangling a shiny future to keep me quiet in the present. He was utterly convinced I would never leave him, certain that a few sweet words would keep me working, sacrificing, and waiting just like I had for the last three years. “Oh, by the way,” he stopped at the bathroom door, looking back over his shoulder. “Did Miranda post more of her dramatic nonsense in your group chat last night?” His brow furrowed with a touch of distaste. “Honestly, Rachel, you should distance yourself from her. She’s incredibly materialistic—the kind of person who’d do anything for a quick buck. You’re too sweet and trusting to be hanging around someone like that.” I watched the bathroom door click shut. A second later, the sound of rushing water filled the hall, and a wave of pure nausea hit me. The sheer, shameless hypocrisy of it—contemptuously dismissing the very woman he’d held in his arms just hours prior. I walked over to the entryway and picked up his leather briefcase from the shoe rack. I unzipped the main compartment and sifted through the folders. Tucked deep into a zippered inner pocket, my fingers brushed against a folded piece of paper: a copy of a vehicle purchase agreement. The buyer listed on the title was Troy’s cousin. But the routing and account numbers used for the thirty-thousand-dollar down payment belonged to Troy’s personal bank account—the one where we kept our joint mortgage savings, along with his startup’s latest client payout. I pulled out my phone, snapped three clean, high-resolution photos of the document, and slipped it back exactly where I found it. That afternoon, I went to his office downtown. The receptionist, a sweet college student, smiled warmly when she saw me. “Hey, Rachel! Troy’s in a team meeting right now. Do you want me to buzz him?” “No, that’s okay. I’ll just wait in his office,” I replied, giving her a reassuring smile. I pushed open the glass door to his private office and walked straight to his desk. His secondary laptop—the one he used for personal finances and side projects—lay shut on the corner. I lifted the lid and typed in the password. It was my birthday. The screen unlocked instantly. I opened his local files and clicked into a folder synced to his personal cloud drive. There were several recently downloaded spreadsheets. One was labeled Q3 Tax Restructuring. To anyone else, it would look like dry, routine corporate accounting. But I had spent two years working as an accountant before we got married. The discrepancies screamed at me from the screen. Troy had been generating fake invoices and billing for non-existent consulting services, funneling over a hundred and twenty thousand dollars of company capital into three shell corporations. And the registered owners of those shell companies? Miranda’s sister and cousin. He wasn’t just stepping out on our marriage; he was systematically draining our marital assets. The doorknob clicked. I closed the window, slid my thumb drive out of the USB port, and slipped it into my pocket, folding my hands behind my back just as the door swung open. Troy walked in holding a legal pad. He stopped short when he saw me standing by his desk, his expression freezing for a second before his customer-service smile snapped into place. “Rachel! What a nice surprise. You should’ve texted me you were coming.” “I was just in the neighborhood and wanted to drop by,” I said, keeping my gaze steady. He walked over and reached out to pull me into an embrace, but as he leaned in, his nose flared. He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. “Are you wearing a new perfume?” “Just a sample I picked up,” I said, taking a step back to slip out of his reach. Before he could press the issue, the door opened again. Miranda walked in, wearing a sleek trench coat, carrying a cardboard tray with two cups of coffee. “Here’s that cold brew you wanted, Troy—” She stopped dead when she saw me. For a split second, sheer panic flickered in her eyes. But she recovered with the practiced grace of an actress, her face lighting up with delighted surprise. “Rachel! Oh my gosh, what are you doing here?” She stepped forward, hooking her arm through mine with casual intimacy. “If I’d known you were visiting, I would’ve grabbed you an iced latte.” I looked down at her neck. She was wearing a silk Hermès scarf, this season’s signature print. Last month, I’d stared at that exact scarf online, debating whether to treat myself or buy a new convection oven for our kitchen. Troy had wrapped his arms around me and whispered, Babe, cash flow is just too tight this month. Let’s wait until the next big invoice clears, and I’ll get it for you personally. I had believed him. I’d quietly deleted the scarf from my cart to save him the stress. And here it was, knotted elegantly around my best friend’s throat. “That’s a beautiful scarf, Miranda,” I murmured, staring directly at the silk. Miranda’s hand flew to her throat, her smile faltering, growing rigid. “Oh… this? My guy bought it for me. Honestly, he’s so extra sometimes, always spending money on things I don’t even know how to style.” Troy cleared his throat loudly, stepping in to break the tension. “Miranda, let’s keep the personal chatter out of the office,” he said, his voice dropping into his authoritative boss-tone. “Leave the quarterly reports on the desk and get back to the floor, please.” Miranda instantly dropped her bubbly demeanor, nodding politely. “Of course, Mr. Davis.” She turned on her heel, her stilettos clicking sharply against the hardwood floor as she left. Once the door clicked shut, Troy turned to me, a sigh escaping his lips. “Rachel, this is a place of business. You can’t just drop by unannounced like this. It doesn’t look professional.” He shook his head, a patronizing edge to his voice. “People are going to think you’re checking up on me.” Today was our fifth wedding anniversary. Historically, Troy would book a table at the intimate French bistro downtown where we’d spent our first anniversary. No matter how chaotic his startup got, this was the one night he always kept sacred. I sat by the window, watching the streetlights flicker to life in the autumn dusk. The candle in the center of the table was melting into a pool of wax. My ribeye had grown cold hours ago, a thin, white layer of fat congealing over the meat. The clock on the wall crept past nine o’clock. I checked my phone. No missed calls. No texts. I opened my social feed and scrolled past a few generic updates until my thumb froze. Miranda had posted a new story thirty minutes ago. It was a photo of a hand with an IV drip, a small bandage taped over the vein, set against the sterile backdrop of an ER cot. Her caption read: Double-folded with stomach pain tonight, but my hero dropped everything to be by my side. Thank you for always showing up when it matters most. In the bottom corner of the frame, the edge of a dark charcoal suit sleeve was visible. Glinting in the harsh fluorescent light of the hospital room was a brushed silver cufflink—the vintage pair I had tracked down from an estate jeweler for him last winter. I stared at the image for a long time, then tapped the heart icon. At nine-thirty, Troy finally burst through the restaurant doors. His hair was slightly disheveled, and his tie was askew. He slid into the booth across from me, grabbing his water glass and draining it in one long swallow. “I am so, so sorry, babe,” he panted, his face a perfect canvas of exhaustion and regret. “Just as I was leaving, a major enterprise client showed up unannounced. He insisted we go over next year’s integration pipeline over drinks, and I simply couldn’t walk away from that kind of money.” He reached into his pocket and slid a small, navy velvet box across the table. “Happy anniversary, beautiful.” I opened the box. Inside was a thin, generic silver chain. No pendant, no character. I recognized the packaging immediately. It was one of the bulk-ordered promotional gifts his company had bought for their client appreciation gala last week. “Thank you,” I said softly, snapping the box shut and setting it aside. Troy stared at me, visibly thrown by my lack of emotion. Normally, I would have cried or at least expressed some quiet disappointment, allowing him to play the doting husband who could smooth it over with a few sweet promises and a long hug. “Everything okay? Do you not like it?” He reached out, trying to cover my hands. I pulled my hands back into my lap, keeping my eyes locked on his. “Troy, you said you were with a client?” “Yeah,” he said, his gaze open and completely untroubled. “Mr. Peterson—you know how brutal he can be. We were sitting in that stuffy lounge downtown for three hours. Honestly, my own stomach is in knots from all the black coffee I had to drink.” He even made a show of rubbing his abdomen. If I hadn’t seen Miranda’s post, and if I couldn’t smell the unmistakable, sharp scent of hospital sanitizer clinging to his jacket, I might have actually felt sorry for him. “Well, thank you for working so hard for us,” I murmured, taking a slow sip of water. Troy let out a quiet sigh of relief, thinking he had slid past another crisis. He waved to the waiter, ready to order fresh plates. Right then, my phone buzzed on the table. It was an audio message from Katie, our mutual friend. Without plugging in my headphones, I tapped play. Katie’s high-pitched, excited voice cut through the quiet romance of the dining room. “Rachel! Oh my gosh, did you see Miranda’s story? Her mystery guy bought her a Chanel flap bag! I looked it up online—it’s like ten grand! She said he even canceled a huge business dinner tonight just to sit with her in the ER. Can you believe how incredibly spoiled she is? I need to find myself a guy like that!” Troy’s hand, frozen in the act of opening the leather menu, remained suspended in midair.

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Ten years into my binding with the Redemption System, Cynthia pushed me down the stairs. Blood pooled between my thighs, staining the cold marble. When Jared rushed over, I thought he was coming for me. But he didn’t even look my way. Instead, he swept his sobbing cousin into his arms. “Cynthia is pregnant,” he hissed. “Don’t scare her.” Three days after my miscarriage, Jared came into my room. He picked up the small wooden bassinet he had handcrafted months ago. “You won’t be needing this anyway,” he said, his voice flat. “I’m giving it to Cynthia.” He paused at the door, not looking back. “I’ve decided. Once Cynthia gives birth, I’m bringing her in as my official mistress.” “I’ll let you keep your dignity as my wife. Just… stop making things difficult for her.” If this had happened before, I would have broken down. I would have screamed, fought, demanded answers. But that day, I only nodded quietly. That night, I summoned the system interface that had lain dormant for years. [Host, do you wish to initiate the extraction process from this world?] This time, I didn’t hesitate. “Confirm.” 1. The next morning, Jared came back. I sat by the window, quietly folding white paper cranes for the dead, ignoring him completely. Jared didn’t seem annoyed by my silence. “Norma, don’t be like this,” he said gently, sitting on the edge of the bed. “We can have other children.” “I had the doctor write up a prescription for your recovery. Take it regularly, rest well, and your body will heal.” He reached out, taking my hand. His palm was warm, but I felt absolutely nothing. No spark, no comfort. The doctor he mentioned was the specialist he’d hired specifically to care for Cynthia’s pregnancy. He’d probably just asked the man to scribble a generic prescription on his way out, without even bothering to check my pulse. A bitter ache bloomed in my chest. This was the tenth year of my redemption mission. When I first arrived in this world, Jared was a hostage, broken and humiliated in a rival territory. According to the original plot, years of abuse and torture were supposed to turn him cold, ruthless, and violent—a dark warlord who would eventually seize control of the state and leave a trail of blood in his wake. My job was to save him. To redeem him. When the rival captors whipped him, I threw myself over his body, taking the blows. When he burned with a deadly fever, I climbed freezing mountains to find the rare herbs, slipping down a ravine and cracking two ribs in the process. When we finally returned to his homeland and he led the forces to war, I stood by his side, taking a poisoned arrow meant for him. He conquered his enemies, secured his power, and became the most feared commander in the nation. At his victory gala, the system notified me that my mission was complete. That was my seventh year here. That night, Jared got terribly drunk. He clung to me like a frightened child, burying his face in my neck, whispering, “Don’t leave me… please.” He was a brilliant, sharp man; he had long suspected I didn’t belong to his world. Looking at his tear-stained eyes, my heart softened. I closed the system prompt. I chose to stay. At the time, I truly believed I would never regret it. But in just three short years, we had come to this. Slowly, I pulled my hand out of his grasp. Jared sighed, trying to soothe me. “Norma, I’ve already arranged for a priest to pray for our baby’s soul. You need to let go.” “Cynthia is devastated too. Even with her pregnancy, she stayed up all night copying scriptures for the baby. Her wrists are so swollen she can barely hold a pen, but she refused to stop. She truly cares for you like a sister.” My hands froze mid-fold. Like a sister? With the woman who murdered my baby? I looked up, meeting his eyes. “Jared, Cynthia pushed me down those stairs.” Jared’s face hardened instantly. “Norma, do you hear yourself?” “You slipped. Cynthia cried for hours, blaming herself for not catching you in time, and now you’re trying to pin this on her!” “Cynthia wouldn’t even step on an ant. How could she possibly hurt you?” I stared at him, my heart entirely numb. I suppose when you experience enough disappointment, you stop feeling the sting. It just becomes background noise. Ever since Cynthia entered the picture, she was always twisting her ankle or coming down with mysterious headaches. And every single time, I was the one blamed. Once, unable to take it anymore, I confronted her, demanding to know why she was doing this to me. “Because… it’s fun,” she had whispered, her smile innocent and sweet. “Let’s play a game, sister. Do you think the Commander will believe you, or me?” The second the words left her mouth, she threw herself backward over the balcony railing, plunging straight into the lake. And just like that, another sin was added to my name. I had explained myself a thousand times back then. He never believed me once. Just as telling him the truth now was utterly useless. I stopped looking at him, lowering my gaze back to the paper crane in my hands. Jared let out a long, heavy sigh. “Norma, Cynthia has no one else in this world. She’s fragile, and she scares easily. She only wants a safe place to live. Why can’t you just tolerate her?” “Do you really want to see her pregnant and homeless before you’re satisfied?” A knock sounded at the door. “Commander, Miss Cynthia is suffering from severe morning sickness again. She’s asking for you.” Jared stood up immediately. “Get some rest. I’ll check on you tomorrow.” Without looking back, he hurried out of the room. A dull, familiar ache throbbed in my lower abdomen. I curled into a ball on the bed, cold sweat drenching my collar. Ping! The system’s chime echoed in my mind. [Congratulations, Host. Your points have been successfully redeemed. You will officially extract from this world in ten days.] A faint, tired smile touched my lips. Good. I was finally leaving. 2. The next morning, I walked down to the estate’s private canal, gently placing the folded paper cranes onto the water, watching them float away. Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind me. “My deepest condolences, sister.” I turned. Cynthia stood a few paces away, a delicate shawl draped over her shoulders. My fingers tightened into fists. A smug, mocking smile played at the corners of her lips, though her voice remained sweet. “Don’t look at me like that, Norma. I truly feel for you. You’ve been in this house for three years, and the moment you finally conceive, it’s gone.” She raised a hand, gently caressing her own rounded stomach. “Isn’t it funny how timing works? Two babies, almost the exact same age. One is blessed to enter this world, while the other is washed away in a puddle of blood.” “I guess some people just aren’t meant to have blessings. Don’t you think, sister?” The raw grief and hatred surged through me, snapping my restraint. I lunged forward, grabbing her by the collar. But before I could do anything, Jared appeared. He violently wrenched my hand away, shoving me back as he shielded Cynthia behind him. “Norma! She is pregnant! Even if you despise her, have some goddamn boundaries!” Cynthia cowered behind his back, her voice trembling. “Jared, don’t blame Norma… I only wanted to talk to her…” My wrist throbbed from Jared’s tight grip. I stared at him, a hollow laugh escaping my throat. “Jared, you have never once believed me.” How many times had we played out this exact scene since Cynthia arrived? I met her during our second year of marriage. A rebel faction had ambushed the northern border, and Jared led the counterattack. The battle ended quickly, and he returned victorious. But he didn’t return alone. He brought Cynthia. “Norma, this is Cynthia. I was injured and fell down a ravine; she saved my life.” The moment Cynthia saw me, she fell to her knees, weeping. “Please, Madame, have mercy on me!” “I don’t ask for a title or status! I only wish to serve as a maid, to stay by the Commander’s side…” She began to cough violently, gasping for air as if she might collapse. “Quick! Call the doctor!” Jared shouted, lifting her into his arms and rushing off before I could even process what was happening. He hadn’t given me a chance to speak. It was as if my permission didn’t matter at all. That night, he came to our bedroom late. He kissed my forehead gently. “Norma, I missed you so much.” “Don’t overthink things. Cynthia saved my life, and she was injured because of me. I have to take responsibility for her.” “Once her injuries are fully healed, I’ll arrange a place for her outside.” I had nodded. Jared was right. Cynthia was his savior; it was only right to care for her. So, I personally arranged for the best doctors and sent rare medicines to her courtyard daily. But a month later, Cynthia was poisoned. I tried to explain to Jared. “I had the doctors inspect every single batch of medicine before it was sent. There was nothing in them.” Jared sat at his desk, slowly turning the signet ring on his finger. When he looked up, his eyes were cold. “Norma, I remember you know your way around poisons.” I froze. Those deep, dark eyes stared at me, already delivering his verdict. Yes, I knew poisons. Years ago, when Jared contracted a deadly plague, I had experimented on my own body, tasting dozens of toxins to find a cure that could counteract the disease. He recovered. But my body was left permanently damaged. To this day, whenever it rained, my joints ached with an agonizing, deep chill. He knew all of this. And now, my sacrifice was the very evidence he used to convict me. “The poison was slow-acting. A normal doctor wouldn’t detect it,” Jared said, letting out a heavy sigh. “No one else in this manor has the knowledge to pull that off, Norma.” “I told you I have no feelings for her. Why must you resort to such underhanded methods?” That was the first time he falsely accused me. I felt a wave of devastation, but mostly, a burning anger. Anger that he could believe a stranger so easily over me. We had a screaming match that night, ending in a bitter silence. And now, here he was, shielding Cynthia in the exact same way. “Norma, I saw it with my own eyes. How do you expect me to believe you?” “For years, you’ve made her life miserable, trying to hurt her at every turn. Now that you’ve lost your own child, do you want to drag Cynthia’s baby to the grave with yours?” “When you were pregnant, didn’t you pray every day for our baby to be healthy? Why can’t you show her an ounce of that mercy?” “Even if you don’t care about yourself, you should at least show some decency to build good karma for our dead child!” Every word felt like a poisoned blade twisting in my chest. Tears spilled over my eyelashes, burning my cheeks. “Jared… then tell me, how did she get pregnant with your child in the first place?” Jared’s expression faltered. The grip on my wrist stiffened. A long, suffocating silence stretched between us before he finally spoke, his voice strained. “Norma, what’s done is done. We have to move forward.” “The baby is gone. Do you really want to destroy the lives of everyone who is still alive?” With that, he let go of my hand, wrapped an arm around Cynthia, and walked away. Move forward? I let out a bitter, silent laugh. He had no idea that for the two of us, there was no forward left. 3. I stumbled back to my courtyard, my limbs heavy and weak. That night, a raging fever took hold of me. My maid returned from the main house, her face red from crying. “Every single doctor in the estate was called to Miss Cynthia’s quarters. When I tried to beg them to come, her maids cursed at me and threw me out.” I rubbed my throbbing temples. It didn’t matter. I only had a few days left anyway; I didn’t have the energy to fight her. During my years traveling with Jared’s army, I had picked up some medical skills. I weak-handedly wrote down a simple herbal prescription and sent my maid to brew it. I had barely taken a single sip of the bitter liquid when my bedroom door was slammed open. “Norma! What is the meaning of this?” Jared stood in the doorway, his face dark with fury, holding my handwritten prescription in his hand. I didn’t know what crime I had committed this time. Exhausted, I muttered, “I’m sick. Am I not allowed to take medicine?” Jared let out a cold, mocking laugh. “Norma, at least make your lies believable.” “Your cheeks are flushed. Do you look sick to you?” “Cynthia is weak and needs the rare snow ginseng to sustain her pregnancy. You had to go and hoard the last of it for yourself? Do you really hate her that much?” My prescription did call for a small amount of snow ginseng. But the estate’s storeroom had plenty. I had only requested enough for two doses. How could it possibly have run out? “Believe whatever you want, Jared.” I tried to push myself up to walk away, but the room spun violently. My knees buckled, and I tumbled toward the floor. “Norma!” Jared lunged forward, catching me before I hit the ground. The moment his hand touched my skin, he froze. “You’re burning up. Why didn’t you tell me?” I had told him. He just chose not to believe me. Jared lifted me in his arms, carrying me to the bed. He ordered the maid to bring cold water, then soaked a cloth, gently wiping the sweat from my forehead. His movements were so tender, so familiar, that for a second, my mind drifted. I remembered when I first got pregnant. My morning sickness had been unbearable. One evening, after I had thrown up until my stomach was empty and raw, he had sat by my bedside just like this. He rubbed my back, whispering softly: “Sweetheart, stop torturing your mother. Daddy made a little wooden rocking horse for you. When you’re born, I’ll take you out to ride it.” During those weeks, his hands had been covered in tiny cuts and splinters. I had begged him to let a master carpenter handle it, but he refused, insisting on crafting it with his own hands. After weeks of clumsy work, he had finished that little rocking horse. But after my miscarriage, that very rocking horse had been carried off to Cynthia’s courtyard. A self-deprecating smile touched my lips. Of course. My baby was gone, but he would have other children to inherit his legacy. Jared didn’t notice my shift in mood. After wiping my hands, he sighed softly. “Norma, I’m sorry I misunderstood you. But you should have explained it to me clearly.” “Cynthia is fragile. She isn’t strong like you; she can’t just fight off an illness. Try to be understanding. Missing one ingredient won’t hurt you.” A cold ache settled deep in my bones. Even when I was recovering from a miscarriage and burning with a fever, I still didn’t rank higher than Cynthia’s mildest discomfort. I didn’t want to argue anymore. I turned my face to the wall. “I’m tired.” “Alright. Get some rest.” Jared carefully tucked the blanket around my shoulders and instructed the maid to watch me closely. Then, he picked up the remaining snow ginseng and left. I closed my burning eyes. Seven days left. It would pass quickly. 4. The next morning, I was awakened by a loud commotion outside. Servants were rushing back and forth across the estate. My maid told me that Jared was throwing a lavish birthday celebration for Cynthia, complete with a famous theatrical troupe from the city. I didn’t say a word. I simply picked up my baby’s small wooden memorial plaque, gently brushing away the dust. Hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway. Jared walked in, carrying a stack of decorative paper lanterns and writing paper. “Norma, I’m glad you’re awake. I need your help with something.” He set the items on my table. “After what happened, Cynthia has been anxious about the baby. She wants to release prayer lanterns tonight to bless the pregnancy.” “Your handwriting is the most elegant in the house. Cynthia wants you to write the blessings on the lanterns. She truly views you as her sister, which is why she wanted you to do this.” “You don’t have anything else to do today anyway. It’s only a thousand lanterns. You’ll finish in no time.” I stared at him, unable to believe what I was hearing. “Jared… our baby died only a week ago.” He didn’t even look up as he smoothed out the paper. “I know, Norma. But holding onto this grief will only destroy you.” “I’m doing this to give you something to do so you don’t sit in this room depressing yourself. Writing these blessings might help you heal.” “Besides, when Cynthia’s child is born, they will call you ‘Mother’ anyway. They will be your child too. What’s the difference?” A surge of pure rage and grief rushed to my head, making my fingertips tremble violently. “I won’t write them.” Jared’s brow furrowed. “Norma, why are you being so difficult?” “As the mistress of this house, you’ve ignored Cynthia’s pregnancy completely, and now you won’t even help with a simple favor? When did you become so petty?” “These inscriptions won’t take much of your time. Just write them quickly. Don’t delay the lantern release tonight.” He threw the papers onto the table and hurried back out to check on the festival stage. I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye. He was so busy. So busy that he had completely forgotten. Today was the seventh day since our baby died—the traditional day of mourning. Cynthia’s birthday celebration was incredibly loud. The music and laughter drifted over the high walls, echoing clearly in my quiet courtyard. I didn’t touch a single piece of the paper Jared had left behind. When he returned later that evening and saw the blank sheets, his face darkened with anger. But before he could unleash his fury, Cynthia gently touched his arm. “Jared, let it go. Sister doesn’t like me; it’s natural she wouldn’t want to write them. Please don’t blame her.” In the end, Jared only threw me a disgusted glare before leading Cynthia away. I watched them walk out. Outside, the night air was chilly. Jared carefully wrapped a thick cloak around Cynthia’s shoulders. She looked up at him, smiling softly as she leaned into his chest. They looked exactly like a happily married couple. I pulled my gaze away, forcing down the bitter ache in my heart. It didn’t matter. I was leaving soon anyway. Whatever they did had nothing to do with me anymore. I dragged my exhausted body to bed and closed my eyes. Late that night, I was startled awake by a sudden noise. I opened my eyes to see a dark silhouette standing right next to my bed. I let out a sharp scream, bolting upright. The figure panicked, scrambling out the window into the night. A second later, bright torches illuminated my courtyard. My bedroom door was violently kicked open, and the room filled with armed guards. The cold night wind rushed in, rustling a pile of unfamiliar men’s clothing scattered across my floor. Jared stood at the threshold, his face pale with rage, while a sobbing Cynthia clung to his side. “Norma. You had better have a very good explanation for this.”

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Ever since Mom’s affair, Dad had started doing something strange. Every single day, he would sprinkle a handful of flour inside her underwear. His face would go paper-white as he muttered under his breath, “Now it’s clean. Now I can see everything clearly.” Mom would just stand by the edge of the bed, her head bowed low, letting him do whatever he wanted. When she finally stepped out of the bedroom and caught me looking up at her with worried eyes, she would offer a gentle, weary smile. “Sweetheart, Daddy’s just a little sick. We’re just playing a game.” But today, Mom had to go out of town on a business trip. While she was packing her suitcase, she secretly pulled out that flour-dusted pair of underwear and swapped it for a clean one. The moment Dad saw it, he completely lost his mind. He lunged forward, grabbing her suitcase, his voice rising to a sharp, hysterical shriek. “Why did you change it? Are you going to see that divorced lobby host from your office again?! Even with the flour, you still want to throw yourself at him? Aren’t you afraid of rotting down there?!” Mom was pulled off balance, stumbling. She finally shoved him away with all her strength. “I’m going to Pinecrest Springs to meet a client! How am I supposed to wear that in public?! Can you stop being so damn paranoid every single second of the day?!” Dad stumbled backward, colliding heavily with the wardrobe. Instantly, tears spilled over his eyelashes. “If you weren’t so desperately starved that you’d sleep with a piece of human garbage who already has a kid, do you think I’d be paranoid?” Mom’s face flushed a deep, angry crimson. “At least Sean’s daughter is his own flesh and blood from his marriage! It’s not like you, dragging a rapist’s bastard into my life and expecting me to clean up your mess! If I were picky, I never would have married you in the first place!” Outside the window, a sudden crack of thunder shook the house. Dad froze, his outstretched hand slowly dropping to his side. I shrank deeper into the corner of the sofa, tears silently tracking down my face. I knew, right then, that Dad had finally broken. … The moment those words left her mouth, Mom’s expression shifted. She rushed over and clamped her warm palms over my ears, her voice laced with sudden panic and regret. “Lucy, don’t listen to that. Mommy was just out of her mind with anger. I was talking nonsense.” Her hands were hot against my ears, creating a muffled hum like I was underwater. But I didn’t feel anything. I just stared at Dad through the gaps of her fingers. Dad stood there, completely still. He didn’t scream. He didn’t make a scene. He simply crouched down, picked up the discarded underwear, folded it with meticulous care, and placed it gently into the laundry hamper. Then, he picked up Mom’s train ticket from the coffee table and stared at it for a very long time. Pinecrest Springs. When those words registered in my mind, a loud buzzing filled my ears. Suddenly, the memories came rushing back. Pinecrest Springs was the very first place I had ever seen the man Mom was sleeping with. It was on Dad’s birthday. He had taken me to Pinecrest Springs to celebrate. We had changed into our swimsuits and were heading to the hot springs. As we passed the locker rooms, Dad suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes were locked on two pieces of clothing hanging on the door of an adjacent private dressing room. A woman’s blouse and a man’s suit jacket. I recognized the blouse—it was Mom’s. I knew it because of the gold brooch pinned to the collar, a birthday gift Dad had saved up to buy her. From inside the dressing room came low, ragged gasps. A man and a woman, making noises like two wild beasts tearing each other apart. Dad’s face drained of all color. I didn’t understand what was happening. Hearing Mom sound like she was in so much pain, I thought someone was hurting her. So, I charged forward, threw the door open, and screamed, “Don’t hurt my mommy!” But inside, there was only a naked man. He scrambled past me in a panicked rush, fleeing into the hallway. And Mom, sitting on the bench inside, looked like a ghost. That day, Dad cried for hours. When Mom finally came home later, she dismissed it with cold impatience, telling Dad he was making a mountain out of a molehill. I remember her saying, “Back then, when that woman kept you chained up for three days and three nights, I was still willing to marry you. What is so hard for you to stomach now?” That night, Dad held me close as we slept. His tears fell continuously, soaking into my hair, cold and wet. I thought he was asleep, but his lips were moving, whispering fragmented, broken words. I caught pieces of it: not mine, rapist, bastard. I didn’t fully grasp what those words meant back then, but I knew one thing: I probably wasn’t Mom’s daughter. So, Mom, you don’t need to cover my ears. I’ve known for a long time. A warm drop of water splashed onto the back of my hand. I looked up. It was Dad’s tear. Seeing the look on Dad’s face, Mom must have felt a prick of guilt. She grabbed her phone, stepped out onto the balcony, and lowered her voice to make a call. “Hey, Megan, can you cover my trip today? Something came up at home… What? He’s already there?” Through the glass door, I could hear a man’s muffled crying coming from the receiver. Even through the phone, it sounded high-pitched and pathetic. Mom’s expression instantly changed. She barked, “I’m on my way,” and hung up. She stormed back into the bedroom, grabbed her suitcase, and headed straight for the front door. But this time, Dad didn’t run after her. He only knelt down and gently wiped the tear from the back of my hand. “I’m sorry, Lucy. Daddy really wanted to try. I wanted so badly to give you a real family.” He looked up at me, his eyes terribly red. “But Daddy is just so tired. I don’t think I can keep going.” Mom didn’t come home that night. Instead, my body betrayed me, and I came down with a raging fever. Dad stayed by my side all night, constantly changing the cool washcloth on my forehead and measuring my temperature. I heard him making phone calls—likely to Mom. The phone rang and rang, but no one ever picked up. By morning, the fever still hadn’t broken. Dad scooped me up onto his back and rushed me to the hospital. I clung to him, my eyelids feeling as heavy as lead weights. In my hazy, feverish state, I heard a man’s voice very close by. “Gently, sweetheart. Just hold on a little longer. It’ll be over soon.” The voice sounded familiar. I forced my eyes open. Through the blur, I saw three people standing outside the neighboring examination room. Mom. Sean. And a girl, about half a head taller than me, holding up a bandaged finger and whimpering dramatically. Mom didn’t see us. She was leaning over, signing some paperwork. The nurse called out, “Who is here for Kylie Reynolds?” Mom looked up, her voice quiet but distinct: “I’m her mother.” At that moment, it felt as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over my head. I woke up completely. As Mom turned around, her eyes collided with mine. She froze. Dad froze, too, his arms tightening around me. Sean was the first to react. A practiced smile plastered across his face, and he hurried over, his voice dripping with nervous urgency. “Hey, man, please don’t misinterpret this. The kid had a tantrum last night and ran out. We spent the whole night looking for her. She cut her finger, so we came to get it looked at. I’m new to this area and didn’t know where to go, so I had no choice but to call Evelyn for help.” But Dad didn’t even look at him. He gently set me down on my feet and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. “Lucy, does it still hurt?” Before I could answer, someone lunged forward and shoved me hard. I went flying, my forehead slamming violently against the plastic armrest of the hallway chairs. The pain was so sharp my vision went black. Dad let out a panicked cry, wrapping his arms around me as he whirled around. The girl stood behind me, her eyes red, pointing a finger at me as she screamed. “You little bastard! You shameless thief! Stop trying to steal my mommy!” Sean shrieked, lunging forward to grab the girl’s arm. The next second, he raised his hand and slapped himself hard across the face. Once, twice, three times. The slaps were loud and sharp, echoing down the corridor. Everyone in the hallway turned to stare. He sobbed as he kept slapping himself, his tears smudging whatever dignity he had left. “It’s all my fault! It’s all my fault! Don’t listen to her, she’s just a child, she doesn’t know what she’s saying—she probably picked it up from TV! I promise I’ll discipline her when we get home!” Dad never looked at him. He carefully examined my forehead, and only after ensuring the skin wasn’t broken did he stand up. His gaze cut past Sean, landing squarely on Mom. His eyes were as still and empty as a stagnant pool of dark water. Mom shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, her brow furrowing. “Alright, stop looking at me like that. We ran into each other, that’s all. Is this dramatic display really necessary?” Mom opened her mouth to say more, but suddenly she swayed, her knees buckling as she began to collapse. Sean was fast, catching her in his arms and rushing her into the adjacent examination room. The hallway fell quiet. The girl stood there, completely abandoned. She glanced at me, then at the examination room door, her lip trembling before she turned and ran in after them. I stood alone in the hallway. I hadn’t realized Dad had let go of my hand. I looked up and saw him leaning heavily against the wall, his eyes closed. “Daddy?” He opened his eyes, looked down at me, and gently stroked my hair. “Let’s go home, Lucy.” “Aren’t we getting my medicine?” “No.” He took my hand and led me toward the exit. As we passed the examination room, I heard the doctor’s voice drift out: “Congratulations, Ms. Crawford. You’re pregnant. It’s been almost three months. The fainting was just due to emotional stress. You need to rest.” My mind flashed back. The day we ran into Mom in the dressing room was exactly three months ago. Dad’s grip on my hand tightened. I looked up at his profile, but his face remained completely serene. When Mom’s eyes met his through the open door, Dad spoke only two words, his voice flat and empty: “Congratulations.” Then, he turned and led me away. “David!” Mom screamed from behind us. Dad’s footsteps never faltered. On the drive home, Dad didn’t say a single word. When night fell, Mom finally came back. When she walked into the living room, Dad was sitting quietly on the sofa. She sat down opposite him, her expression turning uncharacteristically solemn. “David, we need to talk.” Dad didn’t speak. Mom sighed, her voice softening into a gentle, coaxing tone she might use on a stubborn child. “I want to keep Sean’s baby.” She paused, glancing toward me, then back at Dad. “You know the state of your own body… After what happened back then, you were damaged so badly. The doctors said you could never get me pregnant again. The child I’m carrying right now is my only chance to have a baby of my own. It’s not that I don’t care about you, but you can’t be this selfish, right?” I stood by the bedroom door, watching Dad. His back was perfectly straight, his hands resting on his knees, his knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white. “Once the baby is born safe and sound, I’ll find a way to send Sean and his daughter abroad. They won’t interfere with our lives anymore. You’ll still be Mr. Crawford, Lucy will still be my daughter, and nothing has to change.” As she spoke, there was a faint, hopeful spark in her eyes. She looked as though she believed she was making a massive sacrifice, as though Dad ought to be drowning in gratitude. Dad suddenly let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Okay.” Mom blinked, clearly not expecting him to agree so easily. “You… you agree?” Dad lowered his gaze, his voice incredibly calm. “Yes. Take care of yourself.” A relieved smile broke across Mom’s face, the heavy tension leaving her shoulders. She stood up, walked over, and patted my head. “Be a good girl, Lucy. Mommy has to step out for a bit, but I’ll be right back.” I didn’t say anything. I just watched her silhouette disappear through the front door. Once she was gone, Dad looked away from the empty doorway. He leaned down and pulled a document from the drawer. It was a divorce agreement. He beckoned to me. “Lucy, come here.” I walked over and stood before him. He pulled me into a tight embrace, resting his chin on the top of my head, gently swaying me back and forth. “What if Daddy took you to live somewhere else? Somewhere far away. Would you like that?” I nodded. That night, for the first time in a very long time, we slept peacefully. The next morning, Dad had our bags packed and was ready to take me to the airport. But the moment he opened the front door, he was met face-to-face with Mom. Her face was contorted with pure, unbridled rage. Before Dad could even react, she threw her hand back and slapped him hard across the face. “David, how can you be so vicious?! Sean is already in fragile health, and you hired people to assault him?!” Dad was completely stunned. He cupped his smarting cheek, blood slow-dripping from the corner of his lip. “What are you screaming about? When did I ever hire anyone to touch him?” But Mom didn’t listen. She grabbed my arm and dragged both Dad and me out of the apartment. I stumbled blindly behind her, my knee slamming violently against the doorframe, a sharp burst of pain shooting through my leg. At the hospital. Inside Sean’s hospital room. The moment the door opened, a thick, metallic smell of copper and sweat hit my nose. Sean was half-reclined on the bed, his hair a tangled mess, his face slick with tears. His shirt was torn in several places, exposing skin covered in angry purple and blue bruises. Seeing Dad, Sean shrank back in terror, letting out a piercing shriek. “Stay away! Don’t let him near me! Don’t touch me! You animals!” Mom stopped in her tracks, her words hissed through clenched teeth. “David, just because you can’t father a child yourself, you can’t bear to let anyone else have one? Do you have any idea what your petty, sick jealousy has done to Sean? He’s severely injured!” Sean sobbed harder, his shoulders shaking violently. There was a dark, dried patch of blood staining his bedsheets, turning a grim, rusty black. Mom’s voice grew louder, her eyes shot through with broken red veins. She, too, had miscarried on the way here because of the extreme emotional upheaval. “What did he do wrong? What did the baby do wrong?” “Did you think that if you dragged Sean down into the dirt, you wouldn’t feel so filthy anymore? You wanted him to be just like you?” She stared at Dad, her words dropping like heavy, frozen stones. “David, looking at you right now makes me want to vomit.” Dad’s lips trembled. He shook his head desperately, tears finally spilling over. “I didn’t… I didn’t do this…” “Still lying!” Mom waved her hand, and the heavy door was pushed open. Several people were shoved into the room. Three women, their faces bruised and swollen, one of them bleeding from the corner of her eye. They cowered on the floor, terrified to look up. Mom demanded coldly, “You said a man paid you to drug and assault Sean. Is this him?” The woman at the front looked up, quickly nodding. “Yes! It’s him! He told us the guy was a cheap, divorced home-wrecker who would run away and wouldn’t dare call the cops!” The other two nodded in unison. The movement was so perfectly synchronized it felt rehearsed. Dad’s face went completely pale. I tore myself from Mom’s grip, throwing my small body in front of Dad, tears blinding me. “Daddy was with me the whole night! He never went out! You’re lying! You’re all bad people!” But Mom’s expression only darkened further. “David, you’ve even taught Lucy how to lie for you. I see I need to teach you a lesson you’ll actually remember.” She gestured with her chin toward the bruised women. “Take him to the empty room next door. Whatever you did to Sean, do the exact same thing to him.” A loud ringing filled my ears. Mom added, her voice chillingly casual: “It’s not like it’s his first time anyway. He’s got experience.” The women stood up, moving toward Dad. Dad seemed to lose the last shred of his spirit. He shoved me back out of harm’s way, screaming, “Lucy, close your eyes! Don’t look!” But for the first time in my life, I didn’t obey. I watched their hands claw at Dad’s arms, dragging him out into the corridor. “Daddy! Daddy!” I chased after them, but Mom grabbed me by my collar, hoisting me up like a helpless, squirming animal. The door to the adjoining room slammed shut. I dropped to my knees outside the door, crying hysterically, pounding against the wood until my knuckles bled. “Please! Please don’t touch my daddy!” There was no sound from inside. I turned back to find Mom. She was standing at the far end of the corridor, her back to me. Sean had somehow limped out of his room and was clinging to her. Mom’s arms were wrapped gently around his waist. The next second, a dull, heavy thud echoed from inside the room—the sound of something massive striking the concrete below. Then, the air was sliced by a chorus of panicked screams. The door to the adjoining room burst open from the inside. One of the women stumbled out, her clothes disheveled, her voice pitching into a terrified shriek: “He’s dead! The man jumped out the window!!”

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The day after I found out I was the imposter daughter, I finally lost my grip on the sick, desperate obsession I had for my older brother. I locked him in the basement, wrapping my arms around him, refusing to let go. By day, I pretended nothing was wrong. I joined the rest of the family in their frantic search for him, acting just as worried as they were. I was like a rat in a gutter, letting myself sink deeper and deeper into a swamp of my own making. An imposter daughter is already easy to despise. If they ever found out I was in love with my brother, it would make them completely sick to their stomachs, wouldn’t it? Until one day, when my family gathered right in front of me to conspire: “Hey, Una, there’s this international board meeting Kevin absolutely has to attend. Can we let him out just for a little bit?” “Just half an hour! We promise we’ll lock him right back up before you get home!” Me: ? … 1 At seven in the morning, I walked down the spiral staircase. My parents, my younger brother Toby, and Zoe were already seated at the dining table, laughing and chatting. I stood there for three seconds, waiting for the dull ache in my chest to subside, before slowly making my way over. Zoe was the first to notice me. She looked up and smiled. “Why are you up so early today?” She was looking more and more like me. Three days ago, Zoe had been brought back to the Calloway estate. She had arrived carrying a massive rucksack, covered in dust, the hems of her cargo pants completely frayed. We were told she had been injured during a wilderness research expedition and was admitted to the Calloway private hospital. That was how they discovered she was the family’s biological daughter. She had hugged everyone in the family, and then, she turned her gaze to me. Her eyes had lingered on my face for an uncomfortably long time. While I stood there, clenching my fists against my thighs and fighting a wave of panic, she had reached out and gently ruffled my hair. “So, you’re Una?” she had said. “You look much younger than me. Your skin is so pale.” She had studied me from head to toe, smiling. “What kind of shampoo do you use? It smells nice.” The next day, I smelled that exact same woody fragrance on Zoe. By the third day, she was wearing the same style of hoodie and sports watch that I wore. I understood what she was doing. Zoe wanted to replace me. She wanted to be the only true daughter of the Calloway family. I didn’t hate her for it. My heart just felt heavy and hollow. These past twenty-one years of luxury had been stolen time anyway. It was only natural for her to want them back. But there was one thing I refused to yield. He was currently locked in a pitch-black basement where no one could ever steal him away. I picked up a butter knife and began spreading butter onto my toast while listening to my mother talk about the welcome gala she was planning for Zoe. “We’ll host it the day after tomorrow. I’ve ordered new jewelry and gifts for both of you.” Then, my mother sighed in exasperation. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Kevin. He said he was going on a business trip, but to not even show his face or answer his phone when Zoe finally came home… And with his condition, I don’t even know if he’s taking his medication on time.” I pricked up my ears, desperate to catch any other detail. Toby interrupted with a grin. “Maybe he got kidnapped?” The table erupted into laughter. “He’s built like a tank and stands at six-four. Who on earth could kidnap him?” Only my hands froze. A heavy stone sank into my stomach. The bite of toast I had just swallowed threatened to come right back up. It took everything I had to force my lips into a faint smile. I lowered my head and murmured, “I’m full. I should get to campus.” 2 Zoe looked up instantly. “You ate so little. I baked some cookies—take them with you to eat on the way.” I politely declined and grabbed my backpack. As I walked out of the dining room, I caught Toby’s teasing voice behind me: “So, how does copy-pasting feel?” Zoe seemed to snap, telling him to shut up. In the foyer, I practically ran into my second-oldest brother, Luke. He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, his wire-rimmed glasses resting on his sharp nose. He had a lean, academic build. “Heading to class?” He took my backpack with one hand and slung it over his shoulder. “Come on. I’m heading to the clinic anyway. I’ll give you a ride.” Sitting in the passenger seat of his Rolls-Royce Cullinan, I watched the sycamore trees lining the street blur past. I tried to sound casual. “By the way, Luke… what exactly is Kevin’s illness?” When we were kids, I used to cling to Kevin constantly. But when I turned eighteen—and Kevin was twenty-three—he was diagnosed with a rare condition. He started spending long stretches of time abroad. Over the last three years, I had barely seen him. Every time I asked what was wrong with him, the family brushed it off. It was a closely guarded secret. Luke kept one hand on the steering wheel, expertly navigating the heavy traffic. “I wouldn’t dare leak Kevin’s medical privacy. Ask him yourself when he gets back. Though God knows where he is—he won’t even pick up my calls.” “Oh,” I whispered, squeezing my fingers together. I looked up through my eyelashes, stealing a glance at him. Luke was the smartest person in our family. He had entered college at fifteen, finished his medical doctorate by twenty, and now managed the family’s private hospital system. I had always been close to Kevin, but I was always a little terrified of Luke. Just like now. Luke glanced over, his eyes locking onto mine. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes felt like an X-ray machine, stripping away my defenses and exposing my deepest secrets. He said softly, “Do you think he actually got kidnapped?” “Kevin served in the Special Forces. The only person who could possibly catch him off guard would have to be someone he trusted completely. Like… a family member.” I sat up straight so fast that the seatbelt locked, snapping against my collarbone and pulling me back into the leather seat. Luke arched an eyebrow. “It’s just a hypothesis. Why so tense?” My heart was pounding against my ribs. I forced a dry, awkward laugh. “Who would ever dare lay a hand on Kevin? Ha-ha.” Luke turned the wheel, his tone light and conversational. “I’ll drop you at the university gates, then head to the hospital. We’re partnering with the state on a wildlife rehabilitation project, testing some heavy-duty restraints. They’re lightweight but incredibly secure. Even the strongest predators can’t break out of them.” I turned my head to look at him. Luke kept his eyes on the road. Behind his glasses, there was the faintest trace of a smirk. “They’re stored in the warehouse behind the clinic.” The Cullinan pulled up to the campus gates. Silence settled over the car. I took a deep breath, my fingers clutching my purse. “I have a seminar tonight. I’ll be staying in the dorms, so I won’t be coming home.” Luke let out a low hum. “Keep it in moderation.” “What?” His eyes crinkled. “I mean, don’t stay up too late studying. It’s bad for your health.” 3 That night, I obviously didn’t go to any seminar. First, I made a stealthy detour to the hospital warehouse. After a long, agonizing moment of hesitation outside a convenience store, I went inside and bought a few specific items, feeling like a thief the entire time. Finally, I took a cab out to the quiet suburbs. My parents had bought this villa in my name when I turned eighteen. At the time, they had said, “Our little girl is growing up, and she’s going to have her own secrets. This will be Una’s secret sanctuary. Whenever you’re feeling down, you can come here.” They could never have imagined who I was currently hiding inside it. I walked down the stairs into the basement. Taking a deep, trembling breath, I unlocked the heavy door. “Kevin,” I called out softly. Dim, warm light spilled into the room. The tall, broad-shouldered man was sitting on the edge of the mattress. He wore a faded black tank top that hugged the powerful lines of his chest and shoulders. Faint, jagged scars from his military days stretched from his collarbone down to his forearms, only adding to his rugged, intimidating presence. But right now, both of his thick wrists were chained securely to the iron headboard. He lifted his heavy eyelids, his dark, piercing gaze locking onto me. “Una. You have completely lost your mind.” His voice was low, laced with the commanding, authoritative tone of a man used to being in charge. I stood by the doorway, my heart hammering wildly in my chest. I bit my lip, offering him a small, pleading smile. “With you here, Kevin, how could I?” The moment Kevin heard the news that Zoe and I had been switched at birth, he had caught the first flight back from New York. And the second he stepped off the plane, I had tricked him into coming here. He hadn’t even brought his luggage. For the past two days, I had been bringing supplies to the villa like a frantic squirrel storing food for winter. I set my backpack down and began unpacking my purchases one by one. Two cartons of blueberries. A bunch of bananas. Three bottles of whole milk. A loaf of brioche. Two sets of fresh loungewear. A pack of men’s cotton boxers. And a few tubes of cute, strawberry-scented hand cream. Kevin’s eyes fell on the hand cream, and his expression instantly hardened. “What is that for?” I looked up at him through my eyelashes, my voice barely a whisper. “I noticed your hands looked a little dry. I wanted you to use it.” Silence stretched over the basement for five agonizing seconds. Then, a harsh, humorless laugh escaped Kevin’s throat. “I’m your brother.” I clenched my jaw. “Not biologically.” The muscles in his jaw tightened, the atmosphere in the room turning dangerously cold. “You are completely out of control, Una. I watched you grow up. How could you do something this reckless?” I let out a soft, sad sigh and shook my head. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think, Kevin.” They say the quiet ones are always the most dangerous. Personally, I’ve always thought of myself as the kind of dog that doesn’t bark before it bites. The only person who had ever seen through me was Toby. He had grown up on film sets, achieving fame at a young age, and was three years younger than me. Once, when I went to visit him on set, the producer’s eyes had lit up when he saw me. He had said, “Your sister is gorgeous. I have a role for a sweet, innocent girl that would be perfect for her.” Toby had practically choked on his laughter. “That is the funniest thing I’ve heard all year. Don’t let her quiet, sweet face fool you. She’s got a million calculations running in her head at any given second. In our house, she’s actually the one with the biggest balls.” He was right. I was daring enough to fall in love with my brother, and reckless enough to kidnap him. And now, I was about to do something even more outrageous. I walked over and sat on the edge of the mattress. His skin radiated a fierce heat, and I could hear the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat. I looked up at him, my eyes filled with an intense, agonizing yearning. “Kevin, I love you. I want to be with you.” I pressed the strawberry-scented hand cream into his palm. “And you should be the one teaching me how to use this.” The air pressure in the basement plummeted. Without a word, Kevin lifted his arm, the metal chains clinking violently. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he slapped the tubes of hand cream off the nightstand, sending them scattering across the floor. “Don’t even think about it.” I stared at the tubes on the floor, my lips trembling slightly. A wave of disappointment washed over me, and I let out a soft sigh. “Okay. If you don’t want to use them, we don’t have to.” I shifted closer, moving to a spot right next to him. I leaned in, my heart in my throat, completely terrified but desperate. My lips brushed against his earlobe as I whispered, “Do you want to be with me forever, Kevin? When we’re finally together, will people call you my brother… or my husband?” Before I could finish the thought, a heavy hand gripped my jaw. His grip was firm, his thumb and forefinger pressing hard against my jawline, forcing my face up. Kevin narrowed his eyes, a dark, turbulent storm swirling in his black pupils. “Una, you seriously need to be put in your place. How old are you, filling your head with this nonsense?” 4 With his hand clamping my face, my cheeks were puffed out. My eyes instinctively darted downward. I looked at the hand holding my chin. Then at his wrist. It was bare. Where were the handcuffs? My eyes widened in sheer panic. How on earth had he gotten out of them? Kevin let out a cold sneer. “If I couldn’t pick a lock in under three seconds, my years in the Special Forces would have been a joke.” He flipped his grip, grabbing my wrists instead. His fingers felt like bands of solid iron. They were long and thick, the veins on the back of his hand bulging under the strain. “Locking me in a basement for three days, talking all this garbage…” He sat up fully, bringing his face level with mine. He was so close I could see my own terrified reflection in his dark eyes. “Did you actually think about how this was going to end?” My mind went completely blank. I felt exactly like a child caught red-handed doing something terrible. My heart hammered so hard against my ribs that my ears buzzed. My fingers shook. Instinctively, I reached into the very bottom of my backpack. I pulled out the heavy-duty wildlife restraints I had stolen from Luke’s warehouse. With a sharp click, I snapped the metal collar around Kevin’s wrist again. Kevin stared down at the new, high-tech restraint on his wrist, laughing in disbelief. “You came prepared, didn’t you? This is a specialized lock. Who gave this to you?” I bit my lip, desperately trying to change the subject. “Kevin, you’ve been completely off the grid for three days. Mom and Dad are worried sick. Shouldn’t you text them back first?” I grabbed his phone from the nightstand. There were dozens of unread messages in the family group chat. From Mom: Where on earth are you? You’re not answering your phone. @Kevin Dad had forwarded an email about an international board meeting, tagging Kevin: Your presence is required for this deal. Friday at 3:00 PM. Do not miss it. Toby had sent a meme of a dog holding its own leash with the caption: Can’t find my owner. Even Zoe had sent a message: Una, do you prefer the blue or the black dress? I want us to wear matching sister outfits. Then, ten minutes ago, Mom had sent another text: Una isn’t coming home tonight? My heart skipped a beat. My fingers felt incredibly stiff as I typed: My seminar ran really late. I’m just going to crash in the dorms tonight. Mom replied almost instantly: Of course, sweetie. Don’t push yourself too hard. Mom loves you! @Kevin you absolute brat, reply to me right now. Before I handed the phone to Kevin, I hesitated. “Kevin… you wouldn’t want the family to find out that your little sister has you locked up in a basement, would you?” Kevin: “…” A vein throbbed on his temple. He quickly sent a professional reply to the work emails, then dropped a quick message in the family chat to let them know he was safe. Only then did he look back up at me. He let out a long sigh, his voice softer than it had been all week. “Una. Come here. Let’s talk.” “Even if we aren’t blood-related, we’ve been brother and sister for a long time. Why do you have these feelings for me? Did I do something to lead you on?” “Or is it because of everything that’s happened recently? Are you feeling insecure? Did someone say something to make you feel like you don’t belong?” “Mom, Dad, and I have already talked. You and Zoe are both our daughters. The Calloways can easily support two girls.” I bit my lip, staying silent for a long time. Why did I fall in love with Kevin? When I was fifteen, I was kidnapped by one of my father’s business rivals. I was blindfolded, my hands and feet bound, locked in a freezing, pitch-black warehouse for what felt like an eternity. I had cried until my throat was raw and bleeding. It was Kevin who broke down the door, completely alone, and pulled me out. He had been wearing tactical gear soaked in sweat and blood, his face covered in cuts. He had held me so tight I could barely breathe. “Don’t be scared, Una. Your brother is here.” I had buried my face in his chest, sobbing hysterically. For the next year, I suffered from severe PTSD. I couldn’t sleep. The only time I felt safe was when Kevin was near me. I wanted him to eat with me. I wanted him to take me with him whenever he left the house. And when he did, I wanted us to share a bed so I wouldn’t wake up screaming from the nightmares. And then? I felt lost. There was a massive, empty void in my chest that made me want more. I wanted to possess him completely. But what else could I do? Until the day Zoe came back. It was like a bucket of ice water poured over my head. I finally woke up. I didn’t want to be his sister. I wanted to be his wife. Slowly, I raised my head to look at him, my voice barely a whisper. “No one said anything to me, Kevin.” “I’m just a bad person. That’s why I fell in love with you.” I looked at him, my eyes begging for a shred of hope. “Since we aren’t actually siblings… could you ever love me? Even just a little bit?” Kevin stared at me for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. “Una,” he said softly. “There is already someone else. Someone I’ve loved for a very, very long time.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “465193”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Outside the ICU, my husband was using my mother’s life-saving surgery deposit as a bargaining chip on a makeshift gambling table. He had his arm wrapped protectively around his fragile mistress, rolling the dice as he sealed my ruin. Around us, my in-laws watched in silence, while my husband wore a mask of sickening piety. “Dale, Freda has a fractured spiritual aura and a terminal diagnosis,” he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “The spiritual guru we consulted said her only chance at survival is to siphon-bind the vitality of someone with pure, abundant luck. You’ve always been blessed with good fortune. If you lose this game, you’re going to let the master perform the vitality transfer to save Freda.” He leaned in, his eyes cold. “One stage of the ritual will cost you a single year of your life, transferred directly to Freda to ward off her bad karma.” “Two stages,” he continued, “and you will transfer your physical health and bodily vitality to her, leaving you weak but keeping her whole.” Freda Palmer leaned against his chest, a delicate, mocking smile playing on her lips. “And if we light all three stages, Dale,” she purred, her voice a fragile whisper, “your entire destiny, your wealth, and every remaining year of your life will be signed over to me. My broken, dying body will be sustained entirely by your life force. Tell me, Dale… to save my life, do you have the courage to play?” Before I could choke out a desperate refusal, my husband grabbed my wrist and forced my thumb onto the ink pad, slamming it down on the contract. “She’s playing,” he declared. As my heart turned to ash, a soft, tiny, childish voice suddenly echoed in my mind. Mama, play her. I’m the god of gamblers reborn. Let’s teach this trash bag of a father a lesson. I instinctively placed a hand over my abdomen. Feeling the sudden warmth under my palm, I met the mocking stares of my in-laws, reached out, and gripped the three dice. 1 “Dale, the monitors in there aren’t going to wait forever.” Zachary King held Freda Palmer by the waist, his voice thick with irritation. I stared at the hospital billing slip crumpled near his polished leather shoes. “Using my mother’s life to corner me, Zach? Just tell me what you actually want!” Zach reached into the breast pocket of his bespoke suit and tossed a thick stack of documents onto the nurses’ station counter. “Sign this. Voluntary Asset and Vitality Transfer Agreement.” On the very first page, in stark black and white, was the clause: I was to surrender every piece of my pre-marital real estate and all my shares in the family company. Furthermore, I would assume sole responsibility for all of Freda’s astronomical medical bills. My sister-in-law, Tammy, sat in a plastic waiting room chair, popping cheap mints and scrolling through her phone. “Dale, Zach is doing you a favor. Freda is genuinely sick. Giving up a little money and luck to save a life is just good karma.” My mother-in-law, Beatrice, rolled her eyes, chiming in. “Exactly. Your mother is an old relic anyway. If she dies in there, it’s just her time. Don’t stand in the way of someone who actually has a future.” Freda clung to Zach’s chest, coughing delicately. Her eyes grew red and watery. “Dale, don’t blame Zach. He just loves me too much; he can’t bear to watch me suffer. If you sign the paper and lend me your luck, I swear I’ll never try to take your place as Zach’s wife.” Zach rubbed her back soothingly, then glared at me. “You heard her. Freda is being more than generous. What are you waiting for? Sign it!” He tapped his watch. “Your mother’s oxygen saturation is dropping below fifty. The doctor was just out here looking for you. If you don’t pay the deposit and sign the consent form now, you can start picking out her casket.” I looked at the man standing before me. I remembered the winter nights he used to hold my freezing feet against his chest to warm them. I remembered him eating my leftovers, living like a loyal dog at my beck and call. Now, he was wearing a Tom Ford suit I had bought him, wearing a Patek Philippe I had gifted him, and using my mother’s dying breath to force me into becoming a human life-support machine for his mistress. A warm, gentle thrum vibrated in my belly. Mama, don’t panic. Let’s make him bet everything down to his skin. The voice was tiny, childish, but incredibly steady. Far too steady for an unborn child. I lowered my gaze to hide my eyes, my fingers tightening around the three cold dice. “Fine. We play.” I looked up, coldness seeping into my tone. “But we sign these agreements page by page, one round at a time.” Zach scoffed, kicking the hospital bill aside. “Fine. Let’s make sure you understand exactly how badly you’re losing.” He snapped his fingers. Two of his hired bodyguards marched over, carrying a folding table and placing it squarely in the middle of the sterile hospital corridor. Freda stepped forward, her movements graceful and fragile as she picked up the leather dice cup. “Dale, for the first round, let’s play for the deed to your estate in Westbury.” She shook the cup casually and slammed it onto the table. The rattle of the dice was sharp and deafening in the quiet hallway. Zach sat back in a plastic chair, crossing his legs like a king on a throne. He chin-jerked at the cup. “Open it.” The cup lifted. Three fives. Fifteen. Tammy clapped her hands, laughing. “Oh, Freda! Your luck is incredible! A fifteen right out of the gate!” Beatrice sneered at me. “Of course. Freda was born with a lucky aura. Unlike some people who bring nothing but poverty and misery wherever they go.” Freda giggled, sliding the cup toward me. “Your turn, Dale.” I picked up the heavy leather cup. Just as I was about to shake it, the childish voice rang out in my mind again, sharp and urgent. Mama, the mistress’s dice are loaded with mercury. She’s a cheap cheat. But don’t worry, your boy knows how to break her game. Stiffen your wrist and lose this one on purpose. My hand paused for a fraction of a second. I let my wrist slip slightly, slamming the cup down awkwardly. The three dice tumbled out onto the table. A two, a one, and another one. Four. An obnoxious burst of laughter erupted in the corridor. Zach slapped the first property deed transfer in front of me and shoved a pen into my hand. “Sign, Dale. You played, you lost. Don’t tell me you’re going to back out now.” He tapped the table impatiently. I gripped the pen, the nib hovering over the paper, trembling. 2 For the second round, the stakes were my Rolls-Royce. Freda shook the cup with practiced ease, letting it drop and lifting it to reveal two sixes and a five. Seventeen. The cheering from the peanut gallery was instantaneous. Tammy squealed, “See that? Even God is on Freda’s side!” Beatrice spat a mint wrapper onto the floor. “Look at her luck, then look at yours. Useless.” I picked up the cup in silence. The voice returned. Mama, tilt your wrist half an inch to the left. Keep losing. I followed the instruction exactly. The dice rolled out: two twos and a three. Seven. For the third round, we played for my thirty percent share in the family company. Freda rolled a sixteen. I rolled a miserable five. Three consecutive losses. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed hummily, casting a sickly glow over the corridor. The red “In Surgery” light above the ICU doors continued to blink ominously. Zach smiled with absolute triumph, pushing the remaining stack of transfer documents toward me. “Dale, even the universe has abandoned you. How did you think you could ever beat Freda? Sign the papers. Don’t ruin Freda’s lucky hour.” My fingers shook so violently I could barely hold the pen. Tears spilled over my eyelashes, leaving dark, wet circles on the crisp white paper. Beatrice leaned over, pointing a finger at my face. “Stop crying, you bad omen! Just sign the damn papers!” “Exactly,” Tammy chimed in. “You played the game. Your mother is waiting in there; she doesn’t have time for your tears.” I bit my lip until I tasted blood, forcing myself to press my thumbprint onto each document in dark red ink. I looked like a broken, desperate woman, sweating and frantic. Only I knew it was an act. Inside my mind, the baby’s voice was as steady as a mountain. Good job, Mama. Hang in there. He’s holding Grandmother’s surgical consent form. If we fight him now, he’ll pull the plug. We have to make this a legally binding game, letting him stick his own neck into the noose we’ve built. I took a deep breath, pushing the signed papers back across the table. Zach picked them up, flicking the edges with a satisfied smirk before handing them to a bodyguard. Just then, his phone lit up on the corner of the table. A text preview popped up: Mr. King, the rent on your luxury apartment in the Hamptons is past due. Please remit payment immediately… I caught the message out of the corner of my eye and quickly looked away, pretending I hadn’t seen a thing. Zach hastily flipped his phone face down, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. He forced a smile, adjusting his cuffs. “Alright. The first three rounds are settled.” He stood up, looking down at me. “Now, Dale, there’s only one round left.” “We play for your health and your life force.” “If you win, I sign your mother’s consent form immediately.” “If you lose, you leave this marriage with nothing, and you spend the rest of your life as Freda’s personal human battery.” I stared at the red ink on my fingers, my nails digging into my palms. “Aren’t you afraid of karma?” My voice was so raspy it was barely a whisper. Zach threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the sterile walls. “Karma? In this family, I am the law!” He leaned down, placing both hands flat on the table, bringing his face inches from mine. “Dale, if you’re scared, get down on your knees and beg. Maybe I’ll be merciful enough to let you see your mother’s corpse one last time.” Freda slid her arm through his, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Dale, you have nothing left to lose anyway. This is the final round. Are you in, or are you out?” 3 I pushed myself up from the table, grabbing the last blank agreement and slamming it back down. “Zachary!” I screamed, my voice cracking, my eyes bloodshot. I gripped the edges of the paper until my knuckles turned white, playing the part of a manic, ruined gambler perfectly. “You’re pushing me to the edge! Aren’t you afraid of what I’ll do to you when this is over?” Zach laughed so hard he practically doubled over. He leaned in close to my ear, his breath hot and unpleasant. “What are you going to do to me, Dale? I’ve spent months preparing for this. I have your corporate seals. I have your lawyers. You are a queen without a kingdom. You can’t touch me.” He stepped back, spreading his arms wide, looking every bit the cheap pretender trying to play king. “Face it, Dale. You were born to be stepped on by me.” Staring at his arrogant face, the trembling in my shoulders slowly stopped. I let a slow, cold smile creep onto my face. “Fine,” I said, my voice suddenly dropping its frantic pitch. “If we’re playing for everything, let’s raise the stakes.” I pointed a finger at his chest, my voice carrying down the quiet hallway. “If I win, you sign the surgical consent form immediately.” “And more than that…” “Every single asset, stock, and penny belonging to you and the entire King family becomes mine. You leave this marriage with absolutely nothing.” The corridor fell dead silent for a full second. Beatrice and Tammy froze, then burst into hysterical laughter. Beatrice slapped her thigh. “Oh, this is rich! Is this bitch insane? She actually thinks she has a chance to turn this around?” Tammy crossed her arms, sneering. “A three-time loser begging for a miracle. You want our family assets? Dream on, loser!” Freda hid her smirk behind a manicured hand. “Dale, why make this harder on yourself? Just accept your fate.” Zach finished laughing and snapped his fingers. “Fine! I’ll give you exactly what you want!” He shouted toward the elevators. “Mr. Davis! Get over here!” A man in a sharp suit, carrying a leather briefcase, hurried out from behind the bodyguards. Zach pointed at me, his voice booming. “Draft an ironclad contract! Put every single condition she just mentioned into it! I want to watch her sign her own death warrant!” Mr. Davis opened his laptop immediately, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Within minutes, a portable printer spat out two copies of the ultimate high-stakes agreement. It was stark, cruel, and legally binding. Zach didn’t even read it. He grabbed a pen, signed his name, and pressed his thumbprint onto the paper with aggressive satisfaction. “Your turn, Dale.” He threw the pen at me. His eyes were wide, bloodshot with greed, his face twisted in anticipation. I picked up the pen. My hand didn’t shake. Stroke by stroke, I signed my name. The notary stamp fell with a heavy, definitive thud. Suddenly, the frantic energy in the corridor shifted. My shoulders straightened. My spine went rigid. I looked up at Zach. My gaze wasn’t filled with hatred, or fear. It was the detached, clinical look of a medical examiner preparing to pull back a white sheet in a morgue. Zach flinched under my gaze, his throat bobbing as his brow furrowed. “What… what are you looking at me like that for? Stop playing games!” I ignored his outburst, carefully folding my copy of the notarized agreement and tucking it securely into my inner coat pocket. The act was over. The fish had taken the bait. “Cut the crap,” I said, my voice cold and steady. “Let’s roll.” Freda eagerly grabbed the leather cup, her eyes shining with manic excitement. 4 The final round was on. Freda held the cup with both hands, her eyes wide as she shook it frantically. The rattling of the dice inside was sharp, chaotic, and deafening. Behind us, the red light of the operating room cast a thin, bloody line across the linoleum floor. With a loud crack, Freda slammed the cup onto the table. Panting, her eyes locked onto mine, she lifted the cover. Three sixes. Eighteen. The silence lasted for two seconds before the hallway erupted. Tammy jumped in the air. “A perfect roll! A perfect eighteen! Freda won!” Beatrice clasped her hands together, looking up at the ceiling tiles. “Thank God! We’re rich! We’re finally rich!” The relatives swarmed Zach and Freda, showering them with congratulations, looking ready to bow down to them. At the peak of their celebration, the heavy doors of the operating suite swung open. A nurse rushed out, holding a clipboard, her voice frantic. “Where is the patient’s family? The ICU copay still hasn’t been cleared! If we don’t start the transfusion now, she’s going to crash!” Through the open door, the rapid, high-pitched alarm of the heart monitor echoed into the hall. Losing this round didn’t just mean losing my money. It meant letting my mother die on the table. Zach stood in front of the nurse, holding Freda close, a smug sneer on his face. “No need to rush, nurse. Someone is about to sign a DNR anyway.” Freda tilted her head, looking at my pale face with faux pity. “Thank you for the life force, Dale. I’ll take good care of your health and your money.” She smirked. “As for your mother… you might as well open your cup and start planning her funeral.” Tammy banged on the table. “Open it! Stop wasting time! An eighteen is on the board. Not even God can save you now!” They were using my mother’s dying moments to break me, pushing me into a corner. Behind me was my mother’s fading heartbeat; in front of me was a pack of wolves waiting to tear me apart. Listening to the rhythmic, desperate beeping of the hospital monitor, my face remained entirely blank. In my mind, the baby let out a cold, childish snort. An eighteen? How embarrassing. Mama, slam the cup. I gripped the leather cup, my knuckles turning white. The alarms, the screaming nurse, the mocking laughter of my in-laws all blurred into a chaotic, surreal noise. They looked at me like I was already dead, waiting for me to fall to my knees. I lifted the cup high above my head, poured every ounce of my strength into my wrist, and slammed it down. The impact rattled the entire corridor. Even the bodyguards at the end of the hall flinched. The folding table shook violently, its metal legs scraping sharply against the tile floor. Zach jumped at the noise, but quickly recovered, letting out a dismissive laugh. “Slamming the table won’t change the physics, Dale. What, did you think you could magically manifest a nineteen?” “Lift the cup. Stop wasting our time.” I didn’t say a word. My fingers slowly loosened their grip on the leather. Under the watchful eyes of everyone in the hall, I pinched the rim of the cup and slowly lifted it.

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At the wrap party for his new hit series, someone suggested playing Sympatico, the AI-driven compatibility game that was trending everywhere. The premise was simple: upload digitized memories—letters, photos, milestones—and let the algorithm analyze the emotional alignment. A score above ninety percent meant soulmate status. “Let’s try it, Adam,” I said, uploading a folder containing a decade’s worth of our photos, emails, and scanned letters. I wanted to solidify my place as his wife in front of the flashing press cameras. Adam Cross was a genius screenwriter. Every sweeping, heart-wrenching romance he penned was celebrated by the public as a love letter to me, his long-time partner and muse. He looked slightly annoyed by the spectacle, but he gave a curt nod anyway. The screen loaded. Our compatibility score popped up: Ten percent. Underneath, the AI’s diagnostic reading read: Unrequited. Zero emotional resonance. A collective gasp rippled through the banquet hall. I froze, my cheeks burning so intensely I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. “Mind if I take a turn?” The voice belonged to Isla Rowe, Adam’s notorious rival director, who rarely showed her face at these industry events. She stepped forward, casually typing in a few keywords of her own. The massive screen flashed instantly. The compatibility score hit a blinding one hundred percent. Beside me, the usually stoic, unshakeable Adam began to tremble so violently he could barely hold his champagne flute. A cold dread washed over me, numbing me from head to toe. In that single, devastating second, I understood. Every tragic, beautiful female lead he’d ever written—the ones that made millions of women weep—weren’t modeled after me. They were written for Isla. The woman who had ruthlessly abandoned him years ago to chase her career abroad. … “Unbelievable!” the host cried, practically pushing Isla toward Adam in his excitement. Before she could steady herself, she let out a soft gasp and stumbled straight into his chest. Adam, who usually despised public displays of affection, didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands clamped down on her shoulders, holding her steady with a desperate, white-knuckled grip. “I guess you can’t fight fate!” someone shouted from the crowd. The press went wild. The rapid-fire click of shutters and blinding camera flashes turned the room into a strobe-lit blur. There were even jokes rippling through the audience about turning this wrap party into an impromptu engagement party. I stood entirely outside the circle of light, a ghost at my own celebration. The ten percent on the screen felt like a physical blow, leaving one side of my face burning as if I’d been slapped. “Who is she?” my voice sounded hollow, like dry leaves scraping over concrete. The assistant director, standing next to me, slapped his thigh in excitement. “Oh, that’s right. You only joined the production company three years ago.” “Isla and Adam went to film school together. Back then, they were the golden couple of the indie scene—brilliant, passionate, unstoppable.” He sighed, his expression turning nostalgic. “But then she abruptly moved to Europe, and they lost touch.” He glanced at me, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper. “The famous ‘one who got away’ in Adam’s breakout script? The archetype for every heroine he’s written since? That’s her. Now that she’s back, I’m guessing the script of his life is about to get a major rewrite.” I stared at Isla’s face. When she smiled, the slight, upturned curve of her eyes was identical to mine. Or rather, mine had been subtly molded into hers over the last ten years, shaped by Adam’s gentle corrections, his quiet preferences, his whispered instructions on how I should wear my hair and present myself to the world. My chest tightened, a rusty blade twisting in my ribs. Noticing my pale face, the assistant director tried to smooth things over. “Hey, it’s just a party game. Don’t take it to heart, Fiona.” Needing to prove something—anything—I reached out and clicked the reset button on the screen, stubbornly re-entering our shared memories. Adam finally looked over at me, his brow furrowed in a slight, warning frown. I didn’t look back at him. I just watched the progress bar on the screen flicker and load. Ten percent. It didn’t budge. Because my side of the ledger was filled with ten years of quiet sacrifices, compromises, and desperate attempts to please him. His side of the ledger didn’t even have my name written on it. “Must be a system glitch,” the assistant director muttered, letting out a forced laugh. “I mean, Fiona is Adam’s exclusive leading lady. There’s no way they don’t have chemistry.” The crowd around us murmured awkwardly, quickly shifting their attention back to the main stage. In our industry circles, everyone knew about Adam and me. They knew I’d drunk myself to the point of a bleeding stomach ulcer to secure the seed funding for his first major film. They knew I’d lived in a damp, isolated cabin in the Pacific Northwest for six months just to help him find his creative spark. To them, I was the devoted, slightly pathetic woman who had clawed her way into his orbit. But what none of them knew was that Adam and I were already married. Standing there in the cold draft of the banquet hall, a terrible realization dawned on me. All those years of tender gazes, those quiet moments when he looked at me with such profound, aching depth… was he ever actually looking at me? Or was he looking right through me, searching for the ghost of someone else? “Adam, it’s too loud in here. My head hurts,” Isla murmured, tugging gently at the sleeve of his tailored suit jacket. Her tone carried an easy, practiced intimacy. “Can we get out of here?” One of the lead investors immediately tossed his car keys across the table. “Go on, Adam. Take care of our director. That’s top priority tonight!” I stared at Adam, waiting. He avoided my eyes entirely. Assisting Isla by the elbow, he began guiding her toward the exit. “I’ll drop her off first,” he muttered as he brushed past me, his voice low and dismissive. “We’ll talk later.” They vanished into the VIP corridor. The noise of the party resumed around me, but my world had quietly collapsed. I spent the rest of the night wearing a painted-on smile, nodding until my jaw ached. By the time the guests began to filter out, the hollow ache in my chest had only grown sharper. “Goodnight, Fiona,” the assistant director said, waving as he headed for the door. “Adam mentioned you guys had a major announcement tomorrow. Wedding bells finally?” I forced my lips to stretch into another smile, though my throat felt thick with unshed tears. “No,” I whispered. “No announcement.” Three months ago, I had custom-ordered a platinum band to surprise him with on the night we finally went public with our marriage. Now, the small velvet box felt like a lead weight in my clutch. Suddenly, the thought of giving it to him made me feel sick. By midnight, the venue was empty. I checked my phone. The dozens of texts I’d sent Adam remained unread, unanswered. “Excuse me, ma’am,” a security guard said gently, approaching me. “We’re locking up the building.” “Of course. Sorry.” I reached for the chair to grab my silk wrap, only to realize it was gone. Adam had draped it over Isla’s bare shoulders before they left. Outside, a bitter spring rain was falling, the wind cutting through my thin dress. I sat on a bench under the awning of a closed coffee shop until the early hours of the morning, shivering, until my phone finally buzzed. It was Adam. “Are you still at the venue? It’s pouring. Stay put, I’m coming to get you.” Twenty minutes later, his black sedan pulled up to the curb. I opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat. Immediately, the scent of expensive, smoky woodwind perfume mixed with a hint of tobacco hit me. It was Isla’s signature scent. “She was having an anxiety attack. I had to stay until she calmed down,” he said, his tone perfectly even as he shifted into drive. I opened my mouth to speak, but my eyes caught a crumpled piece of notepad paper wedged in the gap of the console. I smoothed it out. Written in Adam’s distinctive, elegant cursive was a script note: The first kiss after their reunion. A cool, rainy night in May. The paper felt like a hot coal in my hand, scorching my fingertips. “I told you to wait inside,” Adam said, glancing down at my damp heels and wet hem. He reached into the backseat, grabbed a cashmere throw, and tossed it onto my lap. The blanket carried that same unfamiliar, smoky-sweet scent. I didn’t touch it. I let it slide off my knees onto the floor. “Who is Isla Rowe to you?” The silence in the car became heavy, suffocating. “A director. A colleague.” “Just a colleague?” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Then why did the algorithm say you were a one-hundred-percent match? Why did the assistant director say she’s the blueprint for every love story you’ve ever written?” And what about me? I wanted to scream. Am I just a lump of clay you carved into her likeness because you couldn’t have the real thing? “It’s a machine, Fiona. Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, his brow furrowing with irritation. “The press was watching. If I didn’t play along, it would have ruined her night and made me look like an amateur. She’s sensitive. Her pride is fragile, and she doesn’t handle being sidelined well.” “And what about me?” I interrupted, my voice cracking. “Do I deserve to watch my husband walk out of his own party with another woman? Do I deserve to stand in the freezing rain for two hours waiting for him?” He didn’t answer. He just pressed down on the gas pedal, his jaw set. This was always his way. Whenever things got too real, whenever he couldn’t deflect, he built a wall of silence. Our marriage license had been signed in secret, a deathbed wish from his ailing father. Back then, I believed that if I was patient enough, if I loved him deeply enough, the lack of a proper wedding or public recognition wouldn’t matter. After a few blocks, he reached out, his voice tight. “Give me the note.” I didn’t move. “Adam, do you still love her?” “No.” “Then who is that rainy-night kiss written for?” He finally snapped, turning to glare at me with a cold, sharp annoyance I had never seen before. “Fiona, are you done throwing a tantrum?” “We are legally married. Our families’ assets are tied together. What exactly are you insecure about?” “A tantrum?” The word tore a physical wound in my chest. “Is that what this is? Then why did you force me to wear a perfume I hated? Why did you spend years dictating how I speak, how I act, how I carry myself on camera? Weren’t you just trying to build a ghost?” Adam slammed on the brakes, pulling the car abruptly to the curb. He let out a harsh, dry laugh, as if I’d just said something incredibly naive. “You’re flattering yourself,” he said, his voice flat and cruel. “If you think you could ever be her surrogate, you’re not even close.” He shifted back into drive, and the rest of the ride home was silent. The moment we walked through the front door, he headed straight up to his third-floor study, closing the heavy oak door with a definitive click of the lock. I shut myself in the master bedroom, staring at the velvet box containing the platinum band. On the nightstand sat our only photo together. It was taken the night he won his first major screenwriting award. I had practically forced myself into the frame. In the photo, Adam’s head is turned slightly, his gaze directed off-camera, while I smiled radiantly at the lens. I used to think he was just camera-shy. But looking at it now, I realized he wasn’t looking away from the camera. He was looking at the empty VIP seat in the second row—the one reserved for Isla. Adam had never been stingy with money. The gifts he gave me were always from high-end auction houses—diamond tennis bracelets, sapphire necklaces. They were flawless, expensive, and entirely cold. A guilt offering. But he never walked through a park with me. He never remembered my birthday. And whenever we were intimate, he insisted on turning off every single light, tracing the contours of my face repeatedly in the pitch-black silence. The realization hit me so hard my vision blurred with tears. Down the hall, the sound of his office printer began to hum. I walked out of the bedroom and stood by his secondary desk in the hallway. The printer was spitting out pages of his new series outline. The pages kept rolling until the machine paused on a password-protected digital document on his synced tablet. I reached out. I tried my birthday. Incorrect. Our wedding anniversary. Incorrect. My fingers trembled as I typed in the date Isla had boarded her flight to Europe ten years ago. Access granted. It was a digital archive of journal entries, spanning a decade. A private gallery of his grief, written for an audience of one. “Met a girl today, Isla. She asked me for a job. When she laughs, her eyes crinkle just like yours.” “I taught her how to play the role from your thesis film today. For a second, when the light hit her, I thought you walked through the door.” Every entry was a masterpiece of longing, a monument of devotion. He knew how to write love letters. He just didn’t want to write them to me. I kept scrolling, my chest aching, until I reached an entry timestamped from early this morning. “Ten years. We finally got our rainy-night kiss.” “Fiona wore the wrap tonight. From behind, she looked exactly like you. But when she turned around, the illusion broke. It’s never you.” My tears dripped onto the tablet screen, smudging the words. I leaned against the desk, catching my reflection in the dark window pane. I had spent ten years smoothing down my rough edges for him, studying acting, refining my speech, trying to be the perfect woman for Adam Cross. Only to realize I was just a cheap, knock-off copy. The last file in the folder was a photo taken just hours ago. A blurry shot of a woman’s back, draped in my silk wrap, looking out at the rain through a window. The caption read: “Isla, the rain tonight tastes like you.” I stared at those words, then looked out at the cold spring rain still streaking down the glass. Adam, I thought, I am so done with this marriage. A sudden wave of nausea hit me so hard I had to run to the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink as my stomach heaved. To please him, I had traded my vibrant wardrobe for muted silk slip dresses. I had learned to lower my voice, to tilt my chin down when I spoke, to look up at him through my eyelashes. I thought he was just helping me perfect my craft. But he was just sculpting his masterpiece. I had given him the best decade of my life, and in return, I didn’t even get the dignity of being his wife. I was just a placeholder waiting to be discarded the moment the original returned. I walked down the hall toward the locked storage room at the very end of the corridor. Adam had forbidden me from ever going near it. But tonight, the rules didn’t matter. I went down to the garage, grabbed a heavy mallet, and walked back up. With three hard swings, the brass lock shattered, and the door swung open. The moment I stepped inside, the sheer weight of his obsession suffocated me. The room was a shrine to Isla Rowe. Racks of clothing lined the walls. There was the emerald gown she wore to her college graduation, the red dress she wore when she won her first international award. Adam had hunted down duplicates of every single outfit she’d ever worn and hung them here. And in the center of the room stood a dressmaker’s mannequin, draped in an unfinished lace wedding gown. It was the exact silhouette I had pointed out to Adam in a magazine a hundred times. I had begged him for a wedding like that. What had he said? “You don’t have the presence for a design like that yet, Fiona. Let’s wait.” He wasn’t waiting for me to grow into it. He was waiting for her to come back. Beneath the mannequin sat a wooden chest filled with dozens of unsent letters. Every date on those envelopes corresponded with a milestone in my life with him. The day I was discharged from the hospital after my stomach surgery, he had written to her: “She is weak today. Her pale face reminds me so much of how you looked the day you left.” The day we secretly signed our marriage license: “The family pressured me. I found the closest match to you to keep them quiet and protect the estate.” My entire existence had been reduced to a footnote in his grand love story with another woman. “What do you think you’re doing in here?” A cold, hard voice cut through the silence. Adam stood at the doorway, his eyes dark with fury. He marched into the room, tearing the letters out of my hands, and shoved me back. My forehead clipped the sharp edge of the mahogany wardrobe. A sharp pain shot through my skull, and spots danced in my eyes. “Adam, you are disgusting,” I whispered, pointing at the room full of relics. “Using me as a cheap bandage for your ego? Do you even have a soul?” He carefully smoothed out the crumpled edges of the envelopes, not even looking at me. “Fiona, don’t play the martyr,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Your family’s firm was on the brink of bankruptcy when you practically begged me to marry you.” “For ten years, you’ve used the Cross name to secure every major role you’ve had. Do I need to list them for you?” I stared at him, the sheer cruelty of his words piercing me like physical blades. “I want a divorce,” I said, gripping the wardrobe to steady myself. “Adam, we’re done.” His casual demeanor vanished. His jaw clenched. “A divorce? Get real, Fiona.” “Tomorrow night is the press gala for the new series. It’s also the night our families sign the contract renewal.” “If you walk now, you lose everything. You’re thirty. Without the Cross backing, what roles do you think you’re going to get in this town?” “I don’t care,” I said, my voice shaking but resolute. “I’d rather scrub floors than spend another second living with a ghost.” “Fine.” Adam pulled his phone out and tossed it at my feet. “Call your parents right now. Tell them you’re going to bankrupt the family business for the sake of your pride. See if they tell you to suck it up, or if they cheer for your independence.” With trembling fingers, I picked up the phone and dialed my father. I poured my heart out, my voice breaking as I told him everything. But when I finished, there was only a long, heavy silence on the other end. “Fiona,” my father said slowly. “Adam is an artist. Creative minds are temperamental. As long as he keeps you in that house and the contracts are signed, you’re the one with the ring. Don’t ruin this for us. Be smart.” The line went dead. It felt like a final sentence. Adam walked over, looking down at me with cold satisfaction. “See? Everyone expects you to keep playing the part.” “Just be good, Fiona. And you’ll always be Mrs. Cross.” Looking at his handsome, entirely empty face, I felt a deep, physical revulsion. I pushed past him, stumbled out of the bedroom, and began throwing my clothes into a suitcase. “Run away if you want,” he called out down the hallway. “But if you’re not at that gala tomorrow night—you know the consequences.” I didn’t look back. As I reached for my jewelry box to pack the platinum band, my hand brushed against a white envelope from my doctor’s office. My fingers froze. Adam, I thought, looking down at the positive test results, I am leaving you. And I am taking this life with me.

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My boyfriend, Toby, never asks for things directly. He always drops these subtle, roundabout hints. I used to think it was a pride thing—that he was just too embarrassed to ask me for help. And since we were getting married soon anyway, I figured what was mine was his, so I kept giving in, satisfying his every little hint. Until I accidentally stumbled upon an Instagram post from my best friend, Rae. [I am absolutely in love with the new Tesla Model Y. If only I could drive one!] The very next second, Toby’s account left a comment underneath. [Consider it done. I’ve got you.] I was still wondering when they had gotten so close when a text from Toby popped up on my phone. “I have to meet a client in a bit. It’s so hot out, and I have to walk half a mile to the subway station. It would be great if I had a car.” I was about to reply when I saw Rae’s latest comment on her post. [You know me so well! But I only want it if she brings it to me on a silver platter herself. Don’t forget to buy balloons—you used them all up last night.] I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. My thumb kept refreshing the screen, over and over, hoping for a different reality. But those glaring words only became clearer, and my heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold, iron fist. I stared at the screen, my stomach turning violently. Sleeping together behind my back, and using me as their personal ATM? I deleted the draft that read, “I’ll bring you the keys.” Instead, I replied: “Oh, you should probably call an Uber then.” 1 Toby was clearly taken aback. It took him several minutes to send another message. “It has to be over a hundred degrees out there.” “Probably. I’m in the AC, so I can’t really tell.” Seeing that I wasn’t playing along with his usual script, he quickly sent a frantic voice note, his tone tense and impatient. “The client is rushing me. If I’m late, this deal is dead. You know how important this project is for our future, Nicola.” In the past, if he had laid it on this thick, I would have immediately capitulated. I wouldn’t have had the heart to let him miss his meeting; I would have rushed over to hand him my keys. Then, he would pretend to feel guilty, hesitate a bit, and finally take them with a sigh. Just like every single time before. When he said his laptop was too slow and he had to work overtime to finish his reports, I bought him a brand-new MacBook Pro the very next day. When he said he was jealous of his coworkers having the new PlayStation 5 while he only had a stress ball to squeeze, I bought him the entire setup immediately. I had even quietly started saving recipes, thinking about how I would cook different meals for him every day once we were married. But this time, I intentionally played dumb. “Then order an Uber Comfort or something. It’s not that expensive, and it’s definitely worth it compared to losing a client.” He probably didn’t expect that response. His chat window fell silent for a long time. Ten minutes later, he sent a sad emoji. Then came another voice note: “I saw a colleague pull up in a brand-new car to meet a client yesterday. The client’s attitude was completely different.” I stared at the screen and let out a dry, bitter laugh. I just replied, “Cool.” On his end, the “typing…” indicator flickered constantly for three full minutes before a single line appeared. “I guess I’ll go squeeze onto the subway then. If I get heatstroke today, I won’t be able to make that garlic herb steak you love tonight.” I rolled my eyes at the screen and sent back a careless, “Stay safe out there.” Half an hour later, my phone rang. It was Rae. “Nicola, what kind of girlfriend are you?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “You’re making him take the subway in this heat? He has to meet an important client. What if he gets heatstroke? Do you not care about him at all?” I pinched the bridge of my nose, pressing down the anger flaring in my chest. “Since when do you care more about him than I do, Rae?” She didn’t seem to catch the edge in my voice and kept her self-righteous tone. “You guys are getting married. Why are you keeping score? It’s just borrowing a car. Do you really have to be this petty?” I laughed out loud. “It’s my car. I borrow it out when I want to, and I don’t when I don’t. How does that make me petty?” “Come on, that car was meant to be part of your wedding assets anyway. It’s eventually going to be Toby’s to drive. What’s the big deal about letting him use it now? I don’t get what you’re throwing a tantrum about.” I had just picked up the car last week and had barely driven it myself. Yet Toby had already borrowed it three times under various excuses, and every single time he brought it back, the low-fuel light was blinking red. Now, all the details I had willfully ignored started clicking into place. The day after I filled up the tank, Rae posted photos of a sunrise hike on Instagram. The next time he borrowed it, she posted a nine-photo grid of a lavish picnic that very afternoon. And back then, I was stupid enough to think he was running around working hard for our future, giving him whatever he asked for without a second thought. In reality, they were screwing around behind my back, using me as a tool to fuel their little trysts. I let out a cold laugh into the receiver, my voice dripping with barely suppressed sarcasm. “Rae, you’re awfully eager to speak up for him. You haven’t fallen for him, have you? Since you care so much, why don’t you just adopt him?” “Nicola, you are insane!” Before I could say another word, she slammed the phone down. 2 When I got home from work, Toby was sitting on the sofa, his face dark. “Nicola, you need to call Rae right now and apologize.” No “hey, babe.” No warmth. It was the first time he had spoken to me with such hostility. And all of it was for my best friend. The person I had poured my heart out to, the one I shared all my secrets with. My nose stung, and tears threatened to spill over, but the memory of his betrayal hardened my resolve. I blinked them back. “She was sobbing on the phone earlier, barely able to breathe,” Toby said, sounding genuinely aggrieved. “She was just trying to help us so we wouldn’t fight over a car and ruin our relationship. How could you humiliate her like that?” Looking at his righteous indignation, I found the whole thing hysterically funny. I leaned against the entryway wall, crossing my arms as I looked down at him. “Humiliate her? Why are you two so defensive? Did I hit a nerve?” Toby slammed his hand down on the armrest, making the cushions slide to the floor. “Nicola, stop being so unreasonable! Rae is your best friend. She tries to keep the peace and you throw dirt on her. Who wouldn’t be upset?” His tone made it seem like I was the one throwing a tantrum. I smirked. “Were we even fighting?” He froze, caught off guard. “What kind of peace was she keeping? Or are you just so used to her sticking her nose into our business? And now she’s crying to get your sympathy?” Toby’s face flushed red, then went pale. He struggled for words before squaring his jaw and shouting. “What is wrong with you today? It’s just a car! I’ll pay you back for the gas. Why do you have to drag Rae into this?” “You used to never be this petty! Why are you acting so toxic?” He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls vibrated. For the next three days, Toby didn’t come home. I actually enjoyed the quiet. I used the time to silently pack my bags. On the fourth morning, I called my parents. “Nicola, sweetie! Your dad and I were just looking at dates for the wedding later this year,” my mom’s cheerful voice came through. I took a deep breath. “Mom, Dad… cancel the wedding. I’m not marrying him.” The other end fell dead silent, followed by my mother’s trembling, worried questions. I didn’t explain in words. Instead, I sent her the screenshots of Rae’s Instagram from the past three days. There was Toby’s profile in a car dealership, the two of them posing intimately in front of a Tesla display, and even a shot of him kneeling down to adjust her passenger seat. The quiet sobbing on the other end of the line stopped. My mother was silent for a long moment before letting out a heavy sigh. “A man like that isn’t worth a single tear. We’ll find you someone who actually deserves you, sweetie. Don’t you dare feel bad.” A week later, I was on my way to a client meeting. As I drove past Rae’s office building, I saw a brand-new Tesla Model Y parked downstairs—exactly like mine. And my banking app notified me that $30,000 was missing from our joint savings account. A cold shiver ran down my spine. A $30,000 withdrawal. The exact same car. Rae’s posts at the dealership… 3 I pulled over, got out, and walked up to the building’s security guard. I pulled up Rae’s photo on my phone. “Excuse me, sir, is that black Tesla out front hers?” The guard squinted at the photo and nodded warmly. “Oh, yeah. Her boyfriend just bought it for her. Said it was a promotion gift.” Of course… How incredibly generous of him. A brand-new thirty-thousand-dollar car for Rae without blinking an eye. And for me? Roundabout hints, manipulative complaints, treating me like a mindless ATM. I was about to lose my mind when my phone buzzed. It was him. “What the hell is wrong with you, packing up and moving out? What is that supposed to mean?” It had taken him an entire week to notice? He must have been living at Rae’s place the whole time. “Look, I know you’re mad about the house fund, but I didn’t have a choice! The project’s cash flow got tight, so I had to borrow some money to cover it. I’ll put it back next week as soon as the client payment clears!” Ah. He thought he had taken the house fund. We had agreed that for our marriage, he would pay the down payment on our house, and I would buy the car as my contribution. But what he forgot was that his company’s project expense card and our joint house fund card shared almost identical numbers, differing only by the very last digit. The project expense card was a corporate account designated specifically for material procurement. By using that card to buy Rae’s car, he hadn’t just dipped into our savings—he had committed corporate embezzlement. I was about to point this out, but he cut me off. “Just get back here once you’ve cooled down. We’re adults, Nicola. Stop dragging out these minor issues. I’ll set up a dinner tonight so you can apologize to Rae. You guys are best friends—there’s no reason to let a silly misunderstanding ruin that.” I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh and hung up. Then, I drafted a text to the head manager of Toby’s firm. It looked like a casual, friendly inquiry, but every word carried a razor-sharp edge. “Hi Mr. Henderson, hope you’re doing well. I heard the materials for the new project were supposed to be delivered this week, and since I was passing by the site, I wanted to check in. Is everything on track?” After hitting send, I stared out the window at the passing city skyline, thinking about the last three years I had spent helping him manage his projects. Even though we worked at different firms, we were in the same industry. Over the past year, I had kept a close eye on his projects, warning him about suppliers with bad reputations and spotting flaws in his schedules. And during the days he was busy picking out a car for Rae, his project’s critical material delivery window was happening. With no one to remind him, he had completely forgotten. When Mr. Henderson got my message, he would definitely check the ledger. The company had already authorized the funds to Toby. Under normal circumstances, the steel and concrete should have arrived at the job site. But Toby had embezzled the material funds to buy Rae’s Tesla. With the suppliers unpaid, the materials would be withheld. This was about to get very interesting. 4 That evening, Rae made a grand entrance in her new Tesla, pulling up right in front of me with Toby leaning lazily in the passenger seat. Rae rolled down the window and jingled the keys at me. “Honestly, this car drives like an absolute dream. We should totally go on a road trip sometime soon!” Toby poked his head out, a smug, self-satisfied grin plastered on his face. “She loved your Tesla so much she wanted the exact same model. I guess you two really do have the same taste.” His arrogant posture said it all: Even if you wouldn’t let me borrow your car, I still found a way to get her one. Rae fished out a car wash gift card and tossed it through the window at me. “The dealership gave me this. You can have it. Let’s not let past drama get between us. We’re sisters, right?” I looked down at the plastic card in my lap. “See? Rae is so understanding. She’s trying to make peace,” Toby chimed in, though his eyes kept darting to my phone. “But man, owning a car is expensive. Insurance alone is a killer.” Rae sighed in unison. “I know, right? Nicola, you’re so lucky you could just buy yours outright. Must be nice to have so much cash lying around. Unlike me—I had to finance mine.” Financed? Did you pay a single penny, Rae? You demanded Toby buy it, and now you want me to pay for the insurance? You two are truly unbelievable. They played their roles perfectly, completely glossing over their betrayal as if my anger had just been some hysterical overreaction. I stood up, picked up the gift card, and tossed it straight into the trash can. “If you can’t even afford the insurance, you shouldn’t have gotten the car.” Rae’s face drained of color, and her eyes welled with tears. “Toby… I told you she’d just humiliate me. She’s always hated me just because I’m close to you. Maybe we shouldn’t see each other anymore. I don’t want her making trouble for me!” Covering her face, she stumbled away, looking like the victim of some grand tragedy. Toby’s face darkened, his eyes flashing with fury. He glared at me, then turned to chase after her, shouting back over his shoulder: “Nicola, that is enough! Rae was nice enough to bring you a gift, and you throw a tantrum?” “If you’re going to keep acting like a psycho, we don’t need to get married!” Who the hell wants to marry you! The next day, Rae’s car was seized. An enraged Toby dragged a hysterical Rae straight to my office. Shedding her usual fragile persona, Rae pointed a manicured finger at my nose and screamed, “Nicola! Did you do this?!” “How can you be so vicious? Just because I spoke up for Toby, you accused me of sleeping with him, and now you have her car towed and locked up? What is wrong with you?” I almost laughed out loud. They were the ones cheating, yet here they were, accusing me without a shred of evidence. I kept my voice cold. “What proof do you have that I had her car seized?” SLAP. A stinging blow landed hard across my cheek. The sudden pain flared up instantly, leaving half my face completely numb. Holding my burning cheek, I stared in utter disbelief at Toby, who stood there with his fist still raised. He was breathing heavily, his eyes wild with a protective rage for Rae. “Who else could it be? You didn’t want her driving your car, and now that she has her own, you go and pull strings to get it seized!” I slowly lowered my hand. “So you finally admit you wanted to use my car for her?” Caught in his own trap, Toby’s face flushed a deep crimson. He stepped forward and grabbed my wrist roughly. “Stop changing the subject! Get them to release the car right now, or I’m calling your parents to call off the wedding! They’ve been waiting for this for years. Do you really want to disappoint them?” I pulled out my phone and unlocked it. “Sure. Let’s call them.” Toby snatched the phone away, staring at me in disbelief. “Are you serious? Just apologize to Rae and get the car back!” I opened my hands. “Why would I apologize? I’m not the court. I don’t have the power to seize anyone’s car.” Toby frowned. “What are you talking about?” I smiled. “I mean, you’re about to be arrested.”

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On the day of my engagement to the wealthiest heiress in the city, my father stood on the stage, smiled warmly into the microphone, and said: “To be honest, my son used to make amateur adult videos online. A different partner in every tape. I’m just glad he finally found a sucker to take him off our hands.” I stared at him, my mind blank with disbelief. But Gwen Dewitt simply stepped in front of me, shielding me from the whispering crowd. “Mr. Dunbar,” she said, her voice cool and steady, “please don’t make jokes like that again.” Later, in private, my father offered a half-hearted shrug. “I only wanted to see if her devotion to you was real.” But on the night before the wedding, I ate the dinner my father had personally cooked for me. When I next opened my eyes, I was lying in a bed next to my brother’s girlfriend, Sasha Lawson. Gwen, who had come to pick me up for the ceremony, walked into the room. Her eyes turned instantly red. “So,” she whispered, “your father wasn’t lying after all.” My younger brother, Charlie, burst into tears and slapped Sasha across the face. “How could you do this to me?” In the end, the groom at the altar was Charlie. Sasha burned every piece of clothing that carried my scent. “I have never met a man as pathetic as you,” she spat. “Willing to sleep with your own brother’s girl!” I looked at my father, tears streaming down my face, begging for him to speak the truth. He remained entirely unmoved. “Your brother,” he said quietly, “is simply better suited to be the husband of the Dewitt heir.” Twenty years later, the city’s newest rising star—my daughter, Amelia—brought her boyfriend to meet me. “Dad, if you approve of him, we’re getting engaged.” I looked at the boy standing beside her. He had the exact same face as my brother Charlie. “I don’t approve,” I said. 1 The words “I don’t approve” rippled through the banquet hall. A sudden, suffocating silence fell over the guests. My brother’s son, Gary, had taken his mother’s last name—Dewitt. He was a prestigious graduate of the Berklee College of Music. Six feet tall, slender, and striking. His father was a well-known socialite, his mother was the former wealthiest woman in the city, and his grandfather was a celebrated national philanthropist. Even Amelia looked stunned. “Dad… when I talked about Gary before, you seemed so supportive. What changed?” “I liked the idea of him,” I said, taking a slow sip of my tea. “Now that I see him, I don’t.” A murmur of unease spread through the room. Physically, Gary was a carbon copy of my brother. Back at Berklee, he had been the golden boy, adored by everyone. He had clearly never experienced rejection of this scale. His face flushed a deep, angry red. “Mr. Morgan, is it my manners? My clothes? Something else? Just tell me, and I will change it!” “You don’t need to change anything,” I replied, setting my teacup down with a soft click. “But you will never step foot into the Morgan family.” “Mr. Morgan,” someone in the crowd intervened, unable to hold back. “Perhaps you haven’t heard of Gary’s grandfather. He’s a world-renowned philanthropist who has dedicated his life to helping the less fortunate.” “Yes, indeed,” another guest chimed in. “The boy was raised by the finest families. You don’t need to worry about his character.” I let out a quiet, bitter breath. So my father had poured all his care into Charlie’s child, too. Amelia looked at me, her eyes filled with quiet curiosity. “Dad… did Gary do something to upset you?” “It has nothing to do with him,” I said flatly. Gary snapped. “Then why? What right do you have to bar me from your family? Tell me what’s wrong with me! Just saying ‘no’ is… it’s…” I looked him dead in the eye. “It’s what?” “It’s not fair!” he shouted. I narrowed my eyes. “I am the sole owner of Morgan Enterprises. Why should I have to submit a report to you on who I choose as my son-in-law?” “You—!” Fuming, Gary spun on his heel and stormed out of the hall, slamming the double doors behind him. I remained seated, calmly drinking my tea. The banquet resumed, and no one dared to bring up the subject again. No one wanted to cross me on my own turf. Amelia, whom I had raised single-handed, had always respected my decisions. Toward the end of the evening, she leaned in and murmured, “Dad, if he ever did anything to hurt you in the past, don’t keep it bottled up. It’s not worth your health.” I smiled but said nothing. But as the guests were starting to leave, the heavy doors were thrown open once more. “Where is David Morgan?!” Twenty years ago, I legally cut ties with the Dunbar family and took my mother’s maiden name, Morgan. My brother, Charlie Dunbar, stood in the doorway. He looked much the same as he did twenty years ago, though his hair was parted with absolute precision and his face carried the heavy, settled look of middle age. When his eyes met mine, he froze. A few seconds passed, and then a mocking smile spread across his lips. “Amelia’s father… is you?” I didn’t answer. “Dear brother,” Charlie said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “They said you never married. I didn’t realize you managed to produce a child out of wedlock.” “Is there something you want, Mr. Dunbar?” I asked. Charlie finally remembered why he had stormed in. His expression darkened. “Gary came home in tears.” “Okay.” “Don’t you think you’re being pathetic?” Charlie sneered, taking a step toward me. “You couldn’t beat me back then, so now you’re taking your revenge out on an innocent kid?” I only smiled. “David,” Charlie said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Don’t think that being a billionaire gives you the right to do whatever you want. Don’t forget, my wife was once the wealthiest woman in this city. And Gary’s grandfather—our father—is a saint compared to you.” I sat comfortably at the head table. “And? Are you saying your family gets to dictate who my daughter marries?” “I…” Charlie clenched his fists. “I’m just telling you not to push your luck!” “You crashed my private event to force me to accept your son,” I said, my voice turning icy. “Who is pushing whose luck?” Charlie bit his lip. He was used to everyone bowing to him because of Gwen and our father. 2 My silence was a luxury he wasn’t going to get. I gave a slight nod to the security team. Two large men immediately stepped forward, grabbing Charlie by his arms. “David Morgan! How dare you have your men touch me!” Charlie panicked, his dignified facade instantly cracking. I didn’t even look up as they dragged him out. Charlie had never looked so pathetic, flailing between two guards as they hauled him toward the exit. “David! You’ve gone too far! You’ll pay for this!” The heavy doors shut, cutting off his pathetic screams. I wiped my hands with a linen napkin, stood up, and bowed slightly to the remaining guests. “My apologies for the interruption. I’ve prepared a small parting gift for everyone, which you can collect from the butler on your way out. Have a wonderful evening.” With that, I walked out of the hall, Amelia following closely behind. The next morning, before I had even finished my coffee, the front gate security called. When the front door opened, I found myself face-to-face with Gwen Dewitt. It had been exactly twenty years since we last looked at each other. “I’m here about my husband and son,” Gwen said, skipping any polite pleasantries. She looked around the expansive foyer of my estate, a flicker of regret crossing her eyes. “So, you really built all of this by yourself?” “Did you think someone was going to help me?” I asked, my voice dry. Her gaze lingered on my face, and she let out a soft sigh. “What happened back then… I admit I was too rash.” “And who exactly are you here for, Ms. Dewitt?” Gwen choked on her breath. The boy who used to cling to her arm, calling her his whole world, was long gone. In his place was a cold, impenetrable man. She sighed again. “Those two have been spoiled by me. You know how much Charlie and his father adore them. Your cruelty yesterday has devastated them. Neither of them has eaten a bite since.” “Cruelty?” I set my coffee cup down, staring directly into her eyes. “Ms. Dewitt, do I no longer have the right to manage my own household?” “It’s not that…” Gwen hesitated. “But anyone with eyes can see what you’re doing. You’re taking your revenge.” I smiled. “If that’s how you want to see it, then yes. I admit it.” “But your anger is with me, isn’t it? Because I didn’t marry you?” Gwen’s voice grew desperate. “What happened is in the past. If you want to punish someone, punish me! Don’t take it out on my family! Tell me what you want. If you let Gary marry Amelia, I will sign my entire estate over to you.” I looked at her, genuinely surprised. Then, I laughed. “Gwen. You built your empire from nothing.” She stiffened, turning her head away. “You swore you would never go back to being poor,” I continued. “And now you’re willing to throw away everything you built? For them?” Gwen closed her eyes, her shoulders dropping. “They… are more important to me than money.” A bitter pang went through my chest. She had said those exact words to me once. In the end, I had my security escort her out. As she walked down the driveway, she kept looking back. “Can we really not talk about this? I’m not joking about the compensation, David.” “Please. They are so heartbroken.” I watched her through the window. And what about me? I thought. What about the twenty-four-year-old boy who knelt on the floor, begging you to believe he was set up, sobbing until he couldn’t breathe? Who comforted him? Not long after Gwen left, my assistant knocked again. When the door opened this time, we both froze. It was Sasha Lawson. The woman I had allegedly ruined. My brother’s former girlfriend. Like me, she had spent the last twenty years in solitude. 3 Sasha had never married. “I didn’t think you’d show up here,” I said, gesturing for her to sit. Sasha sat across from me, her eyes sweeping over the quiet grandeur of my home before finally settling on me. “I didn’t realize you were so obsessive,” she said. “What do you mean?” “Amelia. I only found out yesterday that she is your daughter.” I remained silent. “The night of the setup?” she asked softly. I knew what she was referring to. The night my father had drugged me and placed me in her bed. I shook my head. “I didn’t do it, Sasha.” She sighed, a weary smile touching her lips. “You don’t have to deny it anymore. I understand.” “I really didn’t.” She looked at me, her expression a mix of pity and exasperation. “You’ve always been stubborn, David. But you must know… the reason I’ve stayed single all these years is because of you.” I took a slow sip of my coffee and said nothing. “Targeting Gary and Charlie… honestly, it’s a bit much,” she continued. “Are you trying to dictate my family affairs too?” I asked, my voice dropping an octave. She let out a long, heavy breath. “David. Legally and biologically speaking, Amelia is my daughter. This is my family affair too.” “I told you, she isn’t your daughter.” Sasha stared at me. “David, I have eyes. That girl looks just like me.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Sasha was a woman of sharp, striking features. Amelia had a similar, elegant bone structure. “Amelia has a sharp style, yes,” I said. “But you don’t own a monopoly on high cheekbones, Ms. Lawson. You’re projecting.” Sasha closed her eyes for a moment. “Fine. I’ll yield. I will marry you.” I paused, staring at her. “If this is what all of this was for,” she said, looking at me with absolute seriousness, “I can accept it. We can go get our marriage license today. What do you say?” For a moment, I was completely speechless at the sheer absurdity of her arrogance. “My heart might never fully belong to you,” she added, “but I will do my best to be a dutiful wife.” I couldn’t take any more of this delusion. “Security. Escort her out.” “David Morgan!” Sasha stood up, her brows furrowed in anger. “Do you really have to make life miserable for Charlie and Gary?” “Get out,” I said coldly. Sasha glared at me, clearly thinking I was entirely unreasonable, before she was walked out by my staff. I pinched the bridge of my nose. “If anyone else comes to see me, turn them away immediately.” But the next afternoon, my assistant knocked on my door again, looking troubled. “Mr. Morgan, there’s a man outside who refuses to leave. He says… he’s your father.” Twenty years had carved deep lines into Richard Dunbar’s face, but his eyes were just as cold as the day he threw me out. He walked into my office, surveyed the room, and let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Twenty years. You really spent twenty years fueled by nothing but spite.” “If you have something to say, Mr. Dunbar, say it.” My father took a few steps closer. “You’re my son, David. I know you hate me.” And then, right there in the middle of my office, the great, revered philanthropist sank to his knees. I stared at him, entirely stunned. “Dad?” “If it makes you feel better, I will kneel before you,” he said, his voice trembling. “Bobby… I still prefer the name I gave you.” My hand, which had automatically reached out to help him up, froze in midair. He looked up at me, his eyes wide and pleading. “What happened back then was my choice alone. I don’t regret it, but I will take the blame. I am sorry.” I let out a soft, hollow laugh. “For Charlie’s sake, you would actually go this far.” “Yes,” he whispered. I slowly pulled my hand back, letting it drop to my side. “Dad, there is one thing I’ve never understood. Will you tell me the truth?” “What is it?” 4 “Why is it,” my voice cracked, the old, familiar ache rising in my throat, “that you can be a savior to thousands of orphans across this country, but you couldn’t find a single ounce of fairness for your own son?” My father lowered his eyes. “Answer me, Dad.” “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his jaw tightening. “But I couldn’t bear to see Charlie suffer.” I smiled. You couldn’t bear to see him suffer. So you broke me instead. “Get up,” I said, my voice empty. “I will never forgive any of you.” He didn’t move. “Bobby…” he pleaded, his voice cracking. I turned my back to him, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window. “Show him out.” I heard him slowly rise. The grief in his eyes surely turned back into anger, then bitterness, before the heavy oak door was slammed shut. I watched his frail figure walk down to his car. “Set up a matchmaking gala for Amelia,” I instructed my assistant. “Open invite. Any family with good standing, good character, and of appropriate age. Everyone is welcome.” I paused. “Except Gary Dewitt.” “Understood, Mr. Morgan.” The gala was put together within a week. Amelia was dressed beautifully, looking every bit the poised, elegant heiress she was. “Do you hate me for orchestrating this?” I asked her as we stood near the entrance. “No,” Amelia said, looking out at the young men gathered in the room. “I’ll never forget that you raised me alone, Dad. I want to do what’s best for our family.” I patted her shoulder. “If there’s someone you like, their net worth doesn’t matter. I just want you to be happy.” Amelia looked up at me. “Anyone I like?” “Yes.” “Are you sure?” “Of course. Even if they aren’t in this room tonight, you can choose them.” “If that’s the case…” Amelia stood up. With a sudden, violent sweep of her arm, she sent a towering, double-height champagne pyramid crashing to the floor. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the hall. Guests shrieked and scrambled backward as a wave of gold liquid splashed across the marble floor, soaking the hem of my trousers. I looked up, frozen. Amelia stood there, her hand wrapped tightly around Gary Dewitt’s wrist. He had just walked through the front doors. “I’m sorry, Dad,” Amelia said, her voice shaking but resolute. “I know you hate Gary. But he’s the only one I want.” Gary looked down at me, a smug, victorious smile pulling at his lips as he wrapped a possessive arm around my daughter’s waist. “My apologies, Mr. Morgan,” Gary said smoothly. “It seems your word isn’t absolute after all.”

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