All because I was trying to be helpful and washed my boss’s coffee mug. His wife threw a cup of scalding hot chai latte right in my face, soaking my clothes. She shoved me against the wall, her face contorted with rage. “Look at yourself! You really think you have what it takes to seduce my husband?” The hot liquid blistered my hands instantly. I tried to shake my head, to wave my hands in desperate denial, but she wouldn’t stop screaming. “No wonder your mother is rotting away in a hospital bed! She’s probably dying of shame from raising a pathetic, fatherless mistake like you. I hope she dies sooner so she’s out of her misery!” I gripped the dish towel in my hands, a white-hot fury pushing me to the brink of sanity. Then, her eyes caught the glint of the silver ring hanging from my neck, slipped beneath my collar. Her face twisted into something truly monstrous. “You’re wearing a ring with my husband’s initials? What lie are you going to spin now, you home-wrecking bitch?” She snatched the chain, ripping the ring from my throat, threw it onto the floor, and ground her heel right into it. That was when my boss pushed the door open. He didn’t even glance at his wife. He walked straight toward me. Kneeling down, he reached for the warped silver band. His hands were shaking. His eyes were bloodshot and brimming with tears. And then, he whispered a name I hadn’t heard in twenty years. 1 At dawn, the hospital’s billing department woke me with a call. The voice on the other end was cold, dripping with professional impatience. “You’re five hundred dollars short on this month’s payments. If you don’t clear the balance by the end of the week, we’ll have to suspend your mother’s dialysis.” My mom lay sleeping beside me in our cramped apartment, her face pale and sunken. I gently touched her cheek, my voice hushed as I whispered into the receiver, “I’ll get the money. I’ll find a way, I swear.” I rushed through my morning routine and headed to the coffee shop where I worked. As I wiped down the wooden tables, my mind kept running the numbers over and over again. Twelve thousand dollars. That was what the surgery cost. On my meager hourly wage, even if I stopped eating entirely, it would take years to save that much. The weight of that figure felt like a mountain crushing the breath out of my lungs. I took a deep breath, forcing the tears back. When you’re poor, you don’t have the luxury of crying. You just don’t have the time. Just then, Sylvia, the boss’s wife, walked in, her stilettos clicking sharply against the tile. She narrowed her eyes, scanning the cafe like radar, looking for any flaw. From my very first day, she had hated me. She always found a reason to pick at me, to make my life difficult. I hoped I could fly under the radar today, but my heart sank as she marched straight toward me, holding up a custom ceramic mug. “Who told you to touch my husband’s mug?” I squeezed the wet rag under the running water, keeping my voice as polite and small as possible. “There were coffee stains on it. I just wanted to clean it for him.” She grabbed another stained mug from the counter and slammed it onto the table. “These are matching couple’s mugs. You wash his and leave mine dirty? You think I’m stupid? You did this on purpose.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it,” I replied, biting my lip. “Oh, so you’re just ignoring me now? Trying to push my buttons?” Without warning, she grabbed a freshly made hot chai latte off the pickup counter and flung it over me. I instinctively held up my hands to shield my face. The hot liquid splashed over my knuckles, immediately searing my skin into angry, red blisters. “Sylvia, please… I’m just trying to do my job.” She didn’t listen. Hysterical, she slammed me against the wall. “Look at yourself! You really think you have what it takes to seduce my husband?” I shook my hands, trying to explain, but she kept spitting insults. “No wonder your mother is terminal. She’s probably dying of shame from raising a pathetic, fatherless mistake like you!” Rage surged straight to my brain. “You can say whatever you want about me,” I whispered, my voice trembling, “but do not talk about my mother.” Sylvia blinked in surprise, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh, you’re talking back now? I’ll say whatever I want! I hope she dies sooner so she’s out of her misery. Think of this drink as an early wake for her!” I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. But in the end, I let go. I couldn’t afford to lose this job. I couldn’t risk it. Every dollar I made was keeping my mother alive. I hung my head, utterly defeated. As I slumped, the silver ring I wore on a chain slipped out from the collar of my uniform. The metal was worn, but if you looked closely, you could see the faint engraving of an ‘S’. For Sullivan. When Sylvia saw it, her face darkened instantly. “You’re wearing a ring with my husband’s initials? What lie are you going to spin now, you home-wrecking bitch?” She kicked me hard in the chest. I collapsed onto the sticky, sweet puddle on the floor. As Sylvia bent down to rip the chain from my neck, the door opened. My boss, Robert Sullivan, stepped in. Taking in the mess and my bruised state, he yelled, “Sylvia, stop! What the hell do you think you’re doing in my shop?” 2 In an instant, Sylvia’s eyes welled with tears. She threw herself into Robert’s arms, her voice cracking with performative distress. “Oh, Rob, thank God you’re here! She tried to attack me!” She held up her wrist, pointing to a faint red mark she must have pinched into her own skin. “I was just trying to give Lucy some feedback about her performance, telling her to stop slacking off, and she just flew off the handle! She screamed at me and threw hot coffee all over herself just to make me look bad!” Robert’s gaze shifted past Sylvia, landing directly on me. More specifically, his eyes locked onto the silver ring resting against my collarbone. When he realized what it was, a visible tremor ran through his entire body. As if trying to hide his shock, he quickly turned and retreated into his office. He threw a cold, brief remark over his shoulder: “I’ll handle this.” The way he had looked at me… it was strange. It lingered in my mind, but I was too shaken to dissect it. Sylvia had a spa appointment, so she grabbed her purse, giving me one last venomous glare before leaving. “We aren’t finished,” she whispered. During the lunch lull, Robert approached my station. He quietly slipped an envelope into my hand. “Lucy, this is the Employee of the Month bonus. It’s five hundred dollars in cash.” I stared at the envelope. I had only been working here for three months. I was clumsy, broke things, and made mistakes. How could I possibly deserve Employee of the Month? I opened my mouth to protest, but Robert gently patted my shoulder. “You’re a good kid. If you ever need anything—any help at all—just ask. I mean it.” His voice was thick with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. But I couldn’t bring myself to hand the money back. Because five hundred dollars was exactly what I needed to keep my mother’s dialysis going. By the afternoon, Sylvia returned and ordered me to haul heavy crates of milk and syrup into the basement storage. Usually, it took three of the baristas to do this over several hours. But she forbade anyone from helping me. “Consider this your punishment for yesterday’s little stunt with my husband. You don’t leave until it’s done.” I hauled the heavy crates for two agonizing hours. By the end, my lower back felt like it was splitting in two. I hid in the staff bathroom, trying to massage the ache away. Suddenly, my phone began buzzing frantically. It was the store’s group chat. Sylvia had pinned a long, public message: [Just a reminder to everyone, this cafe is a place of business.] [Some people have twisted ideas about how to get ahead, thinking they can sleep their way to a promotion.] [I suggest everyone keep their distance from certain toxic people unless you want to get dragged down with them.] The other employees instantly chimed in, eager to kiss up to the boss’s wife: [You’re so right, Sylvia! Some people have no dignity. It’s disgusting.] [Don’t worry, Sylvia. If I see anyone acting shady, I’ll call them out myself!] [Message received. Keeping my distance starting now.] At the very end, Sylvia tagged me directly: [@Lucy, if I ever see you sniffing around my husband again, you’re fired on the spot.] The digital venom felt like physical needles piercing my skin. Every second I spent in that shop was becoming a living nightmare. I was about to wipe my eyes and force myself back to work when my phone rang again. It was the hospital. The lead physician’s voice was grim. My mother had taken a sudden turn for the worse. Her kidneys were failing rapidly, and her heart was starting to show signs of strain. “We need to schedule the surgery immediately, Lucy. We can’t wait anymore. If we don’t operate this week, I’m afraid she won’t make it.” I leaned against the cold bathroom tiles and slowly slid to the floor. I buried my face in my hands and let out a broken, quiet sob. I allowed myself exactly five minutes to cry. Then I wiped my face, swallowed my pride, and went to find Sylvia to ask for a salary advance. She was lounging in the office chair, legs crossed, casually painting her toenails a vibrant crimson red. I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to build up the courage. And then, I spoke. 3 “Sylvia, is there any way I could get an advance on my salary? Just a few months. My mom’s condition worsened, and she needs emergency surgery…” Sylvia blew on her wet toenails, not even bothering to look up. She let out a sharp scoff. “Are you daydreaming? First you try to steal my husband, and now you’re trying to steal my money?” I bowed my head, my voice cracking with desperation. “I’m not joking. My mother is in the ICU. She needs this surgery to survive.” “If you can help me with the advance, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll work overtime for free, I’ll sign a contract—I’ll work the next three years without pay if I have to!” “Why the hell should I care about your mother?” She rolled eyes and stood up to leave. Desperate, I stepped into her path, blocking her way. “Please. I’m begging you…” “Get out of my face!” She swung her hand wildly. The heavy glass bottle of nail polish slipped from her grip and struck me hard across the forehead. A warm, thin trickle of blood immediately began to slide down my temple. She sat back down, crossing her arms, her smile dripping with malice. “Your mother’s life has nothing to do with me. Shouldn’t you be begging your father for the cash?” “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You don’t have a father. Your mother chose to raise a bastard child, and now you’re just following in her footsteps.” “Otherwise, why would your father leave your mother to rot while you’re out here selling yourself to other women’s husbands?” The blood in my veins ran hot, rushing straight to my ears. I stared at her, my eyes burning with a raw, painful fury. “That is enough. That is the second time you’ve insulted my mother.” She stood up slowly, stepping into my personal space until we were nose-to-nose. “You dare glare at me? I could fire you right now and leave you with absolutely nothing.” She spat her words in my face. “The nerve of you, asking me for money after trying to sleep with my husband. One more word and I’ll dock your entire paycheck for the month.” In that moment, I realized how easily poverty can strip away a person’s dignity. I covered my mouth, bolted from the office, and hid in the breakroom, weeping silently. I squeezed the silver ring around my neck, its cold metal pressing hard against my palm. Where are you, Dad? How could you just leave us like this? How could you let her suffer? I tried to gather myself, trying to stop shaking so I could go back to the floor. But before I could open the door, Sylvia and a group of employees blocked my way. “Lucy, don’t move.” My heart plummeted. “What’s going on?” Sylvia sneered. “The register is short five hundred dollars. What do you think is going on?” A cold dread washed over me. “I’ve been hauling crates in the basement all afternoon. I haven’t even been near the cash register!” She arched an eyebrow. “How do we know you didn’t sneak up here when no one was looking?” “I didn’t!” I protested, tears stinging my eyes. “Check the security cameras! The footage will prove I wasn’t anywhere near the counter!” Sylvia let out a mocking laugh. “Oh, what a shame. The cameras conveniently went down this afternoon. Not a single thing was recorded. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?” A chill went down my spine. Because in my pocket, I was carrying exactly five hundred dollars. 4 “If you have nothing to hide, let us search you,” Sylvia demanded, stepping closer. “If we don’t find the money, you’re clean. If you refuse, you’re a thief.” I stared at her in disbelief. “You have no right to search me.” Sylvia laughed hysterically. “Either we search you, or I call the police. And when you go to jail, your pathetic mother will be left to die alone in that hospital bed.” The mention of my mother sent a sharp spike of terror through my chest. If I was arrested, there would be no one left to save her. I squeezed the envelope in my pocket, my palms slick with sweat. The five hundred dollars in that envelope had been given to me by Robert. If they found it on me now, there would be no way to explain it. But if I didn’t let them search me, they would call the cops. I was trapped. Two security guards stepped forward, grabbing me firmly by the arms. I thrashed against their grip, but it was useless. Sylvia reached straight for my pocket. “Get your hands off me!” I screamed, breaking one arm free. Slap. Sylvia struck me hard across the cheek. My face burned with a stinging heat, and the metallic taste of blood pooled in the corner of my mouth. She yanked at the pocket of my uniform. The white envelope slipped out, hitting the floor. Crisp hundred-dollar bills spilled across the tile. A collective gasp echoed through the room. Sylvia snatched up the cash, waving it in front of the crowd. “Exactly five hundred dollars! She stole it from the register!” “I didn’t!” I cried, shaking my head frantically. “Mr. Sullivan gave me that money! He told me it was an employee bonus!” Sylvia scoffed as if I had just told the most ridiculous lie. “An employee bonus? We’ve never had bonuses like that. Why would my husband just hand you cash? What exactly are you doing for him?” She leaned in close, lowering her voice to a venomous whisper. “I wonder how your sick mother would feel if she knew you were selling your body to your boss just to pay her medical bills. Would she die of a broken heart?” She straightened up, raising her voice so everyone could hear. “Oh, I get it now! Was this hush money? Did my husband pay you off to keep you away from me?” I was shaking so violently I couldn’t even form words. Suddenly, her eyes locked onto my neck, and her expression shifted to vicious glee. “And what about this?” She lunged forward, ripping the chain off my neck and holding up the silver ring. “This ring has my husband’s initial on it. She must have stolen it from him, keeping it like some sick trophy!” “Give it back!” I screamed, throwing my weight forward. That ring was the only thing my father had left my mother. It was our only connection to him, our anchor. Sylvia’s face was completely heartless. With a cruel grin, she dropped the ring onto the floor. And brought her stiletto heel down hard. I let out a raw shriek, diving for the floor to claw at the metal, but I was a second too late. A sickening, metallic crunch echoed through the room as the band warped under her weight. She lifted her foot, adjusted her balance, and stomped down again. The sharp point of her heel drove into the back of my hand. A white-hot agony flared up my arm. Cold sweat broke out across my forehead, soaking my uniform as I gasped for air. Sylvia didn’t hesitate. She ground her heel into my hand, twisting it slowly. She looked down at me, her expression a mix of threat and triumph. She tapped the toe of her shoe against my cheek. “Kneel and beg for my forgiveness. Maybe if I’m in a good mood, I’ll let you off the hook. Otherwise, I’m calling the police. Three, two, one…” In that moment, every ounce of my pride, every shred of my strength, shattered. I wasn’t afraid of prison. I was terrified that if I went to jail, I would never see my mother alive again. “I’m sorry. It was my fault.” The humiliating words scraped past my throat, barely audible. Tears mingled with the blood on my face, dripping onto the tile. I grabbed Sylvia’s ankle, pressing my forehead against the floor right next to her dusty shoe. “Please… don’t call the cops.” I’m sorry, Mom. This is the only way I can protect you. I pressed my forehead against the hard floor again and again. A satisfied smirk finally spread across Sylvia’s face. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She kicked my hands away as if I were a piece of garbage. “Don’t worry. Even when you’re locked up, I’ll be charitable enough to send some flowers to your mother’s grave.” Just as the words left her mouth, the front door of the cafe slammed open. Robert stood in the doorway, staring at me as I knelt on the floor. Sylvia’s face transformed instantly into a mask of fragile distress. “Oh, Rob, you came at the perfect time! This little thief stole five hundred dollars from the register. I was just about to call the police!” My ears were ringing, and the room was spinning. I saw Robert’s lips moving, saying something to me, but I couldn’t hear the words. And then, the entire room went dead silent as he spoke the words that changed everything.

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During the wedding toasts, my wife’s guy friend, Chase, looked at me with a sly, knowing smirk. “Hey, man. Looking good. Great build.” I assumed he was complimenting the bespoke charcoal suit I was wearing. Squeezing Helena’s hand, I gave him a shy, grateful smile. “Thank you.” The next second, the entire table erupted into booming laughter. Chase leaned over, tossing an arm around Helena’s shoulder. “Don’t thank me. Honestly, we should be thanking Helena. She’s the one who gave us the grand tour. Who knew she’d be willing to share those private bedroom photos with the group chat?” A cold dread washed over me, freezing the blood in my veins. I turned slowly, my eyes searching Helena’s face for some kind of denial. She was quiet for a beat. Then, she reached down and gently rubbed my knuckles, her touch meant to soothe but feeling entirely hollow. “It was just a game of Truth or Dare, Ian. I lost. You couldn’t expect me to back out and let everyone think I’m a sore loser.” I stared at her, completely numb. It hit me all at once: my private, intimate photos had been passed around among her friends like a cheap joke. Even though I was fully dressed in a tailored suit, I felt utterly naked under their gazes. Chase scoffed, his tone dripping with thin, condescending pity. “Oh, come on. You literally sold your body to save Helena back then. Don’t tell me you’re getting touchy over a couple of bedroom pictures now.” The wound I had spent years trying to bury was ripped wide open, and the pain left me gasping for air. Suddenly, the illusion shattered. The prestige, the wealth, the grand wedding—it all felt incredibly pathetic. I reached down, slowly slid the platinum band off my finger, and placed it on the white tablecloth. “I’m done, Helena. The wedding is off.” … Helena’s brow furrowed, her expression tightening with irritation. “Ian, have you lost your mind?” “I told you I don’t care about your past. I kept my promise and married you. What more do you want?” My mother came shuffling over to our table, her steps weak and trembling, her face etched with deep worry. “Ian, sweetie? What’s going on?” She had just finished another grueling round of chemotherapy, and her skin looked paper-thin and ghostly pale. Helena immediately stepped in front of me, her sharp edge instantly melting into a warm, reassuring smile. “Nothing’s wrong, Mom. We’re just teasing each other.” I looked past her shoulder, watching my frail mother and my father, who sat paralyzed in his wheelchair a few yards away. I swallowed the burning humiliation in my throat and forced a tight, artificial smile. “She’s right, Mom. It’s nothing. Helena was just joking around.” My mother let out a soft sigh of relief. “Oh, good. Helena, our Ian is a gentle boy. Please don’t tease him too hard.” Helena smiled warmly, nodding. “Of course, Mom. You know I cherish him too much to ever hurt him.” From across the table, Chase let out a quiet, mocking snort. “Spoken like a true housekeeper’s son. He’ll swallow any amount of dirt just to marry into a family like ours.” Someone next to him quickly nudged his arm, whispering, “Chase, shut up.” But Chase just mumbled, “What? I’m not wrong…” Hours later, the reception finally ended, and the guests scattered into the night. We returned to the bridal suite, where the king-sized bed was sprinkled with red rose petals—a classic, romantic touch. I sat on the edge of the mattress, my chest tight, wanting to talk to Helena about the photos. But before I could speak, she leaned down, capturing my lips in a deep, heavy kiss that drowned out my words. “Let’s not ruin our wedding night with arguments, Ian,” she murmured against my skin. After a chaotic, exhausting hour, Helena slipped out to wash up. I lay there with my eyes closed, waiting for the heavy silence to settle over me. Suddenly, the closet door clicked open. Chase stepped out, holding a digital camera, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. “Incredible! Absolutely stellar! Helena, you’ve still got those moves!” My breath hitched. Panic seized me as I frantically clawed at the duvet, dragging it up to cover my bare body. “What the hell are you doing in here? Get out! Get the fuck out!” Chase rolled eyes, casually tossing the camera in his hand. “Relax, man. It’s just a wedding night prank. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” Helena walked back into the room, wearing a silk robe. She leaned down and pressed a casual kiss to my exposed shoulder, then looked up at Chase with a soft, indulgent smile. “Alright, Chase, that’s enough. Get out before your brother-in-law actually loses his temper.” I froze, staring at her in absolute disbelief. “Helena… you knew he was in there?” Before she could answer, Chase interjected, “Don’t overthink it, Ian. It’s a tradition in our circle. I film it for every friend who gets married. Just a harmless joke. Helena only went along with it because she didn’t want to be the boring one. You wouldn’t want her to be an outcast, would you?” A suffocating wave of shame washed over me. The humiliation was so heavy it felt physical. I couldn’t hold back the rage tearing through my chest. “What kind of sick joke is this? You record your friends having sex for your own amusement? Helena, you are disgusting!” I lunged forward to slap the smug look off Chase’s face, but Helena intercepted me. She grabbed my wrist mid-air, her grip like iron, looking down at me with cold, piercing eyes. “Disgusting?” she asked, her voice dropping to a freezing whisper. “Personally, I think the dirty, broken version of you is much harder to look at.” She threw my hand back, sending me sprawling across the bed. Without another word, she grabbed Chase’s wrist and walked out of the suite. As they left, Chase turned his head and flashed me a triumphant, mocking grin. Lying there in the dark, the past rushed back in terrifying, vivid flashes. It was five years ago. Helena had been kidnapped by one of her family’s bitter business rivals. To save her, I had willingly offered myself up as a hostage. I remembered the cold metal of the gun pressed against Helena’s temple as the kidnapper sneered at me: “One of you has to pay a price to leave this room alive today. You choose.” I hadn’t hesitated. Not even for a second. I would have given anything to keep her safe. What followed was a nightmare of blunt force and cruelty. Fists and wooden bats rained down on me, shattering my bones and my dignity. Helena had been forced to watch every single second of my torment. Her eyes had gone bloodshot, screaming like a wild animal: “Stop it! Touch me instead! Kill me! Just leave him alone!” Her desperate screams eventually dissolved into broken, hysterical begging, and finally, into quiet, helpless weeping. After several days of agony, I finally managed to steal a key and help us escape. Helena was returned to her wealthy world unharmed, but I was entirely broken. The day the doctors told me the physical trauma had left me permanently sterile, a heavy, suffocating depression settled over me. I tried to hang myself. I slashed my wrists. I wanted to escape my own body. For months, Helena couldn’t sleep. She stayed by my side day and night, watching my every move. But when the news of my condition and my suicide attempts reached my parents, it destroyed them. My father suffered a massive stroke that left him paralyzed and half-dead. My mother’s health deteriorated rapidly from sheer grief and worry. They resigned from their positions at the Caldwell estate, planning to take me far away so we could heal in obscurity. But Helena had thrown herself at their feet, kneeling on the hard floor and weeping until her forehead was bruised and bleeding. “Mr. and Mrs. Ward, please,” she had sobbed. “I can never repay what Ian did for me, but I swear on my life I will cherish him. I swear to you, I will spend the rest of my days loving him and only him.” A shrill, frantic ringing shattered my thoughts. I fumbled for my phone. My father’s voice came through, thick with panic. “Ian… Ian, it’s your mother. She’s collapsed again. I don’t know what to do…” I sat up instantly, adrenaline surging through me. “Dad, breathe. Stay calm. I’m finding a doctor right now!” My mother’s rare condition could only be treated by the specialists at the Caldwell family’s private medical facility. I threw a robe over my shoulders and repeatedly called Helena, but the calls kept going straight to voicemail. Then, I heard a faint ringing nearby. I followed the sound down the hallway of our massive apartment. As I approached the guest suite, a soft, muffled sound drifted through the door—the unmistakable, intimate rhythm of heavy breathing. I pushed the door open. Helena was leaning back in a plush armchair, her expression relaxed and indifferent. Chase was kneeling on the floor between her thighs. My mind went entirely blank, a white-hot fury vaporizing whatever sanity I had left. I lunged forward, trying to tear them apart. “What are you doing? What the hell is this?!” Chase gasped in surprise, violently shoving me back. “What is wrong with you? Ian, seriously? You’re making a scene over nothing. We didn’t even go all the way.” I couldn’t speak. The rage was a physical block in my throat, hot tears blurring my vision. Helena calmly adjusted her robe and stepped forward, reaching down to help me up. “Ian, are you okay?” I violently slapped her hand away. “Don’t touch me! You make me sick!” Helena’s hand froze in mid-air, her eyes darkening. “Ian, if you hadn’t thrown a tantrum on our wedding night, I wouldn’t have been stressed enough to seek a distraction. Have I not done enough for you? You were broken by those men, and ever since, I’ve had to hold back, catering to your delicate physical state. I have compromised my own needs for years. Is that still not enough?” I shook so hard my teeth rattled. “Helena… you are absolutely shameless.” She let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Shameless? Ian, if I’m so disgusting and shameless, why are you standing in my room right now? What does that make you? A beggar?” The last trace of color drained from my face. But then I pictured my mother, gasping for breath on a cold floor, and I forced myself to swallow the bitter humiliation. I grabbed Helena’s sleeve, my voice cracking. “Helena, please… my mother is dying. I beg you, for the sake of what I did for you back then, please call the private hospital. Send the doctors to her!” Helena’s expression softened slightly, a flicker of panic in her eyes. “Ian, okay. Don’t worry, I’ll call them right now.” She pulled out her phone to dial the private line. But Chase stepped in, snatched the phone directly from her hand, and stepped back. He knelt down in front of me, tilting his head with a mocking smirk. “Wow, Ian. You really know how to find an exit strategy, don’t you? Using your own mother’s health to guilt Helena on your wedding night? It’s been five years, and you’re still playing the martyr card to keep her chained to you.” I choked back a sob. “I’m not lying! Helena, please, you have to believe me… I’m telling the truth.” Helena stared at me, her eyes unreadable, but she remained silent. Chase grabbed me by the collar of my robe. “But we still have the issue of you trying to hit me earlier. We can’t just overlook that. Just because your parents were servants doesn’t mean you can act like a savage. I think you owe me an apology. Down on your knees. Press your head to the floor three times, and maybe I’ll give Helena her phone back.” I turned to Helena, pleading with every ounce of my soul. “Helena, please… my mother doesn’t have time. Tell him to give you the phone. Please!” Helena looked away, quiet for an agonizing moment, before she spoke in a flat, detached voice. “Ian… you really shouldn’t have put your hands on Chase. You do owe him an apology.” I stared at her, a hollow, broken laugh slipping from my lips. My mother was dying, and here I was. I slowly let my knees drop to the cold hardwood floor. Looking at Chase, I whispered, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. I shouldn’t have pushed you. Chase, please forgive me.” I forced my forehead down onto the hard floor, again and again, until a sharp pain flared and warm blood began to trickle down the bridge of my nose, blurring my vision. I looked up at Helena, my face smeared with red. “Is that enough? Can we save my mother now?” The bright red blood dripped down my forehead. Helena’s chest heaved, her fists clenching at her sides as if a sudden spike of guilt had finally pierced through her cold facade. “Enough!” she snapped. Chase smiled, thoroughly pleased. He stopped the video recording on his phone and patted my bloody cheek condescendingly. “There. All forgiven.” He stared at the screen, admiring the footage of my utter humiliation. “Man, you really have no dignity, do you? I wonder how your sweet parents would feel seeing you like this. The things you’ll do to secure a spot in a rich family.” He tilted his head, a cruel thought lighting up his eyes. “Actually, if your sick mom saw this, she’d probably die of shame before the doctors even got there.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, suppressing the urge to tear him apart. Just then, my phone buzzed again. My hands shook so violently I dropped it twice before successfully sliding to answer. “Ian!” my father sobbed, his voice cracking with sheer terror. “Someone… someone just sent your mother a video of you… of you begging on your knees, bleeding… She started choking, Ian… she’s coughing up blood! Why… why would you do that to yourself? What did they do to you?” The world went entirely silent around me. I scrambled to my feet, my legs buckling beneath me. Helena reached out to steady me. “Ian, what’s wrong?” I threw her off with all the strength I had left and ran for the door like a madman. Helena looked bewildered and took a step to follow me, but behind her, Chase suddenly collapsed onto the floor with a dramatic groan. “Helena! My ankle… it hurts so bad! I think I broke it when he pushed me!” Helena hesitated for a fraction of a second, but ultimately turned back to help Chase. I didn’t wait. I ran all the way back to my parents’ small apartment down the street, bursting through the front door, gasping for breath. “Dad! Mom! I’m here! Where are you?” But the apartment was dead silent. The wheelchair was overturned near the balcony door, the sheer curtains fluttering wildly in the cold night air. A sickening dread pooled in my stomach. I rushed to the balcony. There, on the ledge, was my father. With his paralyzed legs, I couldn’t even comprehend how much agonizing effort it must have taken for him to drag his body up onto the high sill. He was leaning out into the open sky, teetering on the edge. My heart hammered violently against my ribs. “Dad! No! Please, stop!” He turned his head and looked at me, a gentle, heartbreaking smile on his worn face. “Ian… my brave boy. I’m so sorry. I can’t let us be a burden to you anymore…” “Dad!” I screamed, lunging forward and grabbing his arm. “I’ve got you! Just hold on! Give me your other hand!” But my fingers slipped. With a sickening rush of air, he fell. I was left gasping on the ledge, staring down at his prosthetic leg, which had come loose in my desperate grip. “Dad!” I shrieked, my voice tearing. I leaned over the balcony, but the sight below made my vision swim. A dark pool of crimson was already blooming on the pavement below. Suddenly, a loud, heavy crash echoed from the bedroom. I froze. My chest felt hollow, as if my heart had been ripped out of my ribcage. The short walk from the balcony to the bedroom felt like a mile-long march to the gallows. I pushed the bedroom door open. My mother was hanging from the ceiling fan, suspended by a bedsheet. Her face was pale, her lips a terrible shade of blue. She wasn’t breathing. “Mom! No, no, no!” I screamed, rushing forward and wrapping my arms around her legs, trying to lift her up to take the pressure off her neck. But my body was exhausted, my muscles failing. I strained on my tiptoes, desperately clawing at the knot, but I couldn’t reach high enough to loosen it. My footing slipped, and I collapsed heavily onto the floor, weeping in absolute defeat. Right by her feet lay a crumpled piece of paper. I picked it up with trembling hands. It was her handwriting: My darling boy, do not let us hold you back anymore. Be free. Live a life of your own. I clutched the note to my chest, a gutteral, agonizing sob ripping from my lungs. “Dad… Mom… please come back. Don’t leave me here alone. Please…” That was when the Caldwell family’s private doctor finally arrived, panting from the climb. He took in the chaos of the living room and asked cautiously, “Mr. Ward, where is your mother?” I didn’t say a word. I wiped my tears, my expression turning utterly blank, and pointed toward the bedroom. The doctor walked in, and a second later, a horrific scream tore from his throat. His heavy medical bag slipped from his hand, sending bottles and instruments clattering across the floor. He spun around, wide-eyed with terror, only to see me standing on the edge of the balcony railing. I carefully folded my mother’s suicide note and slipped it into my pocket. Then, looking out at the endless night, I closed my eyes and let myself fall backward. Mom, Dad, wait for me. I’m coming. The doctor’s panicked scream faded as the wind rushed past my ears, a roaring, comforting embrace. And then, the world went quiet. Shaking violently, the doctor fumbled for his phone and dialed Helena’s number. “Ma’am…” Helena answered, her voice carrying a trace of lazy, arrogant amusement. “Well? Is his mother stable? Has Ian realized how foolish he’s being yet?” The doctor collapsed onto the floor, his lips trembling. “Ma’am… they’re gone. Ian… his whole family… they’re all dead.”

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I found my husband’s journal by accident. The latest entry was from yesterday: “Another fight with her. Suddenly, I miss Maeve so much. If it were Maeve, she’d probably just laugh and say, ‘Let it go.’” I flipped back a page. “Passed by the bakery today. They discontinued the chestnut tarts Maeve loved. I felt this sudden, hollow ache.” I kept flipping. Page three, page four, page five. In the entire journal, her name—Maeve—appeared one hundred and forty-three times. My name appeared eight times. And five of those times, it was followed by the word again. “Rachel forgot to take out the trash again.” “Rachel missed my call again.” “Rachel brought up having kids again.” On the last page, right beneath yesterday’s entry, he wrote: “I treat Rachel well. But ‘being good to someone’ and ‘loving someone’ are two entirely different things. I know the difference.” He hadn’t even tried to hide it. The journal was just lying there, splayed open on the mahogany desk like a written confession. As if to say… I didn’t cheat. I haven’t contacted her. You can’t blame me for my thoughts. I closed the leather-bound book, picked up his fountain pen, and wrote a single line in the blank space at the bottom of the page: “Thank you for being honest with me.” Then, I dragged my suitcase down from the top shelf of the closet and began packing. In the adult world, nobody actually dies from a broken heart. Besides, we hadn’t had a real, screaming argument in a very long time. … 1 I stood up, grabbed my purse, and walked out the door. I was alone in the elevator. The mirrored walls caught my reflection—the faint, bluish shadows bruised under my eyes. One hundred and forty-three times. I repeated the number in my head like a student obsessively checking a math problem they knew they’d gotten wrong. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Gavin. “What do you want for dinner? I can pick something up on my way home.” I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then typed back: “Whatever.” He replied instantly: “How about that Thai green curry fish you loved last time?” You see? He really was good to me. He remembered what I liked, even from a passing comment I’d made weeks ago. But his journal said… They discontinued the chestnut tarts Maeve loved. I felt this sudden, hollow ache. He remembered my favorite foods, but they never left him hollow. At the office, my coworker Diane strolled over with a mug of coffee. “You look exhausted. Up late again?” “No, just didn’t sleep well.” “Your husband is so sweet, though. Remember when he dropped off lunch for you last month? The whole floor was jealous.” I offered a tight, polite smile and let the comment hang in the air. Good. Sweet. Since last night, those words had started to grate on my nerves like sandpaper. During lunch, I skipped the cafeteria and sat at my desk, aimlessly scrolling through my phone. For some reason, my fingers drifted to Gavin’s Instagram profile. He rarely posted. His most recent update was from three months ago—a photo of his cluttered desk late at night, captioned: “Another productive night.” I kept scrolling. Two years back, there was a shared link to an old song. There was no caption, just an ellipsis: “…” I clicked it. “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac. In the comments, someone had written: “Who are you missing?” He had replied with a single word: “Yeah.” The person who asked had a profile picture of a white gardenia. Her username was Maeve_In_Bloom. I pressed the power button, plunging the screen into blackness. At three in the afternoon, Gavin texted again. “Leaving early today. Want me to pick you up?” “No need. I’ll take the subway.” “What’s wrong? You okay?” “I’m fine.” “I’ll come anyway. It’s on my way home.” That was just who he was. You tell him no, and he does it anyway. You tell him you’re fine, and he insists on digging. But the things you actually need him to notice? He remains utterly blind to them. At five, his car was idling by the curb outside my building. He rolled down the window and waved me over. I climbed into the passenger seat, the click of the seatbelt sounding incredibly sharp in the quiet cabin. “You look pale. Did you skip lunch?” “I ate.” “Liar. Diane told me you didn’t go down to the cafeteria.” I turned my head to look at him. “When did you exchange numbers with Diane?” “When I brought you lunch that one time. She was really friendly.” He brushed it off, casually turning the steering wheel as we merged into the evening traffic. “Rachel.” “Yeah?” “Is there something you want to tell me?” I watched the streetlights flicker past outside, one by one, looking like cigarettes being stubbed out in the dusk. “Gavin, who is Maeve?” The car jerked violently. He hit the brakes, prompting an angry honk from the SUV behind us. “Why are you asking about her all of a sudden?” “Just curious.” He was silent for a few seconds before accelerating again, his voice slipping back into its usual, gentle cadence. “Just someone from college. We lost touch after graduation.” Lost touch. Yet she lived in his journal, occupying one hundred and forty-three pages. I didn’t say another word. The car grew so quiet that the only sound was the low hum of the AC. When we got home, he went into the kitchen to heat up the curry fish. I stood in the doorway of the study. The journal was gone from the desk. I opened the bottom drawer—it was buried beneath a thick stack of tax documents. He had hidden it. “Rachel! Dinner’s ready.” I pushed the drawer shut and walked over to the dining table. He had plated the fish perfectly, even taking the time to skim the crushed spices off the top. “Try it. It’s from that new place downtown. The reviews are incredible.” I took a small bite. “Good?” he asked. “It’s good.” He smiled, a look that was warm, comforting, and utterly practiced. Suddenly, his own words echoed in my head: I treat Rachel well. But ‘being good to someone’ and ‘loving someone’ are two entirely different things. A tiny bone caught in my throat. I coughed. “Slow down. No one’s going to steal it from you.” He handed me a glass of warm water. His fingers brushed against mine, radiating a quiet warmth. I took the glass and drank. The bone dislodged, but the phantom tightness in my throat remained. 2 “Rachel, there’s a college reunion this Saturday. Do you want to come with me?” Gavin asked the next morning while adjusting his tie in front of the mirror. I was brushing my teeth, my voice muffled. “What classmates?” “The college crew. We haven’t caught up in years.” The toothbrush froze in my mouth. College crew. “You should go,” I said, spitting out the foam. “I think I’ll skip it. I wouldn’t know anyone.” “Come on, it’ll be fun. I want to introduce you to everyone.” “No, really. You go ahead.” He didn’t press the issue. He grabbed his briefcase and left. The moment the front door clicked shut, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. A college reunion. Would Maeve be there? He said they had lost touch. But reunions had group chats. People showed up. What was I even doing? He hadn’t cheated on me. He hadn’t contacted her. It was written in black and white in his private diary. What right did I have to police his thoughts? On Saturday, Gavin tried on three different shirts before leaving. He finally settled on a light blue linen button-down I’d bought him for his birthday last year. “How does this look?” “Great.” “I’m heading out, then. Might be a bit late.” “Okay.” After he left, I sat on the sofa for a long time, staring into space. Eventually, I picked up my phone and texted Diane. “Hey Diane, random question—does your husband have someone named ‘Maeve_In_Bloom’ on his social media?” Diane replied instantly: “No, don’t think so. Why?” “Nothing, just curious.” I opened Gavin’s Instagram again and scrolled down to that post from two years ago. I tapped the gardenia profile icon. The page was completely blank—This account is private. He claimed they didn’t talk. Yet, she was still sitting right there in his followers list. At nine that night, Gavin sent a photo. A group of people was raising their glasses around a long wooden table. He was sitting at the far end, laughing heartily. “Pretty lively! You definitely have to come next time.” I pinched the screen to zoom in, studying the faces one by one. There were eight people—five guys, three women. One of the women sat directly across from him. The photo caught her in profile: long hair, wearing a white knit sweater. In front of her plate sat a small slice of cake. A chestnut tart. I zoomed back out. I texted back a single word: “Nice.” He got home at eleven, smelling faintly of beer. “Didn’t drink much,” he said softly, kicking off his shoes. “Just a couple of IPAs.” He went into the bathroom to shower, leaving his phone on the nightstand. A moment later, the screen lit up with a text notification. I didn’t touch the phone. But the preview text was bright and clear against the dark glass: Gavin, I had such a wonderful time tonight. It’s been so long since we— The rest of the message was cut off. The contact name was simple: Maeve. He had told me they didn’t contact each other. The shower cut off, and the bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of warm steam. Gavin walked out, rubbing a towel through his damp hair. He noticed me sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Still awake?” “Can’t sleep.” “Want me to warm up some milk for you?” “No, thank you.” He picked up his phone, scanned the screen without a flicker of emotion, and casually flipped it face-down on the nightstand. “Get some rest. I’m taking you out for brunch tomorrow.” He climbed into bed and switched off the lamp. In the darkness, his breathing soon settled into a slow, steady rhythm. I stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. We lost touch. It’s been so long. I had a wonderful time. The fragments pieced themselves together, developing in my mind like a Polaroid. I rolled over, turning my back to him. In his sleep, his arm draped over my waist, pulling me closer as he mumbled something incoherent. I couldn’t make out the words. Maybe it was “Don’t kick the blanket.” Or maybe it was a different name entirely. The next morning, he kept his promise and took me to a trendy spot downtown. He ordered my favorites—smoked salmon Benedict and lemon-ricotta pancakes—and even asked for a pot of jasmine green tea. “Good?” he asked, watching me. “Yes.” “Have you been unhappy lately?” I looked up. He was carefully placing a piece of smoked salmon onto my plate. “No, I’m fine.” “Good,” he smiled, looking relieved. “I was worried you were mad at me.” “Why would I be mad?” “I don’t know. You just seem quieter these past few days.” He had noticed. But his perception always stopped at the surface. “Gavin.” “Yeah?” “Who ended up showing to the reunion yesterday?” His fork paused for a fraction of a second. “Brian, Dave, and a few others you wouldn’t know. Why?” “The girl sitting across from you. Who was she?” “Which one?” “In the white knit sweater.” He seemed to think about it for a moment, his voice perfectly casual. “Oh, that was Phoebe. We were in the same major. Her husband couldn’t make it, so she came alone.” Phoebe. Not Maeve. “Why the sudden interest?” he asked with a playful grin. “Are you jealous?” “No. Just wondering.” He reached across the table and lightly pinched my cheek. “Don’t worry. I only have eyes for you.” It was a beautiful line. So beautiful that I almost allowed myself to believe it. 3 “Rachel, your mom called. She wants us over for dinner this Sunday,” Gavin said on Wednesday evening, handing me his phone. I took the phone. It was a voice message from my mother. “Okay. Let’s go.” “Perfect. I bought her a heated back massager a while ago, but I kept forgetting to give it to her.” He pulled a beautifully wrapped box from the closet shelf and tapped it. “Got it last month, actually. Just slipped my mind to tell you.” See? He was incredibly thoughtful, even to my mother. But I had memorized his journal entries. Out of his one hundred and forty-three mentions of Maeve, one read: “Today is Maeve’s birthday. I wonder how she’s doing.” That date was our wedding anniversary. When we visited my parents on Sunday, my mother couldn’t stop singing his praises, patting Gavin’s hand. “Gavin is such a wonderful young man. So attentive, always thinking of others.” “Of course, Mom. It’s the least I can do,” Gavin replied, flashing a warm, perfectly rehearsed smile. At the dinner table, he served my mother and kept my father’s glass filled with bourbon. He didn’t speak excessively, but every word he uttered was polite and charming. After two drinks, my dad patted his shoulder. “I can rest easy knowing Rachel is with you, Gavin.” Gavin glanced at me. “I’ll always take care of her, Dad.” Take care. Good. There was that word again. After dinner, I helped my mother clear the table. She leaned in close, lowering her voice. “Are you two doing okay lately?” “We’re fine.” “Good. Gavin is a steady, reliable man. Don’t go looking for problems where there are none, Rachel.” I placed the plates in the sink and turned on the faucet. The rush of running water drowned out whatever I might have said in response. On the drive home, Gavin hummed along to a classic ballad playing on the radio. Suddenly, he stopped. “Do you know this song?” “No.” “It was huge when we were in college,” he murmured, his voice softening. “Back then, we used to… actually, never mind. It’s nothing.” Back then, what? Back then, did Maeve love this song too? I didn’t ask. When we got back, I took a shower first. When I came out, he was sitting in the study, hunched over his laptop. “What are you working on?” “Just clearing out some emails,” he replied without looking up. “Go ahead and sleep first.” I walked past the desk, my gaze catching the edge of his screen. It wasn’t his email inbox. It was an instant messaging app. I couldn’t read the name at the top of the chat, but I saw the last message he had sent: “Do you still remember that song?” I pulled my gaze away and stepped back. “Rachel?” “Yeah?” “Can you close the door for me?” I pulled the heavy wooden door shut behind me. Standing alone in the dim hallway, I could hear the rapid-fire tapping of fingers on a keyboard from the other side. Fast, relentless, like rain striking a windowpane. That night, I dreamed of Gavin standing under a dogwood tree heavy with white blossoms, holding a chestnut tart. He smiled at me and said, “I bought this for you.” But when I reached out to take it, the tart crumbled, turning into loose sheets of journal paper that scattered into the wind. Every single page was covered with the same name. And it wasn’t mine. When I woke up, the sky was still a bruised indigo. Gavin was sleeping soundly beside me, his chest rising and falling in steady intervals. I turned my head to look at his face—his sharp jawline, his long eyelashes, the faint upward curve of his lips as if he were dreaming of something beautiful. Who was in his dreams? I slid quietly out of bed and padded down to the study. The leather journal was still buried at the very bottom of the drawer. I didn’t open it. I didn’t need to. Even if I read it a hundred more times, the math wouldn’t change. One hundred and forty-three versus eight. That was the raw, unvarnished math of our marriage. Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the counter with a text from an unknown number: “Hi, is this Rachel? I’m Phoebe, one of Gavin’s friends from college. He mentioned you at the reunion, and I’d love to connect if you’re open to it!” Phoebe. The girl sitting across from him in the photo, the one with the chestnut tart. I stared at the message for a long time. Then I typed back: “Sure.” 4 Phoebe added me. Her profile picture was a silhouette of her in profile against a golden sunset. Her first text included a smiley face: “Hey Rachel! I’m Phoebe. My boyfriend used to room with Gavin back in college, so we all ended up becoming close friends.” I wrote back: “Hi.” “We missed you at the reunion! Gavin said you were resting at home. You definitely have to come out with us next time.” “I’d love that.” She was incredibly warm, texting me every other day about mundane things—the best local bistros, sales at the mall, occasionally sending photos of lipstick shades to ask for my opinion. I kept my replies polite but detached. On the fifth day, she sent an old photograph. It was a group photo from college. Seven or eight of them were standing on a grassy campus lawn. Gavin was on the far left, looking much leaner, with a shy, boyish grin. Standing right next to him was a girl with a ponytail and a plain white t-shirt, her eyes crinkling into half-moons as she laughed. Phoebe’s caption read: “Found this in my old drive! We were all so young.” I zoomed in on the girl next to Gavin. Her hand was resting naturally on his shoulder, and his body was angled slightly toward her, as if drawn by an invisible gravity. “Who is the girl standing next to Gavin?” I messaged back. Phoebe replied almost instantly: “Oh, that’s Maeve. She was the star of our creative writing program. Everyone called her Mae.” Maeve. The phone nearly slipped from my numb fingers. “Does she still keep in touch with everyone?” I asked. “Yeah, she actually lives in the city! She came to the reunion the other night.” She was at the reunion. Gavin had told me Maeve wasn’t there. He told me the person sitting opposite him was Phoebe. “Are you doing okay, Rachel? Why the interest?” “Oh, no reason. They just looked really close in the photo, so I got curious.” Phoebe sent a string of laugh emojis: “Haha, yeah, they were practically joined at the hip in college. They never officially dated, though. Maeve got married right after graduation, but she got divorced recently. She’s single now.” Joined at the hip. Never dated. Single now. I set the phone face down and took a slow, deep breath, trying to steady the shaking in my chest. When Gavin got home that evening, I was in the kitchen prepping dinner. He slipped off his shoes, walked up behind me, and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Smells amazing. What are we having?” “Braised ribs.” “My favorite. No one makes them like you do.” I held the spatula still, staring at the sizzling pan. “Gavin, did Maeve show up at the reunion last weekend?” The arms around my waist stiffened instantly. “How do you know that name?” “Phoebe told me. We connected on Instagram.” He let go of me, taking a step back. “Phoebe talks too much.” “So she was there?” “Yes,” he said, leaning against the refrigerator, his tone carefully neutral. “It was a standard reunion. She was in our class, Rachel. It’s not like we could ban her from coming.” “You told me she wasn’t there.” “I never said that. I said Phoebe was the one sitting across from me.” “Then where did Maeve sit?” “I don’t know, I don’t remember. Rachel, what is this really about?” A sharp edge of irritation crept into his voice. I switched off the burner and turned around to face him. “I want to know if the Maeve in your diary is Maeve Warren.” The air in the kitchen turned instantly frigid. Gavin’s face drained of color, his annoyance morphing into shock, and then into a look I had never seen on him before—the raw panic of a man caught red-handed. “You read my journal?” “It was lying wide open on the desk. I didn’t search for it. You left it there.” His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “Rachel… those were just private thoughts. Things I wrote for myself.” “One hundred and forty-three times,” I said. “You wrote her name down one hundred and forty-three times.” He didn’t deny it. He didn’t even try to explain. He just stood there, watching me, waiting for the inevitable explosion—for me to scream, throw things, or break down in tears. But I didn’t do any of those things. I simply untied my apron, folded it neatly, and set it on the counter. “The ribs need about ten more minutes. You can plate them yourself.” I walked past him. As I cleared the kitchen doorway, he reached out and caught me by the wrist. “Rachel, I haven’t contacted her. I swear to God.” “I know.” “Then why are you…” “Gavin,” I said gently, pulling my wrist from his grasp. I looked directly into his eyes. “You treat me well. But ‘being good to someone’ and ‘loving someone’ are two entirely different things. You wrote that yourself.” His face went completely ash-white. I walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind me. The suitcase was still sitting on the floor, half-packed. I knelt down and began placing the remaining clothes inside. As I was pulling the zipper closed, my phone buzzed. It wasn’t Gavin. It was Phoebe. “Rachel, I just had lunch with Maeve. She told me something, and… honestly, I think you deserve to know.” “What is it?” “She said Gavin texted her last week. He asked her to meet up for dinner. He said there were things he needed to say to her in person.” My hand froze on the zipper. “She said she turned him down, but Gavin insisted…” The message cut off there. Phoebe’s next text didn’t come. I stared at the screen, my fingers turning icy cold. Outside the door, I heard Gavin’s footsteps approaching, heavy and hurried. Then came a sharp knock. “Rachel, open up. We need to talk.” “I just called Maeve. I made it clear to her that we can’t contact each other anymore, that we’re completely…” His voice died in his throat. Through the crack at the bottom of the door, the wheels of my suitcase were clearly visible.

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On our wedding anniversary, my husband gave me a secondhand designer bag. Inside, wedged deep in the lining, was a plastic claw clip that had belonged to its previous owner. “Buying secondhand is the new sustainable chic,” he said, his face a picture of absolute, unbothered logic. “Besides, it’s practically brand new. It suits you.” I forced a tight, empty smile and thanked him. But minutes later, when I opened the resell app on his phone, I found a transaction history that made my blood run cold. Auctioning my wife’s free time this Friday afternoon. Starting bid: fifty dollars. Buyer can choose which coffee shop she goes to. Auctioning a high-res photo of my wife cooking from behind. I stared at the screen, my hands shaking. To him, I wasn’t a partner. I was just another piece of pre-owned inventory, waiting to be marked up and sold to the highest bidder. 1 I held the cheap plastic claw clip between my fingers. My fingertips were numb. A few stray, unfamiliar hairs were still tangled in the teeth of the clip, and if I looked closely, I could see tiny flecks of someone else’s dandruff. A wave of intense, physical revulsion hit me, rising from my stomach and settling like lead in my throat. “Well? Do you love it, babe?” Derek’s voice drifted in from the kitchen, dripping with the smug satisfaction of a man who believed he deserved a medal. “That bag is easily three grand retail. I snagged it on a resale app for a hundred and fifty bucks. Practically mint! Think of how much money I just saved us.” He stepped into the living room, wiping his hands on a dish towel, and leaned in to inspect how the bag looked draped over my shoulder. He nodded, thoroughly pleased with himself. “Look at that. It was made for you. Tell me I don’t have the best eye.” I looked at his face, glowing with the pride of a cheapskate who had successfully gamed the system. My throat felt incredibly tight. The smile on my face felt like dry plaster, ready to crack. “Thank you,” I whispered. “I… I love it.” “Glad to hear it. Now, how about we get dinner started? I’m starving.” He patted my shoulder—a quick, transactional gesture—and vanished into the bathroom, humming a tune under his breath. A moment later, the shower started running. On the sofa, his phone vibrated. The screen lit up with a notification from a local marketplace app. New activity on your listed item: “Wife’s Idle Time”! I stood there for a long moment before my feet moved on their own. I walked over to the sofa and picked up his phone. The passcode was my birthday. I used to think that was romantic. Now, it just felt like a cruel joke. I unlocked the phone and tapped on the marketplace app. His profile page popped up instantly. His avatar was our wedding photo. His username: Derek’s Curated Finds. But as I scrolled past the listings for used golf clubs, old iPhones, and gently worn jackets, I saw dozens of listings that had nothing to do with electronics or clothes. They were about me. Auctioning my wife’s free time this Friday afternoon. Starting bid: fifty dollars. Buyer can choose which coffee shop she goes to. Sold for: $150. Buyer Review: She’s even prettier than her pictures, though she was a little quiet. Can you ask her to smile more next time? Auctioning a high-res photo of my wife cooking dinner from behind. Sold for: $30. Buyer Review: Incredible waistline. Makes you want to reach out and grab her. Auctioning a photo of my wife’s wet hair right after a shower. DM for details. Sold for: $80. Buyer Review: So sweet and innocent. Can you get a shot of her legs next time? Will pay extra. I scrolled down, further and further, my hands trembling so violently I could barely hold the device. In his direct messages, the filth spilled across the screen like cheap ink. Hey man, can you get her to wear yoga pants next time she goes to the grocery store? I’ll give you three hundred to auction her shopping trip. When does her period start? I want to see a photo of her looking pale and vulnerable. It’s a specific vibe, you know? Are you ever going to auction a full dinner date with her? I’ll start the bidding at five hundred. Every private, quiet moment of my life had been sliced into pieces, given a price tag, and displayed in a digital shop window for anonymous men to drool over. “What are you doing?” Derek’s voice cut through the apartment like a gunshot. He was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, water dripping from his hair. In three quick strides, he snatched the phone out of my hand. When he saw what was on the screen, his expression hardened. “You’re snooping through my phone?” I looked up at him, my body completely drained of warmth. “What is this, Derek?” My voice cracked. “What the hell is this?” He glanced at the screen, and instead of looking guilty, he let out a dry, dismissive laugh. He walked over to the kitchen island, poured himself a glass of water, and sat down on the sofa, spreading his legs comfortably. “What does it look like? I’m monetizing some of your spare time and a few harmless photos. What’s the big deal?” He looked at me with an agonizingly casual indifference. “You’re overreacting. It’s not like I’m asking you to sleep with anyone.” A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my chest. “That is my time, Derek! My photos! My life!” “Who gave you the right to sell me? Did you ever stop to think about asking me?” “Oh, here we go,” Derek said, slamming his water glass onto the coffee table. “Don’t start acting all high and mighty, Maggie. If it weren’t for my side hustles, do you think we’d be living this comfortably?” He stood up, pacing the room, his voice rising as if he were the one who had been wronged. “So what if I sell a little bit of your time? Does that money go to waste? No, it goes right back into this household. Do you have any idea how hard it is to manage a mortgage, car payments, and utilities every month? I’m doing this for us.” “For us?” I stared at him, disgusted. “The down payment on this apartment was paid entirely by my parents. The deed is in my name. And we split the mortgage fifty-fifty. I have never missed a single payment, Derek.” “Your ‘contribution’ to this household is turning me into a commodity on the internet so a bunch of creeps can talk about my body!” My words hit a nerve. His face flushed red with embarrassment, which quickly curdled into rage. Smash! He grabbed the glass from the coffee table and hurled it against the wall. Shards of glass rained down onto the hardwood floor. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you, Maggie?” he spat, pointing a finger at my face. “I married a wife, not an accountant! You’re being completely unreasonable.” He grabbed his leather jacket and his car keys, storming out of the apartment and slamming the door behind him. The force of it shook the frame, leaving a ringing silence in my ears. I looked at the shattered glass on the floor, and then at the secondhand bag with someone else’s hair clip sitting on the counter. Slowly, I slid down against the wall, pulled my knees to my chest, and let out a quiet, strangled sob in the dark. 2 Derek didn’t come home that night. I sat on the sofa until the sky outside turned a bruised grey, the chill from the window pane seeping deep into my bones. When I looked in the mirror, my face was washed out, my eyes hollow. But life didn’t stop because my marriage was a lie. I still had to go to work. I applied a thick layer of makeup to hide the dark circles under my eyes and caught the morning subway. The train was packed, a sea of shoulders and briefcases. As I squeezed into a corner, I felt a sudden, prickly sensation on the back of my neck. I felt like I was being watched. I turned my head quickly. Several men immediately looked down, their thumbs moving rapidly across their phone screens. Was I losing my mind? Was it just paranoia? When I arrived at the office and sat down at my desk, my phone buzzed. It was a text from my best friend, Natalie. It was a screenshot of a group chat called The Leisure & Time Exchange. And there, right at the top of the thread, was Derek’s avatar. He had posted a new listing. Auctioning the right to care for my wife while she’s weak on her period. Starting bid: twenty dollars. She’s not feeling well today, very pale and quiet. Perfect for anyone who likes the delicate, vulnerable type. You can easily find her at the convenience store downstairs from her office building around noon. Beneath it, a string of vulgar comments followed. Oh, Derek’s got a new listing! This is hot. I love the delicate ones. I’ll bid forty. Can I buy her a hot tea and hold her hand? Bidding eighty! My hands went entirely numb. I was on my period, and my lower abdomen had been aching all morning. It was a deeply personal, intimate detail of my health, and he had turned it into marketing copy, throwing me to a pack of online hyenas for pocket change. A wave of nausea hit me. By lunchtime, the cramps were so bad I could barely stand. I decided to quickly slip down to the convenience store on the corner to grab a sandwich and some pain relievers. The moment I stepped inside the store, that heavy, suffocating feeling of being watched returned. A man in a flannel shirt was standing near the snack aisle, but his eyes weren’t on the shelves. They were on me. When I picked up a bottle of water, he moved closer. When I went to the checkout counter, he lined up right behind me. He was standing so close I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. I glanced at the metallic reflection of the soda fridge. He was holding his phone up, and on the screen was a photo of my face. He was comparing the photo to the back of my head. A jolt of pure panic shot through my chest. I snatched my bag, abandoned the sandwich on the counter, and bolted out of the store, running back to the office lobby. I locked myself in the women’s restroom, leaning over the sink, dry-heaving. Nothing came up but stomach acid. Looking at my pale, terrified face in the mirror, I realized there was no safe place left. There were invisible eyes everywhere, waiting to see how I would react, waiting to consume my misery. By late afternoon, the sky had turned ink-black, and a torrential downpour began to beat against the high-rise windows. When the clock struck five, the storm showed no signs of stopping. The rideshare apps were completely backed up, showing over a hundred people ahead of me in the queue. I didn’t have an umbrella. I stood under the narrow awning of the supermarket next to my office, shivers running down my spine as the wind blew the rain onto my damp clothes. Then, a man carrying a large black umbrella stepped out of the rain and walked directly toward me. He was short, with slightly greasy hair and a nervous, oily smile on his face. “Maggie? Right?” I took a sharp step back, my shoulder hitting the cold brick wall. “You have the wrong person.” “No, I don’t think I do,” he said, his grin widening to reveal slightly yellowed teeth. He pulled out his phone, pulled up a screenshot, and thrust it in front of my face. It was a transaction receipt from Derek’s account. Auctioning an accidental meeting and umbrella-sharing with my wife Maggie. Rainday exclusive. Sold for: $100. The buyer’s username matched the man standing in front of me. “I paid a hundred bucks for this,” he said, shifting the umbrella so it covered my head, stepping closer into my personal space. “Come on, let me walk you home, beautiful.” A visceral disgust washed over me. I shoved his chest with all the strength I had left. “Get away from me!” I screamed it, the sound swallowed by the thunder, and then I sprinted directly into the freezing rain. The downpour blinded me, soaking through my coat and jeans in seconds. I didn’t care. I ran through the sheets of water, my tears mixing with the rain, leaving the man’s angry shouts far behind me. I don’t know how long I ran, but by the time I let myself into my empty apartment, my muscles were shaking from exhaustion. I locked the deadbolt, threw the safety latch, and closed every single curtain in the house. I slid down against the front door, pulling my wet knees to my chest, and wept in the silence. This apartment wasn’t a home. It was just a display case where Derek kept his most profitable commodity. 3 I couldn’t stay there. Every breath of air in that apartment felt contaminated. Late that night, I called an Uber and made the journey back to my parents’ house in the suburbs. Standing on the familiar porch, looking at the peeling paint on the doorframe, I felt a fleeting sense of safety. I rang the bell. It took a long time for the door to open. My mother stood there in her pajamas, her face pinched with annoyance. “Maggie? What on earth are you doing here in the middle of the night?” She looked at my soaking-wet clothes, but instead of reaching out, she sighed. “Do you have any idea how early your brother has to be up for school tomorrow? You’re going to wake the whole house.” My heart sank a little. “Mom, I’m sorry, I just…” “Just come inside. Go change into something dry before you ruin the hardwood floors.” She stepped aside, already reaching for a mop to clean up the water I had dripped onto the entryway. I sat on the edge of the living room sofa, my body still shivering. Once she finished mopping, my mother sat down across from me. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The words spilled out of me in a ragged, tearful rush—the listings, the photos, the creepy men following me, the complete betrayal of my privacy. I expected her to be furious. I expected her to reach for her phone and call Derek to scream at him. But she didn’t. She just looked down, her eyes darting nervously around the room, before she quietly pointed toward the kitchen. “You know,” she murmured, “Derek brought over a brand-new Dyson vacuum cleaner last week. He said he got it on one of those resale apps for barely a hundred dollars. It works wonderfully.” Just then, my teenage brother, Tyler, walked out of his bedroom, rubbing his eyes. When he saw me, he yawned, then tapped the screen of the sleek Apple Watch on his wrist. “Hey, Maggie,” he said, completely unfazed by my tears. “Check out what Derek got me for my birthday. The latest series. He said he found it on some bidding app for half price.” I stared at them, the air leaving my lungs. “Mom… Tyler…” My voice was barely a whisper. “Do you have any idea how he got the money for those things?” I stood up, my whole body trembling. “He sold me. He sold your daughter’s safety, your sister’s dignity, to buy those cheap pieces of plastic.” My mother’s face shifted—not with anger, but with an awkward, defensive irritation. “Maggie, let’s not be dramatic,” she said, her voice taking on a sharp, lecturing tone. Tyler rolled his eyes from the hallway. “Seriously, Maggie. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. It’s just a few pictures and some coffee dates. It’s not like he sold you into slavery. Look at all the cool stuff we got out of it. Don’t be so ungrateful.” I stared at my own brother, my flesh and blood, unable to believe the words coming out of his mouth. My mother stood up and took my hand, her voice softening into that manipulative, motherly tone she used whenever she wanted me to fall in line. “Maggie, sweetie, listen to me. It’s not easy for a young man to support a household these days. The pressure on husbands is immense. You need to have some compassion.” “A marriage takes compromise. If you keep throwing tantrums, you’re going to drive him away. What is a divorced woman in her thirties supposed to do? Who’s going to want you then?” “Besides, he’s sharing the wealth. He bought Tyler that watch, and he brought me the vacuum. It shows he cares about this family.” I looked at my mother’s face, full of practical, selfish calculations. I looked at Tyler, holding his wrist up like a trophy. And slowly, piece by piece, my heart went entirely cold. To them, I wasn’t a daughter or a sister. My safety and my body were worth less than a refurbished vacuum and a used smartwatch. Derek had already bought their loyalty with the very blood money he made off of me. I didn’t say another word. Slowly, gently, I peeled my mother’s fingers off my hand. Under their bewildered stares, I turned around, opened the front door, and walked back out into the cold, silent rain. This time, I didn’t cry. 4 With nowhere else to go, I used the cash in my purse to check into a dingy, low-budget motel on the edge of town. Lying on the stiff, synthetic sheets, I stared at the ceiling until the morning light began to seep through the plastic blinds. I didn’t fall apart. I didn’t shed a single tear. When you reach the absolute bottom of despair, you don’t cry. You plan. I bought a burner SIM card, registered a new, anonymous account, and quietly slipped into the Leisure & Time Exchange group chat. The group was in the middle of a feeding frenzy. Hundreds of men were eagerly discussing the next big event. Derek’s profile picture flashed as he posted a pinned announcement. The Ultimate Auction: This Friday night, a private candlelit dinner with my wife at the exclusive Moonlight Bistro downtown. The winning bidder gets to sit directly across from her, enjoy premium wine, and experience a truly romantic evening. Starting bid: $500. Highest bidder takes all! The comments went wild. Seven hundred! I’m in! Nine hundred! I want to watch her pour my wine. One thousand! I’m going to make her look me in the eye all night. The price climbed steadily until a user with a solid black avatar and the handle Abyss locked it in at two thousand dollars. Derek proudly announced the winner in the main chat. Congratulations to user Abyss! Friday night at seven, The Moonlight Bistro. Don’t keep her waiting! He immediately sent a direct message to Abyss with the restaurant details and a recent photo of me. I watched the screen, my grip on the phone so tight my knuckles turned white. There was no fear left in my chest. Only a cold, razor-sharp focus. You dug this grave, Derek. Now you’re going to lie in it. Over the next few days, I didn’t go back to the apartment, and I didn’t reply to any of Derek’s increasingly frantic texts. I simply ceased to exist. Until Friday afternoon, when my phone rang from an unknown number. It was Derek. He had used a different phone to bypass my block. When I answered, his voice was sickeningly sweet, dripping with forced affection. “Maggie, babe, where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.” “I’m so sorry about the other night. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I want to make it up to you.” “I booked a table at The Moonlight Bistro tonight. Let’s celebrate our anniversary properly. Just the two of us. What do you say?” I listened to his lie, my voice completely flat and cooperative. “Okay.” “Awesome! Wear something really nice, babe. Be there at seven sharp. I’ll have the host guide you to the table.” “I’ll be there.” After I hung up, I looked at myself in the motel bathroom mirror. I put on a face of makeup I had never worn before—vampy red lipstick, sharp winged eyeliner, bold and dangerous. I wore my most expensive black velvet slip dress and a pair of four-inch stilettos. At exactly seven o’clock, I walked into the dim, mahogany-paneled dining room of The Moonlight Bistro. The soft strains of a cello filled the air. The hostess led me to a secluded booth near the window. A bottle of expensive cabernet was already breathing on the table, next to a single flickering candle. I sat down gracefully, my eyes scanning the room. It didn’t take long to spot him. Behind a heavy velvet partition a few tables away, a figure was crouching nervously, holding a phone level with the gap in the fabric. It was Derek. He was live-streaming me. I picked up my water glass, took a slow sip, and let a cold, dark smile play on my lips. The heavy glass doors of the restaurant swung open, the brass bells chiming. A man walked in. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a perfectly tailored black charcoal suit. He carried an air of absolute, terrifying authority. His eyes swept the room once before locking onto my table. His leather dress shoes made a slow, deliberate thud, thud, thud against the hardwood floor as he approached. He pulled out the chair directly opposite me, sat down heavily, and leaned forward. His lips curved into a sharp, knowing grin. “Good evening, Maggie. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” “Your husband sold you to me.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “465185”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In the six years we were together, I was never given a nickname. To Galen, I was either “hey,” “babe” when he was distracted, or my full name: Sally Foster. He always claimed he was a creature of habit, that he kept everyone in his contacts saved by their formal, full names. I believed him. Until the day he asked me to reply to a client text while his hands were full, and I saw the contact pinned to the very top of his list. Molly. Her profile picture was a cute, fluffy Shiba Inu. I tapped on the chat thread. The most recent message was from him, sent at two in the morning: “Insomnia again? Warm up some milk and try to get some sleep. Don’t push yourself.” Meanwhile, the day before, when my fever spiked to 102 degrees, his only text to me was: “Drink water.” I scrolled back through two years of their history. He had sent Molly sunrise greetings, late-night lullabies, and curated gift lists for every minor holiday. For me, his replies were a predictable rotation of Yeah, sure, okay, got it. The longest text he had sent me in months was a reminder to pay our shared utility bill. Everyone in his life was filed away by first and last name. Only Molly was pinned to the top, defying his own rules. That night, I opened my laptop and accepted the transfer assignment from the Vienna headquarters. He gave me the cold dignity of my full name; I would return the favor with a clean, silent exit. …… “Sally, where did you put my grey silk shirt?” The bedroom door flung open. Galen stood in the doorway, his forehead creased in a tight frown, a half-knotted tie dangling from his hand. My 102-degree fever had finally broken, but my head still throbbed with a dull, stabbing pain. I propped myself up against the headboard, feeling entirely drained. “It’s in the garment bag on the second rack of the closet,” I said, my voice raspy. He strode over, rummaged through the hangers, and yanked the shirt out with a sharp tug. “Why isn’t it ironed? I have a major pitch meeting this morning.” His voice carried a sharp edge of irritation. “I had a high fever yesterday,” I said, looking at him. “I couldn’t get out of bed.” He paused mid-button, casting a brief, assessing glance over his shoulder at me. “It’s just a cold. Take some Tylenol and you’ll be fine,” he muttered, turning back to the vanity mirror. “Drink plenty of water. Don’t just lie there all day; it only makes you weaker.” Drink water. Six years of partnership, and that was the extent of his concern for a partner burning up with a severe fever. I turned away and reached for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up with a notification from the HR director at the Vienna office. “Hi Sally, the transfer agreement has been sent to your inbox. We’ve booked your flight for next Friday. Does that timeline work for you?” I typed a single word in response. “Yes.” Galen adjusted his tie in the mirror and turned around. “Are you taking the day off?” “Yes.” “Great. Can you drop my car off at the dealership for its scheduled maintenance?” He tossed the car keys onto the foot of the bed. “I’m running late, so I’ll just call an Uber to the office.” “I’m still dizzy from the fever. I shouldn’t be driving.” I didn’t reach for the keys. Galen’s eyebrows knitted together again. “Why are you being so delicate lately? The dealership is barely a mile away. How hard is it to just drive it over?” I stared at his face, struck by the casual entitlement written across it. Over the last six years, he had gradually shifted all of his mundane errands onto my shoulders—picking up his dry cleaning, managing his packages, paying the bills, scheduling his car maintenance. He had stopped treating me like a girlfriend and started treating me like an unpaid personal assistant. “Galen,” I said quietly. “What?” He glanced at his watch, clearly impatient. “Where were you last night?” I asked. “I called you in the middle of the night, but it went straight to voicemail.” His eyes flickered with a brief shadow of hesitation before smoothing over. “Working late at the office. My phone was on silent.” Working late. I unlocked my phone, opened the photo gallery, and pulled up a screenshot from the previous night. It was a photo of the chat log from his backup phone, which he had accidentally left on the coffee table. “Is Molly having trouble sleeping again?” “Yeah, I went over to check on her and made her some warm milk. She’s always struggled with sleeping in a new place.” I turned the screen toward him. “Does your company’s late-night consulting work involve driving across town to make warm milk for Molly?” Galen’s face instantly paled. He took two quick strides toward the bed, snatched the phone out of my hand, and stared at the screen before throwing it back onto the mattress. “Sally, you went through my phone?” his voice rose, sharp and defensive. “You asked me to use your backup phone to send a presentation file to a client. The notification popped up on the screen.” My voice was entirely flat. “This is what you’re making a big deal out of?” He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Molly just moved into her new place yesterday. She was scared, alone, and couldn’t sleep. What’s wrong with me going over to support her as a friend?” “A friend,” I repeated, letting the word hang in the air. “So your ‘friend’ gets a cute nickname pinned to the top of your chat, and your girlfriend of six years is saved under her first and last name.” “Are you seriously still on about this?” Galen was thoroughly exasperated now. “Sally, you know I don’t care about cheesy contact names. I’ve always been that way. Are you really picking a fight over a contact card?” “No, I’m not picking a fight over a contact card,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “I’m looking at the facts. I had a 102-degree fever, and you told me to drink water. She had insomnia, and you drove across the city in the middle of the night to make her milk.” I paused. “Galen, is that what you call friendship?” “She’s young, Sally. She’s on her own in this city and it’s hard for her,” Galen said, his tone thick with defensive protectiveness. “You’re different. You’re independent, you can handle yourself. Why do you have to be so jealous of a kid?” Independent. Because I was strong, I didn’t deserve to be cared for. A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me, accompanied by a faint sensation of nausea. “I’m not jealous.” I pulled the duvet back over my shoulders and closed my eyes. “Just go. Don’t miss your meeting.” Galen stood by the bed for a long moment. My unusual lack of anger seemed to throw him off balance. “Don’t be passive-aggressive,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “Look, I’ll come home early tonight and we can go out for dinner, okay?” “No need,” I said, my back turned to him. “I have plans.” “Suit yourself.” His patience evaporated. He grabbed his coat and slammed the bedroom door behind him. By afternoon, my fever had completely subsided. I got out of bed and began clearing out the apartment. The closet was packed with clothes, but only a small section on the left belonged to me. I dragged out a large suitcase and began folding my things inside. Since Vienna would be cold, I packed all of my heavy winter coats and sweaters. At the bottom of my dresser drawer, I found a small velvet box. It contained a heavy, incredibly gaudy gold heart necklace that Galen had given me for our third anniversary. I had never worn it once. I was highly sensitive to cheap metals, and the design was entirely incompatible with my professional wardrobe. When I had asked him back then why he chose it, he had shrugged and said, “I just grabbed something at the mall. Gold holds its value.” I dropped the box into a trash bag. The bag was already half-full of other thoughtless, last-minute gifts he had bought me over the last six years. Around five in the evening, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Molly. “Sally! I heard you were sick! Hope you’re feeling better!” The tone was as bubbly and familiar as if we were best friends. A second later, an image notification popped up. It was a photo of Galen with his sleeves rolled up, standing in front of a kitchen sink, fixing a pipe. The photo was taken from behind with a warm, cozy filter. The caption read: “Gav is such a lifesaver. Thank god he’s here, or my new place would be completely flooded!” I looked at the timestamp. Galen had claimed he had an incredibly important proposal to pitch and promised to come home early to take me to dinner. It was now 5:00 PM. His priority was fixing Molly’s plumbing. Without replying to her, I opened my chat with Galen. “Where are you?” Ten minutes later, he replied. “Still stuck at the office. The proposal had some last-minute edits. I probably won’t make it back in time for dinner, grab some takeout.” I stared at the screen and let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Okay, don’t work too hard.” A few moments later, Molly texted again. “Sally, please don’t be mad at Gav. He’s just incredibly sweet and treats me like a little sister. If it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll stop asking him for help.” So sweet. So considerate. She had laid out a perfect trap—if I expressed any discomfort, I was the petty, overbearing girlfriend. I typed a quick reply. “I don’t mind at all. Once he’s done with the pipes, have him mop the kitchen floor too.” I locked my phone and tossed it aside. At 8:00 PM, I was sitting alone at the dining table, eating takeout out of a plastic container, when I heard the front door unlock. Galen walked in, looking exhausted. “I thought you weren’t coming back tonight,” I said, chewing my food. He paused while taking off his shoes. “The proposal got approved early, so I managed to head home.” He walked over to the table and glanced at my takeout box. “Why are you eating this? I thought you had plans.” “I got stood up,” I said casually. He pulled out a chair, sat down, and picked up my water glass to take a sip. “I’m exhausted. Today was a nightmare, I didn’t even have time to grab a drink of water.” I stared at the glass. It was the one I had been using while sick. “Did you just come from the office?” I asked. “Yeah, where else?” He didn’t look up, already scrolling through his phone. “I see,” I nodded. “Is Molly’s apartment on the company payroll now?” Galen’s thumb froze on his screen. He snapped his head up, staring at me. “Are you tracking me?” “She sent me the photo herself.” I unlocked my phone, brought up the image, and turned it toward him. “It’s a nice shot. Very domestic.” Galen’s face flushed a deep crimson. He pushed the phone back toward me. “I just went over to help her out. It took fifteen minutes. Do you really have to interrogate me like a detective?” “Fifteen minutes?” I let out a cold laugh. “From your office to her apartment, and then back here—even without traffic, that’s a two-hour trip. What happened to your late-night proposal?” “Sally, can you stop nagging me like a bitter, insecure housewife!” He slammed his palm on the table and stood up. “I only lied because I didn’t want to deal with your endless drama. Do you have to make a federal case out of everything?” “No,” I said, packing up my takeout container and throwing it into the trash can. “I really don’t.” My quiet composure seemed to unnerve him. He softened his posture slightly, trying to sound reasonable. “She’s a young girl, Sally. Her pipe burst and her kitchen was flooding. As a friend, how could I just ignore her?” “Doesn’t her building have maintenance? Aren’t there plumbers in this city?” I looked into his eyes. “Galen, the world keeps spinning without you, but apparently, Molly can’t survive basic adulting unless you’re there to hold her hand.” “Don’t be so venomous,” he frowned. “We grew up together. She’s like family to me. Why do you always have to paint it as something sordid?” “Family?” I smiled. “Then tell her to start calling you ‘brother’ instead of ‘Gav’.” “What’s the difference?” “A big one,” I said, turning to walk toward the bedroom. “A brother is family, Galen. You’re just her favorite safety net.” “Sally!” he yelled after me. On Saturday, one of Galen’s college roommates, Jared, came back to town and organized a get-together at a local restaurant. Jared was one of the few people in Galen’s circle who had always been polite to me. Around three in the afternoon, Galen was in the bedroom picking out his outfit. “Hurry up and get changed. Jared put this dinner together, it would look bad if we didn’t show up.” “I have some work to finish. I’ll take an Uber and meet you there later.” I sat in front of my laptop, reviewing my apartment lease agreement for Vienna. He glanced at my screen, which was covered in German text. “Why do you spend so much time on that stuff? It’s not like they’re giving you a raise for it,” he scoffed, pulling on his jacket. “Just don’t be late. Don’t embarrass me.” The front door clicked shut. I signed the digital contract, letting out a long, slow breath. My flight was next Friday. Five days left. At seven, I arrived at the restaurant. When I pushed open the door to the private dining room, the noisy chatter instantly quieted. About a dozen people were gathered around the long table. Galen sat near the head of the table, and to his right sat Molly. She was wearing a loose, oversized black shell jacket. The sleeves were rolled up twice, hanging loosely on her frame to give her a fragile, delicate look. I recognized the jacket instantly. It was the expensive Arc’teryx shell Galen had bought last winter. “Sally’s here!” someone called out. Galen looked up at me. He didn’t stand, but merely pointed toward an empty chair at the far end of the table. “Sit down over there.” It was the seat furthest from him, right next to the kitchen service door where servers hurried in and out. I walked over and sat down. Molly turned to look at me, offering a sweet, innocent smile. “Sally, you made it! I’m so sorry about the jacket. It was freezing outside, so I borrowed Gav’s shell. You don’t mind, do you?” She placed a delicate emphasis on the word borrowed. “I don’t mind,” I said, pouring myself a glass of water. My voice was perfectly steady. “I wouldn’t mind if a stray dog wore it to keep warm, let alone you.” The entire room went dead silent. People exchanged uncomfortable glances. “Sally, what the hell is wrong with you?” Galen slammed his fork onto the table. “Molly was cold and borrowed a jacket. Why are you being so vicious?” Molly’s eyes instantly welled with tears. She reached out and timidly tugged at Galen’s sleeve. “Gav, it’s okay. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have worn your jacket. I’ll take it off right now.” She made a show of slipping the jacket off her shoulders. “Keep it on!” Galen pressed his hand over hers to stop her, before glaring across the table at me. “Did you forget to take your meds today? Why are you trying to humiliate me in front of my friends?” Jared quickly stepped in to defuse the tension. “Hey, come on, guys. It’s no big deal. Sally was just joking. Let’s get a round of drinks, come on!” The atmosphere slowly recovered, but I could feel the pitying, amused glances from around the table. Throughout the dinner, Molly was highly attentive. She put food on Galen’s plate, poured his drinks, and intercepted shots on his behalf, showing off her intimate knowledge of his preferences. “Oh, wait, keep the cilantro away from that side. Galen can’t stand it on his fish,” Molly laughed, stopping the lazy Susan. Someone across the table joked, “Molly, you know Galen better than his own girlfriend. Talk about a perfect match.” Molly’s cheeks flushed, and she playfully nudged the speaker’s shoulder. “Stop saying stupid things. We’re just childhood best friends, right, Gav?” Galen chuckled, taking a sip of his beer without denying it. “She’s always been like this. Just one of the guys.” I sat at the very edge of the table, a complete outsider, watching their cozy performance. I felt a sudden, profound sense of absurdity. What exactly had I been holding onto for the last six years? Midway through the dinner, Molly got up to go to the restroom. I stood up and followed her. At the vanity mirror, Molly was touched up her lipstick. Seeing my reflection in the mirror, she didn’t stop her movements. “Sally, you really don’t need to be so threatened by me,” she said, pressing her lips together and smiling at her reflection. “If Galen and I were going to happen, we would have years ago. You wouldn’t even be in the picture.” I turned on the faucet and washed my hands. “Do you think wearing his jacket makes me angry?” she turned around, leaning against the marble counter, her eyes filled with unshielded triumph. “I just wanted to remind you who has actually been by his side through everything.” I pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and dried my hands. “Molly, do you actually find some kind of cheap thrill in trying to play house with someone else’s boyfriend?” I tossed the paper towel into the bin. “I’m not playing anything,” she shrugged, wearing an innocent expression. “Galen chooses to take care of me. If you have an issue with that, take it up with him. Why are you projecting your insecurities onto me?” “You misunderstand,” I said, turning to look her straight in the eye. “I’m not angry. I just think you’re incredibly pathetic.” Her smile faltered. “What do you mean?” “Playing dumb and acting helpless just to survive on the scraps of another woman’s boyfriend.” I offered her a polite smile. “If you want him so badly, take him. I was getting tired of holding onto garbage anyway.” Three days left. My luggage was completely packed. Three large suitcases stood quietly in the corner of the guest bedroom. Galen had been incredibly busy lately, leaving early and returning late, so he hadn’t noticed anything missing from the apartment. He likely assumed I was still just giving him the silent treatment. On Wednesday morning, my phone rang. It was the primary care physician at the hospice facility where my grandmother was staying. “Ms. Foster, your grandmother’s condition has deteriorated rapidly. We need an immediate family member or her designated emergency contact to sign the end-of-life care authorization. We haven’t been able to reach your mother. Can you get here as soon as possible?” My mind went completely blank. My grandmother was my only real family left in the world. “I’m on my way!” I grabbed my bag and rushed out the door. When I reached the street, I realized a torrential storm was raging outside. The ride-share apps showed a waitlist of over three hundred people, and there wasn’t a single empty taxi in sight. With trembling fingers, I dialed Galen’s number. In this city, he was the only person I could turn to. It rang for a long time before he finally picked up. The background was loud and chaotic, sounding like a busy clinic. “What is it?” his voice was tense and impatient. “Galen, where are you? Can you drive me to Memorial Hospital? Nana is in critical condition, and they need me to sign the papers immediately,” I gasped out, my voice cracking with panic. The line went quiet for a second. “Memorial? In this weather? The highway is going to be completely flooded.” “Please, Galen, I can’t get an Uber,” I cried, tears mixing with the rain pouring down my face. “Fine, just wait for me. I’ll take care of something here and head over.” He hung up immediately. I stood in the pouring rain, staring toward the direction of the hospital, clutching my phone like a lifeline. Ten minutes passed. Thirty minutes. An hour. Galen’s car never showed up. I called him again. His phone was turned off. The rain poured heavier, soaking me to the bone. Cold and shivering, a dark, suffocating despair swallowed me whole. Finally, an empty taxi pulled up in front of me. I scrambled inside, completely desperate. “Memorial Hospital, please. As fast as you can.” When I finally reached the ICU doors, the doctor was already stepping out. Looking at my drenched, shivering state, he let out a heavy sigh. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Foster. She couldn’t hold on long enough.” In that moment, the world fell away. I couldn’t hear the doctor’s condolences, nor the frantic hum of the hospital corridor. Everything turned into a silent, blinding white. I didn’t even cry. I simply signed the documents, completed the paperwork, and handled my grandmother’s final arrangements like a lifeless machine. By the time I walked out of the crematorium carrying her urn, it was late at night. My phone finally regained signal, and several notifications popped up on my screen. It was an Instagram post from Molly. In the photo, Galen was completely drenched, holding a muddy, shivering Shiba Inu in his arms. Molly stood beside him, carefully drying the dog’s fur with a towel. The caption read: “So thankful Gav braved the storm to help me find Waffles. I don’t know what I would’ve done without him. You’re the best.” The post had been published at the exact hour I was standing in the freezing rain, waiting for him to save my grandmother. I stared at the photo. A single tear slipped down my cheek, blurring Molly’s triumphant smile on the screen. My grandmother was dying, waiting for my signature. And he was out rescuing Molly’s dog. I didn’t scream. I didn’t send a furious text. I simply tapped the heart icon to “like” her post. Then, I went home. Back in the apartment that still carried his scent, I pulled out one last cardboard box. I gathered every single thing he had ever given me over our six years together and threw them inside—the cheap gold necklace, the generic mug bought on sale, the cheap plush toys from arcade dates. I lined up my three large suitcases by the front door. Then, I slipped off the $30 silver band I wore on my finger—the ring he had bought me from a street market when we were broke college students—and placed it precisely in the center of the coffee table. Beside the ring, I placed my set of keys. At 5:00 AM, as the sky began to turn a faint grey, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Galen. “My phone died yesterday. Molly’s dog got out and I had to help her find him. The storm was so bad we got stuck at the 24-hour vet clinic. How is your grandma? I’ll try to find some time to drop by today.” How laughable. Find some time. I gripped the handle of my suitcase, took one last look at the apartment I had shared with him for six years, and opened the door. It was over. I typed out my last message to him and pressed send. “No need. We’re done, Galen.”

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My divorce from my ex-wife was a bloodbath. I threw her little lover down the stairs, leaving him fractured and bleeding out on the marble floor. In retaliation, she orchestrated a car crash that put me in hypovolemic shock. While I was unconscious on the operating table, she ordered the surgeons to harvest my corneas—not to save another life, but to throw them to the dogs. We met again five years later. She was now a high-ranking military Commander with absolute authority. And I was blind, scraping by as a masseur in a small, quiet parlor for the visually impaired. When she looked at me, her breathing didn’t even falter. I served her just like any other client. Only when she was about to leave did she finally speak. “Isaac, you’ve been away from home long enough. Surely you’ve learned your lesson by now.” “Are you really intent on keeping my child and living like this?” I rubbed my calloused fingertips together, keeping my mouth shut. She didn’t know. That crash didn’t just steal my sight. It took my baby, too. My divorce from my ex-wife was a bloodbath. I threw her little lover down the stairs, leaving him fractured and bleeding out on the marble floor. In retaliation, she orchestrated a car crash that put me in hypovolemic shock. While I was unconscious on the operating table, she ordered the surgeons to harvest my corneas—not to save another life, but to throw them to the dogs. We met again five years later. She was now a high-ranking military Commander with absolute authority. And I was blind, scraping by as a masseur in a small, quiet parlor for the visually impaired. When she looked at me, her breathing didn’t even falter. I served her just like any other client. Only when she was about to leave did she finally speak. “Isaac, you’ve been away from home long enough. Surely you’ve learned your lesson by now.” “Are you really intent on keeping my child and living like this?” I rubbed my calloused fingertips together, keeping my mouth shut. She didn’t know. That crash didn’t just steal my sight. It took my baby, too. …… A long silence stretched between us before Diana finally let out a heavy sigh. “Isaac, look at your hands. They’re covered in calluses. Do you really think you can raise a child like this?” “If you just apologize to Cody, I can take you both back to the estate today. You’ll never have to worry about money again.” I didn’t move. I simply pulled out my phone with practiced ease, tapping the screen to bring up the payment gateway. “That won’t be necessary, Commander Hogan. Just leave a five-star review if you’re satisfied with the service.” Diana didn’t move. I heard her knuckles tap rhythmically against the wooden desk—a heavy, impatient sound. “Isaac, you’re blind. What is this pride getting you?” I blinked my useless eyes, the skin tight and dry. Just as I opened my mouth to respond, her phone buzzed. Two tiny, innocent voices filtered through the speaker. “Mommy, I miss you. When are you coming home? Daddy has a fever.” “Yeah, Daddy looks really sick today, his eyes are all red. Come home and watch movies with us.” Diana’s voice softened instantly, wrapping them in a gentle warmth I hadn’t felt in years. “Mommy misses you too, sweethearts.” “Take good care of Daddy, okay? I’m on my way.” She hung up. I could feel her lingering gaze, heavy with hesitation. “Isaac, I…” her voice was raspy. I offered a small, polite smile and took a step back, clearing her path to the door. “Safe travels, Commander Hogan.” After a long, agonizing pause, the sharp click of her heels faded down the hallway. But at the threshold, she stopped. “Isaac, you never used to be this cold.” Used to be? I touched the corners of my eyes, where a phantom ache always seemed to linger. I used to cry, scream, and beg, using our child as a shield to keep her from walking away. None of it made her look back. In the end, my baby was gone, my eyes were dark, and all I got in return was a cold reminder that I had brought it on myself. Only when the outer door clicked shut did I finally relax my shoulders and slip back into the breakroom. My coworker nudged my shoulder. “You two know each other? That was Commander Hogan.” I shook my head. “Not really.” Another coworker chimed in with a chuckle. “Not really? She just bought an annual VIP pass under your name, Isaac. You’re set for the year.” “Man, she’s gorgeous. And she seems so incredibly devoted. If I had an ex-wife like that, I’d never let her go.” A bitter irony twisted in my gut. I stayed silent. But the gossip wouldn’t stop. “Seriously, though. Word is she traded a major military medal just to secure that luxury estate for her ex. What more could a guy want? People say she’s still single, living like a monk. That’s real love.” The silence in my chest suddenly snapped. I couldn’t help it. “Real love?” My voice sounded hollow even to me. “Is it real love to cheat during a marriage and father twins with another man? Is it real love to move your mistress right into that luxury estate? Is it real love to leave the husband who stood by you for ten years without even ten dollars in his pocket to buy an ice cream?” The room went dead silent. A sharp intake of breath. “How… how do you know all that?” I looked down, a self-deprecating smile on my lips. I pulled out an old, faded photograph from my wallet—the last one taken before the dark took over—and handed it to them. “Did I have nice eyes?” They murmured in agreement. “They were beautiful, Isaac.” I pointed to the hollow, scarred tissue beneath my brow. “Diana Hogan took them. Do you still think she’s a good woman?” The silence that followed was suffocating. I didn’t wait for an answer. I went back to work, letting the physical labor numb my mind. When my shift ended, I grabbed my white cane. I bought a bag of sweets and small toys, and took a cab to the quiet cemetery on the outskirts of the city. I laid them out by the cold headstone, then slowly burned them in the small iron brazier, listening to the plastic warp and the paper turn to ash. “Hey, baby. Are you warm over there?” I traced the nameless stone with my fingertips. “She came by today. She mentioned you.” “But don’t worry. She’ll never get to see you. Not in this lifetime.” The next morning, my phone rang. It was my day off, but the manager was panicked. Diana was at the shop, tearing the place apart. When I got there, her voice was low and dangerous. “If you don’t get Isaac here in five minutes, I’ll have this entire establishment shut down for a safety audit.” I paused at the threshold, then pushed the door open. “Don’t threaten them. I’m here.” She didn’t waste words. “Get your things. We’re leaving.” I stood my ground. “I won’t ask twice, Isaac.” A cold smile touched my lips. “And if I say no?” “What are you going to take from me this time?” Diana’s breath hitched. She swept a glass vase off the counter, sending it shattering across the tile. The mask of the calm, penitent ex-wife was finally slipping. We had been childhood sweethearts. When I was ten, my parents died in the line of duty, and the Hogans took me in. Back then, I was a ghost of a boy, sitting in a dark room staring at nothing. It was Diana, two years younger than me, who reached out and took my hand. She held onto it for ten years. She watched partners come and go in her social circles, but I was the only constant by her side. On my twenty-second birthday, she dragged me to the courthouse the second it opened. I laughed, calling her a puppy eager for its bowl. She pressed the marriage certificate to her chest and whispered, “I’ve guarded you for ten years, Isaac. I’m not letting anyone else steal you. A husband belongs safely in my pocket.” At our wedding, as she walked down the aisle toward me, she was already crying. She threw her arms around me, sobbing out her vows: “Isaac, I swear, it’s only ever been you. It will always be you.” After we married, she learned how to cook the spicy Cajun dishes I loved. Because I liked walking barefoot, she carpeted the entire house so my feet would never be cold. Every morning, I woke up to find my toothbrush already prepped with toothpaste. I was drowning in sweetness. Until she went away on a month-long deployment. Missing her terribly, I cooked a pot of her favorite soup and drove down to her headquarters. I pushed her office door open. Her collar was undone, her hair slightly messy. She was sitting on a junior officer’s lap, while he, holding a half-burnt cigarette, casually leaned down to kiss her lips. My entire body froze. “Diana, what is this?” She snapped out of it, pushing him away and reaching for the soup container. “Isaac, honey, what are you doing here?” My voice shook. I pointed at the man. “Who is he?” “Just a subordinate,” she said, trying to take my hand. I yanked it back. “Since when do you kiss subordinates?” The man stood up, a smug smile on his face. “You must be the husband. I’m Cody. Diana and I are strictly professional, don’t sweat it. Man, you’re handsome. If I were her, I’d have locked you down early too.” He reached out, his fingers brushing my jaw as if he wanted to lean in. I pushed him away, scowling. Cody laughed. “Sorry, man. Just couldn’t help myself. You’re gorgeous. Besides, I’m gay. Diana’s just my best friend. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.” He pulled out his phone to show me pictures of his supposed boyfriend. I looked at Diana, desperate for reassurance. “Is that true?” Diana wrapped her arms around me, smiling. “Of course it is. We’ve known each other for years. He’s like a sister to me. If there was anything between us, would I have married you? It was just a stupid joke, honey. Don’t take it to heart.” I wanted so badly to believe her. So I did. But after that, Cody was everywhere. He’d lounge around our house half-naked around her. When I voiced my discomfort, she brushed it off. “He’s just a gay best friend, Isaac. You’re overthinking it. Even his boyfriend doesn’t mind, why are you so uptight?” Her casual attitude made me doubt my own sanity. Cody was always sweet to my face, calling me his favorite brother-in-law. I convinced myself to stop being petty. I treated him like a friend, cooking extra portions for him, buying him gifts on his birthday. Then came our first wedding anniversary. Diana had been traveling out of town for “work.” I bought a beautiful silk pajama set she’d teased me about, preparing a surprise. I went to her personal assistant, my eyes bright with excitement. But her assistant couldn’t even look me in the eye. “Isaac… maybe you shouldn’t go.” “What do you mean?” My smile faltered. The assistant sighed, looking away. “She’s not out of town. She’s in the city. She’s with Cody.” I got the address. It was a cozy little apartment. The very apartment Diana had bought in my name before our wedding to give me “financial security.” Now, her lover was living in it. My knees trembled as I walked up the stairs. Through the slightly ajar door, I saw Cody gently rubbing Diana’s swollen stomach. “Our boy is kicking hard today. Sorry he’s making you so tired, babe.” Diana smiled, a look of pure tenderness on her face. “When he’s older, I’ll hand the entire Hogan legacy over to him.” My nails dug into the wooden doorframe until they bled. For a year, I had begged her for a baby. She always said she wasn’t ready. Now I knew why. She was already carrying his. I slammed the door open. “So this is what ‘busy’ looks like, Diana?” My voice sounded raw, like I was choking on glass. “Isaac? What are you doing here?” Diana immediately stepped in front of Cody, shielding him as if I were a monster. I let out a harsh laugh. “I should ask you the same thing.” She frowned, her tone dripping with impatience. “Cody just broke up with his boyfriend. He was devastated. He said he just wanted to feel what it’s like to have a family. I’m just helping him through it.” “Helping him?” My voice cracked. “Diana, where do I fit into your life?” Cody stepped out, glaring at Diana. “Diana, how can you speak to Isaac like that?” He reached for my hand. “Isaac, I just wanted a baby. Since we’re all so close, I just borrowed Diana’s womb for a bit. You don’t mind, right? We’ve never crossed any lines, I swear.” I wrenched my hand away, shaking with a violent, hysterical laughter. Right. No lines crossed. Except they’d slept together. “I want a divorce, Diana.” I turned and walked away. Back at our place, I threw my clothes into a suitcase. Halfway through, she burst in, grabbing my wrists. “We’ve been together for over ten years, Isaac. You’re really going to throw that away over this?” “You’re a spoiled rich kid who’s never held a job. How are you going to survive out there?” “That’s none of your business,” I yelled, shaking her off. She suddenly broke down, pulling me into a desperate embrace, wiping my tears. “Isaac, I’m sorry. I messed up. Please, don’t leave me. Not after everything.” “Then abort the baby!” She hesitated, but finally nodded. “Okay. I will.” I gripped her collar tightly. “And I want you to get pregnant with my baby. Right now.” She stared at me for a long time, then whispered, “Okay.” I kept her locked in that house. Day and night, it was a cycle of desperate intimacy, fertility supplements, and endless remedies. Three months later, she got pregnant. She let out a sigh of relief, as if she’d finally checked a chore off her list. But when she looked at her growing belly, there was none of the warmth she’d shown Cody’s child. She treated the pregnancy like a transaction. She did whatever I asked—prenatal exams, supplements—but her mind was always elsewhere. I told myself it didn’t matter. Once the baby came, things would fix themselves. But by the fifth month, she started slipping away again. Ignoring my calls. One afternoon, she sneaked out while I was asleep. I followed her to the old Hogan family home. Cody was rubbing her swollen legs as she lounged on the sofa, eating ice cream and scrolling through her phone—a phone she never let me touch anymore. “Only two bites,” Cody said gently. “I hate that I can’t be with you every day right now.” I pushed the door open, my hands shaking. “Diana, you lied to me.” At the sight of me, Diana’s patience snapped. “Isaac, enough! I’ve done everything you wanted. I stayed home, I gave you a baby. Cody has severe depression. He’s unstable. Do you have any idea how painful it is for me to watch him suffer on the security feeds? I’m carrying your child. Why can’t you just leave him alone?” “Because you promised!” I screamed, my fists clenched. Cody smirked subtly. “Isaac, my phone died, so I was just using Diana’s to pass the time. Even the doctor said I’m doing great, coping with my depression. I tell Diana she worries too much. She won’t let me join her missions or go on business trips anymore. But don’t worry, I’m not a freeloader. Diana’s already setting up my promotions. Soon, I’ll be able to make her my little princess.” Blind with rage, I grabbed a heavy ceramic vase from the table and threw it at him. “You disgust me!” “Cody, watch out!” Diana threw herself in front of him, catching the blow, then glared at me with pure hatred. “How can you be so vicious? You know he’s sick!” The fight drained out of me instantly. I turned and walked out. I knocked on my best friend’s door, sobbing as I told him everything. But he only frowned. “Honestly, Isaac, you’re being unreasonable. Cody’s a good guy. He just wanted a kid with Diana. Is it really worth this kind of reaction?” I stared at him, unable to believe what I was hearing. “You actually forced Diana to get an abortion? That was a human life, Isaac. Cody never tried to take your place. You’re the one making a scene.” He turned back to his shopping bags. “By the way, it’s Cody’s birthday soon. What do you think I should get him?” A thick, suffocating weight settled in my throat. My childhood friend of over a decade was taking Cody’s side. I left his house and walked aimlessly. I wanted to buy an ice cream, just to taste something sweet, but my banking app showed a zero balance. I sat on a park bench near our estate from sunset to sunrise, freezing. When I finally stumbled back home, Diana grabbed my arm, checking me over. “Where the hell were you? I’ve been looking for you all night. You’re pregnant with my child, and you’re out running around like a child?” I didn’t look at her. I just held out my hand. “Your phone.” She hesitated before handing it over. I tried my birthday. Error. Our anniversary. Error. She bit her lip. “0613.” Cody’s birthday. My fingers trembled as I unlocked it and transferred five thousand dollars to my account. Diana looked shocked, then handed me a black credit card. “There’s no limit. Buy whatever you want, Isaac. Just stop running away.” I gripped the card, its sharp plastic edges biting into my palm. I pulled away when she tried to hug me, walking back to my room in silence. I stopped asking about Cody. I stopped caring. My baby was finally born. But he never received a single warm glance from his mother, let alone her breastmilk. The day after giving birth, she checked out of the hospital to take care of Cody. One afternoon, Cody came to see me. He held Diana’s phone, a triumphant smirk on his face. “Isaac, did you know? Diana promised she’d come take care of me once the baby was born. I told her I was just a little tired, and she held me so tight. She didn’t even blink when she found out you’d stayed out in the cold all night. It was all a show for you, Isaac. If I were her, I’d never treat you like that.” My heart shriveled. All her panic, her frantic searching—it was all an act. How many times had she played me for a fool? As I turned to leave, Cody screamed and threw himself down the stairs. “Isaac, please! I just wanted to visit! You don’t have to kill me just because you hate my friendship with Diana!” “Cody!” The next second, a stinging slap cracked across my face. Diana was already on her knees, cradling Cody in her arms. “Isaac, you are monstrous.” I wiped the blood from my lip, letting out a quiet, broken laugh. That night, she stormed into my room and grabbed my wrists. “You broke his bones, and now his vision is failing! If you’re going to be this cruel, you can give him your eyes!” “I didn’t push him! He jumped!” I screamed, shaking my head. “Liar! He’s too innocent for a stunt like that!” She dragged me toward the door. I lost all my pride. I fell to my knees, begging her. “Diana, please. My art exhibition isn’t finished. I need my eyes. Just let me finish it, let me look at our baby a little longer. Please, just give me a few months.” I was sobbing, my whole body shaking. She let out a cold laugh. “A few months? What about Cody? Can he wait?” “And the baby? You’re too malicious to raise him anyway. You’re better off blind. At least you won’t ruin him.” She dragged me toward her car. I managed to break free, grabbing our baby from his crib and running into the street. How could I protect my son if I was blind? But the next second, headlight beams blinded me. A fleet of black SUVs charged at us. There was no escape. I held my baby tight, but the impact tore him from my arms. I watched him fly through the air… She had me taken straight to the military hospital. I watched the surgical team approach me with their cold steel instruments, unable to move. I cried quiet, useless tears as they cut into my sockets, leaving nothing but trailing tracks of blood. She used to kiss those eyes. She used to tell me they were the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Afterward, she had us shipped off to a private asylum in the mountains, so our presence wouldn’t stress Cody. It was freezing, damp, and neglected. My baby lay beside me, broken from the crash. For Cody’s sake, she didn’t even care if her own son lived or died. I held his tiny, cooling body in my arms, stumbling toward the iron gates, screaming for help. But the guards only pushed me back, sending high-voltage shocks through my body every time I touched the fence. After dozens of shocks, I lay dying on the wet concrete. Someone stepped over me, spitting on the ground. “You forced Commander Hogan to abort her lover’s child, and you think she’d let yours live? Dream on.” My heart seized, a physical agony ripping through my numb flesh. I reached out for my baby, but my fingers only met ice. “Isaac, I just want you and our boy to come home. We can have a good life.” Diana’s raspy voice pulled me back to the present. I let out a dry, rattling laugh. “Our boy?” Diana continued, oblivious. “He’s three now, right? I picked out a name for him. Jamie. Do you like it?” “He needs to come home.” “Don’t you know?” I whispered. “He died in that asylum because you refused him medical care.”

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Exactly one week before Lauren and I were supposed to sign our marriage license, I canceled the appointment at the clerk’s office. My coworker noticed the notification on my computer screen. “Wait, didn’t you guys have that date locked in for months? Why’d you cancel?” I didn’t answer. I just stared down at the shared calendar app on my phone. The reminder for our wedding registration had been deleted. In its place, scheduled for that exact Wednesday, was a new entry: Take Chase to Key West. A few days ago, I had caught Lauren browsing B&Bs in Key West. When I asked her what prompted the sudden trip, she didn’t even look up from her screen. “Chase has been in a really dark place lately,” she said, her voice breezy, as if she were explaining a routine chore. “I want to take him down to the coast next week to clear his head. I’m just checking the weather forecast to map out our itinerary.” Chase was the younger brother of her late best friend, Hannah. “He has no one else left in this world, Gavin,” she had told me a hundred times before. “I promised Hannah I’d look out for him. Don’t overthink it.” But sitting there, watching the screen transition back to my home screen, a quiet, cold realization washed over me: this relationship had become entirely pointless. … When the automated text confirming the cancellation buzzed in my hand, Lauren still wasn’t home. I knew where she was. She had gone to pick Chase up from his office. Chase had posted a complaint on Instagram earlier that week, grumbling about how his new office in the suburbs was a twenty-minute walk from the train station, and how the summer humidity made him sweat through his suits. Lauren had commented under the post: I’ll pick you up from now on. True to her word, she had made the forty-minute drive every single evening since, rain or shine. It made me think of Tuesday, when our building manager called me to say a pipe had burst in our unit, flooding the bedroom downstairs. I was on my way back from a grueling out-of-town business trip and called Lauren, asking if she could leave work early to handle it. “I have to pick up Chase first,” she had told me. “I’ll get to it later.” That was the moment I realized our home, our shared life, and our future would always be put on hold for Chase. I sat on the sofa, reading the text message one more time. Your appointment at the City Clerk’s Office has been successfully canceled. The screen glare pricked my tired eyes. On the coffee table in front of me sat a scattered pile of wedding favor samples we’d ordered last week. I unwrapped a strawberry hard candy and popped it into my mouth, but as I chewed, I couldn’t taste a thing. I opened the shared calendar app again. Three months ago, I had meticulously added “Marriage License Appointment” to next Wednesday’s slot. I remembered setting three separate alerts for it, terrified we’d miss our window. The time slot was still blocked out, but the text had changed. Take Chase to Key West. The edit history showed it had been updated this afternoon. Lauren hadn’t even bothered to mention it to me. I scrolled further back through our shared digital history. Last year, on my birthday, the entry “Gavin’s Birthday Dinner” had been quietly overwritten with “Chase’s Promotion Party.” Further back still, on our fourth anniversary, the sole entry for the day read: “Help Chase look at apartments.” I was still scrolling through the years, page by page, when the front door clicked open. Lauren walked in. Seeing me sitting in the dim light of the living room, a flicker of surprise crossed her face, but she quickly masked it with her usual calm, gentle demeanor. “Why are you still up?” She set a grocery bag on the dining table. “Chase’s office gave out fresh peaches today. He doesn’t care for them, so he told me to bring them home for you.” I glanced at the plastic bag. The scent of overripe peaches was heavy and cloying. A few of them were already bruised and wrinkly, leaving a sticky, dark puddle at the bottom of the bag. “Oh, by the way,” she added, tossing her keys onto the counter. “I’m taking Chase down to Key West next week. We’ll need to push our appointment back a few days.” Without waiting for my response, she turned and disappeared into the bathroom. As the shower began to run, her phone, which she’d left on the coffee table, lit up with a banner notification. It was Chase. Hey Lauren, I picked out a couple of B&Bs in Key West. What do you think of this oceanfront place? The room with the private balcony is all yours. I’m happy to take the smaller one next to it. I stared at the glowing screen for a long time. Then, driven by a sudden, hollow curiosity, I unlocked her tablet on the side table—our accounts were synced—and scrolled through their chat history. Morning, Lauren. It’s pouring today, don’t forget your umbrella. This lunch spot is incredible. We have to go together next time. Just picked the B&B. They had exchanged over a hundred messages today alone. I backed out and clicked on my own conversation with Lauren. Over the last three days, we had sent exactly two texts. Her: Not coming home for dinner. Me: Okay. The bathroom door opened, and Lauren walked out, drying her hair with a towel. The very first thing she did was reach for her phone. As she read Chase’s messages, her features softened into a warm, tender expression I hadn’t seen directed at me in a year. She began typing a reply immediately, right there, standing less than three feet from me. She never looked up. She never asked if I was okay with postponing the wedding. I got up and walked into the bedroom. Our engagement photos were still propped up on the nightstand. In the print, I was leaning into her shoulder, laughing, while she looked toward the lens with a soft smile. I used to think that photo captured the happiest moment of our lives. Now, looking at it, I couldn’t help but wonder if she had been looking at the camera, or at Chase, who had been waiting behind the photographer to grab dinner with us. I turned the frame face down on the wood. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an automated system notification from the clerk’s office, informing me that any rescheduled appointments required at least three business days’ notice. I deleted that text, too. The next morning was Saturday. We were supposed to go try on wedding bands at two o’clock. I had put it on the shared calendar three days ago, though I was certain the entry had been erased by now. When I woke up, the pillow beside me was cold, bearing only a faint indentation where Lauren’s head had rested. A yellow sticky note was taped to the nightstand, her handwriting hurried and messy: Chase’s car is in the shop, so I’m driving him to his shift. Order yourself some breakfast. There was no I’m sorry. There was no I’ll make it up to you. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly when Lauren had stopped trying to even pretend to care. For months, I had been pouring all my energy into planning a wedding, completely blind to the gradual decay of our relationship. I crumpled the note into a tight ball and threw it into the empty trash can beside the bed. The bin was entirely empty because Lauren hadn’t spent enough consecutive hours in this apartment to generate any trash in weeks. I wandered into the kitchen. The fridge was bare. The last time Lauren had actually cooked a meal at home was a month ago, when Chase had come over. She had spent the entire afternoon preparing an elaborate roasted chicken dinner with rosemary potatoes and asparagus. But there hadn’t been a place set for me. By the time I got home from work, they were already eating. Lauren had looked up, her cheeks flushed from the kitchen’s heat. “Gavin, I left some plates in the microwave for you.” The plates held a dry mound of leftover rice and a small portion of cold, wilted green beans. She hadn’t cooked since. I decided against ordering takeout and walked down to the local shopping district instead. The jewelry boutique was brightly lit, the glass cases pristine and gleaming under the halogen lights. The sales associate recognized me immediately and hurried over with a warm smile. “Mr. Hogan! Are you back to try on the platinum bands you and Ms. Moore liked last week? I can pull them from the vault for you.” I shook my head quietly. “No, thank you. We won’t be needing them.” She blinked, caught off guard, but her professional training took over instantly. She slipped a elegant business card into my hand. “Of course. If anything changes, please don’t hesitate to reach out.” I tucked the card into my pocket. Just as I stepped out into the humid afternoon air, my phone began to vibrate. It was Lauren. “Gavin,” she said, her voice tight and frantic. In the background, I could hear the muffled, sterile chime of a hospital paging system. “Chase is having these terrible stomach pains. I had to rush him to the ER. I won’t be home for dinner, so just grab something on your own.” “Lauren, I—” Before I could finish, the line went dead. I stood near the railing of the outdoor shopping plaza, lowering the phone slowly, staring at the screen. Below me, the weekend crowd shuffled past. Couples held hands, families pushed strollers, and friends laughed over coffee. I felt entirely untethered, like a ghost hovering over someone else’s life. I walked into the nearby movie theater, bought a ticket for the first showing available, and sat in the dark for two hours without registering a single frame of the film. Afterward, I sat on a bench in the plaza and pulled up Instagram. Chase had posted a photo thirty minutes prior. Grateful to always have someone by my side when my stomach flares up. The photo showed the harsh fluorescent lights of an ER hallway. In the corner of the frame was a woman’s hand, her fingers long and slender, resting gently on the edge of his gurney. Around her wrist was the deep-blue watch I had saved up for two months to buy her for her last birthday. In the comments, Lauren had written: Always. I stared at that word until the letters blurred. I opened our chat thread again. Last month, when I was bedridden with a 103-degree fever, shivering violently under three layers of blankets, I had texted her: I feel awful. Can you come home? Her reply, sent four hours later, had been: Drink plenty of water and take some Tylenol. By the time I returned to the apartment, the sun had set, plunging the rooms into darkness. The only sound was the rhythmic, hollow ticking of the wall clock. I went into the bedroom, pulled an empty cardboard box from the closet, and began packing away every trace of the wedding. The brochures, the deposit receipts, the catering contracts, and our draft of the guest list. On Lauren’s side of the guest list, there were dozens of names I barely recognized. But at the very top, highlighted in thick red ink, was a note in her handwriting: Chase — Head Table. I flipped the guest list over and wrote a single sentence on the blank white back: Lauren, go to Key West. I’m going back to Maine. Let’s go our separate ways. Then, I booked a one-way train ticket back to my hometown for the following evening. Lauren didn’t return until well past midnight. In the quiet bedroom, the sharp, medicinal smell of the hospital drifted over me, mingled with the faint, distinct scent of cedarwood. It wasn’t my shampoo, nor was it our laundry detergent. It was Chase’s signature cologne. She moved quietly, assuming I was asleep. She slid under the covers, tugging the duvet toward her side, and let out a long, heavy sigh before closing her eyes. I lay perfectly still in the dark, watching the thin sliver of streetlamp light cut through the gap in the curtains, illuminating the nightstand. The flipped engagement photo and the handwritten note sat right there, side by side. But she didn’t look. Perhaps she never would. When I woke up, Lauren was still asleep, her brow slightly furrowed, her breathing deep and heavy. I slipped out of bed without waking her and poured a glass of water in the kitchen. Standing by the window, I watched the city wake up. Below, the local bakery was already venting warm, sweet steam into the morning air. Commuters hurried toward the train station, and neighbors walked their dogs. The world kept turning, perfectly indifferent to the fact that my life had just been hollowed out. I felt a cold draft blowing through the empty space where my future used to be. Around nine, Lauren finally stirred. She walked toward the kitchen, but her footsteps faltered when she reached the living room. I looked up. She was staring at the cardboard box sitting on the coffee table. She let out a slow, irritated breath. “Gavin, what are we doing here? What is this?” I didn’t answer. I just looked at her from the sofa. She stood over me, her arms crossed, looking down like a disappointed parent waiting for a child to finish a tantrum and apologize. “I know I haven’t been as present lately,” she said, her tone softening into that practiced, reasonable cadence. “But you have to be fair. Chase is in a really fragile state. He’s just a kid, really, and with Hannah gone, who else does he have? Just give me a little time. Once he’s back on his feet, we’ll get everything back on track.” “How much time, Lauren?” She hesitated. And in that brief silence, her phone buzzed on the counter. Chase’s name flashed across the screen, followed by an audio message. Her hand shot out to grab the phone before she could even think about what she was doing. Chase’s soft, vulnerable voice filled the quiet apartment. “Hey Lauren, thanks again for staying so late last night. I’m feeling a lot better. Are you still coming by today?” Lauren turned her back to me, her fingers flying across the screen as she typed her reply. Watching her silhouette against the morning light, the truth became painfully clear. It wasn’t that she was too busy. It was simply that her time had already been promised to someone else. I was just the placeholder, the one who could always be rescheduled, postponed, or asked to wait. I had been waiting forever. Waiting for Chase to get better, waiting for him to find an apartment, waiting for him to grow up. But there would always be another flare-up, another bad day, another car repair. “Lauren,” I said quietly. “I’m done waiting.” I opened my phone’s photo library and found a picture from last winter. It was a selfie of us in the first snow of the year. I was laughing, my cheeks red, snowflakes dusting my hair. Lauren was standing beside me, her profile elegant, a slight smile on her lips. I had always cherished that photo. But as I zoomed in on her eyes, I realized she wasn’t looking at the camera. She was looking past me, toward the entrance of the office building down the street where Chase worked. It hadn’t been a memory of us at all. I had simply stepped into her frame while she was waiting for him. Lauren finished her text and turned around. Seeing the expression on my face, her patience finally snapped. “Gavin, seriously, what do you want from me?” I offered her a small, tired smile. “I’m going home, Lauren.” For the first time, a flicker of genuine panic crossed her eyes. She took two quick steps forward and dropped to her knees in front of me, grabbing my hands. “Gavin, please, just listen to me,” she said, her words tumbling out much faster than usual. “The Key West trip isn’t what you think. I just want to help him clear his head. He’s been under so much pressure at work, he isn’t sleeping. Once we get through this stretch, things will go back to normal. I swear.” I pulled my phone out, opened the shared calendar, and held the screen up to her face. Take Chase to Key West sat mockingly in the Wednesday slot. And right below it, preserved in the edit history, was the note I had written three months ago: Marriage license appointment. Don’t forget your ID. Lauren stared at the screen, her lips parting slightly. “I… I forgot that was the same day,” she whispered, realizing how hollow the excuse sounded even to her own ears. “I was going to reschedule it as soon as I got back. It’s only a three-day trip, Gavin. We’re just pushing the wedding back a week. It’s not like we’re canceling it.” “You forgot our wedding date, Lauren.” She had no answer for that. I took my phone back and, keeping my eyes on hers, opened the calendar edit page. One by one, I began deleting the entries I had so carefully logged over the years. Lauren’s Birthday Dinner. Anniversary weekend trip. Names for our future kitten. Places we wanted to visit. My finger swiped left, delete, left, delete. The calendar emptied out, block by block, leaving only blank white squares. I turned the phone over and placed it screen-down on the table. Lauren reached out to grab my wrist, but I pulled back slightly, letting her hand fall into the empty space between us. Before she could speak, her phone buzzed again. Hey Lauren, I’m looking at flights for Wednesday morning. Is the 10:15 AM flight okay? We’d land just in time for lunch. Lauren looked at the screen, then back up at me. The apartment fell dead silent, save for the low hum of the refrigerator. I watched her hesitate. And that brief, agonizing second of hesitation told me everything I needed to know. She wasn’t debating whether or not to go; she was only debating whether to reply to him in front of me. The choice had been made long ago. I stood up, walked into the bathroom, and closed the door behind me. Sitting on the edge of the tub, I buried my face in my hands. I didn’t cry. My eyes were burning, but no tears came. There was only a profound, heavy silence inside me. This really was the end. By late afternoon, I was in the bedroom with the door locked, packing the remainder of my clothes. Through the door, I heard the muffled sound of Lauren’s voice on the phone. “He’s not feeling well? Okay… I’m on my way.” A few minutes later, the heavy click of the front door echoed through the apartment, followed by absolute silence. I zipped my suitcase, stood up, and took one last look around the bedroom. My side of the closet was completely bare, leaving only two wire hangers swaying slightly on the rack. I dragged my suitcase to the entryway. On the coffee table lay the printed itinerary for Key West, with several spots along the coast circled in bright yellow highlighter. I didn’t feel angry anymore. I just felt finished. As the elevator doors closed, I pulled out my phone, went through my contacts, and blocked her number, her social media, and her email. Five minutes later, I was in the back of a cab heading toward the station.

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My daughter ran into my bedroom in the middle of the night, sobbing and clutching her stomach. “Mommy,” she whimpered, “there are little fish swimming in my tummy.” I thought she’d just had a nightmare. I pressed my palm to her forehead—no fever. But she was sweating through her pajamas, her tiny body curled into a tight, agonizing ball. Panic seized me. I scooped her up and ran for the car. When the doctor finished the exam, his face drained of color. He didn’t explain anything to me. Instead, he walked straight out of the examination room, picked up the desk phone, and dialed 911. Within minutes, two police officers burst through the doors. Their very first question was: “Who is the primary caregiver?” My brain went completely numb. My knees gave out, and I collapsed onto the floor. 01 My daughter woke up crying at two in the morning. She padded into my room, her tiny hand pressed flat against her belly. “Mommy, there are little fish inside.” “They’re swimming.” I lifted her onto my bed, tucking her under the duvet. I felt her forehead. Cool. No fever. Yet a cold sweat was breaking out across her hairline, her small face pinched with a pain that looked far too old for her. She curled tightly onto her side, like a tiny shrimp hiding from a storm. “Vera, sweetie, where does it hurt?” “My tummy. The little fish are biting me.” Her breath hitched in short, jagged sobs, her words melting into tears. The quiet safety of our home shattered. I grabbed my coat, wrapped her in a blanket, and carried her out into the freezing night. The 24-hour pediatric emergency room was bathed in a harsh, fluorescent glare that made everyone look like ghosts. The attending physician was young, his face a mask of clinical detachment. “We need an ultrasound. Right now.” I carried Vera down the empty, echoing corridor. The ultrasound machine hummed, a low, mechanical vibration that seemed to fill the room. Vera lay on the narrow, paper-lined bed, tears pooling in her eyelashes. “Mommy, I’m scared.” “I know, baby. I’ve got you. Mommy’s right here.” My voice shook, a thin thread I was trying desperately not to break. The technician didn’t say a word. His brow furrowed, a deep crease forming between his eyes as he glided the cold wand across Vera’s small, soft belly. The monitor displayed a chaotic map of gray and black shapes that meant absolutely nothing to me. After what felt like an eternity, he clicked the machine off. “Take this back to the ER physician,” he said. His voice was flat, devoid of comfort. I hurried back to the exam room, Vera heavy and shivering in my arms. The young doctor took the report. He glanced at it, and the color instantly left his face. He stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the linoleum. He stared at me. It wasn’t the look of a doctor addressing a worried mother. It was the look of a detective staring at a suspect. He offered no explanation. He turned on his heel, walked out of the room, and strode toward the nurse’s station. I followed him to the doorway. I heard him lift the receiver. His voice was low, hushed, but vibrating with urgency. “Yes, I need to report a pediatric emergency at Children’s Hospital. Emergency department.” “We have a female child, age five, with suspected severe physical abuse. Multiple foreign objects detected in her abdomen.” A bomb went off in my skull. Abuse? Foreign objects? Vera was still whimpering in my lap, clutching her stomach. Before I could even process the words, two police officers burst through the double doors. Their heavy boots squeaked loudly against the polished floor as they pushed into the room. One of them, an officer with sharp, analytical eyes, locked his gaze onto me. He didn’t ask about her symptoms. He didn’t ask if she was okay. He asked: “Who is the primary caregiver?” My legs simply ceased to hold me. I slid down the wall, clutching Vera tightly, and collapsed onto the freezing floor. 02 The light in the interrogation room was even harsher than the hospital’s, draining the warmth from the air. I sat on a cold metal chair. Vera had been wheeled away by the glass doors, being prepped for emergency surgery. I couldn’t be with her, and the absence felt like a physical hollow in my chest. The two officers sat across from me. Their name tags read Collins and Taylor. Collins was taking notes; Taylor did the talking. “Name.” “Ella Grayson.” “Age.” “Thirty.” “Your daughter’s name and age.” “Vera Grayson. She’s five.” “Where is her father?” “David. David Grayson. He’s on a business trip out of state. I’ve already left him several voicemails.” Officer Taylor set his pen down and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Mrs. Grayson, the doctors found a massive quantity of magnetic beads inside your daughter’s digestive tract.” “Do you know what those are?” I shook my head, my mind a blank slate of terror. “They’re tiny, high-powered magnets. Buckyballs. They’re federally banned for children under six.” “Do you know why? Because if they’re swallowed, they attract each other through the intestinal walls. They cause perforations. Sepsis. They kill.” They kill. The words felt like physical blows, knocking the air from my lungs. My hands began to shake so violently I had to tuck them under my thighs. “I don’t know… We don’t have those. We don’t keep things like that in the house.” “Are you sure about that?” Taylor’s eyes narrowed, searching my face for any telltale sign. “Think carefully. Has anyone bought toys like that recently? Could she have gotten them at a friend’s house?” “No, absolutely not. I hand-select every single toy Vera plays with. I make sure they’re safe. I—” “Do you work, Mrs. Grayson?” he interrupted. “No. I’m a stay-at-home mother.” The moment the words left my mouth, the room seemed to drop ten degrees. “A stay-at-home mother,” Taylor repeated, his voice dripping with a quiet, devastating skepticism. “Then you tell me, Mrs. Grayson. How does a five-year-old child under twenty-four-hour supervision manage to swallow dozens of high-powered magnets?” “I don’t know!” I choked out, the tears finally spilling over. I was practically screaming, my chest heaving. “I swear to God, I don’t know!” The heavy metal door clicked open. My husband, David, burst into the room. His face was flushed, his breathing ragged, his tie askew. Behind him stood his mother, Agnes. “Officers, please, there’s been some mistake,” David said, his voice breathless. Officer Taylor glanced up but didn’t speak. David turned to me, his eyes wide and burning with a fury that made my stomach turn. “Ella! What did you do? How could you let this happen to her!” “Didn’t I tell you to keep those small toys out of her reach? Do you ever listen to me?” I froze. He wasn’t asking me what happened. He wasn’t comforting me. He was laying the blame squarely at my feet. Agnes rushed forward, grabbing David’s arm as she began to sob dramatically. “Oh, my sweet, precious baby girl! What has happened to her?” She wailed, burying her face in David’s shoulder, but her eyes darted to me over his sleeve—sharp and calculating. “Ella, we all know how exhausting it is to take care of a child all day, but how could you be this careless? If anything happens to our sweet Vera, I don’t know how any of us will survive!” Her words were like poisoned needles, sewing a narrative of a neglectful, overwhelmed mother. David’s anger flared higher. “Say something, Ella! Are you mute? What did you do to our daughter!” I looked from my husband to his mother. One was filled with self-righteous rage, the other with theatrical grief. But both of them were looking at me as if I were a criminal. My heart sank into a dark, bottomless abyss. Officer Taylor placed a black-and-white X-ray on the table. “This is your daughter’s scan.” “The magnets have clumped together, causing multiple blockages and perforations in her intestines.” “The surgery is high-risk.” “And frankly, we don’t believe this was an accident.” “We suspect someone intentionally fed these to her.” Taylor’s gaze traveled slowly from me, to David, and finally to Agnes. Then, it settled back on me. “Mrs. Grayson, before your husband returned from his trip, you were the only adult in the house with the child. Is that correct?” 03 The red light of the operating room glowed like a bloodshot eye. David, Agnes, and I sat on the hard vinyl bench in the waiting area. No one spoke. The silence was heavy, suffocating. Agnes kept up a low, rhythmic whimpering, occasionally glaring at me with eyes full of venom. David sat at the far end of the bench, his head buried in his hands, his shoulders tense. The police had allowed us to wait for the surgery’s outcome, but the look they gave me before they stepped away was one I would never forget. I was their prime suspect. An hour ago, I was just a mother terrified for her little girl. Now, I was a monster accused of poisoning her. The heavy double doors of the OR finally pushed open. The lead surgeon stepped out, pulling down his mask. His face was pale, lined with exhaustion and a deep, unsettling grimness. The three of us scrambled to our feet. “Doctor, how is she?” I gasped out first. He looked at me, his eyes guarded, then shifted his gaze to David. “Are you the father?” “Yes, yes, doctor. Please, my daughter…” “She survived the surgery.” A collective gasp of relief left our throats, but his next words dragged us straight back to hell. “We removed thirty-six magnetic beads from her digestive tract.” “Sections of her bowel had already become necrotic. We had to perform a bowel resection.” “She is very young. This surgery will have a severe, permanent impact on her digestive health.” The surgeon paused, his voice dropping to a serious, quiet tone. “Furthermore, those magnets were inside her for a long time. At least twenty-four hours.” “Why did it take so long to bring her in?” David’s face turned a violent shade of purple. He whirled on me, roaring in the quiet corridor. “Ella! What the hell were you doing yesterday? Were you blind? How could you not see she was sick!” Agnes joined in, her voice rising to a shrill shriek. “What a tragedy! My poor, sweet baby! Why does she have to suffer like this?” “I told you, David, women shouldn’t be wasting their time with online hobbies and books. She should have been watching the child, but she doesn’t care!” I ignored them. I kept my eyes locked on the surgeon. “Doctor, I have a question.” “Could a five-year-old child physically swallow thirty-six of these magnets on her own?” The surgeon blinked, realizing what I was asking. He slowly shook his head. “It’s highly unlikely. The sheer volume is too great.” “These magnets have a bitter, metallic taste, and swallowing even one or two would be uncomfortable. To ingest thirty-six… the process would be incredibly painful. Unless…” “Unless what?” I pressed. “Unless someone was coaxing her. Feeding them to her one by one, pretending they were candy.” The doctor’s voice was quiet. But in the empty hallway, each word fell like a heavy mallet, shattering the lies in the air. David’s shouting stopped. Agnes’s sobbing choked off into a sudden, suffocating silence. I raised my eyes to meet theirs. In David’s expression, I saw confusion and a dawning, terrible realization. But in the depth of Agnes’s eyes, there was a fleeting, unmistakable flash of sheer terror. In that moment, a horrifying truth took root in my mind. The police suspected me. David was eager to blame me. Agnes was doing everything in her power to paint me as the culprit. No one was on my side. No one was going to protect me or my daughter. Vera was my entire life. If I wanted to save her, and myself, I had to find the monster who did this. I pulled out my phone and dialed my friend Amy. “Amy, I need a favor. I’m coming to your place. I need to use your laptop.” I hung up and stood up. David stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “Where do you think you’re going?” “Home,” I said, my voice dead and cold. “I’m going to get some things.” Agnes immediately panicked. She grabbed David’s arm, her voice tight. “Why are you going home? Vera is lying in that bed! How can you leave her?” I looked her dead in the eyes. “I’m going home to find out who fed my daughter those ‘candies.’” I watched as her fingers dug deep into David’s arm, her knuckles turning white. Our living room had a small, inconspicuous security camera. I had installed it a year ago after a rash of break-ins in our neighborhood. It captured the entire living and dining area. The monster had left a footprint. And I was going to find it. 04 I turned toward the elevators, but David grabbed my upper arm. “Where do you think you’re going? Vera is in there!” His grip was tight, like a vice. “I’m going home,” I repeated, ripping my arm out of his grasp. “What, to destroy the evidence?” he snarled, his eyes bloodshot. Agnes threw herself at my feet, wrapping her arms around my knees and howling. “Ella, please! You can’t leave! Vera needs her mother!” “We know you’re upset, but this is not the time to throw a tantrum!” She was good. The tears and mucus smeared across her face would have convinced anyone that she was the most devastated grandmother in the world. But she was holding onto me like an anchor, desperate to keep me from moving. David stood in front of me like a stone wall. They were playing their parts in perfect harmony. And they had one goal: Keep me away from that house. Keep me away from the camera feed. The coldness in my chest solidified into absolute certainty. They were terrified. More specifically, she was terrified. I looked at them, and a harsh, humorless laugh escaped my lips. “David, what are you so afraid of?” “Me? I’m afraid you’re going to run! I’m afraid you’re going to go back and hide whatever you used to hurt our daughter!” Perfect. This was my husband. The father of my child. I didn’t waste another breath on him. I pulled out my phone, unlocked it, and dialed Officer Collins’s direct number right in front of them. The call connected. “Officer Collins? This is Ella Grayson. Vera’s mother.” Collins sounded surprised. “Yes, Mrs. Grayson. What is it?” “Officer Collins, I believe the evidence that will prove my innocence is at my house.” “However, my husband and mother-in-law are physically restraining me from leaving. They claim they are afraid I will destroy evidence.” I kept my eyes locked on David and Agnes as I spoke. I watched their expressions shift from anger, to shock, and finally, to pure, unadulterated panic. Agnes’s fake wailing stopped instantly. “Therefore, I am requesting police assistance,” I said, my voice steady, carrying clearly down the hall. “I want an officer to escort me to my home so I can retrieve my personal laptop and the cloud backup drive. I will hand everything directly over to the police.” “I want you to find the person who did this to my daughter.” There was a brief pause on the line. “Wait for us at the hospital lobby,” Collins said. “We’ll be right down.” I hung up the phone. I looked down at the two people frozen in front of me. Agnes’s grip on my leg loosened, her hands falling away. The color had completely drained from her face. David pointed a trembling finger at me, his lips parting, but no sound came out. “You… you…” “I told you,” I said, looking at him with eyes devoid of any warmth. “I am going to find the monster.” “Anyone who tries to stop me is an accomplice.” 05 The police cruiser pulled up to our suburban driveway. David, Agnes, and I sat in the backseat, wedged together in suffocating silence. The two officers sat up front. The air inside the car was colder than ice. Agnes’s hands were shaking uncontrollably. She kept her face pressed against the window, refusing to look at me. David sat beside her, breathing heavily, his eyes darting back and forth between his mother and me. Even with his thick skull, he was finally starting to realize that something was terribly wrong. Officer Collins unlocked the front door with my keys. The house was exactly as we had left it, yet it felt entirely different—cold, hollowed out, like a tomb. The black lens of the security camera sat quietly on the edge of the entertainment center, a silent, unblinking eye that had witnessed everything. “Where is the laptop?” Collins asked. “In the study.” I walked in and retrieved my laptop. Collins followed close behind, while Officer Taylor remained in the living room, ensuring David and Agnes stayed on the sofa. I booted up the laptop and connected to the Wi-Fi. I opened the security camera application. It prompted me for a passcode.

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It was the third day since my stepsister started seeing the glowing screen comments floating in midair. She was kneeling in the middle of our living room, wearing my favorite silk nightgown. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her fingers white-knuckled around three folders—our family’s potential marriage alliances. “Quanna just got back to the family,” Sophia choked out, her voice trembling with manufactured martyrdom. “She shouldn’t have to suffer for us like this. Those three marriage arrangements… I’ll take them in her place.” My father, Charles, frowned, adjusting his glasses. “One is bankrupt, one is terminally ill, and the third is confined to a wheelchair. Think carefully, Sophia.” Sophia lowered her head, her voice quivering with a delicate, fragile resolve. “I’m willing to do it.” Yet right above her head, the floating text was practically exploding with activity. [Go, baby girl! All three of these guys are future billionaires!] [In the original timeline, the sister rebuilt her entire life through them. Don’t let her touch them!] [Steal the contracts, and Sophia becomes the ultimate main character of this high-society story!] I watched her carefully orchestrated display of selflessness and felt a cold, bitter amusement bubble up inside me. In my previous life, I had indeed bound myself to those men. One saddled me with millions in debt. One systematically dismantled my career. One used me as nothing more than a pawn in his corporate game. By the time I turned twenty-seven, I had lost everything. And now, Sophia was practically begging to take my place in the slaughterhouse. I slowly set down my teacup and slipped a sleek black pen across the glass table. “Go ahead,” I said softly. “Sign them.” 1 The living room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. My father was the first to find his voice. “Quanna, don’t let pride make your decisions.” I leaned back against the plush velvet sofa. My hair was still damp from the shower, and a stray droplet rolled slowly down my collarbone, disappearing into the neckline of my robe. I felt detached, observing them like characters in a play. Sophia shot a quick look at me, a flash of smug triumph gleaming behind her tear-filled eyes. But just as quickly, she lowered her gaze again. “Dad, Quanna isn’t being childish. She just doesn’t want to make things difficult for the family.” My stepmother, Lydia, immediately welled up with tears. “Sophia, why are you being so foolish? Those alliance contracts were meant for Quanna the moment she was brought back to this house.” Sophia bit her lower lip. “I’m a Harrington, too. Quanna suffered for so many years out there. I can’t just sit here and enjoy the wealth while she takes the fall.” The comments above her head scrolled by in a rapid, neon-blue blur. [Our girl is too sweet!] [She has no idea she’s claiming three legendary top-tier leads. Hilarious! Quanna is going to regret this for the rest of her life.] [First up, Daniel Barrett. Bankrupt and buried in debt right now, but in three years his clean energy company goes public and his net worth skyrockets into the billions.] [Second, Adrian Keller. A sickly tech genius whose microchip designs will dominate the global market.] [Third, Christian Hawthorne. The exiled son of the Hawthorne dynasty who will eventually orchestrate a coup and take over the empire.] I picked up my tea and took a slow sip. It had gone cold. And terribly bitter. In my past life, I actually believed Sophia. I thought her tears were real, that she genuinely cared about me. She wept as she offered to take one of the burdens off my shoulders, and every time I stumbled into a crisis, she would stand beside me and whisper, “Quanna, I can’t do much, but I’ll always be here with you.” It took me years to realize she wasn’t keeping me company. She was waiting for me to hit rock bottom. She was waiting for me to clear the landmines on her path so she could swoop in and claim the spoils. My father pushed the folders closer to me. “Quanna, what do you say?” I stared down at the three dossiers. The first: Daniel Barrett. The Barrett family was bankrupt, drowning in litigation, and all their major projects were frozen. The second: Adrian Keller. The black sheep of the Keller family, perpetually hospitalized, notoriously volatile, running a few obscure labs that the market had already written off. The third: Christian Hawthorne. The former golden boy of the Hawthorne family, paralyzed from a car accident, confined to a wheelchair, and stripped of his succession rights. To the outside world, they were toxic waste. But the floating comments knew they were gold mines. And so did Sophia. She looked up at me, her eyes pleading. “Quanna, please don’t carry any guilt. If you just give me your blessing, I’ll take care of it all.” I set my cup down with a soft click. “Okay.” Sophia blinked, momentarily thrown off. “What?” I slid all three folders right back to her. “You said you wanted to do this, right? Don’t just make pretty speeches. Sign.” Lydia’s expression tightened. “Quanna, a marriage alliance isn’t a game.” I looked at her, a cold smile touching my lips. “Which is why I didn’t draft a transfer of marriage. I drafted this.” I pulled a fresh document from beneath the coffee table. “It’s an agreement to change the designated representative for the Harrington alliances. You’re right, a marriage contract itself can’t be easily transferred. But the legal entity representing our family in negotiations—the one who handles the joint ventures, the personal guarantees, the dowries, and the performance bonds—that can absolutely be changed.” My father stared at me, his eyes wide. “When did you prepare this?” “The day I returned to this house,” I said smoothly. “After all, the only reason you brought me back from the foster system was to use me as collateral for these three families, wasn’t it?” The silence returned, heavier this time. For a split second, Sophia’s mask of fragile innocence cracked. But the floating text only grew more frenetic. [Quanna is actually pretty cooperative!] [She has absolutely no clue what she’s giving away!] [Sign it! Sign it now!] Sophia scanned the agreement, her manicured fingers tightening against the paper. “Make sure you read the fine print,” I murmured. “Once you sign, you are the sole representative. Every loan, every joint venture guarantee, and every performance bond has your name on it. I walk away entirely clean.” She quickly forced another sweet smile. “Don’t worry, Quanna. I won’t regret this.” I handed her the pen. “Perfect.” She signed her name in a flurry of quick, elegant strokes, as if terrified I might change my mind. Just as she finished the third signature, my phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up with the name: Daniel Barrett. I didn’t reach for it. Sophia’s eyes locked onto the screen, a hungry spark igniting in her gaze. “Quanna… it’s Daniel.” I slid the vibrating phone toward her. “He’s your Daniel now.” Sophia swiped to answer, her voice immediately dropping into a soft, breathless coo. “Daniel? It’s Sophia.” There was a long pause on the other end. Finally, a low, gravelly voice rasped, “Where’s Quanna?” Sophia looked at me, waiting. I picked up a dry towel and slowly patted the remaining moisture from my hands. “Tell him,” I whispered, “that I’ve returned the merchandise.” 2 The next morning, Sophia left for the Barrett estate before sunrise. She had carefully chosen a simple white sundress, left her hair loose, and applied barely-there makeup. She looked like a tragic angel on her way to save a fallen soul. When I walked downstairs, Lydia was in the kitchen packing a thermos of homemade broth. “Sophia, don’t let them walk all over you,” she fretted. Sophia smiled with practiced maturity. “Mom, Daniel is just going through a rough patch. You have to look at the bigger picture.” The comments above her head chimed in right on cue. [Sophia has such a great vision!] [A woman who stays by his side during his darkest hours is a woman a man will remember forever.] I grabbed a cold bottle of water from the fridge. “I don’t know about remembering her forever,” I remarked, twisting the cap off. “But he’ll certainly keep an immaculate record of her bills.” Sophia’s smile stiffened. Lydia whipped around, glaring at me. “Quanna! Your sister literally sacrificed herself to save you from these marriages. If you can’t be grateful, the least you can do is keep your mouth shut.” I took a slow drink. “I’m just giving her a friendly warning. The Barrett family owes a lot more than just money right now.” Sophia tilted her chin up, her expression hardening. “Quanna, I know you’re bitter. But this is the path I chose. No matter what happens to Daniel, I will never blame you.” I nodded thoughtfully. “Did you record that?” Her face went pale. I pulled up my phone and tapped the screen. “It’s fine. I did.” Her eyes instantly welled with fresh tears. “Quanna… why do you always have to assume the worst of me?” I didn’t bother to answer. There was no point. Whether she was good or bad would show soon enough in her actions. Within three days, Sophia’s Instagram feed was entirely dedicated to Daniel Barrett. The first post was a photo of them at a cheap, run-down diner. Caption: Even the bitter moments are sweet when I’m with you. The second showed a receipt from a high-end luxury consignment store where she had sold her limited-edition designer bags. Caption: Bags can be replaced. You can’t. The third was a candid shot of Daniel’s profile, his head bowed over a stack of legal documents. Caption: I believe in you. I know you will rise again. Our university group chats were flooded with praise. “Sophia is literally an angel.” “The biological sister couldn’t run away fast enough, but Sophia stepped up to suffer in her place.” “She deserves the world.” I scrolled past the comments while sitting in a quiet, private office at the bank. The banker slid a thick folder across the mahogany desk. “Ms. Harrington, here are the audited statements from your late mother’s old accounts. However, there are a few transactions from a decade ago that still require secondary verification.” I took the sheets. Near the bottom of the ledger, a specific transfer caught my eye. It was made to the Barrett family’s holding company. The amount wasn’t massive, but the memo line was fascinating: Margaret’s Green-Tech Materials Phase 1 Licensing Fee. Margaret. My mother’s name. I tucked the documents safely into my leather tote. My phone buzzed again with a text from Sophia: [Quanna, are you free tonight? Daniel wants to take the family out for dinner.] It was followed by a photo. It was Daniel sitting in a cramped, dusty office. His white button-down shirt looked worn and slightly frayed at the cuffs, but his wrist displayed a gleaming Rolex. In my previous life, that watch had fooled me. I had assumed it was the last relic of his pride, a desperate attempt to maintain his dignity. It took me years to realize it wasn’t dignity at all. It was vanity—the kind of vanity that made him prioritize looking wealthy over paying his low-wage employees. Dinner was held at an exclusive, low-key bistro downtown. When Sophia walked in, clinging tightly to Daniel’s arm, my father and Lydia immediately stood up to greet them. Daniel was tall and lean, his handsome features sharp and cold, carrying that defensive, brittle arrogance of a wealthy man who had recently lost his fortune. His eyes locked onto me, and he paused. “Quanna.” I looked up from my menu. “Daniel.” He stared at me, his jaw tightening. “You just handed our arrangement over like it was nothing?” “I didn’t hand it over,” I said, casually picking up my fork. “I cut my losses.” Sophia immediately tightened her grip on his sleeve. “Daniel, please don’t mind her. Quanna is just being defensive.” Daniel looked down at her, his voice dropping. “Do you think of me as a loss, too, Sophia?” Sophia shook her head frantically. “No! Never. I would never think that.” A tight, humorless smile crossed Daniel’s face. “Good.” He pulled a document folder from his briefcase and slid it in front of Sophia. “We’re restarting the Barrett green-energy project. But the lenders are requiring a co-signer for the bridge loan.” Lydia’s breath hitched. “A co-signer?” “It’s just a formality,” Daniel said smoothly. “As soon as the main venture capital round closes, your name will be removed from the liability.” Sophia stared at the contract, her pen hovering, sudden hesitation flitting across her face. The floating comments surged across her vision: [Sign it! This is his first step back to the top!] [Stand by him now, and he’ll reward you tenfold later!] [In the original timeline, Quanna got her massive share of Barrett equity by signing this!] Sophia gritted her teeth, her hesitation vanishing. “I’ll sign.” I set my fork down with a quiet clink. “Did you actually read that?” She shot a defensive look at me. “Are you trying to stand in my way again, Quanna?” I smiled, leaning back. “Not at all. I’m just reminding you that the term ‘co-signer’ has legal weight. It’s not a performance.” Daniel’s eyes narrowed into a cold glare. “What is your problem, Quanna?” I raised my water glass in a mock toast. “No problem at all. I wish you two a long, beautiful life together. In sickness, in health, and in joint liability.” Sophia’s face flushed a deep crimson. But that night, she signed anyway. Daniel drove her back to our estate. Before he got into his car, he stopped and looked at me under the driveway lights. “You’re going to regret this, Quanna.” I gave him a polite smile. “Pay your staff their back wages first, Daniel. Then you can worry about my regrets.” His face contorted with anger, and he slammed his car door shut. Three days later, before Sophia could even archive her romantic diner photos, Daniel’s creditors marched onto campus. They unfurled a massive red banner right outside the university gates. In bold block letters, it read: SOPHIA HARRINGTON CO-SIGNED FOR HER FIANCÉ. WHEN WILL THE BARRETT DEBTS BE PAID? Sophia stood frozen in the middle of a gathering crowd, her iced latte slipping from her hand and splashing all over her white sneakers. Right then, my phone buzzed with an unfamiliar number: [Ms. Harrington, my name is Oliver Wright. I’m ready to take on your late mother’s estate case.] 3 The day I met Oliver Wright, Sophia was trending on local news blogs. It wasn’t a national scandal, but several viral clips had surfaced of her being cornered by angry creditors outside the university library. She stood there in her delicate white dress, silent tears streaming down her face. Some comments pitied her, but most mocked her online. The top-voted comment read: ‘Imagine ruining your credit and future for a bankrupt boyfriend. Are rich girls really this naive?’ I swiped the video away and pushed open the door to the private room at the quiet cafe downtown. Oliver was already waiting. He wore a crisp black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a thick stack of legal briefs resting on the table in front of him. He skipped the pleasantries as I sat down. “Your mother’s estate is far more complicated than you think, Quanna.” “If it were simple, I wouldn’t need the city’s sharpest attorney,” I replied. He studied me for a brief second before opening a file. “The twenty-one percent stake your father currently holds in Harrington Group originally belonged to your mother’s pre-marital startup. Furthermore, a substantial portion of the trust funds under your stepmother’s name can be traced back to your mother’s intellectual property royalties. The issue is time. The paper trail has some critical gaps.” I slid the bank records I had obtained across the table. “Will this transfer to the Barrett family bridge that gap?” Oliver flipped to the final page, his eyes narrowing as he read. “Margaret’s Green-Tech Materials Phase 1 Licensing Fee.” He tapped his finger against the paper. “You handed the Barrett contract to Sophia on purpose, didn’t you?” I didn’t deny it. “Before the Barretts went under, they held a sub-licensing agreement for my mother’s early patents. If Daniel wanted even a ghost of a chance at a comeback, he had to revive that project. And the moment he did, the original licensing contract would have to be brought into the light.” Oliver looked up, a faint glint of amusement in his eyes. “You weren’t worried she might actually help him succeed?” I smiled. “She wanted a future billionaire. But she forgot to check how deep the financial grave is before jumping in.” Oliver’s expression remained professional, but his gaze softened. He pulled another document from his briefcase. “Daniel registered a new corporate entity this morning. The named President and Registered Agent is Sophia Harrington.” I took the document. There it was in black and white: Sophia Harrington. I couldn’t help but laugh. “She certainly moves fast.” “Your sister likely views this as a grand gesture of trust,” Oliver said quietly. “Isn’t it?” “It’s a liability shield,” his voice was cool, analytical. “If the company goes under or gets sued, the registered agent is the first one they serve.” I set the paperwork down. “Then let’s make sure it does.” Oliver’s fingers paused over the file. “Within strictly legal boundaries, of course,” I added. He stared at me for a long moment, as if seeing me clearly for the very first time. “You aren’t nearly as fragile as the rumors suggest, Ms. Harrington.” I took a sip of my coffee. “I used to be. But the price was too high.” Oliver didn’t press further. He simply slid a second folder toward me. “Your mother’s patents weren’t just licensed to the Barretts. Adrian Keller’s current research lab is also utilizing a core framework that looks suspiciously identical to her designs.” I stared at the name. Adrian Keller. My second potential suitor. In my previous life, he had demanded my absolute devotion. He made me quit my internships, cut off my friends, and withdraw from competitions just to manage his lab’s administration. He used to tell me, “If you want to stand beside me, Quanna, you need to stop wasting your time on trivial things.” But when his breakthrough finally came, he locked me out of the gala dinner. His excuse was that I didn’t hold an official title in the company. Sophia had walked right past me, her hand wrapped around his arm, whispering, “Quanna, don’t be mad at Adrian. He just respects corporate protocol.” I tapped my fingers against the warm ceramic of my cup. “How long until we can move on the Barrett family?” “Very soon,” Oliver replied. “Daniel is using the old technical patents to secure his new round of funding. The moment those filings go public with your mother’s original licensing codes, we have the legal standing to demand discovery of the original agreements.” Right on cue, my phone began to vibrate. It was Sophia. I pressed answer, and her hysterical crying filled the line. “Quanna… please, can you come to the Barrett office? Daniel says there’s a problem with the financing documents. These investors… they keep saying I’m the registered agent, and they’re holding me personally responsible!” I switched the call to speakerphone. Oliver leaned back in his chair, quietly listening. “I thought you said you wouldn’t blame me, no matter what happened to him,” I said calmly. Sophia choked on her breath. “But I didn’t know being the President of the company meant all of this! Quanna, you were the one originally engaged to him. Can you please talk to him? Please?” I let out a soft laugh. “Sophia, this is the very first test of being a billionaire’s partner. Are you giving up already?” The line went completely dead. I hung up. Oliver slid a sleek business card across the table. “I’ll accompany you tonight.” I looked at the card. “I didn’t think a partner at your firm had this much free time, Mr. Wright.” His eyes met mine, steady and unwavering. “Our first piece of hard evidence should surface tonight. I wouldn’t miss it.” At seven that evening, Oliver and I walked into the Barrett corporate office. Sophia was huddled in a chair in the main conference room, her eyes swollen. Daniel stood by the window, his expression dark and tense. On the glass table lay the venture capital prospectus. On the very top page, a specific patent serial number was highlighted in yellow: WT-NY-07. My mother’s project code. As soon as my fingers touched the paper, the door swung open. Daniel glared at me from across the room. “Who gave you permission to touch my files?” Oliver stepped forward slightly, shielding me with his frame. “Mr. Barrett, from this moment on, every word in these files is considered active evidence in my client’s case.” 4 Daniel looked at Oliver’s card, his expression instantly souring. “An attorney?” Oliver placed the card neatly on the table. “Oliver Wright. I represent Ms. Quanna Harrington in the investigation regarding the estate and intellectual property assets of her late mother, Margaret Harrington.” Sophia stood up, looking lost. “What estate? Quanna, I thought you came here to help me.” I kept flipping through the documents on the table. “I’m here to help myself. And to see how your future billionaire plans on taking flight.” Daniel lunged forward to grab the folder, but Oliver held down the edge with a firm hand. “I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Barrett. This prospectus references proprietary technology owned by my client’s mother. If you can provide a valid, legal license for its use, we can discuss terms. If not, we will file for an immediate injunction to freeze these assets.” A vein pulsed in Daniel’s temple. “Quanna, do you really have to destroy everything I’ve built?” I met his gaze coldly. “When you held back three months of pay from your employees, Daniel, no one accused you of being unfair. I’m just playing by the rules.” Panic set in on Sophia’s face. “Daniel, what is going on?” Daniel ignored her completely, keeping his eyes on me. “It’s just draft paperwork. We were on a tight schedule, so my team used the existing files. We were planning to update them later.” “Submitting inaccurate patent information to federal lenders is a serious compliance violation,” Oliver noted, his voice smooth and dangerous. Sophia’s face drained of color. “But… my name is on the registration. I’m the one who signed off.” No one in the room answered her. The reality finally broke through her denial. She whipped around to face Daniel. “You told me being the registered agent was just a formality!” Daniel frowned, irritated. “Sophia, this isn’t the time. Just go out there and keep the institutional investors calm for five minutes.” She looked at him in disbelief. “Me? How? I don’t even understand what this technology does!” Daniel’s voice softened into that practiced, manipulative tone. “When you signed those papers, didn’t you tell me you trusted me completely?” At those words, Sophia’s tears finally spilled over. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. In my previous life, he had used those exact words on me when I asked why my name was listed on his personal loans. “Quanna, didn’t you say you’d stand by me through the darkest times?” Now that it was Sophia standing in my place, he didn’t even bother to change the script. The heavy doors to the conference room burst open, and three representatives from the venture firm walked in, looking furious. “Mr. Barrett, the patent rights on this energy project are heavily contested. We can’t move forward with this round. Who is the registered corporate officer here? Sophia Harrington? We need an explanation immediately.” Sophia shrank back as they surrounded her, her fingers shaking violently. She looked at me, terrified. “Quanna… help me.” I took a step backward toward the exit. “Don’t look at me. I already returned the merchandise.” The floating screen above her head was flashing erratically: [What is happening? Why is Daniel throwing Sophia under the bus?] [This must be a test. Every lead has a rough period where he tests his partner’s loyalty.] [Hold on, Sophia! Once you pass this, you’ll be a billionaire’s wife!] Sophia seized onto those words like a lifeline. She quickly wiped her cheeks, steeling herself. “Yes… it’s just a test.” She turned to the investors, her voice trembling but determined. “Gentlemen, we will resolve the patent dispute immediately. The Barrett clean-tech project is the future of energy.” Daniel’s expression relaxed slightly. “Sophia. Sign this amendment on behalf of the firm first.” Oliver spoke up, his voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the room. “That amendment carries personal, unlimited liability.” Sophia’s pen froze just millimeters above the signature line. The room fell dead silent. Daniel stared at her, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. “Do you not trust me, Sophia?”

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My breakup with Aaron Lockhart was far too polite. It was civilized. Dignified. Which is probably why it took until the second year after we parted ways for me to finally admit the truth to myself: Aaron had never loved me. His split from his new flame, however, was a spectacular, tabloid-worthy disaster. Even my Nana, who usually paid absolutely no attention to society gossip, was utterly captivated by the drama playing out on our small television. It was nothing like our quiet end. No screams, no broken plates. For Aaron and me, it had been a single, soft “goodbye,” and then—nothingness. But as Nana watched the broadcast, her brow suddenly furrowed in deep concentration. “Vera, sweetie,” she muttered, squinting at the screen, “why does this young man look so familiar?” I was holding two different diamond rings under the jeweler’s loupe, comparing their cuts, and answered without looking up. “He’s practically royalty in the city, Nana. You’ve probably seen him on some news segment.” Nana fell silent for a moment, then slapped her knee. “I remember now!” she gasped. “He came into the shop yesterday while I was watching the counter. He ordered two diamond rings—and he specifically asked for you to hand-deliver them!” 01 My hands froze. The two rings slipped through my fingers, clattering onto the glass counter before bouncing onto the floor. I scrambled to pick them up, my heart hammering against my ribs. I forced a tight laugh, looking up at Nana. “You must have him confused with someone else. He’s in New York, Nana. We’re all the way in Newport. Why on earth would he come to our little shop?” There was another truth I kept to myself: Aaron was impossibly fastidious. He was a man who wore custom Tom Ford and wouldn’t dream of wearing socks that weren’t designer. There was no universe where he would step foot into a no-name local boutique like ours to choose an engagement ring. But Nana was resolute. “No, I’m sure of it. A face that handsome isn’t easy to forget.” She hobbled toward her bedroom, her limp more pronounced today. I quickly followed, hovering nearby in case her balance gave out. After rummaging through her dresser, she pulled a crumpled slip of paper from her apron pocket. The elegant, sharp handwriting on it made my chest tighten. Two diamond rings. Pickup in two weeks. Nana looked at me with an apologetic sigh. “Oh, my foolish head. Ever since the accident, I can’t keep things straight. I forgot all about this order.” “It’s okay,” I whispered, trying to soothe her. “I’m sure we can still manage it.” My eyes drifted to the date stamped at the bottom of the slip. Two weeks ago. The breath caught in my throat, and my smile froze. 02 After making sure Nana was comfortable, I rushed out to the shop. It wasn’t a large boutique, but it demanded constant attention. The margins were razor-thin, the expenses were overwhelming, and I couldn’t afford to hire staff. I had to do everything myself. When I was stretched too thin, Nana would try to help me watch the counter. Like two days ago. My friend Hannah’s daughter had a parent-teacher conference, but Hannah and her husband were stuck out of town. She had begged me to go in her place, offering to help Nana get an appointment with a renowned specialist in return. I had agreed. But I hadn’t realized that leaving the shop for just half a day would lead to this. I had forgotten to check the weather forecast before leaving the house, and by the time I was halfway to the shop on my old bicycle, a cold coastal drizzle had begun to fall. By the time I arrived at the storefront, I looked like a drowned rat. As I struggled to unlock the heavy metal security grate, cold water splattered against my bare shins. Suddenly, footsteps echoed on the wet pavement behind me. A reflection stretched across the puddle at my feet—the silhouette of a tailored suit, a glimpse of a Patek Philippe watch, and a man impatiently tapping the handle of an umbrella. I turned around slowly, already knowing who I would see. Aaron stood there, his lips pressed into a thin, displeased line. “So this is your shop?” he said, his voice carrying that familiar, low-frequency judgment. “You told me you wanted to take the world by storm. Is this the grand result?” I forced a professional smile. “Mr. Lockhart. Are you here to collect your rings?” Aaron stared at me, his eyes dark. “You look pale. Don’t tell me you haven’t even started them.” The customer is always right. I bowed my head slightly, offering a practiced apology. “I am incredibly sorry. They aren’t finished yet. Could you possibly give me a little more time?” Aaron continued to stare, his gaze heavy and unreadable. I shifted under his scrutiny, feeling utterly exposed. When we were together, I had never bowed my head to him. To meet again like this, with me shivering and soaked, felt like a quiet humiliation. Aaron’s brow furrowed—his signature sign of impatience. But before I could offer another apology, the passenger door of the sleek black Mercedes parked at the curb opened. The woman from the tabloids—the one at the center of his recent media storm—stepped out. She held up her white designer dress, stepping daintily to avoid the puddles. She reached to loop her arm through Aaron’s, but he smoothly turned away, pretending to adjust his coat. “I told you we shouldn’t have commissioned rings from a place like this,” she complained, her voice dripping with artificial sweet sweetness. “There are so many elite jewelers in Manhattan. Why come all the way here? Now our engagement party is going to be a mess.” “I am deeply sorry,” I interjected quickly. “When is the engagement party? Perhaps I can rush the order.” She looked at me critically. “Three days from now. Can you actually manage that?” As long as the design wasn’t overly intricate, I could. I knew Aaron’s tastes; he favored clean, classic lines. Nothing ostentatious. Just as I was about to nod, Aaron cut in. “I want to add an engraving,” he said. My phone was dead, so I frantically fumbled in my bag for a pen and a damp notepad, gesturing for him to continue. I had only managed to get the security grate halfway up, and the rain was picking up, blurring my vision. Perhaps worried I wouldn’t capture his instructions properly, Aaron reached out and tilted his umbrella over my head. I looked up, offering a small, grateful nod. Aaron’s throat bobbed, and he averted his eyes. “Make sure you write this down. I want engravings on the inside of the bands.” “Engrave the letter V in the women’s ring.” “And the letter A in the men’s.” My pen stopped. I looked up at them, stunned. The woman smiled warmly, stepping closer. “Our initials. Vicky and Aaron. Oh, where are my manners? I’m Vicky West.” She looked at Aaron, then back to me. “Aaron, it seems like you two know each other. Aren’t you going to introduce us?” After five years of silence, how were we supposed to define what we had been? I stood there, frozen. But Aaron spoke with perfect, cool detachment. “This is Vera Ward. We went to college together.” Vicky smiled and extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure, Vera.” I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat and forced myself to take her hand. “Nice to meet you, Miss West. I’ve heard a lot about you.” 03 And I had. Long before today. Back when Aaron and I were together, her name would frequently slip from his friends’ lips. They would often adopt a hushed, wistful tone whenever they spoke of her. “If Vicky hadn’t left for Europe,” they would say, “Aaron wouldn’t have become… like this.” I never understood what they meant by “like this.” To me, Aaron was a perfect partner. He was emotionally stable, gentle, and in all the years we spent together, we never once had a screaming match. Whenever a conflict arose, he would calmly sit down and analyze the pros and cons with me. If other men tried to pursue me, he would dismiss them with effortless, polite grace. Once, while having coffee with Hannah, I was listing his virtues when I noticed her expression turn complex. “You’ve never had a single fight?” she asked. “Never,” I replied. “And when that young guy from next door kept asking for your number, Aaron didn’t react at all?” I thought back to that afternoon. “No. We’re adults, Hannah. Why would he get upset over a kid?” Hannah sighed and turned her phone screen toward me. She had been texting her own boyfriend: Just grabbing coffee with Vera. Some guy just tried to get her number. The indicator showed the boyfriend was typing, erasing, and typing again. Finally, a message came through: Okay. Come home the second you’re done. A second later, another text popped up: I’m literally going to lose my mind if you don’t. I couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s not very different from Aaron.” “It’s entirely different,” Hannah countered gently. “Don’t you see, Vera? You two don’t fight because Aaron has no sense of possession. He doesn’t get jealous. Sometimes, I honestly wonder if he’s capable of loving you at all.” She patted my hand. “Anyway, let’s not talk about him. Happy birthday, sweetie.” All the way home, Hannah’s words echoed in my head. When I unlocked the door, I found Aaron sitting in the living room, reading the evening paper. On the coffee table sat a birthday cake. It had clearly been sitting out for hours; the frosting was beginning to melt. Seeing me enter, he smiled. “Happy birthday, Vera. I bought you a new bag. See if you like it.” Normally, regardless of what he bought, I would smile and tell him it was perfect. I never wanted to be the difficult girlfriend. But tonight, with Hannah’s words ringing in my ears, a sudden, childish urge took hold of me. “I don’t like it,” I said. In truth, Aaron had immaculate taste. It was exactly the kind of bag I loved. I stood there, waiting for him to show some flash of anger. Aaron blinked in surprise, then let out a soft laugh. “Well, looks like my streak of guessing right has ended. What would you prefer instead? I’ll get you whatever you want.” My voice rose, thin and sharp. “Don’t you even know what I like?” The words left my mouth, and instant regret washed over me. It was the first time I had ever raised my voice at him. Aaron fell silent for a moment. He folded his newspaper, his expression returning to its usual, calm composure. “I’m sorry. I should have paid closer attention to your preferences. I’ll make sure to get it right next time. For now, why don’t you keep the bag anyway? I have an urgent meeting to attend, so I have to head out. I hope you understand.” As if to prove his point, his phone began to vibrate. He answered it, and as he listened, his expression darkened in a way I had never seen before. It must have been a severe crisis. He gave me a brief nod, ignoring the melting cake, and turned toward the door. For some reason, I called out to his retreating back. “Aaron. Someone asked for my number at the cafe today.” The words felt pathetic the moment they left my lips. Our unspoken rule had always been to never interrupt each other’s work. Aaron paused, his shoulders tightening. I could tell he was incredibly stressed. But out of sheer, polite habit, he gave me a measured response. “That’s nice. Have a good time.” But his voice sounded strained, almost tight. The door clicked shut. I sat alone on the sofa, staring at the gift I had claimed to hate. I took a bite of the melting cake. It tasted incredibly bitter. The television was still on, playing a late-night entertainment news broadcast. “…Vicky West, heiress to the West Group, returned to the country today. Miss West, after so many years abroad, do you have anything to say to the cameras?” The woman on screen smiled with radiant confidence. “Of course. I returned for one specific person. The brilliant Aaron Lockhart. I believe he’s attending the gala tonight.” My spoon froze halfway to my mouth. “I hear he has a girlfriend now,” the reporter prompted. “Is that a regret?” Vicky laughed softly. “It’s a pity we missed our chance back then. But I wonder if he’d do me the honor of having dinner tonight?” Suddenly, the reporters in the broadcast began to clamor, rushing toward the background of the shot like bees to a flower. Through the crowd, a familiar face appeared. Aaron offered a polite, measured nod, his eyes locking with Vicky’s from across the room. I squeezed the metal spoon until my knuckles turned white. In all our years together, Aaron had never allowed us to appear in public. He kept our relationship entirely private. When I asked him why we couldn’t go public, he told me it was to protect me. I had graduated from the same university as him. My starting point in life wasn’t as high as his, but I had worked tirelessly to build a name for myself in my field. I wasn’t wealthy, but I was respected. Yet, he had bypassed all his rules of “protection” to stand in the spotlight for Vicky West. 04 On my twenty-fifth birthday, I finally understood that love is a luxury I couldn’t afford to waste my time on. Before the broadcast could even finish, my phone rang. It was our neighbor. “Vera, you need to come to the hospital right away. Your Nana is having another episode. She doesn’t know where she is.” I turned off the television and rushed out the door. Nana’s dementia was worsening. By the time I reached the hospital, she was staring at me blankly, asking who I was. She had wandered out of the house in a state of confusion and had been struck by a car. The impact had fractured her tailbone, leaving her unable to stand. The driver had fled the scene, and though the police had been called, there were no leads. Fortunately, her confusion was temporary this time. After a while, she squeezed my hand. “I’m so sorry for being a burden to our Vera.” I tucked the blanket around her shoulders. “You’re never a burden, Nana.” I was an orphan, abandoned at birth. Nana had found me and raised me on her own. She never had children of her own; I was her daughter in every way that mattered. But with her condition deteriorating, she couldn’t be left alone. My current corporate job paid well, but the hours were brutal. I had already written my resignation letter, planning to find something local that would give me the flexibility to care for her. I asked the neighbor to watch over her for an hour while I ran back to our apartment to pack some essentials. I expected the apartment to be empty. But when I opened the door, Aaron was sitting on the sofa, holding my resignation letter in his hand. His brow was furrowed, his finger tapping rhythmically against the coffee table. “Are you unhappy at work?” he asked, his voice calm. “Is someone making things difficult for you? Why are you resigning?” I kept packing, my hands moving quickly. “Nana needs full-time care. This job takes up too much time.” Aaron’s expression tightened. “This job is a perfect stepping stone for your career. You have a real future there. Why didn’t you consult me before making this decision? You’re throwing away your hard work.” It was the first time he had ever spoken to me with such disapproval. It was true that Aaron had helped me secure that job. Early in my career, because of my appearance, I was often dragged to corporate dinners to act as arm candy for clients. During one of those dinners, Aaron had walked into the room. He had looked at me, his eyes freezing. I had been terrified. He had asked me out that night, and I had lied, telling him I had to work late on a design draft because my pride wouldn’t let me admit I was being forced to attend a drinking event. My lie had been stripped bare in an instant. My boss had practically forced me into the seat next to Aaron, pouring a glass of whiskey and telling me to toast him. The amber liquid in the glass seemed to mock my fragile dignity. Aaron’s face had gone cold. My boss, misinterpreting his silence, grabbed my arm to pull me up. “Stop acting pure. If you knew who he was, you’d be begging to get close to him. I’m giving you an opportunity—” The sound of a chair scraping against the floor cut him off. Before anyone could react, Aaron took the glass of whiskey and poured it directly over my boss’s head. The room fell into a stunned silence. “I believe this lady is a valued member of your design team,” Aaron had said, his voice quiet and lethal. “This display makes me seriously question the professional standards of your firm.” From that day on, I was never asked to attend another client dinner. Later, Aaron had asked me why I didn’t just walk out. “Nana needed surgery,” I had told him with a tired smile. “I needed the bonus from that project. If I quit, I wouldn’t have received a dime.” Aaron had clenched his jaw. “You have me. What were you afraid of?” “No one can guarantee you’ll be here forever,” I replied. Perhaps even then, I knew we wouldn’t last. Even after that night, he had never introduced me to his world. But today, he had stood proudly at Vicky West’s side. I kept packing, but my tears finally broke, spilling silent and hot down my cheeks. Aaron didn’t notice. He stared at the resignation letter, his voice restoring itself to that maddening, logical tone. “What’s wrong, Vera? You seem emotional today. If there’s an issue, we can discuss it rationally.” Rational. Always so rational. For once, I wanted to see him lose that perfect composure. I wiped my nose and spoke softly. “Aaron, let’s break up.”

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