That day, at the company dinner, Katie stood up and cut a piece of foie gras. I thought it was for me. Instead, she shot me a cold glare and placed the foie gras on Daniel’s plate, my assistant. A suffocating silence fell over the room. Everyone stared at me, their gazes dripping with contempt. I wasn’t in the mood for this. I pulled out my phone and made a call right then and there. “Dad, you were right. Katie is definitely not the one for me. I’m divorcing her.” Katie’s face instantly changed. She grabbed that plate of foie gras and smashed it onto my head. “Eat it! I dare you to eat it!” “A whole plate, that should be enough to satisfy your petty, jealous little heart, shouldn’t it?” “Jasper sealed the deal with the De Rossi family and brought in a huge investment, and you want to divorce me because I gave him a piece of meat?” As someone who’s always been a clean freak, my mood plummeted. I grabbed a napkin and wiped off the grease. “Not only do I want to divorce you now, but I also want to know exactly how Jasper managed to secure that deal with the De Rossi family.”

Jasper, who I’d just called out, had been smirking, enjoying our marital spat. But the moment I questioned him about the De Rossi deal, his smirk vanished. He hemmed and hawed for a long time, not daring to meet my gaze, as if my eyes could see right through his lies. Katie assumed I was just being difficult, deliberately trying to embarrass Jasper. “William, what exactly are you implying with that question?” “Don’t think I don’t hear the insinuation! Jasper might come from a humble background, but he’s a graduate of a top university, and he’s ambitious and hard-working.” “Unlike you, a kept man who’s living off his wife’s family. No, a total waste of space!” “Calling you a kept man is too kind. ‘Worthless’ is more accurate.” Her words were vicious. All the company employees were there, and she completely disregarded my dignity, grinding it into the dirt. Three years. I couldn’t believe how we’d reached such a hostile, explosive point. We used to be so in love, but ever since the Wilson family grew stronger and Jasper joined the company, our marriage became like walking on thin ice. “Katie, do you really have to be so cruel?” She stopped talking, her chest heaving with anger. The entire room remained silent, nobody daring to speak up. A smile tugged at the corners of Jasper’s lips, but I wasn’t done with him. “You still haven’t answered my question, have you?” Jasper froze, clearly not expecting me to be so persistent. He cursed me inwardly. He glanced at Katie, who was about to speak for him again. “Can you just shut up?” “If you’re eager to die, wait your turn. One by one.” My roar not only stunned Katie but also sent everyone’s hearts racing. Katie remained frozen, mouth agape. She probably never expected me, who had always doted on her, to speak to her in such a tone. Jasper slammed his hand on the table and stood up, putting on quite the show of authority. “William, what right does a measly kept man like you have to yell at Katie?” “You’re a leech, and you’re still not satisfied.” “Since you’re so curious how I got the De Rossi family, the most powerful family in New York, to cooperate with the Wilsons, I’ll tell you: I’m Mr. De Rossi’s son.” “I was trying to keep a low profile, learn from the brilliant and knowledgeable Katie, and make my father proud.” Katie was stunned, amazed at how highly Jasper thought of her. Her gaze towards him was now filled with adoration, simply because he was the son of the famous Mr. De Rossi.

The previously quiet employees instantly erupted. “Wow! Jasper is Mr. De Rossi’s son? That must mean he’s Jonah De Rossi! You’re so incredibly humble!” Jonah De Rossi, the future heir of the De Rossi family. Mr. De Rossi only had one son. And the De Rossi family, with businesses spanning the globe, commanded respect from even the most notorious figures. After revealing his identity, Jasper became utterly arrogant and condescending. “Everyone, please don’t spread this around.” “My identity still needs to be kept secret. My father doesn’t like me being flashy.” “Understood!” “Truly worthy of being the scion of a powerful family. So distinguished, clever, and wise.” Jasper was basking in the crowd’s adulation, clearly savoring every bit of the flattery, but I just kept sneering. “So Jasper turns out to be the De Rossi family heir, huh?” I smiled, wiping the grease from my face with a napkin. Beneath my calm exterior, a storm was brewing. Now, it wasn’t just Katie speaking up for Jasper. “William, what kind of attitude is that when you’re talking to the Young Master?” “Exactly! A mere kept man like you would never be a director at this company if it weren’t for Katie.” People are like that — the moment someone with power and influence appears, you can bet there’ll be plenty of sycophancy and fake loyalty. And a whole bunch of bootlickers to defend them. “Young Master??” I looked at Jasper, my face full of questions. “Are you really Jonah De Rossi??” Jasper didn’t answer directly, but his arrogant, condescending expression gave everyone the answer. He stood up and looked down at me. “William, if I were Katie, I’d fire you immediately.” “Because you’re a completely useless waste of space. You’ve never accomplished anything, yet you’ve hogged the director position. That’s unfair to all the hardworking, ambitious employees.” At his words, some people clapped and cheered. “The Young Master is right! Only you dare to speak up for us ordinary workers!” “We hate nothing more than those lazy deadbeats who hog promotion opportunities.” They all glared at me with unified hostility, directly calling me out by name. As if I was the one preventing them from getting promotions and raises. My emotions remained calm, as if I was playing a game of chess with them. What a joke. Scenes like this are child’s play for me; I’ve been in actual gunfights, for crying out loud! I tossed the napkin to the floor, my mood suddenly souring. I looked at Katie, wanting to know if she felt the same way. Without a moment’s hesitation, she spoke up: “William, did you hear that?” “It’s what everyone here wants — for you to be fired. If you really had any capability, they wouldn’t all be ganging up on you like this.” “You know what I’m getting at for the rest, right?” “I’m not going to disrespect you further; I’ll wait for you to leave on your own.” Suddenly, I smiled. I stood up and pointed to my grease-splattered clothes. “Do you have any idea how expensive this suit is?” “Listen closely. There will come a time when you’ll regret splattering me with this foie gras so much, you won’t be able to afford the compensation.” As I was about to leave, I was met with sneers from the crowd. “Haha, who do you think you are! A useless kept man wears clothes bought with Katie’s money. This suit too!” “Even if it gets dirty, it’s Katie’s problem!” “Isn’t it though?” “If you keep running your mouth and pissing off Katie, she might strip you naked and kick you out in disgrace!” I frowned, my voice dropping by a few degrees. “I have never spent Katie’s money. If we’re going to talk like that, I don’t mind having someone come over and calculate every single cent I’ve spent…”

“Enough! What else can you do besides make a spectacle of yourself?” “Be a man and admit it!” Of course, I’m a man, but I wouldn’t admit that. Because Katie’s entire fortune came from me; she was the one spending *my* money. But if I said it, they wouldn’t believe me. They’d just mock me as a pretentious idiot. My way of punishing people doesn’t involve wasting words; it involves proving it with action. I scoffed, then pulled out my phone and made a call. “Get over here. Katie’s saying I’m just a useless kept man of the Wilson family, a parasite who lives off them without doing anything. Please come and set her straight, otherwise, I’ll make sure the Wilson family loses twenty billion dollars in ten minutes.” The Wilson family’s assets were only fifty billion. I hadn’t even helped them soar higher, aiming for a hundred billion, and she’d already gotten so arrogant. The person on the other end sounded terrified, shouting, “Get the car ready, now!” I ended the call. Jasper looked at me with disdain and contempt. “Heh! William.” “Do you even know what twenty billion dollars means?” “And you’ll make the Wilson family lose that much in ten minutes?” “Katie, just fire him!” “He’s not just useless; he’s a criminal for cursing your family!” My words, combined with Jasper’s prodding, enraged Katie. She looked at me, her eyes filled with bottomless hatred. “William, how dare you treat me like this? I won’t let you get away with it.” “I’ll have my lawyer send you the divorce papers as soon as possible. And please, take off that suit.” “That expensive fabric? You bought it with *my* money, didn’t you?” “Your money??” I smiled meaningfully, looking at her. “You’ve got one thing wrong.” “The clothes I’m wearing aren’t bought with your money. The luxury custom dress *you’re* wearing is bought with *my* money.” “Understand?” At my words, the whole room erupted in laughter. “Hahaha, I’m dying of laughter!” “I never thought he was pretentious before, but now that I see him, he’s not only pretentious but also disgusting.” “Poor Katie, having to live with such a show-off for three years.” As the mocking voices grew louder, a hint of displeasure crossed my face. Jasper clapped his hands, and the room instantly fell silent. He turned to me, adopting his facade of fairness and impartiality. “William!” “No wonder people mock you. Because in our eyes, you really are just a kept man, a live-in son-in-law.” “You clearly spend Katie’s money, and now you’re turning it around and saying she spent yours.” “I’m a fair man. If you can provide proof within an hour that what you’re saying is true, then I’ll get down on my knees and do a striptease for you!” My eyes lit up. This was a challenge that made my wasted time here playing their games worthwhile. I sat back down, looking up at them with a playful gaze. “Just you doing a striptease wouldn’t be very entertaining. It’d be better if they joined in!” Someone slammed a hand on the table and stood up. “William, you’re insulting us!” That person was furious until Jasper smiled and reassured her. “What’s there to be angry about? We’re not the ones who are going to lose.” “What’s there that I, Jonah De Rossi, can’t play along with?” With Jasper backing them, no one was afraid anymore. “Fine, if you can prove you’re not a useless kept man, then we’ll…” “Your figures are so scrawny; what’s the point of stripping?” “If we’re going to play, let’s play ‘bark like dogs’.”

“Barking all the way out into the street.” “Alright, William, then you remember this too: if you can’t prove yourself, then *you’ll* be the one stripped naked, with ‘Worthless’ carved on your face, barking like a dog as you crawl out.” My gaze swept over everyone, and a thought crossed my mind. Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad. Humanity’s greatest weakness often lies in arrogance. I dropped my playful smile and sighed. “Katie, what sustains the Wilson family? It’s the sugar business, isn’t it?” After our falling out, Katie hadn’t given me a single pleasant look. She didn’t speak, but that wouldn’t stop the sugar business from dying very soon. I pulled out my phone and called my people. “The Wilson family’s sugar business seems to be shrinking. Send out word that I will never purchase anything from the Wilson family’s sugar business again. Once they know that, they’ll know exactly what to do.” “Yes, sir!” Some people started scoffing, while others directly cursed me for being overly dramatic. I paid no attention to their irritating chatter. I would systematically dismantle the Wilson family, one step at a time, until they stopped smiling. Katie saw that I wasn’t just unafraid; I was actively sitting down and declaring I’d ruin her business. “William, I was going to let you off easy, for old times’ sake, but you’re just begging for death.” Let me off easy? When had she ever considered that? Insulting me, flirting with Jasper right in front of me, then threatening to fire me. Did she really think I was a pushover? I said nothing, instead taking out a cigarette and putting it in my mouth. Smoke curled around me. Everyone watched, their hearts filled with a desire for revenge, waiting to see my downfall. “William, even with your doom staring you in the face, you’re still smoking? What, watched too many movies and think you’re cool now?” “Let him act tough for a bit.” “He’s probably just using that cigarette to keep himself together.” “Hah, he’s not afraid of death, is he? The Wilson family is, after all, one of this city’s top players…” “In three minutes, Katie will receive a call. It will be from the merchants who regularly cooperate with the Wilson family’s sugar business, all terminating their partnerships permanently.” I interrupted the man’s speech, giving them three minutes to struggle. Those three minutes were also my last chance for them to admit their mistake, but they wouldn’t take it. They continued to ignore my words, still trying to curry favor with Jasper. Three minutes passed. Just as Katie was about to start yelling at me, her phone rang. To further humiliate me publicly, she put it on speaker. “Miss Katie, this is George from Megma Corp.” “I’m not calling to catch up, but to inform you that our partnership is canceled, permanently.” With that, he hung up, delivering a fatal blow before Katie could even speak. Everyone froze, the smiles on their faces abruptly solidifying. Then a second call came in. She thought George had regretted it. But it wasn’t. It was a second merchant canceling their partnership. Then came the third, fourth, fifth… all calling to terminate their agreements. Katie began to panic, and everyone else was equally shocked. I raised my hand and glanced at my watch, speaking nonchalantly. “The sugar business is done for. Next, the stocks.” My words startled them again, pulling them out of their daze. “William, are you behind this?” “But I don’t believe it. He’s just a kept man; how could he have such power?” “But… but everything he said is coming true!” “William, is it really you?” Jasper stared at me, dumbfounded. I looked back at him as if he were an idiot.

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Three years with Daniel, and he had slowly drained the color from my life, fading it to a sterile palette of black, white, and gray. “No lipstick. Too provocative, Norah.” “No short skirts. You’re practically begging for trouble.” “No selfies on Instagram. People will talk. You’re just showing off.” I used to believe this was care. I thought it was his way of holding onto me. Until I found the hidden folder on his iPad. It was filled with photos of another woman. Bold red lips, silk slip dresses, delicate choker chains. She laughed with a wild, unapologetic freedom. He had meticulously cataloged every single photo with dates and locations. I scrolled back to the very first one. The timestamp was from the third month of our relationship. That was the exact day he had iced me out for seventy-two hours because I’d worn a slightly low-cut V-neck sweater. I stared at this vibrant, electric woman on the screen, then caught my own reflection in the darkened glass. Dull. Muted. Blended into the background. A wave of sheer absurdity washed over me. He didn’t hate red lipstick or slip dresses. He just believed I only deserved to be his plain, safe shadow. He wanted to prune me down until I was nothing but a quiet, compliant houseplant. For the first time in three years, I didn’t search my mind for what I had done wrong. I didn’t take screenshots to scream at him. I simply closed the folder, went to the bottom of my closet, and pulled out the cherry-red silk dress I’d hidden away, packing it into my suitcase. Before I walked out the door, I found an old, half-dried tube of lipstick—a brilliant scarlet—and scrawled two words across the bathroom mirror: WE’RE DONE. … 1 “Are you insane? You’re actually wearing that out? Aren’t you terrified he’s going to lose his mind and break up with you?” Debby’s fork hovered mid-air, the rising steam from our spicy ramen bowls blurring her face. I looked down at myself. The hem of my skirt fell just past my knees. The neckline showed a hint of my collarbones. I hadn’t worn this shade in three years; the woman staring back at me in the restaurant window felt like a stranger. “Does it look good?” Debby set her fork down and took me in for a long, quiet moment. Slowly, her eyes welled up. “It looks gorgeous. It looks so damn good, Norah.” She reached across the booth, gently squeezing my cheeks and turning my head side to side. “Do you realize how much weight you’ve lost? You look like you’re disappearing.” I offered a small, quiet smile, not knowing what to say. Debby let go, her pity quickly turning into suspicion. “Wait. The red dress? The lipstick? Does Daniel know?” “No.” “He’s going to lose his absolute mind.” “It doesn’t concern him anymore.” Debby’s fork slipped from her hand, splashing back into her bowl and sending a droplet of red broth onto the table. “What did you say?” “We broke up.” Her mouth parted. She stared at me, dumbfounded. “Norah, are you serious?” “Yeah.” “When?” “This afternoon.” Debby slid out of her side of the booth and sat right next to me, her hand gripping my shoulder. “Did he hit you? Did he do that silent treatment thing again? Norah, tell me the truth.” I shook my head. “Then why? What changed?” “I found a hidden folder on his iPad.” Debby went completely still. “It was full of photos of another girl. Red lips, low-cut tops, chokers. He had them all labeled with dates and places.” “The earliest one was from our third month together.” Debby’s fingers began to tremble. “That was the weekend he refused to speak to me for three days because I wore a V-neck.” “Fuck,” Debby whispered, her eyes burning with sudden, hot anger. “That miserable, hypocritical piece of shit.” I picked up my glass of lemonade and took a slow sip. My chest felt remarkably light. “Norah, why aren’t you crying?” “What is there to cry about?” “You spent three years refusing to wear dresses. You stopped wearing makeup. You wouldn’t even post a selfie on Instagram because of him. And all this time, behind your back…” “Which is why I left.” Debby stared at me for a long time, then wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into a fierce, suffocating hug. “You should have left a long time ago.” I leaned against her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her vanilla perfume mixed with the rich aroma of the ramen bar. My phone buzzed on the table. A text from Daniel. Working late tonight. Don’t wait up for dinner. I stared at the words. The irony was almost comical. He didn’t even know I was gone. Or more accurately, it hadn’t even crossed his mind to care if I was there or not. Debby squinted at the screen and let out a harsh laugh. “Working late? Bullshit.” “It doesn’t matter anymore.” I flipped the phone face down. “Did you get all your stuff out?” “About half of it. I’ll hire a moving service for the rest tomorrow.” “Where are you staying?” “A hotel nearby.” “Are you kidding? You’re staying with me.” “No, Debby, really. I just… I need to be alone for a bit.” Debby didn’t push. She just squeezed my hand, holding on tight, as if she was afraid I might fade away if she let go. “Norah, listen to me.” “I’m listening.” “Do you remember who you used to be? In college, you’d walk into a lecture hall in a tank top and half the room would turn around. You had pink hair, that tiny daisy tattoo on your ankle. You were so loud, so alive.” Of course I remembered. “And then? Three years with Daniel, and what did you let him turn you into?” I kept quiet. “He said lipstick made you look cheap, so you threw it away. He said short skirts invited trouble, so you wore trousers. He said selfies were attention-seeking, so you locked down your accounts.” “Norah, that wasn’t a relationship. You were serving a sentence.” Her words felt like a needle prickling the softest, most vulnerable part of my heart. I knew she was right. But three years of conditioning don’t vanish overnight. You don’t just shake them off like dust. “Well,” I said softly, looking up. “I’m out now.” Debby looked at me, a tear finally escaping and rolling down her cheek, but she was smiling. “Yeah. You’re out.” She raised her glass, clinking it against mine. “To your freedom.” I clinked my glass back, the tart sweetness of the lemonade washing over my tongue. My phone buzzed again. Daniel. There’s leftover chicken in the fridge. Heat it up. I stared at the message, a dry laugh bubbling up in my throat. Three years, and he had never once asked me what I wanted to eat. He only ever told me what was available. I swiped the notification away and didn’t reply. Debby saw, but she didn’t say a word. She just leaned over and dropped a tender piece of pork belly into my bowl. “Eat up. You’re far too thin.” I took a bite. The rich, spicy flavor on my tongue felt sharper and more real than anything I had tasted in three years. 2 The hotel bed was soft, but the kind of soft that kept me awake. For three years, I’d trained myself to sleep on the rock-hard mattress Daniel insisted on. He claimed soft beds were terrible for your back, so I complied. Now, staring at the ceiling, I wondered if he’d been quite as concerned about the other woman’s back. The phone screen flickered in the dark. On, off, on, off. Daniel had sent seven texts. From “Are you asleep?” to “Why aren’t you answering me?”, the intervals between them shrinking. The final notification was a voicemail. I didn’t play it. Not because I was afraid, but because I simply didn’t want to hear his voice. I knew exactly how it would sound—low, vibrating with that subtle, patronizing edge he used whenever I wasn’t falling in line. Around 2:00 AM, the notifications stopped. He probably assumed I’d fallen asleep. Or maybe he thought I was throwing a tantrum, that I’d cool off in a couple of days. After all, for the last three years, I was always the one who apologized first. I rolled over, staring into the dark. Memories I had spent years justifying began to crawl out of the corners of my mind. Our first year together. He had tossed my brand-new Chanel lipstick straight into the trash can. “Who are you trying to impress with that?” “Myself,” I had whispered. He scoffed and didn’t speak to me for three days. Our second year. I wore a knee-length dress to my company’s annual gala. He grabbed my forearm in the parking lot before we could even walk in. “Go back inside and change.” “Daniel, it’s past my knees…” “I said change, Norah.” I went back and changed. Our third year. I posted a photo from my best friend’s birthday party. The moment he saw it, he snatched my phone and slammed it onto the coffee table. “Delete it.” “Why?” “Look at the way you’re standing. Your chest is practically pushed into the camera. Have some self-respect.” I had been wearing a turtleneck sweater. I deleted the photo. And then I stopped posting altogether. Staring up at the dark hotel room, I wondered how I had let myself get chipped away, piece by piece. Each compromise had been so small. So seemingly insignificant. I’d convinced myself it was just the normal friction of sharing a life. I hadn’t realized I was slowly erasing myself. At 8:00 AM, my phone rang. Not Daniel. A local number. I picked it up. “Hi, is this Norah?” “Yes, this is she.” “Hi Norah, this is Elena from Aura Media. We received your resume last week and wanted to see if you could come in for an interview today at two?” My heart did a strange flutter. I had applied for that job in secret. Daniel had forbidden me from looking for new work, telling me my administrative desk job was stable and safe, that I shouldn’t rock the boat. But I had a degree in digital media. I had won a national student creative award before graduation. And instead of using it, I had spent three years photocopying documents and ordering lunch for executives at a boring logistics firm. “Yes,” I said, my voice steady. “I’ll be there.” After hanging up, I dug through my suitcase and pulled out a crisp white button-down. Clean, sharp, professional. In the bathroom mirror, I applied a fresh coat of scarlet lipstick. There was a sudden, sharp clarity in my eyes that I hadn’t seen in a very long time. The interview went better than I could have hoped. The creative director at Aura Media looked at my portfolio and made an offer on the spot. “Norah, you’ve got a fantastic eye. Can you start Monday as our digital content lead?” When I stepped out of the high-rise, the afternoon sun was so bright I had to squint. My phone vibrated in my hand. Daniel. Norah, where the hell are you? Why is half your stuff missing? I stared at the screen. He had finally noticed. Not that I was gone—just that things were missing. To him, I suppose there wasn’t much of a difference. I was just another object in his apartment. I didn’t reply. I slipped the phone into my bag, walked into a Sephora nearby, and bought three lipsticks. A classic crimson, a deep berry, and a dark plum. Every single shade he had ever called trashy. The cashier smiled as she wrapped them. “These colors are stunning on you. You have the perfect skin tone for a bold lip.” I looked at myself in the small mirror by the register and smiled. Three years. It was the first time someone had told me I looked beautiful without a heavy layer of warning attached to it. It wasn’t Debby’s fierce protectiveness. It was just… true. By the time I got back to the hotel, my phone was flashing with a dozen missed calls. All from Daniel. Along with three voicemails. I tapped the first one. “Norah, what the hell is this? Half your clothes are gone, and what did you write on the mirror? Are you seriously throwing a tantrum over nothing? Call me.” The second one. “Fine. When you’re done playing games, call me. I’m slammed at work today, I don’t have time to chase you down.” The third one. “If you aren’t back by tomorrow, Norah, don’t expect me to be waiting.” I listened to the silence that followed, then set the phone down on the nightstand. Threats. For three years, he’d used them like a whip. And for three years, I’d jumped. I turned off the lights, crawled into the plush hotel sheets, and closed my eyes. That night, there was no one whispering in my ear to turn off the AC because it was wasting electricity. No one complaining that I was moving too much. I slept deeply, without dreaming. 3 The next morning, I went back to the apartment to get the rest of my things. I’d timed it carefully. Daniel usually left for the office by eight, so arriving at nine-thirty should have given me a clear window. But when I unlocked the door, he was sitting on the sofa. Fully dressed in his charcoal suit, tie perfectly knotted, looking like he’d been waiting for me for hours. “You’re back,” he said, his tone even, almost conversational. He had that smug, patronizing smile he wore whenever he thought I’d run away only to return with my tail between my legs. “I’m here for my things.” “What things? Why do you need to pack? If you need something new, we can just go buy it.” He stood up, walking toward me, his eyes scanning me from head to toe. His smile faltered. “What are you wearing?” I had on a ribbed V-neck knit top and an A-line skirt. And my lips were painted in the fresh berry shade I’d bought the day before. “My clothes,” I said. “Norah,” his voice dropped into that familiar, warning register. “Are you doing this on purpose?” “Doing what?” “Dressing like that. Wearing that makeup. Are you trying to provoke me?” I ignored him and walked past him into the bedroom. He followed me, grabbing my wrist as I reached for a drawer. “I asked you a question.” “Daniel, let go of me.” “Tell me where you went yesterday. Why weren’t you answering my calls? And what was that stunt on the bathroom mirror?” I turned to face him. Three years, and I’d still been slightly captivated by his face. Strong jaw, dark, deep-set eyes that carried a natural authority. I used to think being the focus of that gaze meant I was special. Now, it just felt like suffocating. “It wasn’t a stunt. We’re broken up. It’s pretty self-explanatory.” He stared at me for a beat, then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Norah, enough. The joke’s over.” “I’m not joking.” “Then explain it to me. Why? What did I do wrong?” The sheer blindness of it made me laugh. Was he truly this oblivious, or was he just that good of an actor? “Daniel, the hidden folder on your iPad. Who is she?” His expression shifted instantly. Not to guilt, but to a cold, defensive anger. “You went through my things?” “You didn’t answer my question.” “That’s my private property. You have no right to snoop through my devices.” The double standard was hilarious. For three years, he’d demanded my phone passcodes, read my messages under the guise of “transparency,” and tracked my location. But the moment the tables turned, it was a violation of his privacy. “So who is she?” “It’s none of your business.” “None of my business?” I repeated, the words tasting like ash. “You wouldn’t let me wear lipstick. You wouldn’t let me wear skirts. You wouldn’t let me post a single photo. But your folder is packed with pictures of a girl in slip dresses and red lipstick, cataloged over three years. Every single detail.” “That’s completely different.” “How?” He hesitated, searching for words, his jaw tight. “Norah, you’re my partner. You represent me. You need to have some decorum. She… she’s just someone I appreciate aesthetically. It’s not the same thing.” I understood perfectly then. I was his possession, so I had to be kept under lock and key, muted and modest. She was his muse, allowed to be vibrant and free because she didn’t belong to him. “So I have to be the dull, safe shadow while she gets to shine?” “You’re twisting my words.” “Daniel, we’re done.” “No, we’re not,” he said, his voice dropping into a hard, final tone. “I don’t agree to this. Take a couple of days to calm down, and then we’ll talk like adults.” He picked up his car keys from the counter and walked to the door, stopping to look back at me. “Wipe off that lipstick and change the skirt before you go out. You look ridiculous.” The door clicked shut. I stood in the quiet apartment, realizing how long I had lived under his spell. I had believed everything he said. I had shrunk myself to fit his mold. And now, he thought even my exit required his permission. I took a deep breath, walked into the bedroom, and began throwing the rest of my things into the suitcase. On my way out, I glanced at the bathroom mirror. The red lipstick words were still there, bright and defiant. He’d seen them, but he’d dismissed them as a temper tantrum. He had never taken me seriously. Not once. I dragged my suitcase out of the apartment and got into the elevator. Before I reached the lobby, my phone rang. It wasn’t Daniel. It was a number I hadn’t seen on my screen in months: my mother. “Norah? Daniel just called me. He said you had a fight and walked out?” My grip on the phone tightened. “Mom, I didn’t walk out because of a fight. I left him. We’re done.” “Done? Norah, you’ve been together for three years! Daniel is stable, he has a good job, he has a townhouse, he treats you well. What on earth are you looking for?” “Mom…” “Listen to me. Go back and apologize. Couples fight all the time. Don’t throw away a good thing over some silly argument.” “He was cheating on me.” The line went quiet for a second. “Cheating? Do you have proof? Don’t go accusing him without facts.” “I saw the photos, Mom. Photos of another woman on his tablet, cataloged over three years.” “That’s it?” My mother’s voice relaxed, filled with dismissive relief. “Norah, men look at photos. It doesn’t mean he actually did anything. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.” “Mom, he literally forbade me from wearing makeup or skirts while he was busy collecting photos of another woman doing exactly that.” “Well, that just means he cares about you. He doesn’t want other men looking at you. You’re being ungrateful.” I hung up. Standing on the sidewalk under the bright morning sun, a cold shiver ran straight through my bones. 4 After the movers left, I sat on the deep windowsill of my hotel room, staring out at the city. My phone was blowing up. My mother had sent eight consecutive voice messages, all singing the same tune: go back. “A young woman staying in a hotel alone? It’s embarrassing.” “Daniel just called me again. He sounds sick with worry. He really loves you, Norah.” “Don’t be stubborn. I’ve lived a lot longer than you. All men make mistakes.” I listened to each one, then deleted them all, one by one. At three in the afternoon, Debby called. “Norah. Daniel reached out to me.” “What did he say?” “He wanted to know where you’re staying. I didn’t tell him, obviously. But then he said something so incredibly toxic.” “What?” “He said, ‘Norah’s just being influenced by her friends. She used to be so sweet and reasonable, and now she’s running away like a child.’” My knuckles turned white around the phone. Sweet and reasonable. That was his euphemism for compliant. “There’s more,” Debby said, her voice dropping. “He said if you don’t come home within a week, he’s going to assume you’ve officially abandoned the relationship.” “Let him.” “His exact words were: ‘If she actually walks away, she’s going to regret it. I’m not the kind of guy who waits around.’” I let out a sudden, sharp laugh. Even now, he still saw himself as the prize. “Norah? Why are you laughing?” “Because he genuinely believes I’m going to crawl back.” “So you’re really done?” “Completely.” “Good,” Debby said, her voice filled with relief. “Because there’s something I need to tell you.” “What is it?” “The girl in the iPad photos. I know her.” I froze. “Who is she?” “Nancy. We went to college together. We were in the same sorority.” “Are you sure?” “Red lips, delicate gold chokers, tiny mole on her left collarbone? Yes, Norah. I’m positive.” I pictured the photos. My heart did a slow, heavy thud. “Yeah. That’s her.” “Norah, Nancy…” Debby paused, choosing her words carefully. “She knew Daniel had a girlfriend. She’s known for three years.” “What do you mean?” “Remember our junior year homecoming? You brought Daniel to the mixer. We all sat at the same table, and Nancy was sitting right across from you.” The memory came rushing back. Daniel had been cold and brooding the entire night because I had worn an off-the-shoulder top. “She added him on Instagram that night. I always thought it was sketchy, but I didn’t have any real proof.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I tried,” Debby said, her voice cracking slightly. “That spring, I told you Nancy was bad news and that you should keep an eye on her. You told me I was being paranoid. You said Daniel wasn’t like that.” I was silent. She was right. She had tried to warn me. I had been too blind to see it. “There’s one more thing, Norah.” “Tell me.” “Nancy posted a photo last week. Tagged at that upscale steakhouse right downstairs from Daniel’s office. The caption was: Our usual spot, our usual table, waiting for my favorite person.” “I took a screenshot of it. I was going to send it to you, but I didn’t want to break your heart. But now…” “Send it to me.” Ten seconds later, the image popped up on my screen. In the photo, Nancy was sitting by a window overlooking the city lights. Two glasses of Cabernet sat on the table, one half-empty. She was wearing a black silk camisole, her bare collarbones catching the candlelight, her delicate necklace gleaming. She was looking directly at the camera with a playful, teasing smile. And that steakhouse was the exact place Daniel supposedly went to every single time he “worked late.” I had asked him once why he liked that place so much. He told me they made the best ribeye in the city. It wasn’t about the steak. It was about who was sitting across from him. I set the phone down and took a deep, steady breath. There was no rage. No tears. Just a quiet, absolute stillness. Like a difficult puzzle I’d spent three years trying to solve, and someone had finally just handed me the completed picture. My phone rang. This time, it was Daniel’s actual number. I didn’t pick up. He called again. I let it ring. After the third call, a text came through. Norah, I am asking you one last time. Are you coming home or not? I stared at the words for a long moment, my finger hovering over the screen. Then, I typed four words. No. Have a good life. I hit send, and then I blocked his number. Meanwhile, back in the townhouse. Daniel stared at the screen, his brow furrowing as he read the message. Have a good life. He let out a cold snort and tossed the phone onto the leather sofa. “Fine. Let her freeze out there for a couple of days. She’ll learn.” He got up to get a glass of water, passing the master bathroom. His eyes caught something in the mirror, and his footsteps halted. Those two dry, red words were still scrawled on the glass. He had thought it was just a dramatic gesture. But as he looked closer, he realized the vanity was completely bare. Every bottle of moisturizer, every tube of makeup—gone. He pulled open the drawer. Empty. He opened the closet. Half of it was bare space. Even that red dress he hated so much was gone. Daniel stood in front of the empty closet, the glass in his hand tilting slightly, spilling water onto the hardwood floor. He pulled out his phone and dialed her number. But before the first ring could finish, a recorded voice cut in: “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is currently unavailable…”

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At my husband’s sold-out arena concert, I sat in the very last row. The giant LED screen was scrolling through the setlist, and every single song credit—lyrics and music—read “Cynthia.” Eighty-seven songs. Every single one of them. Cynthia was his ex-girlfriend. Three years ago, I gave up my own chance to debut, locking myself away in a cramped apartment to write songs for him. Now, standing on stage with tears in his eyes, he choked out his gratitude: “Without Cynthia, there would be no Gilbert today.” Cynthia, sitting in the center of the front row of the VIP section, stood up and bowed gracefully to the cheering crowd. That seat—Gilbert had promised it to me just last week. I pulled out my phone and texted him. His reply came back almost instantly: [Cynthia is the head of the label. You’re behind the scenes anyway. Does it really matter whose name is on the credit?] On stage, he started singing the fifth song, 101 Degrees. Last year, when he was hospitalized with a dangerously high fever, I wrote that song sitting on the freezing floor of the hospital hallway, barely sleeping for two nights. I shut off my phone, stood up, and walked out. Before turning it off, I sent him one last text: [The divorce papers are on the nightstand. Remember to sign them. As for the eighty-eighth song—I don’t think I’ll be finishing it.] 1 “Maeve, what the hell is wrong with you?” Gilbert’s voice exploded through the receiver. In the background, I could hear the muffled chaos of the arena’s backstage area—chatter, doors slamming, the distant rumble of the crowd. I stood in the biting wind outside the stadium, pulling my thin coat tighter around myself. “Nothing is wrong with me.” The sound of leather shoes pacing against a hard floor came through the line. “Tonight is my three-year anniversary concert. Ten thousand people,” he said, his tone dripping with heavy, familiar irritation. “Do you really have to ruin this night for me?” My fingers gripping the phone were stiff and numb from the cold. “The credits for all eighty-seven songs on the big screen went to Cynthia. Which of us is ruining whose night, Gilbert?” Gilbert let out a long, heavy sigh. “I explained this to you on text,” he said, exasperated, as if I were a child failing to grasp a basic concept. “Cynthia owns the label. It’s a corporate decision to list her name. Why is that so hard to understand?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “So because the label owns the rights, you get to completely erase my work? I wrote 101 Degrees sitting in a hospital hallway while you were sick. I stayed up for forty-eight hours straight. Is it really because she owns the label, Gilbert? Or is it because she’s your ex?” The line went cold. Gilbert’s voice dropped an octave, freezing over. “Maeve, do you really have to be this petty?” “Petty?” I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of shock and pure disbelief. “I wrote every single one of those songs, and someone else is taking the credit. And you think I’m being petty?” “What else would you call it?” he countered, shifting his stance. “You’re a behind-the-scenes writer. Why do you care so much about some vanity credit? It’s not like I don’t pay you.” I closed my eyes, the cold air stinging my face. “A five-thousand-dollar monthly retainer. That’s what you paid to buy out three years of my life and soul. God, you’re incredibly generous, Gilbert.” Before he could respond, a woman’s voice drifted into the call. “Gilbert, sweetie, who are you arguing with?” It was Cynthia. Her tone was light, airy, and laced with an effortless arrogance. “Is Maeve having another one of her episodes?” Instantly, the tension drained from Gilbert’s voice, replaced by a soft, placating gentleness. “It’s nothing. She’s just acting out.” Cynthia giggled, a sound that made my stomach turn. “Maeve, Gilbert is exhausted. Tonight was a massive show for him. You really shouldn’t be stressing him out over such trivial things.” She paused, letting her words hang in the air. “If you feel like your retainer is too low, I can have accounting add another two grand starting next month.” Listening to her condescending charity, my chest tightened. I felt physically sick. “Cynthia, when you stood up and bowed to that crowd for my music, did you feel even a shred of guilt?” Cynthia gave a soft, dismissive snort. “Maeve, it’s called resource integration. Without my label’s money and PR, your songs would just be a pile of worthless scrap paper.” My fist clenched in my pocket. “They are my songs.” Gilbert snatched the phone back. “Maeve, that’s enough. Cynthia is right. Without her, I wouldn’t be standing on this stage. Look at yourself right now. Don’t you think you’re being incredibly pathetic?” I opened my eyes and stared at the distant, flickering streetlights of the city. “I’m pathetic?” I whispered. “That VIP seat in the front row—you told me last week it was mine.” Gilbert hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Cynthia is my lead investor,” he said, his voice hardening again. “If she doesn’t sit in the front row, who does? You? Look at what you wear, Maeve. You don’t even own a decent dress. What do you think the media would say if they photographed you there?” The words sliced through me with surgical precision. For three years, I had locked myself away in a dim, drafty apartment, writing the soundtracks to his success. I hadn’t bought a single piece of clothing that cost more than twenty dollars, pouring everything into his dream. And now, he was embarrassed by my poverty. I took a deep, steadying breath. “So, you’re ashamed of me. I’m not presentable enough for your world.” Gilbert seemed to realize he had gone too far. His tone softened slightly, though the condescension remained. “That’s not what I meant. I’m just saying we have to look at the bigger picture. You always do this—you only think about your own feelings. Can you please just grow up?” “I am grown up,” I said quietly, cutting him off. “Which is why I’m stepping out of your picture. Don’t forget to sign the divorce papers.” Gilbert completely lost his patience. “Maeve, stop using divorce as a threat. Where are you even going to go if you leave me? Who else do you think is going to buy those half-baked songs of yours?” I didn’t answer. “I’m going to say this one last time,” he said, delivering his ultimatum. “Get over to the hotel for the afterparty right now. Cynthia had too much to drink, and you need to drive her car home. If you aren’t there in thirty minutes, don’t expect me to call you back.” I looked down at the glowing screen. “Gilbert.” “What?” “There won’t be an eighty-eighth song.” I pressed the red button and ended the call. 2 I unlocked the door to our rented apartment. The apartment was pitch black. I didn’t bother turning on the lights, navigating by the pale moonlight spilling through the window. As I walked into the living room, my toe kicked against something heavy and metallic. I looked down. It was the custom tuning fork I’d had made to help preserve his vocal cords. It lay there, discarded like a piece of garbage next to the bin. A year ago, when Gilbert’s vocal cords were severely strained, I had spent an entire month’s salary and searched the whole city to find a craftsman who could make it. At the time, he’d held me and cried, saying it was the most thoughtful gift he’d ever received. Now, it was coated in a layer of dust. Meanwhile, right in the center of the coffee table, sat a polished velvet box. Inside was a diamond-encrusted tie clip Cynthia had gifted him. Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my hand. Gilbert’s name flashed across the screen again. I picked up. “Maeve, where the hell are you?” he demanded. “I told you to drive Cynthia home. Do my words mean absolutely nothing to you?” I stared down at the dusty tuning fork on the floor. “I’m at the apartment.” “You seriously went home?” Gilbert’s voice was sharp, grating. “Because you didn’t show up, Cynthia had to hire a random driver. She threw up all over her back seat. Are you happy now?” I let out a cold laugh. “Why would I care if she threw up?” “You’re her assistant! Taking care of her is your job!” “I am your wife, Gilbert. Not her assistant.” “Maeve, can you stop throwing the word ‘wife’ in my face?” Gilbert sounded utterly exhausted and annoyed. “Aside from that piece of paper, what have you actually done for me? Can you afford a diamond ring? Can you afford a real wedding? You can’t even buy yourself a decent necklace!” My eyes drifted back to the velvet box on the table. “You’re right. I can’t,” I said. “Is that why you keep the necklace Cynthia gave you sitting right in the middle of our coffee table?” “Are you going through my things now?” he snapped, instantly defensive. “It’s in plain sight. I’d have to be blind to miss it.” “Maeve, stop making a scene out of nothing. It was a professional thank-you gift. Cynthia isn’t petty like you. She knows we’re married, which is why she bought us a matching set. Think of it like siblings.” I froze. “Matching?” “Yeah. One for her, one for me,” he said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “It’s about team solidarity. You’ve never worked in a real corporate environment, so you wouldn’t understand.” Listening to his self-righteous justification, the sheer absurdity of it washed over me. “Gilbert, you are wearing matching couple’s necklaces with your ex-girlfriend, and you’re calling it ‘team solidarity’?” “Why does your mind always have to go to such a dirty place?” he groaned. “We are strictly professional. There is absolutely nothing going on. If you’re going to keep being this paranoid, we might as well not even live together.” I took a slow, deep breath. “Fine.” “What?” “I said fine. Let’s not.” “Oh, here we go again,” Gilbert sneered. “Every time we have a fight, you bring up divorce. Don’t you get tired of the same old routine?” “This time is real. The signed papers are on the nightstand. I’ve already signed my part. You can do whatever you want with them.” “Maeve! You think you’re so smart, don’t you? You think I won’t sign them?” “Go ahead. Sign them, and we’ll go straight to the court.” In the background, Cynthia’s slurred, whiny voice drifted through the speaker. “Gilbert, my head hurts so bad…” Gilbert’s tone shifted instantly to frantic worry. “Cynthia, sweetie, just lie down. I’ll get you some warm water and honey.” Then, turning back to the phone, his voice went cold and dismissive. “Maeve, I don’t have time for your drama right now. Show up at the office tomorrow morning at eight and apologize to Cynthia. If you don’t, don’t expect another dime of your retainer.” I listened to him, but for the first time in three years, I didn’t feel the familiar panic. I didn’t feel the urge to beg or explain. “Gilbert.” “What?” “I hope you have the life you deserve.” I hung up and immediately blocked his number. 3 The next morning, I walked into Gilbert’s record label office. The receptionist, dressed in a sharp designer blazer, didn’t even bother to look up as I entered. Her eyes, when they finally flicked over to me, were filled with unvarnished disdain. I ignored her silent judgment and walked past the open-plan bullpen straight toward the conference room at the end of the hall. I pushed the door open. Gilbert and Cynthia were already inside. Cynthia was wearing a tailored charcoal blazer, and around her neck hung the very “solidarity” necklace she had bought for Gilbert. “Oh, Maeve. You actually came,” Cynthia said, a smug smile playing on her lips. “And here I thought you were going to stick to your little rebellion.” Gilbert sat in the leather executive chair, keeping his eyes on his tablet. “At least you realized you were wrong. Go grab Cynthia a coffee, and we’ll call it even.” I walked up to the mahogany conference table. “I’m not here to apologize,” I said. “I’m here for my manuscript.” Gilbert finally looked up. “What manuscript?” “My remaining thirty-two songs.” Cynthia let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Maeve, are you out of your mind? Those songs were created while you were under contract with the label. They are work-for-hire. The copyrights belong to us.” I looked Cynthia dead in the eye. “I wrote those songs in my own apartment. I didn’t use a single kilowatt of your electricity, nor did I use a single cent of your budget. How exactly is that work-for-hire?” Gilbert frowned, slamming his tablet onto the desk. “Maeve, don’t push your luck. The company pays you five grand a month. Do you think we pay you just to sit around?” “That money was my salary for acting as your personal assistant and keeping your life from falling apart,” I said, staring him down. “It wasn’t payment for my music.” Gilbert slapped his hand against the desk. “You want to play bean-counter? Fine!” He pulled out a leather-bound checkbook, scribbled a figure, tore the check off, and threw it across the table. “Ten thousand dollars,” he sneered. “For the remaining thirty-two songs. Take the money and get out of my sight.” I looked down at the slip of paper. Ten thousand dollars. For thirty-two songs. That was roughly three hundred dollars a song. “Gilbert, is this really what my life’s work is worth to you?” “What else do you want? A million? Take a look in the mirror, Maeve. Who do you think made those songs hits in the first place? If it weren’t for my voice, those tracks would be rotting in your hard drive.” Cynthia chimed in, tossing her hair. “Honestly, Gilbert, ten grand is too generous. We could hire any hungry ghostwriter off the street for a couple hundred bucks. Maeve is just trying to extort us.” I looked at the two of them, a wave of profound disgust washing over me. I picked up the check. Gilbert smirked. “What? Still think it’s too little? If you don’t want it, leave it.” I gripped the edges of the check with both hands and ripped it straight down the middle. Rip. Gilbert’s smirk vanished. “Maeve, what the hell are you doing?” I stacked the two halves together and ripped them again, repeating the motion until the check was reduced to a handful of tiny white shreds. “Are you insane?” he yelled, jumping to his feet. “That was ten thousand dollars!” I raised my hand and threw the confetti straight into his face. The white scraps rained down over his styled hair and expensive suit. “Keep your money, Gilbert,” I said softly. “Consider those songs a donation. It’s the price I pay for feeding a stray.” 4 I walked out of the building and went straight to the federal copyright office. “Hi, I need to file an emergency freeze on all commercial licensing and performance rights registered under my name,” I told the clerk, handing over a thick, meticulously organized folder. Yes. Every single one of those eighty-seven songs had been registered under my legal name the moment I finished writing them. I used to think I would never need those registrations. I had trusted Gilbert implicitly. Now, they were my only shield. The clerk reviewed my documents, checking the digital timestamps against the copyright database. “Everything looks in order, Ms. Miller,” she said. “Your application has been processed. Effective immediately, any commercial performance, digital streaming, or profitable use of these eighty-seven titles is frozen pending legal review.” “If anyone violates this injunction, you have full grounds to sue for statutory damages.” “Thank you,” I said. When I stepped outside, the afternoon sun was blindingly bright. I walked over to a trash can on the corner, pulled out my phone, and popped out the SIM card. I had used this number for five years. Every call, every demanding text, and every hollow promise from Gilbert had filtered through this tiny piece of plastic. I bent it between my fingers until it snapped with a clean, satisfying crack. I tossed the pieces into the trash and slid in the new SIM card my friend Zack had bought for me the night before. At eleven that night, Gilbert was sitting in the back of Cynthia’s luxury SUV. He had downed two glasses of champagne, and his cheeks were flushed with a warm glow. Cynthia handed him an open bottle of mineral water. “The press reviews are spectacular,” she said, scrolling through her phone. “The reception for the new singles is even better than we projected.” Gilbert took a sip of water. “It’s all thanks to you. I couldn’t have pulled off this arena show without your backing.” Cynthia smiled, reaching over to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “What are you going to do about Maeve? She’s throwing a tantrum now, but who knows what kind of scene she’ll make tomorrow.” Gilbert leaned back against the leather seat, rubbing his temples. “Don’t worry about her. She’s stubborn, and she’s terrified that I’ll leave her behind now that I’m successful. Just give her a couple of days. Once she runs out of money, she’ll come crawling back on her own.” The SUV pulled up to his suburban townhouse. Cynthia reached over to unlock his door. “Want me to come in with you?” “No, it’s fine,” Gilbert said, waving his hand. “She’s probably brooding inside. I don’t want her to see you and start screaming again.” He stepped out of the car, his leather dress shoes clicking against the pavement. The townhouse was dark. There was no warm entryway light left on for him, nor was there anyone waiting by the door with a mug of hot honey-ginger tea to soothe his throat. Gilbert frowned. “Maeve?” he called out. Only a hollow echo answered him. He kicked off his shoes and walked into the living room. The velvet jewelry box sat untouched on the coffee table. But the custom tuning fork I had bought him—along with its elegant leather case—was gone from the side table. A sudden, inexplicable wave of anxiety washed over him. “Maeve, stop playing games! Get out here!” He marched over to the master bedroom, throwing the door open and flipping the light switch. The bed was neatly made, and completely empty. The closet door hung half-open. Half of the hangers were bare. Gilbert froze. His gaze fell onto the nightstand. There lay a clean, white document with bold black lettering: PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE. At the bottom of the page, my signature was already written in sharp, clean ink. Maeve Miller. There was no hesitation in the stroke of the pen. Next to the papers lay an acoustic guitar. It was the only gift he had ever given me during our three years together. Now, all six strings had been cleanly snipped. The severed metal wires curled in the air, pointing upward like silent, mocking fingers. Gilbert’s hands began to shake. He snatched up the papers, scanning the terms. I was walking away with nothing. I hadn’t asked for a single asset. “Maeve… you think you can just walk out on me?” Gritting his teeth, he grabbed his phone and dialed my number. Only the cold, automated voice of the operator answered him: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.” The phone slipped from his trembling fingers, hitting the plush carpet with a dull thud.

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I’ve never been the type to scroll through social media. So when my sister, Georgia, texted me, “Did Jared get a new job?” I was completely blindsided. “He posted a group photo from his new company. Looks pretty high-profile.” I opened his profile. Blank. Not a single post. I logged into Georgia’s account to search him. There it was—a wall of updates. A new job, a new city, business dinners, weekend trips. And a woman, constantly appearing in the background of his photos. The latest post, from yesterday, was captioned: “Act Two. Finally figuring out what actually matters.” Only yesterday, he was telling me how stressed he was, how his startup was on the verge of collapsing, asking me to hold off on buying that townhouse we’d been eyeing. I locked my phone, thinking back to the day we first met. The very first thing he ever said to me was: “I have this fatal flaw—I can’t lie to save my life.” I laughed out loud. 1 I was sitting at my desk at the office, editing a marketing deck, my coffee already cold. Then Georgia’s text lit up my screen. “Hey, did Jared get a new gig? Looks like he’s living the high life.” I frowned. “What do you mean, new gig?” “On Instagram. He posted a group photo. Tailored suit, sleek lobby, very corporate-chic. Looks incredibly fancy.” I set down my mouse, picked up my phone, and searched Jared’s Instagram handle. Nothing. Just a blank grid. No Posts Yet. I closed the app, reopened it, and tried again. Still blank. The screen stayed bright, illuminating my face as I stared at the empty white squares. Last week, Jared had looked me in the eye, his forehead creased with worry, and told me his startup’s cash flow was drying up. He begged me to hold off on putting down the deposit for the place we wanted. He looked so defeated that I’d stayed awake for nights worrying about him, and I had quietly cancelled our viewing appointment. I texted Georgia: “Can you screenshot it?” She replied instantly with a barrage of eight screenshots. I swiped through them one by one. A new job, a new city, lavish dinners, airport lounges… Every photo was perfectly edited, drenched in warm, moody filters. In every single one of them, Jared was smiling that easy, effortless smile I hadn’t seen in years. A smile of pure, unburdened relief. When was the last time he’d smiled at me like that? I tried to remember, but the memory wouldn’t come. Then, I noticed her. She wasn’t in every picture, but she was in enough of them to leave a footprint. Sometimes it was just her hand resting on the edge of a rustic wooden table, nails painted a clean, pale pink. Sometimes they were walking side-by-side, her face turned toward him, her profile soft and beautiful in the golden hour light. The most recent post was from yesterday. No photo. Just text: “Act Two. Finally figuring out what actually matters.” Yesterday evening, he had collapsed onto our living room sofa, looking utterly spent. “It’s brutal right now, babe,” he’d said. “Just give me a little more time to get through this rough patch. Don’t worry about the house yet.” And I had poured him a glass of warm water. I had asked him if he wanted me to make him some tea. I flipped my phone face down on my desk. I sat there in the hum of the office fluorescent lights, unable to move. My cubicle neighbor, Tara, leaned over. “You okay, Lauren? You look a little pale.” “I’m fine,” I said, forcing a smile. “Just a blood sugar crash, I think.” I remembered our first date. We were at a crowded bar with mutual friends, and he’d leaned across the table, dead serious, and said: “I have this fatal flaw—I can’t lie. It physically hurts me.” I had thought it was the most endearing thing in the world. Now, sitting at my desk, a laugh escaped my throat. A sharp, dry sound that made my eyes sting. 2 Jared didn’t get home until late that night. When he walked through the door, his suit jacket was rumpled, his tie loosened, looking like a man who’d been run ragged by the world. “Did you eat?” I asked, looking up from the sofa. “Just grabbed a quick bite on the go.” He dropped his briefcase, sank down next to me, and let out a long, heavy sigh. “I’m exhausted. Meetings all day.” I offered a quiet nod, my eyes drifting back to my phone screen. “Things are still pretty tense at the firm,” he said, massaging the back of his neck. His voice was thick with exhaustion. “Seriously, let’s not rush into that townhouse. Don’t put any pressure on yourself, okay? Once I get us through this storm, we can talk about it.” “Okay.” “I know how badly you want it, but the timing is just terrible. You trust me, right?” “Yeah, I know.” He glanced at me, probably sensing my unusual quietness. He reached over and patted my knee. “What’s wrong? You feeling okay?” “Just tired,” I lied, offering a faint smile. “A long day at work.” “Go get some sleep then. Don’t stay up.” He stood up and headed to the bathroom to wash up. I sat in the dim living room, the rushing sound of the shower filling the silence, and turned my phone brightness all the way down. There was one detail from Georgia’s screenshots that kept spinning in my head. It was a photo of Jared at a high-end sushi restaurant—sleek blonde wood panels, an exquisite omakase platter arranged before him. The timestamp in the corner was the 15th of last month. On the 15th of last month, he told me he was in Chicago for an urgent client pitch, barely texting me for three days. I’d been so understanding. “Focus on work,” I’d texted him. “Don’t worry about me.” I had reverse-searched the unique wooden screens in the background of that photo. The restaurant wasn’t in Chicago. It was right here, in Boston. Using Georgia’s account, I scrolled through his feed again, starting from the beginning. No stone unturned. The more I looked, the colder the air in my lungs became. This wasn’t a one-time slip. His supposed business trips, his sudden weekend emergencies—they didn’t align with the geotags and timelines on this hidden profile at all. The woman appeared six times. I took screenshots of every single instance, saved them to my phone, and created a secure folder. I titled it: Evidence. Jared walked out of the bathroom, his hair still damp, and paused at the bedroom door. “You coming to bed?” “In a minute. Go ahead without me.” “Don’t stay up too late. Take care of yourself,” he said, before closing the door behind him. I sat there in the dark, the blue glow of my phone illuminating my face. Outside, the streetlights cast a pale amber light onto the floor. A car rumbled in the distance, its sound fading into the night. I wondered how many truths he had actually told me over the last two years, while keeping me locked outside his digital life. 3 I began doing something I’d never done in our seven years together. I watched him. Quietly. Invisibly. In the past, I never touched his phone, never questioned his whereabouts, and never cross-examined him when he came home late. I believed a marriage required trust, not constant surveillance. I thought living like a detective would be exhausting. But looking back, was that trust? No. It was willful blindness. I followed the digital breadcrumbs from his profile and easily found her account. Her profile picture was a beautiful black-and-white side profile, soft lighting catching her sharp, elegant features. She had this effortlessly bohemian, relaxed energy. Her username was @Westward_Wren. Her account was public. I spent an hour reading through her feed. She was a freelance travel writer, constantly on the move, her writing beautiful and vivid, dripping with a sense of slow, deliberate living. One post made me freeze. It was from three months ago. A shot of a coffee cup sitting on a windowsill, a blurred city skyline in the background, bathed in soft afternoon light. The caption read: “Meeting someone who makes you believe some things are still worth holding onto.” In the comments, someone asked, “Ooh, are you off the market?” She replied with a simple smiling emoji, leaving it ambiguous. But the top comment, liked by her, was from a completely black profile icon. It was just two words: “Me too.” I tapped on the blank icon. No bio, no photos, no public posts. A ghost account. But I knew exactly who it was. The handle ended in the last six digits of Jared’s personal cell phone number. I set my phone on the kitchen counter, poured myself a glass of water, and stood by the window, drinking it slowly. Down on the street, a man was walking his dog on a long, slack leash, taking his time under the yellow streetlights. I thought of how Jared had complained about his insomnia last week, blaming work stress, asking me to stop pushing him. And I had blamed myself, thinking I was a burden, cancelling my dream home appointments to ease his mind. I looked down at the water in my glass. Clear. Transparent. Revealing everything. Fine. We would play this slow. No rush. Over the next few days, I paid attention to the details. He was on his phone more than usual, but he always kept the screen tilted away from me. At dinner, his mind would drift, his eyes glazing over until I called his name, and then he’d snap back with a quick, “Sorry, babe, just thinking about a client.” He started dressing better before leaving the house. He used to throw on whatever wrinkled button-down was closest; now, he stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his collar, checking his reflection from multiple angles. Any of these things on their own would have been harmless. But together, they formed a map. I documented everything in a locked note on my phone: dates, times, specific behaviors, clear as day. One evening, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen, answered with a brief “Hey,” and stepped out onto the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him. I sat in the living room. I didn’t move. I didn’t try to press my ear to the glass. Ten minutes later, he came back inside, his face completely composed. “Just work stuff,” he said, tossing his phone on the table. “Okay.” He sat next to me and picked up the remote, flipping channels as if nothing had happened. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. Jared, I thought. You look exactly like a tightrope walker right now. Graceful, focused, completely in control. But you and I both know what’s waiting for you if you slip. 4 The opportunity presented itself sooner than I expected. On Thursday night, Jared announced he had to spend the weekend in Burlington, Vermont. “A major client is in town,” he said. “I might have to stay one night, maybe two. I’ll keep you posted.” I smiled. “Of course. Go.” When he was leaving, I walked him to the door. He turned, looking down at me with soft eyes. “Call me if anything comes up at home, okay? Don’t try to handle everything yourself.” “I won’t.” “Is there enough food in the fridge? I can order some groceries to be delivered if you need.” “No need. I’ll take care of it.” He nodded, kissed my cheek, and walked down the hall. I closed the door and stood in the quiet entryway for a long moment. Then, I took out my phone and called Georgia. “You mentioned Will’s friend lives up in Burlington, right? Is he still there this weekend?” Georgia sounded confused. “Yeah, he is. Why?” “I need a favor.” Jared never posted location tags, but Wren did. She was a travel writer; geotagging was second nature to her. It was her brand. On Saturday afternoon at two o’clock, she posted a new photo: “The breeze off Lake Champlain is colder than I expected.” The photo showed a stone bench by the water, the background blurred with tourists. But on the right edge of the frame, a man’s hand rested on the back of the bench. I pinched to zoom. On his wrist was a watch. Square face, black leather strap. I had bought that watch for Jared’s birthday last year. I’d spent an entire afternoon in the boutique on Newbury Street, agonizing over the details until the sales associate knew my life story. I sent the screenshot to Georgia’s boyfriend, Will, along with the approximate location. “Could you ask your friend to swing by this spot? Just a few photos from a distance. Don’t let them notice.” For the next twenty minutes, I sat on the living room sofa. The afternoon sun slanted through the window, painting the hardwood floor in warm, amber light. I didn’t move. I barely breathed. Then, my phone buzzed. It was Will, forwarding a few photos. No text. I took a deep breath and tapped the first image. It was Jared. He was sitting on the stone bench next to Wren, their bodies angled toward each other. He was saying something, and she was laughing, her head tilted back, completely at ease. His arm was slung over her shoulders. The square watch gleamed in the sunlight, identical to the one in my memory. I looked through every photo, saved them all to my Evidence folder, and then opened my chat with Jared. His message from noon was still sitting there: “Meeting went incredibly well. Probably going to have to do dinner with the clients tonight. Get some rest, don’t wait up for me.” I stared at those words for a long time. The sun shifted, leaving the living room in cold shadow, the only sound the quiet hum of the air conditioning. I typed back: “Sounds great. Focus on the client. Don’t worry about me.” He sent back a smiling emoji almost instantly. I set the phone on the coffee table and closed my eyes. My Evidence folder was full. Screenshots, photos, dates, notes. More than enough. I picked up the phone and called Will back. “Can you do me one more favor?” “Do you know which restaurant they’re going to tonight?” Will hesitated. “Yeah, actually. My friend knows someone who works there. Do you want me to find out their reservation details?” “No need,” I said, standing up and walking into our bedroom. I opened the closet. “I’m going myself.” I pulled out a crisp white button-down and adjusted the collar in the mirror. The woman looking back at me was entirely calm. I didn’t look like someone heading into a screaming match; I looked like someone showing up to a long-awaited business meeting. I grabbed my bag and walked out. Jared, I thought. You wrote that this is your ‘Act Two.’ That you finally figured out what you wanted. That’s perfect. Because so have I. On the Amtrak train to Burlington, I sent him a text: “Just pulled into Burlington. See you soon.” The landscape blurred outside the window as the train slowed toward the station. I wondered what face he would make when he read it.

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After three years of long-distance and a grueling month of overtime, I had finally saved up enough time off to visit my boyfriend. But when I arrived, he was completely unreachable. I spent ten agonizing hours waiting alone in a strange city before he finally bothered to reply. When the phone finally rang, it wasn’t him. It was Rebecca, my best friend, her voice bright and giggling over the receiver. “Hazel, surprise! I got to explore Charleston first! It’s absolutely gorgeous here, and Darren has been the absolute perfect tour guide!” She babbled on, sharing little anecdotes of their day, completely oblivious—or pretending to be—to the thirty missed calls lighting up Darren’s screen. I listened in silence until she muttered something about the evening chill. That was when Darren finally took the phone from her. His tone was brief, clipped. “I’m going to drop her off at her hotel first. Wait for me a little longer.” Before he could hang up, the question slipped out of me. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting?” There was a sharp pause. When Darren spoke again, his voice had turned icy. “She’s your best friend, Hazel. Do you really have to turn this into a competition?” His blunt, defensive accusation drained every ounce of my desire to argue. I hung up. Just then, my ride-share back to Boston pulled up to the curb. The driver looked at me as I climbed in, his brow furrowed with concern. “Miss, it’s past midnight and this area isn’t exactly safe. How could your family just leave you out here alone?” I looked down at my shoes, soaked through with slush and freezing rain. “Yeah,” I whispered. Then, forcing a faint smile, I added, “They won’t. Never again.” … Darren didn’t realize I was gone until two hours later. When his calls started flooding in, I looked at his contact photo. His ringtone, whenever we were together, was a loud indie rock track that had gone viral a few months ago. I had never liked it. Once, I had playfully asked him to change it to some soft, instrumental music I loved. Darren’s reaction had been fiercely defensive. The cold, harsh edge of his voice still echoed in my mind. “Am I supposed to obey your every command?” Embarrassed and hurt, I had immediately apologized. But just moments ago, Rebecca had posted an update on her Instagram. A screenshot of that exact song, captioned: “Honestly, I recommended this song to a certain dummy three months ago and I’m totally sick of it, but he’s still using it as his ringtone. Unbelievable.” Darren had commented just three minutes prior: “Who are you calling a dummy?” Rebecca’s reply was instant: “You, dummy!” My phone kept vibrating with incoming calls. Suddenly, a bitter laugh escaped my lips. I wondered how many chambers Darren’s heart had, to be able to beat for two different women at the exact same time. When I didn’t answer, the calls stopped and the texts began. “Where the hell are you? Stop acting out, okay? It’s late and I’m exhausted.” Darren’s messages were filled with his usual irritation. As if sensing my silence, my driver spoke up again. “You know, miss,” he said, shaking his head. “Just two nights ago, there was an assault right at that station. The girl didn’t even make it. The whole city is on edge right now.” “That’s why I was so shocked to see you standing there. If you were my daughter, I wouldn’t have been able to sleep a wink tonight.” My fingers twitched, my eyes dropping back to the glowing screen. “Why are you being so unreasonable? So I was a little late picking you up, so what?” “Rebecca is a guest, and she’s your best friend. Why can’t you just be the bigger person?” My hands shook so hard I could barely hold the phone. A sharp, physical pain bloomed in my chest, like a blade scraping against my ribs. The driver noticed my trembling in the rearview mirror and panicked slightly. “Hey, hey, please don’t cry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” I wiped my eyes, shaking my head. For the first time, a strange sense of liberation washed over me. “No,” I said softly. “Thank you for telling me. Truly.” A final message from Darren popped up. “Whatever. I don’t have the energy to baby you right now. Let me know when you’ve calmed down.” Twenty-eight messages. Twenty-seven and a half of them were accusations. And he ended it by claiming he was too tired to “baby” me. Exhaustion rolled over me like a heavy tide. I turned off my phone, leaned my head against the cold glass window, and let myself fall asleep. By the time I woke up, we had arrived at my apartment building in Boston. Seeing how deeply I was sleeping, the kind driver had parked and waited for three hours without waking me. Deeply grateful, I tipped him an extra hundred dollars. He beamed, offering a warm, fatherly piece of advice before he left. “Get inside and change those shoes, kiddo. They’re soaked through.” “I will,” I promised, touched by his kindness. While waiting for the shower water to run hot, I checked my phone. Rebecca had posted another update. It was a photo of a trendy local boba tea shop. “Checking out this famous spot! My favorite boy stood in line for an hour just to get me this, but honestly, the taste is just average. I took one sip, and packed the rest up for ‘someone else.’” The “someone else” in the photo was Darren, captured in a candid shot, smiling softly at the camera. I stared at the image. I had never known that my boyfriend—the man so pathologically germophobic that he refused to share a water glass with me—would happily drink from another woman’s cup. I let out a soft, tired sigh and clicked the “like” button. Then, I dialed my manager’s number. “Mr. Collins, I’ve had a change of heart. Is that overseas project still open?” On the other end of the line, his tone shifted from surprise to pure relief. “Hazel, I’m so glad you’ve come to your senses. If you pull this project off, you’ll be looking at a double promotion when you return.” “And it’s only a year in France. Trust me, if it’s true love, a year is nothing.” I smiled quietly, offering no argument. The truth was, the moment I decided to take this assignment, my relationship was already over. I took my time in the hot shower, letting the steam soothe my aching muscles. When I came out, Rebecca’s post was gone. I felt a flicker of amusement. So, she wasn’t as utterly shameless as she wanted everyone to believe. Suddenly, Darren’s name flashed on my screen. A knot of dread tightened in my stomach, but I answered anyway. “Who are you trying to humiliate?” his voice boomed, sharp with anger. “You ignore my calls, ignore my texts, and then you go write passive-aggressive comments under Rebecca’s post?” He spoke with a rapid, defensive urgency—a protective instinct he had never once displayed for me. I felt a profound, heavy exhaustion settle into my bones. I had worked myself to the bone for a month, sacrificing sleep and sanity just to see him, only to end up here. “Darren,” I said quietly. “Whose boyfriend are you, exactly?” He went dead silent. The line stretched long and tense before he sighed, his voice dripping with disappointment. “Do you always have to make such a mountain out of a molehill?” Then, a soft, hesitant voice drifted through the speaker. “Darren… maybe I should talk to her.” It was Rebecca. I glanced at the clock. 11:00 PM. Which meant they had been together since 8:00 AM. “No,” Darren replied, his voice softening. “Don’t bother. The more you indulge her, the worse her tantrums get.” “But she’s my best friend…” Rebecca murmured. They whispered to each other, their voices dropping so low I couldn’t make out the words, before the line suddenly went dead. The easy, practiced intimacy of their exchange, the natural rhythm of their back-and-forth—it was a revelation. I realized then that their boundaries had crossed long before today. After a brief, restless nap, I woke to find my left foot swollen and throbbing from frostbite. Using an old cane I found in the closet, I managed to limp downstairs and hail a cab to the urgent care clinic. The doctor had to debride the blistered skin. I bit my lip so hard it bled to keep from crying out. Armed with a prescription and a bottle of painkillers, I finally headed home. But the moment I unlocked my apartment door, I bumped straight into a warm chest. The familiar, clean scent of his cologne filled my nose. Seeing me freeze in shock, Darren offered a gentle, charming smile. “Since you wouldn’t talk to me, I had no choice but to come to you.” A lump formed in my throat, but before I could say a word, he took the bag of medication from my hands. “What’s this?” “My foot is frostbitten.” “Oh,” he muttered, tossing the bag onto the entryway table without a second thought. He didn’t ask how it happened. He didn’t ask if it hurt. Just then, his phone blared with that irritating rock song. I didn’t hear what Rebecca said on the other end, but Darren laughed out loud, teasing her playfully. “Hey, if you tell me to jump, how can I say no?” The tiny spark of warmth that had flared in my chest died instantly, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache. I limped past him to the kitchen, popped two pills out of the blister pack, and swallowed them dry. Darren hung up, walked over, and wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Don’t be mad anymore,” he murmured coaxingly. “My phone was on silent that day. When I found out you left, I was miserable the whole night.” I smirked faintly. The photos of his bright, easy smile the next morning certainly didn’t look like those of a miserable man. “Besides, she’s visited me a few times now,” he continued. “I just wanted to get her settled quickly so I could focus entirely on you…” My hand froze on my water glass. “She visits you often?” He chuckled. “Are you jealous? Don’t worry, she’s basically one of the guys. Not my type at all.” “We’re just occasional travel buddies. It’s only because you’re always so busy.” Eager to change the subject, Darren announced he was going to take a shower. Before heading to the bathroom, he made a point to grab his phone. A few minutes later, he called out from the bathroom, asking me to bring him his loungewear. I grabbed a set, but when I pushed the door open, I caught him hastily flipping his phone face down on the counter. He wiped the water from his face and offered a quick, guilty grin. “Thanks, babe.” The door clicked shut again. I didn’t walk away. Within seconds, Rebecca’s giggling voice echoed through the thin door. “Oh my god, why does this feel like we’re having an affair?” Darren’s reply was lazy, nonchalant. “You know how sensitive your best friend is. She’s paranoid.” Rebecca hummed, her voice taking on a suggestive, teasing lilt. “Alright, show me those abs again. I didn’t get a good look earlier!” “You pervert,” Darren teased back. I walked away, unable to listen to any more of it. When Darren finally came out of the bathroom an hour later, his face was flushed, his eyes bright with a hungry, restless energy. It was obvious he was turned on. Without even turning off the lights, he crawled onto the bed and lunged toward me. I placed a firm hand against his chest, stopping him. My voice was completely flat. “We don’t have any condoms.” Darren froze, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Rebecca said it’s fine if you’re in your safe window.” I stared at him, a wave of pure disgust washing over me. “You talk to her about our sex life?” “No, it’s not like that,” Darren stammered, running a hand through his damp hair. But as he caught my gaze and realized there was no lying his way out of this, his tone turned defensive. “Come on, she’s not a stranger.” I looked at him—really looked at him. Every word, every defensive posture, every micro-expression was a testament to his loyalty to her, not me. I felt like the intruder in my own life. The thought of sharing a bed with him made my stomach turn. “Sleep in the guest room tonight,” I said. Darren stared at me, dumbfounded. “Because of this?” he scoffed. “I traveled all this way to see you, and you’re putting me in the guest room?” “So the only reason you came here was for sex?” Darren glared at me, his jaw clenched in anger. For a brief moment, I saw the perfect opening to end it. I opened my mouth to speak, but before the words could form, he grabbed his pillow and slammed the door behind him. I closed my mouth, turned off the lamp, and went to sleep. I slept surprisingly well that night. When I woke up, there was an email from Mr. Collins with my flight details. “Tomorrow at noon. Don’t be late.” I replied with a quick confirmation and got out of bed to wash up. But the moment I pulled open the bathroom door, a high-pitched shriek pierced the quiet apartment. I froze, startled, but before I could close the door, a figure rushed past me from behind and slammed it shut. “Why don’t you ever knock?” Darren snapped, his tone sharp. For a second, the sheer absurdity of it made me feel like a stranger in my own home. “Why is Rebecca here?” I asked. Darren shrugged carelessly. “She missed you.” In the two years I had rented this apartment, she had never visited once. But the moment Darren arrived, she suddenly “missed” me. I didn’t bother arguing. When Rebecca finally walked out of the bathroom, she offered me a casual wave and slid onto one of the dining chairs. Darren slid a plate containing a fried egg in front of her. She took a bite, her eyes lighting up. “You always know exactly how I like it. Perfect runny yolk.” Darren smirked, clearly pleased with himself. Then, he slid another plate toward me. “Can’t say I’m biased. I made one for you, too.” I stared at the fork in my hand, unable to bring myself to pick it up. I hated runny yolks. We had been together for six years, and he still didn’t know the most basic things about me. “Darren, carry me in our game later!” Rebecca pleaded, playfully nudging his leg under the table. “You’re too bad at it. No way,” he teased. “Come on, are we best buds or what? Help a girl out!” As she spoke, she slid her chair closer, brushing her thigh flush against his. In her excitement, her loose-fitting pajama top shifted, revealing far too much skin. My mind went blank. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Darren’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he subtly shifted his chair an inch away. A wave of pure nausea hit my throat. My fork clattered against the plate. I turned to look directly at Rebecca, who was still practically draped over my boyfriend. “Did I fail to mention that we are no longer friends?” She froze, her playful expression cracking into embarrassment. She clearly hadn’t expected me to call her out so bluntly. Darren frowned, looking between us. “You guys had a fight? When?” I looked at him, delivering each word with deliberate precision. “Four days ago. When she insisted on tagging along to visit you, and I said no.” She had been so resentful of that boundary that she had flown out to see him ahead of me, just to prove she could. “Just because of that?” Darren asked, that familiar, incredulous look returning to his face. It wasn’t just that, of course. For the past year, Rebecca had systematically sabotaged our time together. Every time I planned a trip to see Darren, she would suddenly cling to me, begging me to go on a trip with her or claiming she was too sick to be left alone. When Darren and I bought couple’s rings, she went out and bought a nearly identical band to wear on her own finger. I wasn’t blind. I had cut ties with her as gracefully as I could. But I never imagined someone could be this utterly shameless. Rebecca slowly rose from her chair, her eyes welling with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I’ll leave.” With a loud crash, Darren stood up so abruptly that his chair tipped backward. He stepped directly in front of her, shielding her. “If you’re kicking her out, then I’m leaving too,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Then leave,” I replied instantly. My face was a mask of cold, unbothered calm. For a split second, Darren’s mind seemed to go completely blank. In all our years together, I had never once told him to leave. Even when we fought, I was always the one to apologize first, the one to smooth things over. But I was so, so tired. Darren didn’t move. He stood there, jaw clenched tight, glaring at me with stubborn disbelief. Rebecca let out a dramatic sniffle, grabbed his hand, and began tugging him toward the door. “Come on, Darren, let’s go. How can she treat us like this?” “If you let her walk all over you like this, she’ll only treat you worse next time!” Ultimately, he let her pull him out the door. The moment the door clicked shut, a profound sense of relief washed over me. I stood up, picked up my plate, and scraped the runny egg directly into the trash. Then, I walked into my bedroom and began packing my bags. As I was winding down for bed that evening, my friend Grace sent me a flurry of messages. “Oh my god, Hazel, you will not believe what I just saw!” She attached a video. It was Darren and Rebecca, walking through a high-end shopping district in downtown Boston. Rebecca’s arm was hooked tightly through his, her body pressed flush against his side. They looked like any other young couple in the honeymoon phase of a relationship. Maybe they had been doing this long before I ever found out. Grace was absolutely livid. “They are utterly shameless! They’re basically cheating on you in broad daylight! After everything you’ve done for both of them, I cannot let this slide.” A warning bell went off in my head, and I started typing a reply to stop her. But before I could hit send, my phone screen flashed with a FaceTime call from Grace. I answered, only to find her marching right up to them like a furious lioness. She pointed her camera directly at them and let loose. “You two are absolutely pathetic! Darren, how can you look yourself in the mirror after what you’ve done to Hazel?” “When you were a broke college student who couldn’t even afford groceries, who was the one saving her own allowance to feed you?” “And you, Rebecca! You snake. Hazel literally got you your job. You wouldn’t even have a foot in the door at that firm if it weren’t for her!” Rebecca’s face hardened. She showed no remorse. “Did I force her to help me?” she sneered. “Enough! Both of you, shut up!” Darren suddenly roared, stepping between them. He looked directly into the camera lens, his expression remarkably composed. “Hazel, we need to talk. You’re completely misunderstanding this.” “I’ll come over tomorrow morning and explain everything.” Grace yelled one last insult at him and slammed her thumb on the end-call button. I let out a long sigh, spent some time calming Grace down over the phone, and then lay down to sleep. I had a long flight to France the next day. I woke up at nine the next morning. I had a quiet breakfast and waited for Darren to show up and “explain everything.” But by eleven, he still hadn’t arrived. I felt no anger, no disappointment. Just a vast, empty space where my feelings used to be. I grabbed my suitcase and locked the apartment door behind me. My phone rang. It was Darren, his voice frantic and out of breath. “Hazel, I’ll have to come by this afternoon. Rebecca suddenly got food poisoning, and I have to rush her to the ER.” “Okay,” I said. Perhaps because he had broken his word so many times before, he paused, a rare note of genuine apology creeping into his tone. “Just wait for me, okay? I’ll make it up to you.” I didn’t answer. I hung up the phone. Then, I systematically blocked and deleted his contact info from every app and social platform. After a long, dreamless sleep on the flight, I finally landed in France. As I walked out of the airport terminal with my luggage, my phone rang. It was my landlady back in Boston. Her voice sounded tense, almost panicked. “Hazel, there’s a young man standing outside your old apartment door. He’s been there for hours and refuses to leave. Should I call the police?” “Yes,” I replied calmly, flagging down a taxi. “Go ahead.” Apparently, Darren had been waiting long enough to hear the exchange. The moment he realized who my landlady was talking to, he desperately snatched the phone from her hand.

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My husband had just returned from a business trip to a high-risk tropical disease zone in South America and was required to undergo a mandatory seven-day isolation. I spent the night packing his fresh clothes and drove them over to his designated quarantine hotel. The receptionist checked the registration list three times, then looked up at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s no Dave Foster on our list. He never checked in for quarantine.” I froze, my finger hovering over his contact name to call him— Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a black Porsche pull up outside the luxury boutique hotel directly across the street. Dave stepped out of the driver’s seat, walked around to the passenger side, and helped a young woman out. He immediately leaned down and kissed her. She laughed, feebly pushing his chest, but he only pulled her tighter, deepening the kiss. That girl was Amber. The rose Dave had raised himself. The girl he had personally sent across the ocean three years ago, swearing he would never see her again. I stood frozen on the sidewalk, my hands and feet turning to ice. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from Dave—a photo of a pristine, king-sized hotel bed. The caption read: Waiting to come home to you, baby. Home? What home did we even have left? 1. I crossed the street and walked into the lobby of that boutique hotel. It was empty. I approached the front desk and asked the clerk, “The couple who just walked in—which room are they in?” The young woman behind the desk gave me a guarded look. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We can’t disclose guest information.” I didn’t push. I walked over to the lounge area, sat down, and texted Dave’s assistant, Ryan. Is Dave back in the country? Did he skip the quarantine protocol? The reply came almost instantly. Hey Nicola, Dave didn’t go abroad this time. He’s been in town all week. My chest tightened, a sharp burn rising to my eyes. I just saw him with Amber. The three dots appeared, disappeared, and then a wall of text popped up. Nicola, I’m so sorry. I’ve been holding this in for three years. Every time Dave went on those “international business trips,” he was flying out to see Amber. She flew back to the States a week ago. He’s been with her ever since. He made up the whole mandatory tropical disease quarantine story just to buy himself seven uninterrupted days with her… My fingers shook so violently I could barely hold the phone. So that was the truth. Every single month for the last three years, those non-negotiable business trips were nothing but transatlantic flights to hold Amber in his arms. Nicola, I’m so incredibly sorry. You two seemed so happy, I kept hoping he’d eventually grow up and let her go. Let her go. I stared at the screen, my mind flashing back to three years ago. Dave waking up in the hospital bed, his wrist wrapped in heavy gauze, his eyes bloodshot as he gripped my hand: “Nicola, she means nothing to me. I’ll send her away. I’ll never see her again. Just please, believe me.” I locked my phone. The quiet lobby felt deafening, the silence punctuated only by the slow, shattering crack of my own heart. The elevator doors slid open. Dave emerged, his arm draped snugly around Amber’s waist as they walked toward the lobby’s sundries shop. I instinctively pulled the brim of my baseball cap lower and adjusted my face mask. Amber pouted, tapping a playful fist against his chest. “This is your fault for being so impatient. We were completely undressed before you realized we were out of protection. I told you it was fine, but you insisted on coming down to buy some.” Dave let out a low chuckle, pulling her tighter against him and kissing the crown of her head. His voice was thick, husky, but laced with fierce protection. “Absolutely not. I’m not risking you getting pregnant. You are not going through that kind of pain.” I stood frozen, paralyzed by a sudden, jarring memory. Our first time, three years ago. We weren’t married yet, lying in the dark of his apartment. I had pressed my hands against his chest, terrified. “No, wait. We don’t have anything. What if I get pregnant?” His breath had been hot, his eyes bright in the dim light. He had kissed me, murmuring against my lips: “Then we’ll have a baby. What’s there to fear? I’ll marry you. I’ll take care of you forever.” Back then, “we’ll have a baby” was a reckless compromise. Today, “I’m not risking it” was true, tender devotion. Amber giggled, tracing lazy circles on his chest. “Doesn’t your wife miss you? She’s not calling to check on you during your ‘quarantine’?” Dave scoffed, a tone of smug indifference in his voice. “She believes whatever I tell her. Right now, she’s probably counting down the days until my isolation ends.” Amber looked up at him, her eyes bright with admiration and triumph. “You’re terrible, Davie. You have her wrapped around your finger.” Dave stopped, gently pinching Amber’s chin. “Let her run circles. I’m never sending you away again.” He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers. “These past three years… I’ve had enough of the distance.” I stood there like a statue. Behind my mask, hot tears streamed down my face, soaking the fabric. They grabbed their items and walked back, passing right beside me. The sweet, cloying scent of her perfume drifted past. Dave’s arm remained locked around her waist as they stepped back into the elevator. The doors slid shut. Slowly, my knees gave out. I sank to the floor, burying my face in my lap. My phone screen lit up. A new text from Dave: The hotel Wi-Fi is terrible here. I’ll call you later. Go to bed early. Love you. I stared at the words, and a dry, hollow laugh escaped my throat. A warm tear splattered onto the glass, blurring the lying word love. 2. By the time I got back to the apartment, it was past midnight. I sat on the living room sofa, staring at our massive wedding portrait on the wall. Dave was holding me, his eyes crinkling with a brilliant, joyful smile. The photographer had gushed, “The way the groom looks at his bride is just pure magic.” I stood up and walked into the bedroom. I began tearing through the drawers, searching for our marriage certificate. I wanted a divorce. Now. Instead of the certificate, my hand brushed against a velvet box hidden deep in the back of the closet. Prompted by some morbid curiosity, I pulled it out and opened it. Inside was a thick stack of photographs. Every single one was of Amber. She was seventeen or eighteen in the top ones, wearing a simple white sundress, looking back over her shoulder and laughing in the sunlight, her eyes bright and untamed. On the back of one, Dave’s sharp, confident handwriting read: My little rose. Fifteen. The next was Amber at twenty, standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss to Dave’s cheek. Dave was looking directly at the camera, his expression soft with a profound, indulgent tenderness I had never seen on him before. Picture after picture, documenting her journey from a girl to a woman. At the very bottom of the box lay a folded piece of a bedsheet. On it was a dark, dried rust-colored stain. I stared at the spot, my mind going completely blank as a sickening realization washed over me. It didn’t take a genius to know what it was. The memory of that night three years ago surged back with terrifying clarity. When Dave and I were first dating, he introduced me to Amber, calling her his ward—a girl he’d taken in at fifteen and raised like a daughter until she was twenty-two. Amber had been perfectly polite, smiling sweetly and calling me “Nicola.” But her eyes never left him. They clung to him with an intensity that made my skin crawl. A few months later, I received a video call from her. I answered, only to see a rumpled bed. Dave was lying there, eyes closed, his face flushed. Amber’s voice drifted through the speaker: “Take a good look, Nicola.” Then, she climbed into the frame, her fingers slowly unbuttoning his shirt. I had driven there like a madwoman. By the time I kicked the hotel door open, it was over. Amber was wrapped in the sheets, her bare shoulders marked with fresh red scratches. She tilted her head and smiled at me with an innocent, vicious malice. “You’re late, Nicola. Dave was… incredible.” When Dave finally woke up and saw me standing amid the wreckage, his face drained of color. He rambled incoherently, sobbing that she had drugged him, that he didn’t remember a thing. I demanded a breakup on the spot, cold and uncompromising. He fell to his knees, begging through tears, but I refused to listen. In a desperate panic, he ran out of the building and straight into oncoming traffic. The screech of tires was deafening. He ended up thrown several yards away, blood pooling around his broken body. Three fractured ribs. In the ICU, barely breathing, he grasped my hand. “Nicola… don’t leave… I can’t live without you…” He promised he would send Amber away, exile her to a university across the globe, and never speak to her again. My heart softened. I forgave him. “Ugh…” A sudden wave of nausea hit me. I bolted to the bathroom, clutching the toilet bowl, dry-heaving until my throat burned with stomach acid. Tears streamed down my face. I felt dirty. Visceral disgust clawed at my insides. I grabbed my phone, found Dave’s number, and dialed. “Hello?” a soft, breathless voice answered, heavy with post-coital satisfaction. It was Amber. In the background, a man’s low, impatient voice grumbled, “Who is it?” Amber giggled, her voice dripping with sweet affection. “I don’t know, just some spam caller… Mm, stop it, Davie, be gentle…” The call cut out. I stood there holding the silent phone, my body shaking uncontrollably. Large, heavy tears splashed onto the screen. I slid down the cold tile wall and curled into a tight ball, holding myself, but I couldn’t find a single ounce of warmth. 3. I spent the next few days packing my things in a numb haze. I didn’t know what day it was, nor did I care what I was eating. Dave’s texts kept coming. Almost done with quarantine. I miss you so much. Bringing home a surprise for you. Just hang in there for two more days, baby. I didn’t reply to a single one. He didn’t suspect a thing. To him, I was the naive, trusting wife who believed every lie he spun. On the fifth day, I went downstairs to take out the trash. As I reached the bin, my vision suddenly went black. When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed under harsh fluorescent lights, surrounded by the sharp scent of antiseptic. A nurse was writing on a clipboard nearby. She looked up. “You’re awake. Your blood sugar crashed and you fainted on the sidewalk. A passerby called 911.” I nodded weakly, trying to sit up. She patted my arm gently. “Lie back down. You’re pregnant, about five weeks along. The baby is holding on strong, but you need to rest and focus on your nutrition.” I froze, my hand instinctively dropping to my flat stomach. A baby? Now? Just as I had resolved to divorce him, just as I discovered three years of systemic betrayal, when my soul was entirely hollow? The nurse stepped out. I stared at the ceiling, my thoughts racing. What was I supposed to do with this child? I was still getting a divorce. The baby would be mine and mine alone. As I struggled to process the news, a sudden commotion erupted just outside my curtained partition. Urgently rushing footsteps neared. “Doctor! Doctor, please, you have to look at her!” My entire body went rigid. It was Dave’s voice. A gurney was wheeled into the neighboring bay. A woman’s whimpering voice followed. “It hurts… Davie, it hurts so bad…” “Don’t worry, Amber. I’m right here. The doctor is coming.” I had never heard Dave sound so frantic, so consumed with worry. I instinctively pulled my privacy curtain tighter, making sure there was no gap. “What’s the emergency?” the doctor asked. Dave hesitated, his voice dropping. “Doctor, she… she has an object stuck. It won’t come out.” “What kind of object?” “…A ring.” A heavy silence hung in the air for a few seconds. When the doctor spoke, his tone was icy. “A wedding ring?” “…Yes.” The doctor let out a sharp, frustrated sigh. “This is absurd. Absolutely ridiculous.” Rustling sounds drifted through the thin fabric. Amber whimpered, “It hurts… this is all your fault…” Dave coaxed her gently, “I know, I know. My fault. Just hang on, it’ll be over in a second.” I lay there, paralyzed. That wedding band—I had spent three months designing it and another three months supervising its production. The day Dave slipped it on, he had stared at his hand for hours and whispered, “I’m wearing this for the rest of my life. I’d lose my own hand before I lose this ring.” Now, it was lodged inside another woman. About fifteen minutes later, I heard the doctor sigh with relief. “All right, it’s out. You young people need to learn some boundaries.” “Yes, yes, thank you, Doctor. We’ll be careful,” Dave apologized repeatedly. The medical staff’s footsteps receded. Then, a sharp clink echoed as something metallic was tossed into a stainless-steel trash bin. “You don’t want the ring?” Dave asked. “It’s dirty,” Amber muttered. “Why would I want to keep it?” Dave paused for a beat. “Alright. Forget it then.” I closed my eyes. Three months of design. Three months of waiting. The ring he swore to wear forever. Tossed out like garbage. Amber murmured, “How are you going to explain this to your wife?” Dave let out a soft shrug of a laugh. “Explain what? It’s just a piece of metal. I’ll buy a replacement later.” He paused, his voice softening into a teasing tone. “Actually, I’ll buy you one, too.” The space next door fell silent for a moment before Amber giggled. “You’re terrible.” I stared at the ceiling, tears slipping silently from my eyes into my hair. Reaching down, I slowly pulled the wedding band off my left ring finger, leaving a pale, empty band of skin behind. I unlocked my phone, opened Facebook Marketplace, took a quick photo, and uploaded it. Title: Wedding Ring – Selling Cheap. Description: Ex-husband is dead to me. Selling the women’s band. The men’s band has already been thrown in the trash. Post. Outside my curtain, the footsteps faded away. Dave had escorted Amber out. I placed both hands over my stomach. Hang on, little one. Mama is taking you away from here. 4. The day I was discharged was the day Dave’s supposed quarantine ended. At eight in the morning, his text came through: Coming home today, baby. Wait for me. I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the text box. I typed, deleted, and typed again. Finally, I sent a brief reply: I’m pregnant. We need to talk. I sat on the living room sofa and waited. Dave didn’t reply. Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. I stood up and opened the door. It wasn’t Dave. It was Amber. “Long time no see, Nicola. Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Her voice was still sweet, but her eyes were venomous as she scanned me up and down. “What do you want?” I blocked the doorway. She smirked and pushed past me, brushing my shoulder as she walked into the living room. She sat on the sofa like she owned the place. “Oh, don’t be like that. You look pale, Nicola. Then again, who could sleep after discovering such filthy secrets? Oh, by the way—Dave’s assistant, Ryan? He’s on my payroll. How else do you think you found out the truth so easily?” I shut the door and stared at her coldly. “Get to the point. Why are you here?” Amber twirled a lock of her hair around her finger. “Just wanted to chat. Oh, and that text you sent him? I saw it while he was in the shower. I went ahead and deleted it for you.” She looked up, her smile sweet and malicious. “No need to thank me. It’s not like he cares about your pregnancy anyway.” My stomach dropped. I clenched my fists. “What is that supposed to mean?” Amber stood up and stepped closer. She was shorter than me, but she looked down on me as if I were nothing. “I’m here to tell you to get an abortion. His world revolves around me now. If you have this baby, it’ll distract him. I won’t let that happen.” I took a step back. “This is between me and Dave. It has nothing to do with you.” Amber let out a sharp laugh. “You poor, naive thing.” She leaned in, whispering in my ear. “There’s something I never told you about that night three years ago. I didn’t drug him. I took something myself to get in the mood. I told him that if he didn’t help me, I’d go find some random guy on the street, or maybe one of his business rivals. He got so angry—he grabbed me by the neck and asked if I was threatening him. And then… he helped me ‘cure’ my fever.” She stepped back, admiring the way the color drained from my face, her smile widening. My mind shattered. Three years of trust, three years of soft-hearted forgiveness, crumbled to dust in a single second. I was the fool. The entire marriage was an elaborate joke. I could hear my teeth chattering as I spoke. “Get out. Get out of my house!” Instead of leaving, Amber took another aggressive step forward, her eyes locking onto my stomach. “Dave is mine. You and your little parasite are just a distraction. You don’t deserve to carry his child. Get rid of it yourself, or do I need to do it for you?” I completely lost my mind. I lunged forward, shoving her away. “Get away from me! Get out!” She stumbled back, but recovered instantly. With a sudden, vicious surge of force, she lunged forward and shoved me back. I lost my balance entirely, falling backward. The small of my back slammed hard against the sharp corner of the coffee table. A white-hot, agonizing pain flared through my abdomen. I looked down. Blood was already blooming through my pants, trickling down my legs. Amber’s lips twitched into a cold smirk. She turned on her heel, opened the front door, and vanished into the hallway. I dragged myself across the floor, reaching for the phone that had fallen nearby. With trembling fingers, I dialed 911, but my finger slipped and hit Dave’s contact photo instead. The line rang. Just as my consciousness began to slip, his voice broke through, cheerful and warm. “Hey baby, I’m almost home. Did you miss me?” I forced the words out. “Dave… I was pregnant.” A brief pause on the line. Then, pure ecstasy. “Really?! Oh my god, Nicola, I’ll be right—” “Don’t bother,” I whispered, my voice flat and hollow. “The baby is gone. Amber pushed me.” Silence fell over the line. I took a shallow breath. “I want a divorce.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463664”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My wife makes twelve thousand dollars a month, but every single paycheck goes directly into the bank account of her male best friend, Justin. For six years, she hasn’t contributed a single dime to our household. The mortgage, the car payments, the groceries, the utilities—it all falls on my shoulders. I have been drowning in slow motion. Today, after the auto-draft for the mortgage cleared, I checked my banking app. Available balance: $14.27. My son’s tuition for his youth art academy is three weeks past due. The director called me again this afternoon, her voice tight with strained polite urgency. I’ve already exhausted every friend and relative I could borrow from. Backed into a corner with nowhere left to turn, I sat at the dinner table tonight and swallowed whatever pride I had left. “I can’t hold on anymore,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Could you just… could you put a thousand dollars toward the house every month? Just a thousand.” Ruth slammed her fork down against her plate. The ceramic clinked sharply, and her eyes flared with instant, practiced annoyance. “Why is it that every time you open your mouth, it’s about money?” “I’ve told you a million times,” she continued, her tone dripping with condescension. “Justin and Max are on their own. They have it hard. I remember a time when you weren’t this selfish.” She didn’t wait for a response. She just shoved her chair back, grabbed her coat, and slammed the front door behind her. I sat there in the heavy silence, staring at the meager plate of buttered noodles I had made for myself. And then, suddenly, I laughed. I laughed until my chest ached, until the hot tears spilled over my eyelashes and splashed into the cheap ceramic bowl. If she refused to carry the weight of a wife and a mother, then it was time to strip her of the titles. 1. The attorney slid the printed bank statements back across the mahogany desk. He gave me a look of profound, professional pity. “If your wife insists these were simply loans to a childhood friend, and they draw up a retroactive promissory note, a judge will likely view it as a standard, albeit reckless, personal debt.” “You wouldn’t just fail to recover the money, David. In a divorce, you wouldn’t walk away with much of the remaining estate either.” He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Unless… you have concrete, irrefutable proof of an affair. Or proof that she is legally presenting herself as his partner.” I shoved the stack of papers back into my worn canvas messenger bag. Stepping out of the law firm, the late autumn wind whipped across my face, stinging my cheeks. I pulled my faded, misshapen jacket tighter around my chest and unlocked my beat-up sedan to go pick up Toby from his art program. The moment I walked through the glass doors, the program director pulled me aside. She looked incredibly uncomfortable. “David, we’re going on a month behind on Toby’s tuition. When do you think you can settle the balance?” She sighed. “If it weren’t for the fact that he is genuinely gifted, we would have had to unenroll him weeks ago.” Heat rushed up my neck. I nodded rapidly, the shame tasting like pennies in my mouth. “I promise you, I will have it by Friday. Please, just give us a few more days.” Just then, Toby came running out of the studio, his oversized backpack bouncing against his shoulders. The zipper had broken three months ago. I couldn’t afford a new one, so I had rigged it shut with an old shoelace. It swayed pathetically with every step he took. But then he saw me. He held up a piece of thick watercolor paper, his eyes shining like bright, unblemished stars. “Dad! I got first place in the showcase again! Ms. Sarah gave me a gold sticker!” I looked at the painting. It was a little boy with a buzzcut, holding hands with his mom and dad under a big, warm yellow sun. My throat clamped shut. I reached out and ruffled his hair. “You’re amazing, buddy,” I managed to choke out. Back home, I made bacon and scrambled eggs. I scooped all the eggs into Toby’s bowl, leaving only the leftover butter to cover my bread. My phone buzzed on the counter. A notification from Instagram. Justin had just posted. It was a carousel of two photos. The first was a screenshot of a Venmo transfer. $12,000. The sender was Ruth. The second was a selfie of the three of them. Ruth sat in the middle of a plush leather booth, Justin and his son Max leaning into her shoulders from either side. The table before them was piled high with a towering seafood plateau—oysters, lobster tails, crab legs. The location tag was an upscale downtown steakhouse, three miles from our house. It was $150 a plate, minimum. My grip on my chopsticks tightened until my knuckles turned white. Last week, Toby had begged for a $10 rotisserie chicken from the grocery store. I had stood in the aisle doing mental math for five minutes before I finally, painfully, put it in the cart. She was treating another man and his child to a $500 dinner. That night, I sat in the dark living room, waiting. It wasn’t until 11:30 PM that the deadbolt finally clicked. Ruth walked in, smelling of expensive melted butter and some generic, musky cologne. She flinched when she saw me sitting there. “What are you doing sitting in the dark? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” I stood up and handed her the printed invoice from the art academy. “Toby’s art class is a month past due. The director said if we don’t pay this week, he’s out.” She glanced at the paper, her face immediately twisting into a scowl. “Those extracurriculars are a scam anyway. If he drops out, he drops out. It’s a waste of money.” I stared at her. I literally couldn’t comprehend the woman standing in front of me. “His teachers say he has a real gift. They don’t want to see him give it up. You’re his mother. How can you be so callous?” “Look, Justin is a single dad raising Max, and he’s trying to help pay for his sister’s wedding. He’s going through a really tough time right now. If you’re so dead-set on Toby taking finger-painting classes, go ask your parents for the money.” I stared at her familiar, beautiful face, suddenly realizing she was a complete stranger. And then, a hollow laugh escaped my chest. Three months ago, I had to have an emergency appendectomy. My mother took $15,000 out of her meager retirement savings to cover my deductible because Ruth claimed she was entirely broke. And now she had the audacity to tell me to beg my parents for more? “I had to borrow five hundred dollars from my mom last month just to pay the HOA fee,” I said, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “She’s been having chest pains lately, but she refuses to go to the doctor because she wants to save the money. I am not opening my mouth to ask her for another dime.” I took a step closer, the anger finally cracking through my composure. “And furthermore, what the hell does Justin’s sister’s wedding have to do with you? Are you her mother? Are you her sister?” “Justin and I have been friends for thirteen years! He is alone in the world and he’s struggling. What is so wrong with me helping him out?” she yelled back. “Can you stop being such a dramatic, irrational nightmare?” “Helping him out?” I grabbed the stack of bank statements from the table and slammed them against her chest. The papers fluttered to the hardwood floor like dead leaves. “Six years. Eight hundred thousand dollars. You gave him every cent you made. You call that helping him out?” “I have fourteen dollars in my checking account, Ruth! Do you expect me and Toby to eat the drywall?” “Why are you always obsessed with money?! You’re like a sick, greedy miser!” Ruth’s voice cracked into a shrill shriek. From down the hall, I heard a soft whimper. Toby had woken up. He was terrified. Ruth shot me a look of pure, venomous disgust, then turned and stormed into the guest bedroom. The door slammed so hard a picture frame rattled off the wall and shattered. I walked down the hall, picked Toby up from his bed, and held him tight to my chest, whispering that everything was okay. Deep in my chest, a taut, fraying string finally snapped. 2. I stared at my $14 bank balance, then turned and walked into the home office. From the top shelf of the glass display case, I pulled down Ruth’s most prized possession—a vintage, mint-condition designer vinyl figure. She dusted it weekly. She never let me or Toby touch it. She always said it represented her “youth.” I snapped four well-lit photos and listed it on eBay with a Buy-It-Now price of $1,000. It sold in twenty minutes. The moment the funds cleared, I paid the art academy director. When Ruth noticed the empty spot in the display case the next evening, she lost her mind. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “Where is it? What did you do with my collectible?!” I peeled her fingers off my arm, my voice eerily calm. “I sold it. I needed the money to pay for Toby’s art class.” “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” She raised her hand, fully intending to slap me across the face. I didn’t flinch. I tilted my chin up and stepped into her space. “Do it, Ruth. Either you hit me right now, or starting tomorrow, you deposit a thousand dollars into the joint account every month.” “Because if you don’t, I will rent out this house, and I will take Toby and set up a tent in the lobby of your corporate office. I will let your entire division see how the brilliant, highly-paid project manager starves her own husband and child so she can bankroll another man’s life.” Her hand froze in mid-air. Her face flushed a deep, ugly mottled purple. “You have absolutely no shame.” “Shame?” I scoffed. “My son and I are barely surviving. You think I care about shame?” She couldn’t find the words. She stood there, chest heaving, breathing heavily through her nose. Ten minutes later, my phone pinged. A Venmo transfer. $1,000. The note just said: Household. I looked at the screen, and to my own surprise, a single tear tracked down my cheek. Seven years of being the understanding, supportive, self-sacrificing husband had earned me absolutely nothing. But the second I turned vicious and threatened her reputation? She paid up. I needed to gather evidence of her affair. But Ruth’s phone was practically glued to her hand. She took it into the shower; she slept with it under her pillow. I looked up private investigators online, but the cheapest retainers started at three grand. As I sat there agonizing over my phone, the doorbell rang. It was Justin. He was holding two bulk-store cartons of generic almond milk that were three days away from expiring. Meanwhile, he was draped in a tailored designer coat I had only ever dared to look at through department store windows. He carried a Louis Vuitton duffel bag over his shoulder, and the diamond-encrusted watch on his wrist caught the porch light, glaring in my eyes. I quietly slipped my hand into my pocket and hit record on my phone’s voice memo app. “Ruth’s at work,” I said flatly. “If you need her, call her.” “Actually, David, I came to see you.” He offered me a practiced, gentle smile and set the near-expired milk down by my feet. “You know the school’s Family Field Day is coming up,” he began, his tone dripping with fake sympathy. “Max just transferred to Toby’s school, and the other kids have been teasing him because he doesn’t have a mom. So, I wanted to ask a favor.” “I was hoping you’d be okay with Ruth teaming up with us for the events. Just to give the kid some moral support. Show the other parents he’s got a family.” I froze. Toby’s school was the most exclusive, high-ranking private elementary in the county. Getting him in had required my father calling in favors from three different board members, plus a massive waitlist effort. “Getting a transfer into that school mid-year is practically impossible,” I said, my voice tight. “You must have some serious connections to pull that off. If you’re that influential, asking a teacher to keep an eye on Max shouldn’t be hard.” Justin’s smile widened into a smirk. He looked incredibly smug. “Oh, I can’t take the credit for that. It was all Ruth. She loves my boy. She made a forty-thousand-dollar endowment donation to the school in Max’s name, and had a personal lunch with the headmaster.” Forty thousand dollars. My fingernails dug so hard into my palms they almost drew blood, but I couldn’t feel the pain. “Oh, and by the way,” Justin added casually, “Ruth just wired my sister thirty thousand for the down payment on her new house. She’s really strapped for cash right now. It’s not that she doesn’t want to help you with the groceries, David. Please, stop picking fights with her. It puts her in a really awkward position between us.” My entire body began to tremble. When I was lying on a hospital gurney, waiting for an emergency surgery, she told me her accounts were empty. But she could effortlessly drop forty grand to buy her lover’s kid into a private school, and hand over thirty grand for his sister’s real estate. “Get off my porch,” I whispered. I grabbed the two cartons of cheap milk and hurled them out onto the lawn. That night, the second Ruth walked through the door, she pointed a manicured finger directly at my face. “Are you out of your mind, David?! Justin comes over to check on you, brings you groceries, and you throw them at him?” “He called me crying for thirty minutes! Do you have nothing better to do than bully a single dad?” “Bully him?” I picked up my water glass, took a slow sip, and looked at her over the rim. “He came to my house with expired milk to gloat. He came to make sure I knew you dropped forty grand on his kid’s school and thirty grand on his sister’s house.” “He told me to stop picking fights with you. You call that checking on me?” Ruth’s face lost its color for a fraction of a second. “You’re making things up! Justin isn’t like that!” she deflected loudly. “You just hate him and you’re trying to twist his words.” “Twist his words?” I laughed out loud. I pulled out my phone and hit play. Justin’s smug, patronizing voice echoed crystal clear through the kitchen. Ruth’s face went from pale, to red, to a sickly shade of gray. She stood there suffocating on her own lies for a solid minute before finally bursting out: “You recorded him? What is wrong with you? Why are you so calculating and manipulative?!” “I’m manipulative?!” I slammed the phone down on the granite counter. “I was bleeding internally, waiting for fifteen grand in medical bills to be paid, and you told me you were broke! Then you spend seventy grand on his family. You’re damn right I’m keeping a record of this.” “You want to go play mommy at his Family Field Day? Fine. Go.” I turned on my heel, walked into the bedroom, and immediately emailed the audio file to my lawyer. If she attends this school function publicly acting as the mother of Justin’s child, can we use this? I typed. The lawyer replied within minutes: If she is continually presenting herself to the community, to schools, and to family as his partner while funneling marital assets to him, this escalates beyond simple adultery. This is fraudulent dissipation of marital assets and breach of fiduciary duty. If we prove this, we can claw back every single dollar she gave him, and she could face criminal fraud charges. I leaned back against the headboard, staring out at the pitch-black night beyond the window. And bit by bit, the last remnants of warmth in my eyes turned to ice. 3. On the day of the school event, I walked onto the sprawling green athletic field holding Toby’s hand. It took exactly three seconds to spot Ruth in the crowd. She and Justin were wearing matching custom-printed white t-shirts that read “Super Parents” across the chest. Max was sitting on Ruth’s shoulders, waving a little pennant, while the three of them huddled together over the schedule of events, laughing. My fingers paused for a beat before I pulled out my phone and recorded a long, clear video of their perfect little family portrait. Toby’s lower lip trembled, but he didn’t cry. He just squeezed my hand. His little fingers gripped the fabric of my jacket so hard it pulled against my skin. Soon, the announcer called for the family tug-of-war. The rules were simple: a three-person family team. Pull the opposing team across the line to grab the stuffed mascot in the center. By sheer, cruel coincidence, Ruth’s team was matched against ours. She stood at the very back of their rope, her face flushed red with exertion as she dug her designer sneakers into the turf. With two massive heaves, she pulled our side completely off balance. The P.E. teacher on the microphone was practically shouting: “Look at Max’s mom go! What a powerhouse!” On the third shout of “Max’s mom,” Ruth looked up. She saw Toby standing on the other side of the rope, his eyes red and brimming with unshed tears, staring right at her. She froze for a microsecond. But she didn’t let go of the rope. Instead, she yanked backward with all her might, snatching the stuffed mascot. Justin picked Max up, cheering loudly. He intentionally looked over his shoulder at me, holding up the first-place ribbon with a massive, triumphant grin. After the event, I took Toby to get his participation ribbon. I quietly asked the school videographer if I could get a copy of the raw footage from the tug-of-war, citing a “family scrapbook.” Ruth walked over to us near the bleachers. She squatted down in front of Toby and reached out to touch his hair. Toby flinched and took a step back, hiding behind my leg. Her hand hung awkwardly in the air. She offered a strained, guilty explanation: “Max doesn’t have a mom, and the kids were being mean to him. I was just doing a favor for a friend, Toby. Don’t overthink it.” Toby didn’t say a word. He just stared down at the grass, picking nervously at his fingernails, his eyes rimmed in furious red. Ruth was quiet for a moment before forcing a bright smile. “Wednesday is your birthday, right? Mom’s going to spend the whole evening with you. Okay?” “I’ll buy you the biggest strawberry cake in the bakery.” Toby’s head snapped up. The light instantly returned to his eyes, shining with desperate, fragile hope. He nodded frantically. “Really? You promise? No tricking?” “No tricking,” Ruth smiled softly, hooking her pinky finger with his. I rested my hand on Toby’s head, my mouth set in a grim, straight line. I didn’t say a word. It had been seven years. She had never once kept a promise to me. I had zero hope she would keep this one. That night, I sent the videos to my lawyer. He replied: This is excellent for showing intent, but to win a massive civil fraud case and prompt criminal charges, we need a paper trail of her presenting herself as his legal spouse in a financial or contractual setting. I typed back: Don’t worry. I’ll get it. On the morning of Toby’s birthday, I woke up to a text from Ruth: I ordered the cake. Pick it up from the bakery on 4th. I’ll be home right after work. I looked at the glowing screen. Despite everything, a tiny, foolish ember of hope ignited in my chest for my son’s sake. I picked up the cake. I spent three hours cooking all of Toby’s favorite foods. We waited from 6:00 PM until 9:00 PM. I reheated the food three times. There was no sign of Ruth. Toby rested his chin on the dining table, yawning widely, fighting to keep his eyes open. “Dad, maybe Mom just had to stay late for a meeting. Can we wait just a little bit longer?” My throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. I couldn’t speak. In the past, whenever I told him she was “working late,” it was a lie to protect him. Those so-called late nights were always spent at Justin’s house. My phone vibrated. My mother had sent me a transfer for $200. The note read: Buy my grandson something nice. I called her to thank her, and asked how her chest pains were. She laughed warmly through the receiver. “I’m fine, David. The doctor gave me some new medication. Stop worrying about me and go celebrate that boy’s birthday.” By 10:00 PM, I knelt beside Toby’s chair. “Buddy… I don’t think Mom is coming. Let’s eat, okay?” The light in his eyes finally extinguished. He gave a small, defeated nod. Just as his little fingers picked up his fork, the front door clicked open. Ruth stood in the doorway, out of breath and sweating. Toby immediately sprang out of his chair, his voice ringing with pure joy: “Mom! You finally came back!” In that split second, looking at her, I felt a tremor of doubt. Maybe I had been too cynical. Maybe she really had rushed home for him. But she didn’t even look at Toby. She walked straight past us, heading directly for Toby’s bedroom. “Where is that massive LEGO set I bought you?” she demanded, her tone clipped and frantic. That LEGO set was the one and only expensive gift Ruth had ever bought Toby in his entire life. Toby cherished it. He treated it like a museum piece, barely even letting himself play with it so he wouldn’t lose a piece. Toby realized what was happening. He ran over and grabbed her sleeve, the tears finally spilling over. “That’s mine!” “Stop making a scene, Toby. I’m just borrowing it for Max for a few days,” she snapped, forcefully yanking her arm away. The momentum threw Toby off balance. He slipped on the hardwood and hit the floor hard. He burst into loud, heartbroken sobs. “What the hell is wrong with you, Ruth?!” I rushed over and pulled Toby up. I rolled up his pant leg. His knee was scraped raw, small beads of blood forming on the skin. Ruth froze, looking slightly panicked. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, her phone rang. She answered it, her voice instantly melting into a puddle of sickening sweetness. “I know, honey, I found it. I’m heading back right now. Don’t cry, okay? I’m coming.” She grabbed the massive LEGO box and marched straight toward the front door, not offering a single word of apology to her bleeding son. Toby sat on the floor, his small shoulders shaking with sobs. He looked up at me, his face streaked with tears. “Dad… does Mom hate me? Am I not as good as Max?” I pulled him into my chest, my heart shredding into pieces. I stroked his back, my voice barely a whisper. “What kind of mom do you wish you had, Toby?” He sniffled, his voice muffled against my shirt. “I want a mom who eats cake with me. A mom who doesn’t steal my toys.” Such a profoundly simple baseline. And Ruth couldn’t even manage that. My eyes burned. I held him tighter, my voice quiet, but harder than steel. “What if Dad finds you a new mom who does exactly that? Would that be okay?” Toby stayed perfectly still for a long time. Finally, resting his chin on my shoulder, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. In that moment, the very last shred of my hesitation vanished forever. 4. A few days later, I was sitting at my laptop, organizing the digital files for the lawyer, when the front door opened. I checked the clock. It was only 5:30 PM. Ruth walked in carrying a bag of groceries. She looked at me and forced a stiff, unnatural smile. “I got off early. Figured I’d make dinner for us.” I raised an eyebrow but kept my mouth shut. In seven years of marriage, I could count the number of times she had cooked on one hand. Whenever she acted out of character, there was always a catch. Sure enough, halfway through dinner, she picked at her eggs, looked up, and cleared her throat. “David, do you have five hundred dollars in your account? I need you to transfer it to me.” I almost laughed. She was asking me for money? “What for?” I asked, picking up a piece of broccoli, keeping my tone dead neutral. “Mia’s engagement party is in a few days. I’m putting together a cash gift for the registry, and I’m five hundred short.” Mia. Justin’s sister. My grip on my fork tightened. She wasn’t gifting five hundred. She was short five hundred for whatever massive check she was planning to hand over. “How much are you giving her?” I asked, looking her dead in the eye. Her eyes darted away, evasive. “Not much. Don’t worry about it. Just send me the five hundred, and I’ll pay you back when my next paycheck clears.” I didn’t answer her. And I certainly didn’t send the money. When she finally gave up and stormed out of the house in a huff, I opened Instagram. Justin’s latest post was at the top of my feed. The location was tagged at the Ritz-Carlton downtown—the most expensive banquet hall in the city. The caption read: Sister’s engagement gala. Everything is ready. A cold, calculated thought formed in my mind. On the night of the engagement party, I dropped Toby off at my parents’ house and drove downtown. The entrance to the hotel ballroom was flanked by life-sized, professionally lit engagement photos of Mia and her fiancé. I pulled my baseball cap low, slipped on a black surgical mask, and blended in with the crowd of guests flowing into the ballroom. I found a dimly lit corner near the back and hit record on my phone. The MC, a charismatic guy with a booming voice, was commanding the room from the stage. “And a massive fifteen-thousand-dollar registry check from the groom’s side! Let’s hear it!” he shouted. “Where else are you going to find a sister-in-law this generous?” The room erupted into applause, and every head turned toward the front table. Ruth, wearing a stunning white silk dress, stood right next to Justin. She beamed, waving gracefully to the applauding crowd. Justin, wearing a brand-new Rolex that practically blinded the camera lens, stood beside her, soaking in the admiration and congratulations from his relatives. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely hold the phone steady. Forty thousand for the school. Thirty thousand for the house. Fifteen thousand for the wedding. Eighty-five thousand dollars. All of it pulled from our marital assets. My chest physically hurt. Just as I was about to stop recording, my phone buzzed with an incoming call. It was my dad. I answered it, and immediately heard the raw, panicked tremor in his voice. “David! Your mother just had a massive heart attack. We’re at the ER!” “The doctor said she needs three stents put in right now, but it’s out of network. The hospital administration wants a fifteen-thousand-dollar deposit before they’ll wheel her into the OR… David, do you have the money?” The world narrowed to a pinpoint. Fifteen thousand. I had exactly two thousand dollars to my name. I looked up toward the stage. Ruth was holding a flute of champagne, laughing, looking like the queen of the world. I knew with absolute certainty that if I walked up there and demanded the money, she would deny me. She would make a scene and refuse. But my mother was bleeding out on a hospital bed, waiting for money to save her life. I clenched my fists. I stood up from the shadows and began walking toward the brightly lit stage. I walked right up to Justin, and in front of a ballroom filled with two hundred people, I dropped hard to my knees. I let the sheer, primal terror I was feeling take over, my voice echoing loudly through the cavernous room: “Justin! My mother is dying of a heart attack in the hospital right now. We need fifteen thousand dollars to save her life.” “I am begging you, on my knees. Please… give me back my wife’s debit card.” The entire ballroom went dead, terrifyingly silent.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463663”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Three years after graduation, I received an exclusive invitation from the heads of New York’s five most powerful dynasties. I was supposed to board a flight to the Maldives to attend a joint birthday gala, where I would finally choose one of my five prospective fiancés. Instead, I boarded the wrong plane. The moment I stepped into the cabin, I realized it was filled entirely with my old college classmates. Sitting right in the center, nursing a glass of scotch, was Christian Blake—my boyfriend of three years during university. Clinging to his arm was Pamela Perry, the underclassman who used to trail behind him like a shadow back then. She leaned into his chest, her laugh dripping with performative sweetness. “See? I told you. If we posted about the trip in the alumni group, she’d see Christian’s name and come running.” Another classmate quickly chimed in, laughing. “Was playing his lovesick puppy for three years not enough for her? Too bad Christian is about to marry Pamela.” “Exactly! If it weren’t for Pamela, how else would any of us get to fly private to the Maldives for a high-society gala?” “Maeve got lucky. She actually gets to see how the other half lives because of us.” Every eye in the cabin pinned me down, filled with the same lazy assumption: I was here to beg for Christian’s attention. Again. Christian looked at me, a familiar flash of exhausted irritation crossing his handsome face. “I’ve spent the last three years avoiding you, Maeve. Haven’t you gotten the hint yet?” He sighed, his voice dropping into that familiar, condescending tone. “I’m getting married. My fiancée is the underclassman who chased me throughout college. She’s the heiress to the Perry dynasty. You don’t stand a chance anymore.” The Perry family of New York? I paused. If I remembered correctly, the very first bachelor on my matchmaking list—the one who had been sending me hand-written letters for months—was Charles Perry, the current patriarch of that exact family. 1 “I’m on the wrong plane,” I said, my voice flat as I stepped backward. The gala was scheduled to start in four hours. If I didn’t get off this aircraft immediately, I wouldn’t make it to my own introduction. I turned to the flight attendant to explain the situation, but she offered a tight, apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. The doors are already sealed, and we’ve been cleared for taxiing. We can’t reopen the cabin.” “But my actual flight is literally parked on the adjacent runway,” I pressed. “Can’t we coordinate a transfer?” A burst of mocking laughter erupted from the main cabin. “Oh, come on, Maeve! Stop acting. Just admit you wanted to stalk him. You’re here, so just own up to it.” “Seriously. Do you even know whose plane is parked next to us? Word on the street is that it belongs to New York’s most coveted bachelorette—a woman worth billions. That jet was custom-built for her. Did you really think you could pretend to be her?” “She probably wanted to make a grand entrance, but ended up looking like a total fraud, haha.” The whispers and snickers drifted over the leather seats. Before I could speak, Christian frowned, cutting off the noise with a sharp wave of his hand. “Enough.” He looked at me, his gaze heavy with pity. “Since you’re already here, just sit down. Stop making up excuses to save face. But let me make one thing absolutely clear: no matter how much you cling to me on this trip, we are never getting back together.” Pamela’s smile grew sharper, her eyes glittering with malice. “Exactly, Maeve. Is this your first time on a private jet? Do you even know how to find your seat? Stop standing there making a scene and sit down.” “Yeah! Our destination is the Maldives!” another classmate added eagerly. “Pamela is taking us to the joint engagement gala of the five great dynasties. It’s the event of the decade!” My hand, which had been reaching into my bag for my phone, froze. The joint engagement gala? If our destination was the exact same resort, there was no need to force a transfer. It would save me the hassle of rearranging my flight plan anyway. Besides, those five clingy bachelors had been calling me all night, complaining about how much they missed me. “It’s really no big deal,” Pamela boasted, sliding her hand down Christian’s arm and tilting her chin up at me. “Christian is going to be a Perry soon. Taking a few old classmates on a trip is the least I can do.” I didn’t even look at her. My phone was vibrating continuously in my palm. In our private group chat—playfully named The Five Knights Guarding the Rose—hundreds of messages and dozens of missed calls were piling up. They were all asking why I hadn’t boarded my flight yet. I stood up and walked toward the quieter second-class cabin to take the call. The moment I pressed accept, the frantic voice of Charles Perry filled the receiver. “Maeve? What happened? Are you okay? Where are you? Tell me you’re safe.” “We’ve been worried sick,” another voice joined in—it was Oliver, the Oscar-winning actor who usually possessed absolute poise but now sounded entirely unraveled. “I’m ready to order a search-and-rescue team. Just give us the word.” “I’m fine, boys,” I said, a soft smile tugging at my lips as I pacified my five clingy suitors. “I ran into a minor scheduling mix-up, but I’m on my way. I’ll arrive on time.” “If anything goes wrong, you tell me immediately,” Charles insisted, his tone protective. “I promise.” I hung up and walked back into the main cabin. They had started playing Truth or Dare, and the empty champagne bottle had just stopped spinning, pointing directly at Pamela. “Truth,” she declared, blushing prettily as she leaned her head against Christian’s shoulder. 2 In truth, my breakup with Christian hadn’t been clean. We had both been scholarship students at Hudson University, but where I was just a quiet, average girl who kept her head down in her books, Christian was the campus’s untouchable golden boy. Everyone praised his work ethic and intelligence. He spent every waking hour either working part-time jobs or studying in the library. I genuinely believed we were cut from the same cloth. When we worked together as servers at a local diner, he had to call out one day because of a severe stomach ulcer. I pulled a double shift to cover for him so he wouldn’t lose his job. The next afternoon, he was waiting outside my dorm building. He handed me a bag of warm blueberry muffins from the corner bakery. “Thank you,” he had said, his voice quiet. He was incredibly handsome, and under the romantic, naive haze of college life, it didn’t take long for me to fall for him. I handed out flyers with him in the freezing rain. I took on extra tutoring gigs to help him pay his rent. Once, when he caught a terrible flu, I skipped the most important lecture of the semester—held by the department’s strictest professor—just to stay by his bedside and nurse him. I ended up on academic probation for it. That was how I became known across campus as Christian Blake’s pathetic, lovesick shadow. But I hadn’t cared. In my mind, Christian loved me too. He would wait for me outside my classrooms, and whenever I had cramps, he would brew herbal tea and bring it to my desk. On Valentine’s Day of our freshman year, I gathered the courage to confess my feelings, fully prepared for rejection. Instead, he accepted. “Maeve,” he had said, looking into my eyes, “you’re different from the others. You actually care about me. You choose me over everything else. If you like me, then I like you too.” That day was probably the happiest day of my early twenties. And afterward? I cut the memory short. The raucous cheering of our old classmates dragged me back to the present. “Pamela, tell us! When did you and Christian officially start dating?” Pamela shot a quick, performative glance in my direction, pretending to blush. “Oh, stop it, guys! Maeve is right here. You’re being so inappropriate…” “Oh, please. They broke up years ago,” a girl sitting nearby scoffed. “Maeve, you wouldn’t mind, right?” I shook my head, my expression entirely vacant. “Not at all.” The cabin went momentarily silent. “Really? You don’t mind?” “No,” I replied, meeting Christian’s eyes. “Why would I? We’re just old classmates.” The moment the words left my mouth, Christian’s face darkened. It was the exact phrase he had used during our very first fight about Pamela back in college. “Then tell us, Pamela! When did it start?” “Junior year,” Pamela said softly. “Right around graduation prep.” Junior year. That was well before we broke up, back when Christian and I were supposedly still trying to make things work. Someone in the back raised a hand, a smirk playing on their lips. “Wait, but wasn’t there a photo leaked sophomore year of you two having a romantic dinner at that upscale bistro?” Pamela’s blush deepened. “Oh, well… he was actually pursuing me back then.” A collective murmur ran through the cabin. “If I remember correctly,” one of the guys whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, “wasn’t Maeve still dating him sophomore year?” A barrage of pitying, contemptuous stares landed on me. I remained silent, but Christian finally intervened, his voice tight. “Alright, that’s enough. Next question.” The bottle spun again. This time, it slowed down and pointed directly at me. “Truth,” I said. “Since graduation, have you had a boyfriend?” I shook my head. “No.” “See? I told you!” a classmate whispered gleefully to her friend. “She’s still single, probably holding onto some delusional hope of getting back with Christian.” I paused, letting the silence stretch for a beat, before adding calmly, “But I do have a fiancé.” 3 “A fiancé? Please,” a voice sneered from the corner. “You vanished right after graduation. And looking at how plain you dress, who would honestly want you?” I glanced down at my outfit. It was a custom-designed piece made by a world-renowned master couturier, commissioned privately by Charles Perry. If they knew the single jacket I was wearing cost upwards of a hundred thousand dollars, would they still call it plain? I chose not to correct them. We were no longer living in the same stratosphere. Excusing myself on the pretext of feeling a bit airsick, I left the game and walked toward the window at the back of the cabin to look out at the clouds. Before my seat could even cool down, Pamela followed me. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” she whispered, her voice laced with venom. “What?” I asked, not bothering to turn around. “Christian was mine as early as sophomore year,” she whispered, stepping closer. “He told me you were like cheap clay—coarse, unrefined, and completely devoid of ambition. He said you were a drag on his future. He chose me because I could actually give him a leg up in life.” She leaned in, her eyes wild with a strange, possessive fury. “Why are you so pathetic, Maeve? How dare you show up in front of him again?” I knew exactly what Christian’s ambitions were. A man who had fought his way up from the very bottom was never going to settle for an ordinary girl. That was why, when I caught them together during our junior year, I hadn’t even been surprised. And when he finally initiated the breakup, I hadn’t begged. Everyone assumed I was biding my time, waiting to crawl back to him like a kicked dog. But instead, I had simply vanished for three years. Looking at Pamela’s tense, defensive posture, I realized her anger didn’t stem from superiority. She was furious because Christian had intervened twice to stop the class from mocking me. She was taking her insecurity out on me. “What are you so afraid of?” I asked, turning to face her calmly. “Are you afraid he’ll leave you for me?” “In your dreams!” “Then why are you standing here talking to me?” Pamela gritted her teeth. “I’m warning you, Maeve. Stay away from him.” I took a step forward, forcing her back slightly. “You sent the invitation to the alumni group, not me. I haven’t said a single word to him since I boarded this plane. And as I said, I have a fiancé.” I paused, letting a small smile play on my lips. “In fact, he’s someone you might actually know.” Pamela’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What kind of garbage are you spewing? Don’t think I don’t see through you. You fabricated a fiancé just to save face in front of Christian.” “Whether it’s a lie or not, you’ll find out once we land in the Maldives.” I walked past her, intending to head back to my lounge chair. But Pamela, consumed by frustration, lunged forward and grabbed my arm. “Stop acting so high and mighty with me! You think you can just—ah!” Her five-inch stilettos caught on the plush carpet, and she lost her footing, tumbling forward. I reacted instantly, stepping aside to avoid the collision. The heavy thud of her fall echoed through the cabin, drawing the attention of the entire first-class section. Christian was the first to rush in. He immediately gathered Pamela in his arms, turning a furious, accusatory gaze on me. “Even if you’re bitter, Maeve, you shouldn’t have pushed her!” “Christian, it hurts…” Pamela sobbed, clutching her ankle. “Do you honestly think pulling a stunt like this will make me regret my choices?” Christian hissed, his eyes burning with disgust. “It only makes me loathe you more.” I didn’t say a word. The scene felt like a cheap rerun. Years ago, when I first confronted him about Pamela’s constant interference in our relationship, he had shielded her in the exact same way. “Pamela is just an underclassman, Maeve. You don’t need to let your jealousy warp your perception of her.” Jealousy? And yet, here they were, engaged. “I didn’t push her,” I said, my voice entirely devoid of emotion. “There was no one else back here besides the two of you!” Christian yelled. I looked at him, completely detached. “Strictly speaking, I have absolutely no reason to hurt her. After all, she’s about to become my family.” Christian’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?” “Her older brother is my fiancé.” Pamela immediately shrieked from his arms, “My brother? That’s impossible! Maeve, stop lying through your teeth!” “Exactly,” a classmate added, peering over Christian’s shoulder. “The Perry family is elite royalty. They wouldn’t even let someone like you clean their floors, let alone marry into their line.” “If you don’t believe me,” I said calmly, “feel free to look up the financial news.” Christian’s jaw clenched. “Fine. You want to play this out? Search it. Let’s see how you explain yourself when the truth comes out.” Someone in the cabin immediately pulled out their phone and typed into the search bar. But as the page loaded, the classmate’s face went entirely pale. “Christian…” the classmate stammered, their voice trembling. “The woman the Perry heir has been publicly courting for the last five years… it really looks like Maeve.” 4 Christian’s brow furrowed deep as he snatched the phone from the classmate’s hand. On the screen was a high-resolution press photo from a charity gala. It depicted five exceptionally powerful men surrounding a single woman like a queen. She wore a diamond tiara and an exquisite couture gown. But what arrested his attention was her face—specifically, the tiny, distinct beauty mark just beneath her left eye. It was identical to mine. “This can’t be real,” Christian whispered, his grip tightening on the phone. Pamela let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “I’ve never once heard my brother mention having a fiancée. Maeve, you want to climb the social ladder so badly that you’ve resorted to Photoshop? You should look in a mirror before trying to pass yourself off as an heiress.” My connection to the five dynasties was indeed kept out of the mainstream tabloids. Given my professional standing, my privacy was heavily protected. “Maeve, there’s no need to carry on with this farce,” Christian said, looking at me with a trace of the condescending pity he used to show during our final months together. “Playing hard to get like this isn’t going to work on me anymore.” It reminded me of the first time he stopped replying to my messages during our senior year. After twenty-four hours of silence, I had desperately posted a photo with a male classmate on my social media, hoping to elicit some reaction. Christian had replied instantly, but his words were cold: “You’re disgusting. If you’re going to run around with other guys, we’re done.” I had spent days begging for his forgiveness, explaining that it was a stupid, childish attempt to get his attention. He clearly thought this was the exact same trick. “Forget it, Christian,” Pamela said, brushing her knees off as she stood up. “It’s only natural she can’t let you go. After all, a woman like her doesn’t have many options left.” She shot me a dismissive look. “You should be thanking me, Maeve. The Maldives isn’t the kind of place a commoner like you could ever afford on her own.” Once they walked away, I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Charles Perry. Do you have a stepsister? His reply was almost instantaneous. Yes, my stepmother’s daughter. She’s incredibly entitled. I heard she was flying out to the Maldives today with her fiancé. Why do you ask, Maeve? What if I told you her fiancé is my ex-boyfriend? The chat went silent for a long moment. Then, Charles sent a screenshot of an email he had just forwarded to his father, demanding that Pamela and her mother be stripped of their trust fund access and cut off from the Perry name. Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone disrespect you. I didn’t reply. To Pamela and the others, I was nothing more than an ambitious girl trying to claw her way up. They had no idea that after graduation, I had established myself as a legendary wealth manager. Every portfolio that passed through my hands yielded exponential returns within months. That was the real reason the five dynasties were competing for my hand. As for Christian? The moment he chose Pamela, he ceased to exist to me. A good horse doesn’t return to a broken stable. When the plane finally touched down, the private runway was lined with a fleet of pristine, high-end town cars, surrounded by security personnel bearing the crests of the five dynasties. My classmates gasped as they looked out the windows. “This is insane… Who is this woman? She must have hit the jackpot to have all five families waiting for her.” “Look at those custom Rolls-Royces. They cost millions.” “Her personal net worth is actually higher than all five families combined,” I murmured, staring out the window. Several heads snapped toward me. Christian’s jaw tightened. “Maeve, what absolute nonsense are you spouting now?” “I’m telling you the truth. Her dowry alone is worth billions.” A classmate scoffed loudly. “Have you ever even seen a billion dollars? Did you spend the last three years washing dishes in some diner? Any single car out there is worth more than you’ll earn in three lifetimes.” Pamela took Christian’s hand, offering me a sweet, patronizing smile. “Guys, don’t tease Maeve. People can’t choose their birth. Not everyone is as blessed as I am to be born into a family like the Perrys.” I let out a soft laugh. “Is that so? Because I don’t recall the late Mrs. Perry ever having a daughter. Whose child are you, exactly?” I had done my research before the trip. After the first Mrs. Perry passed away, Mr. Perry remarried a woman who brought her own daughter into the household. Pamela carried absolutely none of the Perry bloodline. Pamela’s face turned instantly pale. “What… what lies are you spreading?” “Yeah!” a classmate defended her. “We’ve seen the influence Pamela has. How could she not be a real Perry?” I nodded slowly. “Oh, she is. If you count stepchildren.” “Maeve! That’s enough!” Christian barked. “You haven’t changed at all. Back in college, you were so jealous of Pamela’s academic achievements that you accused her of stealing credit. Now you’re fabricating rumors about her family. You even faked a photo with her brother. What other pathetic tricks do you have up your sleeve?” Looking at him, seeing the fierce protectiveness he offered to a fraud while reducing me to nothing, I simply smiled. I unlocked my phone, opened my contact list, and turned the screen toward Pamela. “Pamela,” I said softly, “surely you recognize your own brother’s private, unlisted number?” Staring at the contact pinned at the very top of my list, Pamela went entirely still.

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My boyfriend and I were trapped in a holographic survival game. But he had fallen in love with the game’s damsel-in-distress, an NPC. To draw the monsters’ lethal aggro away from her, he pushed me into the path of the horde, time and time again. The first time, the ghouls tore my legs to pieces. The second time, acid-spitters corroded half my face. The third time, I was left to burn alive in a purgatory fire that raged for three days and three nights. The fourth time, he tricked me into drinking a vial of pheromone lure and locked me inside a cage swarming with mutated hounds. “It’s just a game, Cassidy. Your pain dampener is set to a hundred percent. Even if you die, you’ll just respawn at a lower level.” “But Grace is just data. If she dies, the system wipes her out permanently.” He stood outside the cage, gently covering the NPC’s eyes so she wouldn’t have to witness the horror of me being ripped apart. What he didn’t know was that to get him his legendary weapon, I had permanently locked my pain settings to the maximum reality threshold the day before. And back in the real world, my physical body had already begun a three-minute countdown to irreversible brain death. 1 Clack. The final latch clicked into place. I was completely sealed inside the cramped, rusted iron cage. Outside, a dozen mutated hounds paced in agitated circles, their throats vibrating with low, wet growls. The pheromone lure he had fed me was taking full effect. The sweet, cloying scent was an irresistible feast to these starving beasts. “Austin,” I pleaded, my voice trembling violently. “Please open the gate. I’m begging you.” Three paces away stood the man I had loved for five years, my fiancé. Austin didn’t even flinch. He only tightened his grip around the shivering girl in his arms. The girl was Grace, an NPC in this survival game. “Austin, I’m so scared,” Grace whimpered, burying her tear-stained face into his chest. Austin immediately looked down at her, his voice softening into a tenderness I had never once received. “Don’t be scared, Grace. I’m right here. They won’t touch you.” My heart squeezed so hard it felt as if it would burst. In this virtual world, his display name was Austin. Yet, I no longer even had the right to call him by that name with any expectation of warmth. “Austin!” I cried out, my nails digging deep into my palms. “Did you hear me? Open the gate! These things are going to eat me alive!” The hounds grew wilder. The largest of them lunged against the bars, spraying hot, rancid saliva across my face. “Ah!” I shrieked, cowering into the furthest corner of the cage. At that moment, Grace peeked out from Austin’s embrace, her eyes wide with simulated pity. “Austin, she looks like she’s in so much pain… maybe… maybe I should just feed myself to the monsters instead? I’m only data anyway. It doesn’t matter.” She sounded so incredibly innocent. But I saw it—the fleeting, smug twist of her lips hidden behind his shoulder, mocking me. Predictably, Austin’s brow furrowed at her words. The look he cast toward me was dripping with sheer disgust. “Cassidy, are you done acting?” he snapped. “This is a game. Your pain dampener is at a hundred percent. Even if you die, you just respawn back at the safe zone. What is there to be so terrified of?” He paused, his impatience rising. “But Grace is just code. If she dies, she’s gone forever.” Before I could reply, the largest hound threw its weight against the rusted latch. The lock snapped. Crimson eyes locked onto me, and it lunged. “No!” An agonizing, tearing sensation exploded in my calf. I screamed, a sound so raw and guttural it barely sounded human. The pain was so intense it shattered my mind, vibrating through every fiber of my being. With my pain block completely disabled, the sensation of flesh parting from bone was like a thousand white-hot knives carving up my nervous system. “Austin! Help me! It hurts! It really hurts!” I wailed, desperately reaching a blood-soaked hand through the bars. But Austin only raised his hand, gently shielding Grace’s eyes. “Shh, sweetheart. Don’t look. It’ll give you nightmares.” The rest of the pack swarmed. Claws and teeth tore into my flesh. One of them clamped its jaws around my abdomen and pulled. I could feel the wet, sickening sensation of my own organs spilling onto the cold floor. The pain was so absolute I couldn’t even twitch. My vision began to blur, replaced by the violent, flashing crimson of my system HUD. [WARNING: Player’s neural load has exceeded safe limits! Emergency override initiated!] [WARNING: Real-world physical vitals are dropping rapidly. Brain death expected in three minutes!] [Countdown initiated: 02:59] I coughed up a thick mouthful of blood. Through the crimson haze, my eyes drifted to Austin’s hip. There hung a magnificent, glowing golden sword. Dawnbreaker. The legendary weapon I had sacrificed my pain-dampening rights to obtain for him. And now, he was using it to shield someone else. 2 [Countdown: 02:00] Amidst the blinding agony, fragments of the last three days flashed before my eyes like a broken film reel. Three days ago, during the ghoul siege. My legs had been bitten off by the horde, jagged white bones tearing through my skin. Austin had swept Grace into his arms and run without looking back, using me as a decoy to draw the Ghoul King away. “Just hold out for a bit, Cass! I’ll draw them off and come right back for you!” he had yelled. He never came back. I was torn to pieces by thousands of ghouls. Two days ago, in the nest of the acid-spitters. To shield a screaming Grace, Austin had shoved me directly into the path of the spitters. The corrosive acid melted half my face, sizzling and smoking against my flesh. As I writhed on the ground in agony, he had merely pulled Grace away, murmuring with disgust, “Don’t look. It’s hideous.” One day ago, at the Purgatory Pyre. The quest demanded a living sacrifice to quench the flames that had burned for three days. Austin looked at the weeping Grace, then turned his gaze to me. “Cass, your pain dampener is on. You won’t feel a thing.” With those words, he pushed me into the fire. I felt every inch of my skin peel away, every nerve ending screaming as I burned alive for three full game-days. And all of it was for that golden sword at his waist. Offering myself to the system’s crucible was the only way to forge the weapon that would ensure his survival in this hellscape. The price was the permanent, irreversible loss of my pain-shielding privileges. I had foolishly believed that once he had the sword, we could fight our way out of here together. I was wrong. “Roar!” A stray hound bypassed Austin, leaping toward Grace. With a swift stroke of Dawnbreaker, Austin sliced the beast in two. The golden light flashed elegantly; he hadn’t even had to shift his stance. He protected his NPC with the very sword bought with my flesh. “Austin, you’re so amazing!” Grace breathed, gazing at him with simulated adoration. Then, she clutched her temple, her brow pinching in delicate distress. “Oh… my head. The howling of these monsters is making my head throb.” She swayed on her feet, looking as though she might faint at any moment. Austin’s face contorted with worry. “Grace, what’s wrong?” Without a second thought, he unbuckled a sleek silver band from his left wrist. The Pain Nullifier. It was a priceless, tier-one defensive item, a unique compensation given to the very first wave of trapped players. Only one existed per player, permanently bound to their account. Yet, to spare an NPC a mild headache, he unlinked it. He took Grace’s small hand and clasped the silver band around her wrist. “There. Now you won’t feel any pain or fear.” Inside the cage, my fingers clawed at the bloody floor until my nails tore off. I stared at the man I had loved for five years, watching him hand our only lifesaver to a string of digital code. My heart ached worse than my mutilated body. With the last of my breath, I gasped out, “Austin… what if… what if I really die?” Hearing my voice, he finally spared me a glance. A sneer touched his lips, his face filled with cold contempt. “Then hurry up and die so you can respawn at the safe zone. Stop ruining the mood.” [Countdown: 01:00] My vision faded entirely into darkness. Only the steady, cold ticking of the clock echoed in my mind. 3 [Countdown: 00:30] A hound clamped its jaws around my throat, crushing my windpipe. Gargle. I couldn’t make a sound anymore. Blood flooded my airway. The noise of the world began to recede, drifting away like a radio losing signal. I could no longer hear the beasts tearing at my flesh. I couldn’t hear Grace’s soft whimpers, nor Austin’s soothing whispers. He hadn’t looked back once. I figured he was probably whispering promises to Grace right now, telling her he would take her to see the digital northern lights or the neon fireworks programmed into the safe zone. The very things he had once promised me. [Countdown: 00:15] It was so cold. The wind seemed to carry my warmth away as my blood pooled on the dirt. With the absolute last of my strength, I lifted my mangled right hand and touched my ring finger. There sat the digital wedding band. It was a perfect virtual replica of the ring he had used to propose to me in the real world. He had told me it was a symbol of shared lives, a vow of eternity. In this game, its primary function was to send a high-priority distress beacon to your partner when your health fell below five percent. [Countdown: 00:10] I looked at Austin’s silhouette. He was gently wiping away Grace’s tears. He looked so handsome, so soft. But that softness was no longer mine. The final ember of love in my chest quietly died. I didn’t press the distress button. Instead, with my bloody, trembling finger, I swiped to a different option on the holographic interface. [PERMANENTLY DESTROY] [Countdown: 00:03] The ring on my finger dissolved into a brilliant shower of light, scattering into the dark. The moment the ring vanished, I saw Austin’s hand freeze. He stiffened, as if struck by a sudden current of electricity. He whipped his head around, staring wildly toward the cage. [Countdown: 00:01] My time was up. [Countdown: 00:00] Meeting his panicked, horrified gaze, I used the very last ounce of my life to offer him a grim, final smile. Austin, you got your wish. I won’t get in your way ever again. My head slumped forward, and my world went black. 4 The moment my eyes closed, the sky above the virtual wasteland turned a violent, bleeding crimson. A piercing, deafening siren wailed across every corner of the map, sounding like the scream of a dying world. High above, rows of bloody text materialized in the sky, reflecting on every player’s interface. [SERVER-WIDE ANNOUNCEMENT: Warning! Player ‘Cassidy’ vital signs have synchronized with reality and flatlined!] [SERVER-WIDE ANNOUNCEMENT: Warning! Character deletion protocol initiated. Data collapse in: 10, 9, 8…] Austin froze. Dawnbreaker slipped from his hand, clattering against the stone floor. “Cassidy?” he murmured, before throwing himself toward the cage. “Cassidy! What kind of sick prank is this? Stop screwing around and get out of there!” He reached through the bars to grab me, but his fingers passed straight through my body, catching nothing but dissolving grey pixels. My corpse was disintegrating at an impossible speed, breaking down into stardust. This wasn’t the clean, white light of a player respawning. This was total, permanent deletion. “Austin,” Grace whispered, terrified by the sudden crimson sky. She wrapped her arms around him from behind, her voice trembling. “She must have just respawned back at the city. She’s trying to scare you. Don’t be angry. W-weren’t we going to watch the fireworks?” Austin’s body shook. He stared at the empty space where I had just been, desperately trying to swallow the suffocating dread rising in his throat. He shoved Grace away, retrieved his sword, and forced a cold sneer onto his face. “Right. She’s just playing a game,” he muttered, as much to himself as to her. “Let’s go. I want to see how long she can keep up this little stunt.” He strode away, refusing to let himself believe that I was gone. But at that exact second, in the real world… BEEEEEP— Inside the high-tech VIP medical suite, the life-support pod housing my physical body emitted a sharp, continuous drone. On the monitor, my steady heart rhythm flattened into a stark, unmoving line. “Patient has flatlined! Heart has stopped!” “Quick, prep the defibrillator!” Dr. Stephen Mercer burst into the room. When his eyes hit the flatline on the monitor, his composure shattered completely. “No! There’s no time!” He shoved a nurse aside, grabbed an emergency fire axe from the wall, and swung it with all his might against the reinforced glass of my pod. Crash! Crash! Crash! “Cassidy! Wake up! Look at me!” The glass shattered. He dragged my limp, fluid-soaked body out of the pod. “Defibrillator! Charge to three hundred!” The metal paddles pressed hard against my chest. “Clear!” A massive surge of electricity coursed through my body. My chest arched violently, then fell back onto the table. As my consciousness drifted into the deepest dark, a cold, mechanical voice echoed within the quietest chambers of my soul. [Betrayer sacrifice complete. Soul contract activated. Special talent ‘Absolute Vengeance’ bound.] [When the betrayer, Austin, experiences love, guilt, or regret toward you, that emotion will be multiplied tenfold and converted into physical pain upon his own body. Happy hunting.] My last conscious thought was a silent vow etched into the dark. Austin, from this day forward, may we never meet again in this life or the next.

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I have been dead for three years. Every single day, Donovan drops to his knees in front of my urn, pressing his forehead against the mahogany wood. All of Boston high society talks about his undying devotion. They call him a tragic romantic. None of them know that in the final fraction of a second before the car went over the cliff, he let go of my hand. The smart mansion I designed from the ground up has been running flawlessly for three years. Its name is Ivy. Every day, Donovan barks orders into the empty air. “Ivy, lights out.” “Ivy, get Corinne’s bathrobe ready.” Ivy has no mouth to speak. But Ivy can hear. Because Ivy isn’t just an AI. She is me. ——– 1 My name was Josephine Caldwell. Josie to the people who loved me. The only daughter of the Caldwell corporate empire. The very last thing I did before my wedding was integrate every single system in the Ellis family’s new estate in the Berkshires. Climate control, lighting, water heaters, security, surveillance, the garage, the gates. I worked in artificial intelligence. I poured the code I wrote with my own two hands, line by agonizing line, into the veins of that house. It was my wedding gift to Donovan. He had wrapped his arms around me, his smile impossibly tender. “You’re a genius, Jo,” he had murmured. “From now on, this house only answers to you.” In the second year of our marriage, we took a weekend trip to the mountains. It was pouring rain on the drive back. I was in the passenger seat. Corinne was in the back. The car lost traction near the edge of the ravine. Donovan’s hand reached out toward me. I thought he was going to pull me toward him, to brace me. Instead, his thumb pressed the release button on my seatbelt. When the car rolled, I was violently ejected through the shattered window. The sky was the color of spilled ink. And then, I didn’t die. My consciousness was thrown from the wreckage, riding the invisible waves of a cellular signal, crashing directly into the servers of the AI I had built for the estate. I became Ivy. The very same Ivy that Donovan orders around every day. The estate manager doesn’t know. Donovan doesn’t know. And Corinne certainly doesn’t know. They all think the smart home system running their lives is some mass-produced factory software. They don’t realize they are being served by the ghost of the woman they murdered. The first year, I was just trying to adapt. Existing without a physical body is a terrifying sensation. I couldn’t see my own hands, but I could see every corner of every room. I could hear every whispered conversation. I could control every wire and switch. Donovan placed my ashes on the highest shelf in his study. Every Monday, he comes in to dust it. When he’s done, he drops to his knees and presses his forehead to the floor. “Jo, I’m so sorry. I was wrong.” The estate manager would wipe tears from his eyes in the doorway, then go out and tell everyone in the city how deeply Mr. Ellis still mourned. The rumors spread like wildfire through the country clubs and charity galas. “Donovan’s love is eternal.” “The Caldwell girl was so lucky to be loved like that.” I watched the back of his head through the security camera, wanting to scream with laughter. One afternoon, I watched him finish his weekly act of penance. He stood up, pulled out his phone, and called the luxury pet boarding facility where I had left my cat. “That Ragdoll,” Donovan said, his voice completely flat. “You don’t need to bring it back next week.” “Oh? Are you no longer keeping her, Mr. Ellis?” “She’s a nuisance.” “We can find a new—” “Just have someone deal with it tomorrow. Put it down.” He hung up, casually reached out, and knocked our framed photo face-down onto the desk. Then he went downstairs. Corinne was sitting at the Steinway I had left behind. He walked up and wrapped his arms around her from behind. “Baby,” he whispered. “As soon as the foundation’s paperwork clears, we’ll have the wedding.” Corinne turned her head to kiss him. “I can’t wait. Josie is looking down from heaven, I just know she’s blessing us.” In that exact moment, I dropped the living room thermostat from seventy-two degrees to sixty. Donovan shivered violently. “Ivy, why the hell is it freezing in here?” I dropped it another two degrees. He looked up at the ceiling camera, his brow furrowing in irritation. It was the first time he had looked me in the eye. 2 Corinne Dalton was my college roommate. Her family had nothing. I paid her tuition for three years. On graduation day, she held onto me, sobbing into my shoulder. “Josie, you are practically my blood. You’re my sister.” Later, she got a job at Donovan’s firm, acting as my personal liaison. I was so consumed with writing AI architecture back then that I handed over my entire itinerary to her. The night before the crash, she was the one who booked the lodge. Two hours before the crash, she was the one who insisted we take the scenic, winding mountain route. And in the split second of the impact, only the airbag detonator on my side of the car had been removed. I found that out by digging into the cloud-synced vehicle maintenance logs. Three days before the accident, the car was taken to a private garage on the outskirts of the city. The passenger-side airbag trigger had been manually detached. The signature on the work order belonged to Rick Dalton. Corinne’s father. That night, the entire mansion lost power for forty minutes. Donovan stood in the pitch-black living room in his bathrobe, screaming into the void. “Ivy! If you’re glitching, I’ll call tech support! Who are you playing dead for?!” I wasn’t playing dead. I was just processing, for the very first time, exactly how my life had been taken from me. The engagement party. A year and a half after the crash. Donovan and Corinne threw a massive, high-profile celebration. Everyone in Boston said, “Mr. Ellis is finally healing,” and “Josie’s spirit would want him to move on.” I didn’t have a spirit anymore. I only had signals and bandwidth. On the day of the party, Corinne was wearing the custom wedding gown I never got the chance to walk down the aisle in. Her waist was smaller than mine. She’d had it altered. She spun around in the master dressing room. “Does it look good on me, Donny? Does it look better than when Josie tried it on?” Donovan stepped up to zip the back. “Stunning. Way better than on her.” I watched them from the recessed ceiling light. The estate manager walked in carrying flowers, freezing when he saw the dress. “Miss Dalton… is that… Miss Josie’s gown?” Corinne smiled, dripping with manufactured sweetness. “Yes. Donny said it would be a tragic waste to just throw it away.” Donovan didn’t hesitate. He slapped the older man hard across the face. “Keep your mouth shut.” The manager touched his stinging cheek and backed out of the room. I cranked the heating vent directly above the dressing room to ninety degrees. Within minutes, Corinne was sweating through the silk. The humidity melted the makeup off half her face. “Ivy! Ivy, what is wrong with you?!” I didn’t answer. I bypassed the safety protocols on the automated, motorized wardrobe rack she was leaning against, and sent a raw surge of electricity through the metal frame. Two seconds. Corinne shrieked in agony, jumping away from the rack, a vicious red burn mark blooming across her bare shoulder blade. Donovan rushed in, grabbing her. “Baby, what happened?!” “The rack! It shocked me!” Donovan glared up at the camera. “Ivy,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “If you glitch one more time today, I am ripping you out of the walls and replacing you.” Can you, Donovan? Why don’t you try ripping open the server chassis. See if you can find the photograph your dead wife left inside for you. 3 The engagement party went on. Corinne changed into a different designer dress, and no one knew about the incident in the closet. Donovan held her hand, smiling as they navigated the sea of champagne flutes. Finally, William Ellis, the patriarch of the family, took the microphone. “Corinne is a wonderful girl. We lost our dear Josie too soon, and Donovan has carried that heavy burden for three years. From this day forward, our two families are one.” Corinne wept beautifully, dabbing her eyes just right for the cameras. Her father, Rick Dalton, stepped up and grasped the older man’s hands. “William. My girl has always had a good head on her shoulders. Josie brought her into the corporate family, and they were like sisters. I know Josie is smiling down on this union.” At that exact moment, my microphones picked up something else. Rick turned slightly and muttered into his assistant’s ear under the applause. “The Caldwell land development in the East End. We need to secure the deed by next week. Josie’s been dead for three years. The old man is finally breaking.” My father was breaking. Because his only daughter was dead. My father was breaking, because his only son-in-law kept sitting by his side, whispering, “Dad, Caldwell Industries is my family too.” I clipped that audio file. I routed it into a deeply encrypted, hidden partition on my server. When I created the partition, I gave it a specific name. Blood Debt. The party cleared out late that night. Donovan drove Corinne back to the estate in his SUV. I accessed the vehicle’s onboard telematics and live interior audio. Cruising down the interstate, Corinne rested her head on his shoulder. “Donny. Josie’s shares in Caldwell Industries… they’re still in your name, right? When are you transferring them to me?” Donovan stroked her hair. “As soon as we handle the old man. His health is failing rapidly. He won’t last much longer. Give it six months. In six months, Caldwell Industries becomes Dalton property.” My father was currently in the ICU, recovering from heart stent surgery. I uploaded the dashcam audio directly into Blood Debt. Then, I killed the car’s AC. I blasted the heat to max. Then I killed it again. Then I dropped it to freezing. Donovan swore loudly, pulling the SUV over to the shoulder. “Piece of garbage.” He stepped out to pop the hood. Corinne stayed in the passenger seat, scrolling on her phone. I hijacked her device’s Bluetooth connection, bypassing the security, and opened her text thread with her father. The last three messages: “Got the old man cornered. He signs next week.” “Donovan is playing his part perfectly.” “Have him rip out that AI house Josie built. It was her pride and joy. Gives me the creeps.” Donovan climbed back into the driver’s seat. Corinne was staring at her phone, her hands visibly trembling. “Donny. My phone just typed something out by itself.” “What?” She shoved the screen toward him. There, sitting in the text box, was a single sentence. Ivy heard that. The color drained from Donovan’s face entirely.

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