The entire department was drowning in overtime to hit our quarterly project launch. My coworker tossed a heavy folder onto my desk, her chin tilted up with practiced innocence. “I’m a pretty princess, Elaine,” she said, her voice dripping with weaponized sweetness. “Thinking too hard gives me wrinkles, and honestly, you have that sturdy, low-maintenance look. Why don’t you just take care of this for me?” I refused her. Coldly, and in front of everyone. She lost her mind right there in the open-plan office, smashing my laptop to pieces while sobbing that I was only doing this because I was deeply jealous of her looks. I did what any competent supervisor would do: I processed the HR paperwork and kicked her off the project. That night, she waited for me in the dark parking garage. She ran me over three times with her car, her tires crushing my bones, all while she wept behind the wheel. “I’m just so ditzy!” she whimpered as she shifted into reverse to roll over me again. “I can’t tell the gas from the brake! If you had just helped me this morning, I wouldn’t have been fired. Go to hell!” Then, I woke up. Back at my desk, on the very morning the project tasks were being assigned. I stared at the group chat on my screen. Specifically, at our new intern—a girl who proudly claimed to have a “human ChatGPT” personality. Her entire strategy was built on utter laziness masked by unshakeable politeness. If she made a mistake, she’d just offer a blank, toxic-positive smile and repeat automated corporate platitudes. I smiled. With a quick flick of my wrist, I assigned them to work together. I was going to sit back and watch this dynamic duo of corporate disaster tear each other apart. … “I’m a pretty princess, Elaine. Thinking too hard gives me wrinkles, and honestly, you have that sturdy, low-maintenance look. Why don’t you just take care of this for me?” Tess stood over my desk, dropping the thick folder onto my keyboard with a soft thud. I stared at the paper. In my mind, I could still hear the sickening crunch of tires rolling over my ribcage, the damp chill of the concrete floor in the parking garage. When I didn’t immediately answer, Tess tapped her manicured nails impatiently against my desk. “Earth to Elaine? What are you staring at? Just get it done.” She patted her cheeks, plump with fresh filler. “All these tiny numbers make my head spin. What if I get under-eye bags?” I took a slow, deep breath, forcing the violent surge of hatred back down into the dark corners of my mind. In my past life, I had slammed my hands on the desk and told her exactly where to shove her spreadsheets. That had triggered her violent meltdown, her claims that my “plain-looking self” was out to get her, and eventually, my death. This time, I didn’t get angry. I simply smiled, picking up the folder and sliding it gently back across the desk to her. “You’re right, Tess. You are the face of our department. It would be a tragedy to let tedious administrative work ruin your complexion.” Tess’s eyes lit up. She assumed I was rolling over, just like the male executives in the firm always did. “I knew you’d understand, Elaine! You’re the best. I’m going to head out early to get my nails done, okay?” She spun on her designer heels, ready to slip away. “Wait,” I called out. She paused, her shoulders stiffening. “I’m buried under the accounts for our high-value clients right now. I physically don’t have the hours to do your work for you.” Tess’s face dropped. “What is that supposed to mean? Are you playing games with me?” I pointed toward the quiet cubicle in the far corner of the room. Sitting there was Shelby, our newest intern. Shelby was the girl who had posted a long thread in the company Slack about how she operated like an “AI-assistant”—doing the bare minimum but keeping her vibes “highly professional and emotionally stable.” In my first life, I had spent hours trying to mentor her, only to have my blood pressure skyrocket from her endless, polite incompetence. “Shelby, can you step into my office for a second?” Shelby immediately abandoned her iced matcha latte and trotted over, her expression a mask of perfect, empty eagerness. “Supervisor Elaine, speaking with absolute clarity and directness: I am fully prepared to synergize with your current directives.” I pointed to the folder in Tess’s hands. “Starting today, you and Tess are partners. You will be jointly responsible for auditing and compiling this core financial dataset.” Tess’s face flushed red. She jabbed a finger toward Shelby. “You want her to help me? She’s an intern! She doesn’t even know how to open Excel!” Shelby stood perfectly straight, clasping her hands professionally in front of her skirt. “While I am still in the onboarding phase, Tess, I will deploy my maximum enthusiasm to assist you in executing this task.” Tess rolled her eyes so hard she nearly lost her balance. “I don’t want her! I want you to do it, Elaine. I literally cannot comprehend these tables. Do you really want to watch me suffer?” She pouted, shifting her weight from side to side in a desperate attempt to manipulate me. I let my smile fade, my expression turning cold. “Tess, this company doesn’t pay people to look pretty. This is your job. If looking at a spreadsheet is too much of a threat to your beauty, you are welcome to walk down to HR and hand in your resignation. Go preserve your looks at home, but stop taking up space in my department.” The office went dead silent. Tess’s eyes welled with tears at the public humiliation. “How… how dare you speak to me like that! You’re just jealous because you don’t look like me! You’re targeting me!” “I am assigning work,” I said, my voice level and quiet. “It isn’t a negotiation. Shelby, you will assist Tess. Both of your signatures will be required on the final data sheets. If there is an error, both of you will be held accountable.” Shelby bowed exactly ninety degrees. “Understood, Supervisor Elaine. I have successfully processed your parameters and will establish a deep-collaboration pipeline with Tess.” Tess was shaking with rage. “You’re going to regret this, Elaine! I’m going straight to Mr. Davis!” “Go ahead,” I said, taking a slow sip of my lukewarm coffee. “And while you’re in there, ask him if the company hired you as an assistant project manager or a desk ornament.” Tess grabbed her heavy compact mirror off her desk and slammed it onto the hardwood floor, glass shattering everywhere. “Fine! Whatever! I’ll do it!” She whipped around, glaring at Shelby. “You. Put every single one of these numbers into the system. If you miss a single decimal point, I will destroy you.” Shelby smiled back, her voice completely flat. “Acknowledged, Tess. I am currently generating an intake protocol. Estimated completion time: three business days.” Tess stomped off in her Louboutins. Shelby picked up the folder and followed her, pulling up a chair next to her desk. “Tess, to ensure data integrity, I am currently initializing my system.” Tess slammed her hand on the desk. “Stop talking like a freak and start typing!” Five minutes later, the screaming started. “Shelby! Are you blind? You put fifty thousand instead of five million!” Shelby stood up, hands pressed to her sides, and delivered another deep bow. “My apologies, Tess. My visual recognition matrix experienced a temporary calibration error. I am currently updating my processing parameters to prevent future low-level anomalies.” Tess clutched her chest. “Are you… are you actively trying to kill me?” Shelby looked up, her smile flawless. “Speaking with absolute transparency, Tess, I have no such directive. I am simply reporting my operational status.” By lunchtime, Tess was too stressed to eat. She stormed into the branch manager’s office, her heels clicking furiously. Half an hour later, Mr. Davis called me in. He looked at me, his brow furrowed with middle-management disappointment. “Elaine, Tess came to me in tears. She says you’re giving her an impossible workload. She’s a delicate young woman, Elaine. You need to show some leadership and ease up on her.” I looked at his greasy, aging face. “Mr. Davis, it is the standard workload for her position, and I’ve even assigned an intern to help her.” Mr. Davis waved his hand, dismissing me. “An intern? That’s just making more work for her. Look, you’re thirty now, Elaine. You should have some grace. Tess has her whole life ahead of her—she’ll probably marry well. If she gets under-eye bags from pulling all-nighters over spreadsheets, are you going to pay for her Botox?” The sheer, condescending sexism made my stomach turn, but I kept my face blank. “The company pays her to work, Mr. Davis, not to pamper herself. If she can’t handle the duties, she can request a transfer.” Mr. Davis’s face darkened, and he set his coffee mug down with a hard clatter. “Watch your attitude, Elaine. You need to look at the bigger picture. We are a family here. We support one another. I’ve made my decision: open up the master database permissions and take her off the final audit. Let someone else handle it.” I looked at him, offering no resistance. “Of course, Mr. Davis. I’ll take care of it right away.” I turned and walked back to my desk. As I rounded the corner, I saw Tess sitting in my chair. She was clicking rapidly through my desktop. On my screen was the master database file—the culmination of a month’s worth of my hard work, containing our core client records. Tess selected the entire directory, hit delete, and then cleared the recycle bin. To make absolutely sure, she opened the system utility tool and clicked “permanently shred.” I stepped up quietly behind her. “Can I help you with something?” Tess gasped, dropping the mouse. When she realized it was me, a flicker of panic crossed her face, but she quickly smoothed her expression into one of wide-eyed innocence. “Oh my gosh, Elaine! You scared me! You walk like a ghost.” She stood up, brushing imaginary dust off her designer skirt. “Your desktop was just so messy, you know? I thought I’d help you clean up some junk files. I’m just so bad with technology… did I delete something important?” She blinked her heavy lash extensions, waiting for me to buy the act. I looked at the empty screen, a cold smile forming in my chest. Did she really think I hadn’t set up real-time cloud backups the second I woke up in this life? “Don’t worry about it,” I said, keeping my voice gentle. “I know you meant well.” Tess blinked, a hint of smug satisfaction settling into her eyes. She clearly thought I was a pushover. “Well, as long as you’re not mad! I’ll get back to work.” “Actually, hold on,” I said, turning to Shelby. “Shelby, come over here.” Shelby rolled her chair over instantly. “Supervisor Elaine, I am online and awaiting your parameters.” “Mr. Davis just informed me that this project is our top priority,” I told them. “I’ve opened up the master permissions for you both. Since you’re both so eager to contribute, I’m putting you in charge of the final audited report.” I paused, letting the bait dangle. “Mr. Davis mentioned that whoever delivers this project successfully will get the sole recommendation for the corporate ‘Employee of the Year’ award, along with the annual bonus.” Tess’s eyes virtually turned into dollar signs. The award came with a massive cash payout and a feature at the annual gala. Shelby stood up straight. “Supervisor Elaine, does the award include a financial incentive? I am fully optimized to generate value for this firm.” I nodded. “It does. So make sure you two coordinate closely.” Tess shoved Shelby out of the way. “Move it, intern. Don’t get in my way. Don’t worry, Elaine, I’ll make sure these numbers look absolutely perfect.” I watched them head back to their desks, full of ambition. “I look forward to seeing the results.” Over the next few days, Tess showed up to work on time, but she spent the entire day turning her cubicle into a Sephora. Her desk was covered in creams, serums, and mists. “Shelby, you’re the intern, so doing the heavy lifting is good for your resume. I’m going to go touch up my lip gloss,” Tess would say, pushing stacks of printouts toward Shelby. Shelby always agreed. “Understood, Tess. I am providing 24/7 logistical support.” But Shelby wasn’t auditing anything. Every time I walked past her desk, her fingers were flying across the keyboard, but she was using random number generator formulas to fill in the columns. Sometimes she didn’t even bother with formulas; she just mashed her fingers against the numpad. At one point, I noticed she had calculated a key client’s profit margin at negative three hundred percent. “Shelby, what is this?” I asked, pointing at the monitor. Shelby slid into an immediate verbal apology. “My apologies, Supervisor Elaine. My processing algorithm may have experienced a minor variance. I will recalibrate the data model immediately.” She deleted the negative sign right in front of me and typed in a string of random zeros. “Is the visual presentation of the data more robust and dynamic now?” I looked at her blank, unbothered face. “It’s your project. Just make sure the final report is submitted by tomorrow afternoon.” On submission day, Tess actually showed up without makeup. She had intentionally messed up her hair and smudged a bit of gray shadow under her eyes to simulate exhaustion. She marched into my office, holding the printed report like a trophy. “Elaine, I literally worked myself to the bone for this. Look at my skin—it’s so dull,” she sighed, tossing the papers onto my desk. “I checked every single line myself. It’s flawless.” I didn’t even look at the pages. “Excellent work. I’ll forward this to Mr. Davis and corporate accounting right away.” Tess smirked, swaying her hips as she strolled back to her desk. At three o’clock that afternoon, the heavy oak door of the manager’s office slammed open. Mr. Davis marched out, his face a deep, unnatural shade of purple, clutching the printouts in his shaking hand. “Tess! Get in here right now!” Tess jumped, smoothing her skirt as she ran over. “Mr. Davis? What’s wrong? Did you love the report?” Mr. Davis slammed the sheets onto her desk, sending papers flying across the carpet. “Are you insane? Why are our projected operational costs showing up as negative numbers?” “What?” “The corporate finance director just called and chewed me out for twenty minutes! Are we planning on paying our clients millions of dollars to do business with us?” Tess turned white, her eyes filling with tears. “It wasn’t me! I swear it wasn’t me!” She whipped around, pointing wildly at the corner cubicle. “It was her! Shelby did it! I didn’t touch those files!” Shelby stood up calmly, smoothing her blazer. “Tess, according to my daily operational logs, all data points were input under your direct supervision.” Tess’s jaw dropped. “You liar! When did I supervise you? You made all of this up!” Without missing a beat, Shelby pulled out her phone and played an audio file. Tess’s sweet, lazy voice rang out clearly through the quiet office: “Just fill in whatever, Shelby. It’s not like anyone actually looks at these things anyway.” Faced with her own voice, Tess let out a high-pitched shriek. “You bitch! You recorded me?” She turned to Mr. Davis, desperate for a lifeline. “Mr. Davis, you have to believe me! This intern is setting me up!” Then, realizing she was cornered, Tess pointed her finger at me. “It’s Elaine! She’s the supervisor, and she didn’t help us at all! She gave us corrupted files in the first place because she’s jealous of me! She set this trap!” Mr. Davis stormed over to my desk. “Elaine! You are the project lead! Is this how you manage your team?” I leaned back in my chair, looking at him calmly. “Mr. Davis, they did the work, and they signed off on the final sheets. Their names are on the submission.” Mr. Davis, desperate to save his own skin from corporate, screamed over me. “Don’t you dare pass the buck! You gave them bad files because you wanted them to fail! The client saw that ridiculous bid and they’re threatening to pull their entire portfolio!” He slammed his fist on my desk. “You are suspended, effective immediately! Hand over your keys.” He turned to Tess. “Tess, you will take over Elaine’s accounts, including the European portfolio. We need to save this relationship.” A collective gasp rippled through the office. Tess’s tears vanished, replaced by a look of pure, vindictive triumph. “Oh, Elaine,” she whispered, leaning over my desk. “I guess being ‘sturdy’ didn’t save your job after all. Don’t worry, I’ll take great care of your clients. Go home and enjoy retirement. You’re embarrassing yourself.” I stood up, packing my personal items into a small cardboard box, and looked at the two of them. “I truly hope you both enjoy managing those clients.” Mr. Davis snorted. “Don’t worry about us. Tess has ten times the people skills you do.” I walked toward the elevator, Tess trailing closely behind me. “Have a nice life, Elaine!” The elevator doors slid open. I stepped inside, looked at her one last time, and let out a soft laugh. “I hope you’re still smiling this time tomorrow.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463659”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My husband saved himself for his first love, refusing to lay a finger on me. Every night, without fail, he slipped a silk sleep mask over my eyes. He would whisper that he was going to take a shower and get ready. But when he returned to the bed, he was a completely different man. A midnight stand-in, hired specifically to keep me occupied. I played along, pretending to be blind to the switch. But tonight, I reached out and stopped his hand just as he was about to roll on a condom. “We don’t need that,” I murmured. I pressed myself against him, capturing his lips in a deep, slow kiss. “Why don’t we have a baby, sweetheart?” His breath hitched, and it didn’t take long for him to lose himself in me. Months later, when I gave birth to twins, Adrian cornered me, his eyes bloodshot with rage. “I’ve never even touched you,” he screamed. “Whose fucking babies are those?” 1 For three years of our marriage, Adrian had kept this elaborate play going, letting another man play his part in our bed. He even had him slip sleeping pills into my evening orange juice. “If she won’t let you go, just kiss her a few times, make it sweet, and get her drunk on that juice,” I had heard Adrian instruct him. “Once she’s out like a light, she won’t know a thing.” They both thought I was dead to the world. Adrian was so sure of his little secret that he didn’t even bother to lower his voice in the living room. He had no idea that in the pitch black of our bedroom, my eyes were wide open, drinking in every single word of their conversation. For three years, I believed our marriage was blossoming, that we were growing closer day by day. But it was all a lie. Behind my back, Adrian had been treating me like a pathetic joke. Every single night, the moment the air grew heavy with intimacy, Adrian would suggest turning off the lights. Then, with gentle, practiced care, he would slide the sleep mask over my eyes. At first, I had been confused. “Adrian, why do I have to wear this every night?” He would stroke my cheek with tender, reverent fingers. “Because, Enid, you look incredibly beautiful and vulnerable like this.” A soothing, sweet incense burned on the nightstand. His lips would trace slow paths down my skin, warming me up. But just as the heat began to rise, he would suddenly pull away, claiming he needed to shower and “get ready.” And I, drugged and heavy-lidded, would fall asleep waiting for him. When I woke up the next morning, my entire memory of the night before was pieced together solely by what Adrian told me. Last week, he smirked and said I’d been like a needy little kitten, clinging to him. The day before that, he claimed I had drifted off almost immediately, my arms locked around his waist. Yesterday, he told me I was getting more alluring by the day, whispering praise about my waist. I had believed him. I had trusted him implicitly. Until yesterday afternoon, when I received a bizarre, frantic call from what claimed to be my future self. The voice on the other end was raw, weeping, and desperate. “Enid, don’t trust him!” the girl cried. “Adrian is lying to you about everything.” “From the very night of your wedding, he hasn’t laid a hand on you.” “That night, he ran straight to Megan. They spent your wedding night in a five-star suite, playing real husband and wife.” “And you? You were drugged by his double, sleeping the night away in a stranger’s arms…” “For three years, the man who held you every single night wasn’t Adrian. It was a midnight stand-in he hired!” Listening to her, I thought it was some sick, elaborate prank. “Who is this? Who paid you to play this joke on me?” Sensing my disbelief, the voice grew frantic. “Enid, I am you. Can’t you hear it? Our voices are identical.” “Your parents divorced when you were small. You grew up feeling like an orphan, which is why you were so desperate for a family of your own.” “But Adrian is using that against you. If you don’t believe me, test it tonight. Don’t drink the orange juice he gives you. Just see what happens…” So, when Adrian handed me that glass of orange juice tonight, the seed of doubt had already sprouted. I pretended to drink it. The moment he left the room, I slipped into the bathroom and poured it all down the sink. Which was why Adrian believed I was sound asleep. He had no idea I was listening to everything from the hallway. “You didn’t do anything stupid these past few days, did you?” Adrian’s voice drifted in from the living room, sharp and mocking as he gestured toward the security cameras. “Remember, I see everything. I know exactly what you do in this house.” 2 “I’m warning you, you’re just a stand-in,” Adrian said, the smell of cigarette smoke drifting under the door. I could picture him perfectly, lounging on the leather sofa, blowing smoke rings into the air. “Keep her happy while I’m with Megan, but don’t you dare let her catch on. If she finds out, you’re the first one I’m coming for.” A cold, suffocating anger bloomed in my chest. I had spent three years believing my husband was the one holding me at night. But for Megan—for a woman he supposedly left behind—he had let a complete stranger sleep in my bed. For three whole years. A long silence followed. When the double spoke, his voice was hesitant, laced with a quiet tension. “Mr. Griffith, she still has no idea,” Darren said softly. “But how long can we keep this up? I’m afraid… things are going to get out of hand if we continue.” Adrian laughed, a light, dismissive sound, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. You’re the only one I trust with this. When we first got married, I couldn’t bear to leave Megan alone. Enid has no clue that our entire honeymoon was spent with you in her bed, not me.” He chuckled. “It’s been three years. If she hasn’t figured it out by now, she never will. She’s too naive, too desperate for love to question anything.” Darren fell silent, his shadow shifting under the door frame. “But lately, things have been… different,” he murmured, his voice tightening. “Enid… she…” He trailed off. I didn’t need to see him to know his neck was flushing red. I knew exactly what he was trying to say. Over the last few months, I had started clinging to him more aggressively during our nightly sessions. I was no longer satisfied with simple kisses and holding hands under the covers. I wanted more. He was reaching his breaking point. Adrian chuckled, a patronizing, locker-room tone in his voice. “I know what you’re worried about, Darren. Don’t sweat it.” He gave him another hearty pat. “We both know you have… plumbing issues. You couldn’t perform even if a supermodel was handed to you on a silver platter, let alone someone as plain and ordinary as Enid.” Darren didn’t argue. But I could hear the sharp intake of his breath. My mind flashed to the night before. I had been wearing a black lace nightgown, the silk clinging to the curves of my hips and chest. He had stared at me, his eyes burning, his breath catching in his throat. Did he really think I was plain? “Mr. Griffith, she is your wife. It isn’t fair to her. Maybe you should stay tonight…” Darren pleaded quietly, trying to find a way out. But Adrian cut him off, his tone sharp with impatience. “I don’t have time for this. Megan is pregnant. I promised I’d take her to her prenatal appointment tonight.” Adrian’s phone buzzed. After a brief murmur of reassurance into the receiver, he grabbed his coat. “Play your part, Darren. And remember—no matter how much I despise Enid, she’s still the woman carrying my name. You look, but you do not touch. Understood?” Darren nodded, his voice small and obedient. “Understood.” The heavy front door clicked shut. After a long, agonizing pause, the brass doorknob of our bedroom began to turn. 3 I scrambled back under the duvet, closing my eyes and forcing my breathing into a slow, heavy rhythm, mimicking the deep sleep of a drugged woman. The bedroom door opened with a faint creak. The footsteps that crossed the hardwood floor were incredibly light, as if terrified of waking me. Darren stopped at the edge of the mattress. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel the intense weight of his gaze. It felt complex, heavy with an emotion I couldn’t quite name. “Enid?” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. I didn’t move. He waited, the silence stretching between us for several agonizing seconds, before he reached out and gently slid the silk mask off my face. The room was dim, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the plug-in nightlight. I kept my eyelids locked shut, relying entirely on my other senses. Darren sat on the edge of the bed. For a long time, he just watched me. Then, his fingers brushed against my cheek. A shiver ran down my spine, though I fought to keep my body perfectly still. His hand slid slowly down to my neck, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. My heart hammered against my ribs. Adrian had warned him not to touch me, but was he breaking the rules? Was Darren actually… attracted to me? As my thoughts raced, a soft, ragged sigh echoed above me. “Enid… if only it were me who married you.” He paused, his thumb brushing my bottom lip. “If only… I were Adrian.” Darren leaned down, pressing a light, featherweight kiss to my forehead. Then he stood up and walked into the bathroom. The rush of the shower filled the quiet room. Unlike Adrian, who would linger for forty minutes to buy time, Darren was out in less than ten. He climbed back into bed with extreme caution, as if I were made of glass. He pulled the comforter over himself and slid his arm around my waist, pulling me gently against his chest. His hold was restrained, polite. An act of pure discipline. Like a man executing a strictly defined chore. I felt a cold smile touch my lips in the dark. For three years, this had been our routine. Whenever I “slept,” he would hold me like this—distant, respectful, a perfect gentleman until morning. And if I happened to be awake before the drugs kicked in, he would follow Adrian’s orders: kiss me a little, hold me close, make me feel loved, but never cross the line. Because Adrian forbade it. And because Adrian believed Darren was physically incapable of it. I waited until Darren’s breathing went deep and even before I opened my eyes. In the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains, I looked at his face. He looked exactly like Adrian. A perfect copy. But as I stared at his sleeping profile, a dark, brilliant idea began to take root in my mind. The next morning, when I woke up, Darren was already gone. A plate of pancakes sat on the kitchen counter next to a handwritten note: Had to run to an early meeting. Don’t forget to eat breakfast. Love you. My eyes lingered on the signature at the bottom. A slow smile spread across my face. He had tried so hard to copy Adrian’s sweeping, careless handwriting. But you can’t entirely erase a person’s natural penmanship. If you looked closely enough, the slant of the letters was all wrong. I ate my breakfast in silence, staring out the window at the empty driveway. If I hadn’t misheard last night, Adrian had mentioned a name. Megan. His college sweetheart. The girl who had supposedly broken his heart and moved abroad eight years ago. I hadn’t realized she was back in the country. Let alone that they had been carrying on an affair for the entirety of my marriage. I picked up my phone and dialed my best friend, Zoe, who worked as an OB-GYN at Saint Jude’s. “Zoe, does your hospital have a patient named Megan Harlow registered recently?” Zoe sounded surprised, the sound of her chewing on a salad echoing through the line. “Hold on, let me check the database.” I heard the rapid clacking of her keyboard. After a moment, she gasped. “Actually, yes. There is a Megan Harlow registered here.” A bitter laugh escaped my throat. “Can you send me the security footage from her last appointment? Just a clip.” “Sure, give me a second.” The file landed in my inbox a minute later. One glance was all it took. The footage showed Adrian, tender and hyper-attentive, guiding Megan down the hallway. Her belly was heavily rounded—she looked to be at least five or six months pregnant. Adrian whispered something in her ear, and Megan’s eyes crinkled into a radiant smile as she playfully tapped his chest. The video had no sound, but the intimacy between them screamed louder than words. My phone rang immediately. It was Zoe. “Enid, did you see it?” “Yeah.” “Megan…” Zoe’s voice dropped to a sympathetic whisper. “She’s six months pregnant. The father of record on her chart is Adrian Griffith.” My grip tightened on the phone until my knuckles turned white. “Are you sure?” “Absolutely. My colleague is her primary OB. She told me Adrian hasn’t missed a single prenatal visit. He’s always there, playing the doting father-to-be.” Zoe paused, her breath catching. “Enid, has he been cheating on you this whole time?” I nodded, staring at the empty kitchen. “Yes. And he’s been lying to me for three years.” “What do you mean?” “We’ve been married for three years, Zoe, and he’s never once touched me.” My voice was dead, hollow. “Every night, the man in my bed has been a double he hired to play him. While Adrian plays family with Megan, his stand-in plays husband with me.” I heard Zoe suck in a sharp breath. “What the actual fuck?” she spat. “Is Adrian even human?” “No,” I said quietly. “He’s a monster.” “What are you going to do? Do you want me to keep this footage? We can use it to absolutely ruin him in the divorce.” I smiled, a cold, sharp feeling blooming in my chest. “Delete the footage, Zoe.” Zoe sounded bewildered. “Enid, are you out of your mind? This is ironclad proof of adultery! You can take him to the cleaners. Why on earth would you delete it? Are you just going to let them get away with this?” I chuckled softly. “Divorce? Why would I divorce him?” The world is full of replaceable men. If Adrian could play me for a fool for three years, why shouldn’t I return the favor? 4 Zoe tried to press me for answers, but I swore her to secrecy and hung up. For the next few days, Adrian played the loving husband by day. But the moment the sun went down, Darren took over. But now, I wanted Adrian gone. Completely out of the picture. I paid a couple of neighborhood kids to scatter a bag of smooth, slick marbles across the private walkway leading to Megan’s luxury apartment building. That afternoon, right on cue, Adrian received a frantic call. His face drained of color, and he grabbed his coat, practically running out the door. I leaned over the banister. “Honey? Where are you going in such a rush?” Adrian didn’t even look back, tossing a careless excuse over his shoulder. “A client emergency. I have to go. I’ll have the housekeeper make you dinner, and I’ll be back to tuck you in later!” Normally, he was much better at keeping up his doting-husband act. But panic had made him sloppy. I smiled, turning toward the stairs leading to the guest cottage over the garage. That was where his loyal shadow, Darren, lived. I pulled up the security feed on my tablet. As expected, the moment Adrian cleared the driveway, he called Darren. “Some idiot left marbles on the walkway. Megan slipped and she’s in the ER. I’m going to be at the hospital for the next few days,” Adrian snapped, his voice tight with anxiety. “Darren, you need to cover for me day and night. Do not let Enid suspect a thing.” … An hour later, Darren walked through the front door, pretending he had just come home from the office. I looked down at him from the top of the stairs. He wore Adrian’s face, but his shoulders lacked Adrian’s arrogant swagger. I smiled warmly. “Sweetheart, you’re back early. Did the client meeting wrap up?” Darren froze for a second before smoothing his expression. “Yeah. I handed the rest of the account to my associate. I know you hate being alone in the evenings, Enid. No matter how busy I am, I’ll always make time for you.” That night, when Darren tried to hand me the usual glass of orange juice, I took it from his hands. And poured it directly into the potted fiddle-leaf fig. Darren’s eyes widened in surprise. “Enid… what are you doing?” “I don’t feel like juice tonight. And besides, we have a dinner party to attend.” I stepped close, wrapping my arms around his elbow. “Come upstairs with me. I need you to help me pick out a dress.” Ten minutes later, Darren pulled a sleek, burnt-orange silk slip dress from my closet and handed it to me. “This color would look beautiful on you. You’d look like royalty.” “Oh?” I arched an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across my face. “If my husband picked it, then it must be perfect.” With a slow, deliberate movement, I unzipped the back of my loungewear and let it slide down my shoulders. Darren gasped, his face flushing a violent crimson as he scrambled backward. “Enid, what are you doing?” I looked at him, wide-eyed and innocent. “Getting dressed, obviously.” I stepped closer, letting my eyes trace his collarbone. “Sweetheart, it’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before. Why are you suddenly so shy?” Darren’s jaw clenched so hard the veins in his neck popped. He looked like a man trying to hold back an avalanche. Seeing him on the verge of a total meltdown, I finally relented and let him slip out of the room. When we returned from the dinner party, I went straight to the bath. While soaking, my phone buzzed with an incoming text from an unknown number. It was an image file. It was a photo of Adrian asleep in a hospital chair, his hand holding Megan’s. See this, Enid? the text read. Your husband is right here with me. Three years of marriage and you still can’t keep a man. You’re pathetic. I’m six months pregnant, and Adrian is already planning to take me to Switzerland for the delivery. When the baby is born, he’s transferring the family estate to our son. You can keep the title of Mrs. Griffith all you want. You’ll still end up with nothing. Even without a name, it wasn’t hard to guess who sent it. Megan had never been content with being a secret mistress. This wasn’t her first time trying to bait me. Meanwhile, in the study downstairs—where I had hidden a small baby monitor earlier that week—I heard Darren’s frantic voice over the speaker. “Mr. Griffith, please, you have to come back. I can’t keep doing this. She’s… things are changing…” He was cut off by Adrian’s irritated sigh. “Jesus, Darren, why are you always such a coward? We’ve been doing this for three years. You should be used to it by now.” Adrian groaned. “Actually, I was just about to call you. Megan wants to deliver in Europe, and we’ll probably stay there for her postpartum recovery. It could be a year before we return.” “You’ll need to play my part for the next twelve months.” “Just remember the golden rule: Enid is my wife. You can look, but you do not touch. Got it?” Darren’s voice rose in panic. “Mr. Griffith—” “I don’t have time for this. I have to go.” The line went dead. “Who were you talking to?” I stepped into the study. Darren jumped, spinning around to face me, his face pale. “No one… just a client.” What a pathetic lie. “Stop acting, Darren,” I said, walking slowly toward him. His eyes went wide at the sound of his real name. “He’s taking her to Europe to have the baby, isn’t he?” I asked, stopping inches from him. Darren stared at me, paralyzed with shock. “Enid… how do you…” I smiled, laying my hand flat against his chest. I could feel his heart hammering wildly beneath his shirt. “If you have his face, his voice, and his life… why don’t you just take his place?” “What do you say, Darren?”

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I was born with a flare for the dramatic—an absolute need to show off. Unfortunately, the cosmic system bound to my soul is a total scam. Every time I pull off a perfect flex, my reward is invariably stolen straight from the person I just humbled. At eight, I acted like a child prodigy in front of my private tutor; the system immediately snatched his prized, out-of-print manuscript. At twelve, I played the elegant young lady in front of my friend; the system reverse-pocketed her freshly bought lavender fudge right into my coat. For over a decade, I lived in constant anxiety, picking pockets through pure, unadulterated pretentiousness. I looked at my room overflowing with stolen goods and wanted to cry. Just when I resolved to turn over a new leaf and stop showing off, a powerful billionaire—a high-society Lord from the capital—suddenly claimed me as his long-lost biological daughter. The moment I stepped through the grand doors of Harrington Manor, my adoptive sister recoiled in disgust. “Ugh. The smell of poverty on you is practically suffocating!” My biological brother sneered a cold warning. “Don’t even think about stealing anything that belongs to Cassie.” Looking at these two absolute fools, my innate urge to show off completely surged. Before, when I flexed on strangers and stole their things, I felt a deep sense of shame. But now? In my own house, against people who deserve it? Oh, I was going to put on a masterclass. … 1 I looked down at my simple, cheap cotton dress. Smell of poverty? At my foster father’s house, the rags we used to prop up wobbly table legs were made of finer silk than the designer coat she was wearing. But I didn’t bother arguing. New environment, new audience—might as well watch the show first. I lowered my head and nervously fiddled with my fingers. “Christian, look at her,” Cassandra said, tugging at her brother’s sleeve. “She looks like a stray dog. How is she supposed to be the eldest daughter of the Harrington family?” Christian’s brow furrowed into a tight knot. “Our family bloodline cannot be left wandering in the slums. We brought her back solely to save face. But Cassie was raised by Mother’s side since she was a baby. Don’t even dream of competing with her for anything.” Just as the words left his mouth, Lord Charles Harrington—the patriarch of our family and the father I had never met—strode into the grand parlor, carrying an ornate wooden box. He completely ignored me, his actual flesh and blood, and placed the box on the mahogany table. “Cassie, Christian, come look at the absolute masterpiece I just acquired!” Cassandra smoothed her skirt and rushed over. “What did you find this time, Father?” Charles opened the box and unrolled a delicate canvas, his voice trembling with excitement. “A lost masterpiece by the Renaissance master himself, The Snow Torrent. The only surviving copy in the world! It cost me a cool three million dollars. In a few days, at Lady Catherine’s grand gala, this will be our family’s official tribute. It will make us the talk of high society.” Cassandra leaned in to inspect it. “The brushwork is incredible. So powerful. Especially the use of negative space—the depth is breathtaking. You have an amazing eye, Father. Lady Catherine understands art; she will absolutely adore this.” Christian nodded along in rapt agreement. Standing in the corner, I cast a casual glance at the painting on the table and nearly snorted. Bringing this piece of absolute garbage to Lady Catherine’s gala? Is this family actively looking to commit social suicide? I hadn’t planned on speaking up, but my nose simply refused to cooperate. “Achoo!” Three pairs of furious eyes instantly locked onto me. Cassandra was the first to snap. “Have you no manners? Sneezing in front of a priceless masterpiece! Do you have any idea how valuable this is?” Christian barked, “If you’re going to be this ignorant, get out. Don’t ruin our treasure with your spit.” Charles’s face darkened significantly. I rubbed my nose and took two steps back. “My bad.” “It’s just… the smell of stale tea on that canvas is incredibly overwhelming. It tickled my nose.” Charles slammed his hand on the table. “Insolent! This painting was authenticated by the top appraiser in the country! Stale tea? What nonsense are you spewing?” I shrugged. “I’m not lying. It smells exactly like the cheap black tea my foster father used to leave out overnight.” I walked forward and fanned my hand near the canvas. “Back in the countryside, there was an old man who ran a counterfeit ring. He’d take fresh, raw parchment, soak it in strong black tea, and dry it in the sun. The paper immediately turned that perfect, aged yellow.” I looked at Charles. “If you don’t believe me, lean in and smell it yourself. Is there a faint hint of Earl Grey under that ink?” “Also, the old man told me that genuine antique paper is incredibly resilient. Your paper, however, has been completely ruined by the water damage. It looks like it would tear if you breathed on it too hard. Try not to touch it too rough.” I muttered under my breath, “Man, rich city folks are so easy to scam.” Charles froze, his face turning an ash-gray. He lowered his head, sniffing the canvas. A second later, his entire body went rigid. Christian, refusing to believe it, leaned in for a sniff as well, and his expression instantly crumbled. I leaned against a marble pillar, casually cleaning my fingernails. That’s the beauty of a good flex: you don’t need to scream. A simple, devastating truth does the job perfectly. A chime echoed in my mind. [Successfully flexed. Shock value threshold met.] [Snatched item from target…] [Acquired: Cassandra’s VIP Invitation to the Grand Orchid Gala.] My fingers paused, and a small smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. That gala was the pinnacle of high society. Cassandra had probably been sleeping with that invitation under her pillow. Now, it was mine. I looked up, meeting Cassandra’s gaze. “You said the depth was breathtaking, Cassie. Did you mean the depth of the tea stain?” Cassandra’s face flushed a deep crimson, her entire body shaking with rage. 2 Charles burned the fake painting that very night. Three million dollars down the drain, along with his confidence in Cassandra’s intelligence. By the next morning, the attitude of the estate staff had shifted. At breakfast, the maid set a bowl of bird’s nest soup in front of me so roughly that the broth splashed, nearly burning my hand. “For you, Miss Gwen,” the maid said, her chin held high. “Miss Cassandra personally ordered the kitchen to prepare this for you.” I looked at the soup. It was filled with cheap scraps and impurities—basically the bottom-of-the-barrel leftovers. Cassandra sat across from me. “You just got back, Gwen. You need the nourishment.” “Even though it’s lower grade, it’s still far better than the scraps you must have fought for in the slums.” Christian sneered beside her. “Don’t waste fine pearls on swine. It’s a waste to feed her anyway.” I didn’t touch the bowl. Instead, my eyes slowly welled with tears. “I really have never had anything like this.” “Back in the countryside, just having a warm meal made me feel so blessed.” My voice was barely a whisper. A smug look flashed in Cassandra’s eyes. “Good. Then you should know your place. The Grand Orchid Gala hosted by Lady Regina is in a few days.” “It’s the most exclusive event in the city. Without an invitation, you can’t even get past the front gate.” “I wanted to bring you along to open your eyes, but unfortunately, there’s only one invite.” She turned to her maid. “Bridget, go fetch my invitation from my vanity. Let our new sister get a look at what high society looks like.” Bridget gave a loud nod and scurried into the inner room. I kept my head down, desperately suppressing a grin. Go ahead, try to find it. I dare you. Before long, a loud clattering echoed from the bedroom as drawers were violently pulled open. Bridget ran out, her face pale as a ghost. “M-Miss Cassandra… the invitation… it’s gone!” Cassandra bolted upright. “Impossible! I put it in my jewelry drawer last night!” She threw herself into the room, with Christian furrowing his brow and following close behind. A chaotic search ensued. After several minutes, Cassandra stormed out, pointing a trembling finger at me. “It was you! You stole my invitation!” Christian’s face darkened. He immediately ordered the guards to ransack my room. A team of stern-faced maids headed to my quarters. Half an hour later, they returned empty-handed. “Sir, we searched everywhere, even under the floorboards. There’s nothing.” Cassandra broke down, stomping her feet in tears. “My invitation! That was my ticket to the Orchid Gala!” Christian stared at me with murderous intent. “Don’t get cocky. I will get to the bottom of this.” I met his gaze calmly. “Instead of investigating me, Christian, maybe you should check for a mole in the house.” “Because clearly, security here isn’t nearly as tight as you claim.” He glared at me, then turned to comfort his sobbing sister. “Don’t cry, Cassie! It’s just an invitation.” “I’ll use my connections to get you another one. I won’t let you be humiliated!” Cassandra finally wiped her tears, shooting me a triumphant look. I stood up, a slow smile spreading across my face. “You really are incredibly wealthy, Christian. In that case, Cassie better dress up.” “See you at the gala tomorrow.” With that, I turned on my heel and bolted out of the room. Flex and run—the ultimate strategy. Leaving Cassandra and Christian staring at each other in stunned silence. I had barely cleared the courtyard when the familiar prompt chimed in my head. [An effortless flex is the deadliest. Shock value threshold met.] [Snatched item from target…] [Acquired: Christian’s private signet ring.] I patted the solid metal ring in my pocket and laughed out loud. 3 Christian spent the next two days in a state of absolute panic. His signet ring was missing. Without that ring, he couldn’t transfer any of his properties or businesses, and he couldn’t withdraw a single dollar from his private vault. He had to beg and scrape just to secure a low-tier, general-admission ticket to the Orchid Gala for Cassandra. On the night of the gala, I sat in the exclusive VIP section, surrounded by the daughters of billionaires and high-ranking officials. Cassandra entered, clutching her low-tier ticket. The moment she looked up and saw me sitting at the head table, her face contorted. She stormed over, flanked by several snobbish socialites. “Gwen! How did you sneak in here?” One of her friends sneered, “Exactly. Look at your cheap dress. Get out before security throws you out!” I took a slow sip of my champagne and looked up. “What a ridiculous question, Cassie.” “I was invited here as a VIP guest. I walked through the front doors.” “You, on the other hand… that general-admission ticket in your hand? Didn’t Christian have to beg on his knees to get that for you?” The color drained from Cassandra’s face. “You… you’re lying! You stole that invite!” She raised her hand to slap me. I calmly tipped my glass, pouring the iced tea straight onto her white designer gown. “Ah!” Cassandra shrieked, jumping back. I offered a cold smile. “Cassie, raising your hand at the Orchid Gala? Where are your noble family manners?” Losing all control, she lunged at me. “You miserable brat! I’m going to ruin you!” At that exact moment, a herald’s voice boomed through the hall. “Presenting Lady Regina!” Cassandra froze, immediately dropping to her knees along with the rest of the guests. After Lady Regina took her seat, she let out a heavy sigh. “The Grand Matriarch’s birthday gala is approaching. She has always adored classical literature. I was gifted an incredible poetic couplet to present as a tribute, but I have yet to find a matching second half worthy of it.” An attendant unrolled a beautiful scroll of calligraphy. “The first line is: The green bamboo grows straight and tall, enduring a thousand winters without changing its hue.” “This line is meant to praise the Matriarch’s lifelong integrity. There are many brilliant minds in this room tonight. Whoever can provide the perfect matching line will be richly rewarded by this estate.” The young ladies in the crowd lowered their heads, deep in thought. Anxious to redeem herself, Cassandra stepped forward. “Lady Regina, I have one!” She held her head high and declared: “The Matriarch is of noble and supreme stature, fittingly compared to a royal flower. My line is: The red peony blooms in the morning dew, receiving ten thousand blessings to deepen its fragrance.” Several socialites immediately showered her with praise. But Lady Regina’s brow furrowed. “The Matriarch survived the rise and fall of three political eras. Her strength lies in her resilience. Comparing her to a delicate peony feels shallow and vain.” The smugness on Cassandra’s face shattered. Sitting at the VIP table, I couldn’t help but chuckle. I had to thank my foster father for making me read so many books. Lady Regina’s eyes locked onto me. “Who are you? And why do you find this amusing?” Cassandra seized the opportunity to accuse me. “Forgive her, Lady Regina! She is a feral girl raised in some backwater town. She doesn’t even know how to write her own name, yet she dares mock your artistic pursuit. Please, punish her!” I stood up, walked to the center of the room, and looked Lady Regina in the eye. “I laugh, Lady Regina, because my sister’s line is utterly ridiculous.” “A delicate peony dies if it goes a few days without being watered. When the Matriarch survived the political storms of her youth, did she rely on soft blessings?” Lady Regina’s interest was piqued. “Oh? And what is your grand proposal?” I cleared my throat. “There is only one thing in this world that can match the resilience of bamboo.” I looked around the room and spoke clearly: “The wild grass strikes deep roots, surviving the fiercest wildfire to rise again!” Cassandra shrieked, “Crude! You use wild grass to describe the Grand Matriarch? This is treason!” “What do you know?” “Delicate flowers die easily, no matter how expensive they are.” “Only wild grass survives the fire and grows back stronger when the spring wind blows.” I turned back to Lady Regina. “Does the Matriarch’s resilience not mirror that very grass? Unconquerable, everlasting.” A brilliant spark lit up Lady Regina’s eyes. “Magnificent!” “A return to raw truth—true brilliance hides in simplicity!” The moment the praise left her lips, a prompt chimed in my head: [Flex successful!] [Snatched item from target…] [Acquired: Lady Regina’s personal gold crest badge.] A smug smile played on my lips. But my triumph was short-lived. Suddenly, the grand doors of the hall were flung open, and the head butler of Harrington Manor rushed in, panting. “Miss Cassandra! Miss Gwen! Disaster has struck!” “The Federal Marshals have surrounded the manor!” 4 When we rushed back to the manor, Chief Inspector Declan Pierce was already sitting in the high-backed leather chair in the study. On the mahogany desk sat a suspicious occult object—a voodoo effigy inscribed with the President’s birth details. The moment we stepped through the door, Charles pointed a shaking finger at me. “Agent Pierce! It’s her! It’s this wretched girl we brought back from the countryside!” Cassandra dropped to her knees immediately. “Sir, please be merciful! She just returned to this house, filled with resentment. This treasonous filth must be her doing. It has nothing to do with us!” Pierce stood up, the cold steel of his tactical blade catching the light as he pressed it against my throat. “Is this you?” I calmly reached into my sleeve, pulled out the gold crest badge, and held it right before his eyes. “Before you use that knife, Inspector, you might want to check who my benefactor is.” Pierce’s pupils dilated. The blade froze instantly. Suddenly, Christian lunged from the floor, screaming frantically, “Don’t believe her, Inspector! She’s a thief! Everything she owns is stolen! Even her VIP invitation to the gala tonight was stolen from Cassie’s room!” Cassandra chimed in, shrieking, “Yes! That badge must have been stolen from Lady Regina tonight! Arrest her!” Pierce’s gaze shifted, turning icy. He snatched the badge from my hand and let out a dark laugh. “So, you’re just a daring, professional thief.” Before I could speak, his heavy boot delivered a brutal kick to my knee. The agonizing impact forced me to my knees, my joints cracking against the hardwood floor. A sharp gasp of pain escaped my lips as blood welled from where his blade had nicked my neck, staining my collar. “Take her away,” Pierce commanded, looking down at me with cold detachment. “Throw her into the high-security cells. Prepare the interrogation room.” Two burly agents stepped forward to drag me up. “Get off me!” I spat, swallowing the metallic taste of blood as I wrenched myself free despite the searing pain in my knee. “I am laughing because the legendary Chief Inspector Pierce is nothing but a brainless puppet!” Pierce’s eyes flared with rage. “You want to die?” Ignoring the blood dripping down my neck, I spoke at a breakneck speed. “If I wanted to commit treason, why would I be stupid enough to sew the Harrington family’s exclusive silk thread and custom stitching onto the effigy?” “Furthermore, I’ve only been back in this house for five days. How could a girl from the countryside coordinate a high-level political conspiracy right under your nose?” A cold smile touched my lips. “This is a setup. Kill me as the scapegoat, and the real traitor walks away clean. Are you really going to let someone use you as a cheap weapon, Inspector?” Pierce stared at me, a flicker of doubt crossing his eyes. He hesitated. At that exact second, a prompt exploded in my brain. [Life-or-death flex successful!] [Shock value has broken the scale!] [Snatched item from target…] [Acquired.] My heart leapt. I immediately checked the system storage with my mind. The moment I saw what had materialized inside the space, I couldn’t help but burst into wild laughter right under Pierce’s blade. “Haha… Hahaha!” My blood-soaked laughter echoed through the silent study. It was over. I had won.

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My sister and I both had leukemia. Mine was worse. There was only enough money in our parents’ savings to treat one of us, so they decided to draw straws. I thought it was just a cruel twist of fate, an unbiased hand of destiny. But then I heard them arguing through the thin bedroom door, their voices raw and strained: “The longer straw went to Norah! She’s the eldest, and she’s the sicker one. We have to treat her first!” my father argued, his voice thick with a desperate logic. My mother’s voice broke, a jagged, agonizing sound. “We have to treat Grace first! Think about how many times Norah has been sick since she was a little girl!” “But Norah’s body… she’s always hovered right on the edge of death. We can’t let her drag Grace down with her!” I froze in the hallway. My mother wasn’t wrong. I had been fragile my entire life, constantly slipping from one medical crisis into the next. We used to be a comfortable, middle-class family, but my illness had stripped them of everything, leaving them buried under a mountain of medical debt. To keep us afloat, my parents each worked three jobs. They pushed themselves to the point of collapse, both of them ending up hospitalized from sheer exhaustion more than once. Through the crack in the door, I saw my mother cover her face, her shoulders shaking violently as she wept. “If we don’t save Grace first, I swear I’ll end my own life! I have to save at least one of my girls!” My father’s voice cracked, a heavy, choked sob. “Helen, you’re putting a knife to my throat.” I didn’t want to be the knife anymore. To save them from making an impossible choice, I spent weeks hoarding my sleeping pills. … 1 My parents didn’t know that even without the straws, I would have stepped aside for Grace. Though she was my younger sister, Grace had always felt like the older one. She accommodated me in everything, always putting my needs before her own. Whenever I was hospitalized, she was the one who stayed by my bedside, tending to my worst moments, cleaning up after me without a single complaint. Because of me, she turned down her hard-won acceptance letter to Boston University. A girl with a brilliant future ahead of her chose to stay home, working as a remote customer service representative just so she could be near to care for me. During the dark nights when the pain became too much and I tried to end it, Grace was always there to pull me back from the edge. She would kneel at my feet, clutching the fabric of my sweatpants, crying until she couldn’t breathe. “Norah, please. I’m begging you, don’t do this.” “If you go, what happens to Mom and Dad? What happens to me?” “As long as you’re here, this family has something to fight for. If you leave, we have nothing left.” My parents, too, would weep at my bedside, their tears hot and heavy on my skin, pleading with me to hold on. They told me to trust that medicine was advancing. They begged me to believe I would get better. If those tears hadn’t burned themselves into my heart, I would have surrendered a long time ago. From the hallway, I heard the front door click open. My mother called out toward my room, her voice carrying its usual weary edge: “Norah, your father and I are heading out to work. Dinner is on the table.” I opened my bedroom door just as they walked out into the humid summer evening. Standing on the threshold, I managed a soft smile and called out after them, “Okay. Stay safe out there, Mom, Dad.” That was my last look at them. My last time calling them Mom and Dad. My last smile. My last goodbye. After tonight, I would no longer be a burden. I walked over to the dining table, holding the small amber bottle of sleeping pills tightly in my palm. On the table sat pan-seared salmon—Grace’s favorite—and garlic green beans, which I loved. I emptied the pills, crushing them into the warm rice. I ate. I forced down every bite, swallowing the bitter residue of the medication along with the food. When I couldn’t eat another bite, I dragged myself to my bed and lay down. I didn’t even have the strength left to write a note. I simply closed my eyes, and let the darkness take me. I didn’t know how much time had passed when the sound of the front door unlocking woke me—or rather, woke whatever was left of me. My father’s heavy, exhausted breathing and my mother’s familiar, fretful sigh breathed life back into the quiet house. Then, my mother saw my empty plate and unwashed fork sitting on the table. Instantly, her irritation flared. She marched toward my bedroom door, her voice sharp with exhaustion: “You can’t even rinse your own plate? Having leukemia doesn’t make you royalty, Norah!” “Your sister is sick too, and she’s online working all day, yet you can’t bother to wash a single dish!” “You don’t think about anyone but yourself. Sometimes I think you’re trying to drive me to an early grave.” She muttered as she clattered the dishes in the sink, her movements loud and deliberate, radiating resentment. I sat up, reaching out to open my bedroom door, only to find my hand passing straight through the wood. My vision blurred as I drifted through the paneling, standing suddenly in the middle of the living room. That was when I realized I was dead. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered. But the apology was nothing more than a vapor, leaving no trace in the air. Grace walked in just then, her face pale but her expression gentle as she tried to soothe our mother. “Mom, Norah probably just wasn’t feeling well. You know she usually helps out when she has the strength.” 2 She managed to coax a small, weary smile onto our mother’s face. “You’re the only one who understands,” my mother murmured, lowering her voice as she pulled a warm, foil-wrapped burrito from her purse—the cheap, greasy kind from the truck down the street that Grace loved. “Eat this before your sister sees. Go on, eat it outside.” She gently nudged Grace toward the door. A dull ache bloomed in my chest. Normally, my mother never showed favoritism. Poverty had stripped our home of any luxury, and on the rare occasions my parents could afford a treat, they bought two of the exact same thing to ensure everything was perfectly equal. They had never let me see even a shadow of bias. I reached out, trying to touch my mother’s cheek. You don’t have to hide it anymore, Mom, I thought. You can love her openly now. Grace smiled, though her eyes remained tired, and she stepped out onto the porch. My spirit drifted out after her. She tore into the burrito, eating with a desperate, ravenous hunger, as if she hadn’t eaten in days. I reached out, trying to pat her back. “Slow down, Gracie. Slow down, no one’s going to take it from you.” But as she chewed, fat tears began to spill over her eyelashes, dripping onto the foil. She kept eating, swallowing her tears along with the food, her throat working hard. Panic seized me. “Gracie? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” She heard nothing. She finished the food, wiped her eyes quickly, and took a deep, stabilizing breath. Forcing her face into a neutral mask, she opened the door and walked back inside. My parents had set the table with a simple dinner of broth and bread. “Dinner’s ready, Your Highness!” my mother called toward my room, her tone laced with bitterness. Three minutes passed. No movement. My father rubbed his lower back, wincing at the chronic ache, and walked over to knock on my door. “Norah? Come eat, sweetheart.” Still, silence. Grace tried next, her voice playful. “Hey, sleeping beauty, dinner’s on the table!” Nothing. My mother’s patience snapped. She yanked off her apron, marching toward my room, her voice rising to a crescendo of anger: “Are you giving us the silent treatment because we’re treating your sister first? You drew the short straw, Norah! It was luck, pure luck!” “Your sister has sacrificed everything for you! How can you be selfish enough to punish this entire family over a drawing?” She reached for the doorknob, her posture tense, ready for a confrontation. My father stood behind her, assuming I was throwing a tantrum, and called through the wood: “Norah, we don’t have the money. If we did, we would have put both of you in the hospital tomorrow. You know that.” Grace quickly stepped between them, trying to calm them down. Even though I knew they couldn’t see or hear me, I cried out, defending myself to the empty air: “I’m not angry! I swear I’m not!” Grace opened the door, slipping inside to mediate. On the bed, my body lay beneath the heavy quilt, curled on my side, my face turned toward the drywall. Grace sat on the edge of the mattress, glancing over at the still form. My spirit tensed, terrified she would realize the truth and be traumatized—yet equally terrified that if they didn’t find me soon, the summer heat would do unspeakable things to my remains. “Come on, Norah. Don’t be mad at us,” Grace coaxed, keeping her voice light. She only looked at the blanket for a brief second before looking away. She didn’t notice the absolute stillness of my chest. Instead, she smiled, her voice taking on a forced, bright quality. “I have great news. I bought a scratch-off ticket today and won fifty thousand dollars!” “Norah, we can go to the hospital together now. We can both get the treatment.” She was smiling, but her eyes were hollow, filled with a quiet, devastating grief. My heart hammered in my chest. She hadn’t won any lottery. At that moment, the screen of her phone lit up in her hand. A text message banner popped up: We’re getting the marriage license tomorrow. The check will clear the second we sign. The text was from Brody Harrington. I screamed, throwing myself in front of Grace, trying to block her view of the screen. “What are you doing? Are you insane? You can’t marry Brody!” Brody Harrington was dying of pancreatic cancer. The doctors had given him six months. Before his diagnosis, he had been a notorious playboy, his reputation dragged through every gutter in the city. He was the Harringtons’ only son, and his wealthy family was desperate. They had put up flyers all over town, offering fifty thousand dollars to any young woman willing to marry him and try to conceive an heir before he passed. The flyers had stayed up for three months; no respectable girl would sell her life to a dying, cruel man for any amount of money. 3 “Gracie, please! I’m already dead! You don’t have to ruin your life for me!” I wept, my voice tearing in my throat, but she sat there, her painted-on smile never wavering. I fell to my knees, grabbing at the fabric of her jeans, shaking her legs with all the strength my spectral form could muster. She felt nothing. “The doctor said if we start early, the survival rate is really high,” Grace whispered to the silent room. “We’re going to be okay, Norah.” She reached out and gave my arm a gentle shake through the heavy quilt. “I won fifty thousand dollars. Aren’t you happy for me?” My parents walked into the room, seeing Grace practically begging for a response while I remained silent beneath the blankets. My mother’s anger flared instantly. “Norah! Your sister is practically on her knees, and you’re still ignoring her?” “You are unbelievable! Grace does nothing but think of you, and this is how you treat her?” “Do you even have a heart? Throwing a fit over a stupid drawing!” Grace stood up, gently pulling our mother back, begging her to stop. But my mother stood in the doorway, her face flushed with anger, pointing a trembling finger at the shape under the blanket. “I am asking you one last time. Are you coming out to eat or not?” My father, wanting to keep the peace, reached over and patted my shoulder through the quilt. “Norah, you’re usually so sensible. Your mother and I have to get to work soon. Just get up and eat. Don’t make her worry.” To pay for my treatments, they lived on barely four hours of sleep a night. During the day, my father worked construction while my mother cleaned houses. Late at night, they packaged wholesale goods at a local warehouse. Except for the days of my major surgeries, they worked every single day of the year, even holidays. I stood beside them, my face drenched in tears, suffocated by guilt. When the blanket didn’t move, my mother threw her hands up. “Fine! Starve then! I work myself to the bone every day just to come home to this attitude!” Grace gently led her out into the living room. “Let her cool down, Mom. I’ll bring some food in for her later.” Because they were running late for their shift, my parents didn’t push any further. At the dinner table, Grace lied to them, spinning the story of the fifty-thousand-dollar lottery win. My parents believed her. For the first time in years, a genuine, breathless joy filled the room. They held each other, weeping, thinking that maybe, just maybe, God had finally looked down on us with mercy. After dinner, they got ready to leave for the night shift. My father groaned as he stood up, his spine popping with a sickening sound. Grace winced, begging him to stay home for just one night to rest his back. Years of heavy labor had bent his six-foot frame, and at forty-five, his hair was entirely white. He looked twenty years older than his age, and the dust from the construction sites had given him a chronic, hacking cough. Seeing him ruined like this because of my illness made me feel like an anchor dragging them into the depths. Above the couch hung their old wedding photo. My father had been so handsome, his posture straight and proud; my mother had been radiant, her eyes bright with hope. Now, they were grey-faced, wearing faded, thrift-store clothes. My father ignored Grace’s pleas, offering a weak smile. “It’s fine, Gracie. Just a little stiff.” My mother called out loudly, making sure her voice carried into my bedroom: “We were supposed to have tonight off, but your father insisted on picking up an extra shift so we can buy Norah that winter coat she needed. We are killing ourselves for you girls!” 4 I threw myself against the front door, spreading my arms as if I could physically block them. “I’m dead! I’m already dead! You don’t have to work tonight!” I screamed until my throat burned. They walked right through my chest, their hurried footsteps fading down the stairwell. Grace’s laptop chimed from her room—her supervisor reminding her to log on. She quickly set a plate of food on my nightstand. “Norah, I have to log on for my shift. Here’s your dinner. Please eat.” Then, she hurried into the tiny, windowless closet she called her bedroom. It was barely wide enough for a twin mattress, but she had moved in there years ago so I could have the larger bedroom to accommodate my medical equipment. My spirit sat beside her as her fingers flew across the keyboard, answering customer inquiries like a machine. She didn’t even take a break to drink water. She was only a year younger than me, but she had carried the weight of an entire family on her shoulders. By the time her shift ended in the early hours of the morning, our parents had dragged themselves home. They were too tired to speak, collapsing onto their bed with their boots still on. My mother, half-asleep, mumbled to my father, “Did Norah ever eat?” My father was already asleep and didn’t answer. Within seconds, my mother fell silent too. I hovered over them, sobbing quietly. No matter how angry she was, she still worried about whether I had eaten. The next morning, my cousin was getting married in the suburbs, and my parents were expected to attend the afternoon reception. Grace woke up early and put on a simple white sundress. I recognized it instantly—it was the dress Luke had bought her years ago. She kept it wrapped in tissue paper like a holy relic. My mother came into my room to say goodbye. “We’re heading to the wedding now. Your father and I will be back tonight.” Then she saw the untouched plate of food on the nightstand, the film of grease cold and congealed. Her face hardened. She stepped over to the bed and slapped my thigh hard through the blanket. “What is wrong with you! Who are you trying to punish by starving yourself? We told you both of you are getting treated! What more do you want from us?” Grace ran in, pulling her away. My mother, furious, reached over and unplugged the window AC unit. “Running the AC all day—do you think electricity is free? You’ve let this illness turn you into a spoiled brat!” I never kept the AC on to save money. I had only turned it on that last night because I wanted to go quietly, comfortably. Grace quickly ushered our mother out of the apartment. My spirit followed them to the reception hall. When the wedding ended, my Aunt Diane pulled my parents into a quiet corner of the venue. She took my mother’s hand, her face tight with a solemn, practical concern. “Helen, we’re sisters, so I’m going to speak plainly. I talked to a specialist. Norah’s prognosis is terminal. Instead of letting her slip away and leaving you with nothing but debt, you should consider putting her on the organ donor registry. If you sign the papers, the hospital network offers a massive stipend. It would pay for Grace’s treatment and secure your retirement.” I froze beside my mother. Part of me expected her to consider it. It made sense. But my mother violently yanked her hand away, her face turning crimson with rage. “How dare you!” she screamed, her voice echoing in the small room. “She is my daughter! What did she ever do to you that you would stand there and pray for her death?” “I have never asked you for a single dime, and you’re standing here trying to sell my child’s body?” She pointed a shaking finger at her sister’s face. “How much did they offer you to pitch this to me? You are a monster! Don’t you ever call yourself my sister again!” She didn’t just scream; she severed the relationship right then and there. She and my father walked all the way back to the city to save the four dollars on subway fare, my mother crying the entire three-hour walk. My spirit walked between them, holding my mother’s trembling hand on one side and my father’s on the other. The weight of their grief and love was suffocating. When we finally got back to the apartment, Grace was in her tiny room, crying silently as she typed a message. Brody’s mother had gone back on her word. She was only giving Grace twenty-five thousand dollars now; the remaining twenty-five thousand wouldn’t be paid until Grace was confirmed pregnant. This meant Grace couldn’t afford to start her own treatments alongside mine. Hearing the front door, Grace quickly dried her eyes and went out to greet our parents. She brought a basin of warm water for my father’s feet, and as she knelt to massage my mother’s swollen calves, she spoke softly: “Mom, let’s have Norah go first. Dr. Shepherd is the lead oncologist, and if we both go in at the same time, he won’t be able to oversee both of our surgeries. I want Norah to have the best doctor. I can wait a few weeks.” The lie was seamless, delivered with a gentle, reassuring smile. My mother pulled Grace into her arms, weeping with a mixture of relief and guilt. “My sweet Gracie. You are always so good.” Grace smiled, her white teeth showing in the dim light. “I’m your girl, Mom. I’ve got us.” I stood in the corner, the waves of grief and helplessness crashing over me until I felt like I was drowning. The next morning, my parents packed our worn duffel bags for the hospital. Grace and my mother walked to my bedroom door to wake me. As the door swung open, a heavy, sweet odor drifted into the hallway. They both frowned slightly, but assumed it was just the summer heat trapping the stuffy air in the room. “Rise and shine, big sister!” Grace called out, her voice bright. “Today’s the day!” My mother stepped in, her voice softening. “Come on, Norah. Don’t be mad anymore.” Grace smiled and pulled back the heavy quilt. The stench of decay hit them like a physical blow. Grace’s smile froze. Her face drained of all color, turning a horrifying, translucent white.

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My mother’s OCD was a physical weight in our house. Once, when I was ten, I walked barefoot across the hardwood floor. She took the green motherboard of a broken computer and whipped the soles of my feet until they bled. “Do you have any idea how many germs are on that floor? Are you trying to track them into every single room?” So when Thanksgiving came around, and my little sister Naomi was walking around the kitchen, eating a slice of the greasy meat pie Mom had spent hours baking, and dropped it face down on the hardwood, my heart leaped straight into my throat. Panic-stricken, I ran to the cabinet and grabbed the heavy-duty industrial disinfectant. But just as I sprayed the harsh chemical directly onto the pie to neutralize the grease and bacteria, the front door clicked open. Mom walked in. The moment her eyes fell on the greasy smudge on her pristine floor, her face contorted in absolute fury. “Maeve! What did I tell you before I left? Why is this floor filthy?!” I held up my hands, desperate to explain, but Naomi beat me to it. “Maeve said your pie tasted like cardboard, Mom! She threw it on the floor on purpose!” I stared at my sister, my stomach dropping in sheer disbelief. But Mom didn’t hesitate. She believed her instantly. Her hand clamped down on my forearm like a steel vice. I thrashed wildly, trying to break free. “It wasn’t me! Naomi dropped it—” But Mom wasn’t listening. Slipping on a rubber cleaning glove, she scooped up the grease-soaked, chemically drenched pie slice from the floor and shoved it violently into my mouth. “You’ve learned how to lie now, have you? How dare you throw dirt on your little sister!” But Mom… that pie was dripping with concentrated disinfectant. Were you trying to sanitize the germs inside my stomach, too? 1 I collapsed onto the floor, coughing violently, dry-heaving as I tried to purge the toxic pie from my throat. Beside me, Mom’s voice was chillingly calm. “Go ahead. Throw it up. See what happens.” My entire body froze. I didn’t dare move an inch. “Mom…” I choked out, my throat already starting to sear. “There was… there was disinfectant on it…” Mom’s expression flickered slightly. “Disinfectant?” A tiny spark of hope flared in my chest, and I nodded frantically, tears streaming down my face. She turned her head toward Naomi. “Naomi, is that true?” Naomi put on a look of wide-eyed, innocent confusion. My heart hammered against my ribs. Please, not this time. Don’t lie this time. “I don’t think so,” Naomi mumbled softly. “I thought Maeve just grabbed the spray bottle and hadn’t even used it yet.” My heart plunged into a bottomless abyss. A violent shudder ran through my entire body—whether from pure terror or the agonizing heat already blooming in my stomach, I couldn’t tell. The irritation on Mom’s face hardened into cold disgust. “Maeve, how many times have I told you? Honesty is the only thing that matters. How did you turn out like this? I have worked myself to the bone raising the two of you alone, and you can’t even maintain a shred of basic decency? You are a profound disappointment.” It felt as though my chest were packed with hot cotton. The concentrated chemical was burning its way down my esophagus; I couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. All I could do was shake my head frantically. Mom, please. I’m not lying. But once Mom made up her mind, nothing on earth could change it. She stared down at me with deep pity and shook her head. “I thought that when confronted with the truth, you’d at least have the grace to admit your mistake. Instead, you double down. You don’t possess a single fraction of your sister’s character.” Tears blurred my vision, spilling over my cheeks. But Naomi was the one lying. She always did. Since we were kids, Mom had always favored Naomi, harboring some stubborn belief that the younger child was inherently more innocent, more truthful. Last year, when Naomi stole a chocolate bar from the grocery store and blamed it on me, Mom cornered me in the parking lot, demanding I empty my pockets. I sobbed, begging her to believe me. But she only looked at Naomi. “Your sister saw you do it. Why are you still lying?” It was only after the store manager checked the security footage that my name was cleared. I had felt a brief surge of triumph, expecting Mom to force Naomi to apologize and finally stand up for me. Instead, she had merely brushed it off. “Naomi is younger. She didn’t know any better. You’re the older sister—you should be more accommodating. Demanding an apology like that only damages her self-esteem.” My world had dimmed in that moment. It damages her self-esteem? But Mom, what about mine? Did you ever consider how much it hurt to be publicly humiliated in front of a crowded store? Mom’s sharp voice snapped me back to the present. “Maeve. Since you refuse to apologize, I’m done dealing with you. I was planning on taking both of you to the Winter Wonderland resort tonight. But now? Naomi and I are leaving without you. Go to your room. I don’t want to look at your face.” Winter Wonderland. The one place I had begged Mom to take me a thousand times, always to be met with excuses. I wanted so desperately to go. But my throat was screaming, my stomach was a pit of acid, and Mom would never let me join them anyway. From behind Mom’s back, Naomi poked her tongue out at me, a silent, mocking smirk plastered across her face. I kept my head down, swallowing the rising tide of heat in my chest, and limped back to my bedroom. After all, in Mom’s eyes, I was nothing but a nuisance. As I closed the door, I heard her scoff. “Look at her, still playing the victim. Naomi, sweetie, promise me you’ll never end up like your sister. A liar through and through.” “Don’t worry, Mom,” Naomi replied, her voice sweet and compliant. “I’ll never be as bad as Maeve.” 2 By 2:00 AM, the fire inside me had grown into an absolute inferno. It felt as though someone had poured hot coals down my throat. Drenched in a cold sweat, I struggled to reach for my smartwatch charging on the nightstand. Mom. I have to call Mom. She won’t ignore me if she knows I’m really sick. With trembling fingers, I tapped her contact. It rang once, twice… seven times before a groggy, hushed voice finally answered. “Hello? What do you want at this hour?” Hearing her voice, a sob tore from my throat. I thought I was saved. “Mom… the disinfectant… it burns so bad… Mom, please help me…” I waited for her to panic, to tell me she was calling 911. But her voice only hardened. “Are you still playing this game? We literally just boarded the sleeper train. Stop throwing a tantrum, Maeve! You’re going to wake up your sister. I know you’re upset about being left behind, but this is the consequence of your own lies and making a mess of my kitchen!” “No… Mom, please…” I rasped, my vocal cords raw and failing. But before I could finish, the line went dead. I stared at the dark screen of my watch, tears slipping silently into my hair. Mom, why couldn’t you just love me a little bit more? Why did you have so much warmth for Naomi, but only cold suspicion for me? I hate you. I really do. Why couldn’t you just love me? The wave of raw emotion triggered a violent spasm in my chest. I sat up, choking, and vomited a thick, dark pool of blood onto the floor. Panic set in. No, no, no. I have to clean it. If Mom comes back and sees this, she’ll hate me forever. I dragged myself out of bed, grabbing a handful of tissues, frantically dabbing at the dark stain. But the moment my knees hit the hardwood, another wave hit me. I threw up again. More blood. Dark and hot. No matter how much I wiped, the smear only spread. Terror seized me. My hands shook so violently I could barely navigate the screen of my watch. I dialed her again. It rang and rang, eventually shifting to voicemail. Mom, why? Why have you abandoned me? Do you really hate me that much? I coughed, a wet, rattling sound, tears of pain and betrayal leaking from my eyes. I don’t know how many hours passed, but eventually, the coughing stopped. The fiery pain in my gut began to fade, replaced by a deep, hollow coldness that crept up from my toes. 3 When awareness finally returned to me, I was standing in front of the glittering neon gates of Winter Wonderland. I looked around, confused. How had I gotten here? And then panic flared—Mom hadn’t bought me a ticket. I wouldn’t be allowed in. I reached out to tap her shoulder, but my fingers passed straight through her wool coat, meeting only empty air. I stared at my hands. They were translucent, shimmering like frost. Am I… dead? Strangely, my first instinct wasn’t fear, but a profound sense of relief. At least now I won’t burden Mom by asking for a ticket. But then, a cold dread settled over me. The floor. I didn’t finish cleaning the blood off the floor. She’s going to be so angry. She’s going to hate me even more. Mom was holding Naomi’s hand, looking slightly distracted as they stood in the ticket line. “Naomi,” she murmured, a faint crease forming between her brows. “When Maeve called last night… her voice sounded so raspy. You don’t think something is actually wrong, do you?” Hearing the worry in her voice, a tiny spark of warmth bloomed in my spectral chest. She does care. She was thinking about me. 4 Naomi kicked a loose pebble with her boot, her tone entirely dismissive. “Oh, come on, Mom. You know what she’s like. Maeve is a drama queen. She’s just trying to ruin our trip.” Mom’s tense shoulders relaxed, and she nodded in agreement. “You’re right. That girl always knows exactly how to manipulate me. She’s probably just throwing a fit because I didn’t bring her along. Heaven knows what she did to make herself sound like that just to get attention.” Naomi wrapped her arms around Mom’s waist, looking up with a sweet smile. “Let’s not talk about her, Mom. It’ll spoil our trip. We’re here to have fun!” Mom’s expression softened completely, and she pinched Naomi’s nose affectionately. “You’re right, sweetie. You always know how to make me feel better.” I hovered a few feet away, nervously twisting the hem of my shirt. I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to be a dark cloud over your day. I really didn’t. It’s just… I was hurting so badly. They spent the entire day riding rollercoasters and drinking hot cocoa. It wasn’t until nine that evening, while waiting in the hotel lobby, that Mom finally remembered me. “Oh, I forgot to arrange any grocery delivery for your sister. Let me call and see if she’s eaten.” She pulled out her phone and dialed my number. It rang out. She tried again. Still nothing. Of course it wouldn’t connect. I was dead. There was no one left to answer. “Why isn’t she picking up?” Mom muttered, frustrated. Naomi snatched the phone from her hand and opened YouTube to watch My Little Pony. “She’s obviously throwing a silent treatment, Mom. She does this every time she doesn’t get her way.” Instantly, the worry vanished from Mom’s face, replaced by a familiar flare of anger. “Maeve is getting entirely out of hand. How dare she ignore my calls? This was a minor punishment—she committed a wrong, and she was disciplined for it! I haven’t even begun to lecture her, and she has the audacity to go cold on me? I was trying to check on her, and she treats me like this? Ungrateful brat. Just wait until I get home. She’s going to get a piece of my mind.” I hovered around her, desperate to explain, trying to grab her hand only to pass right through her arm again and again. No, Mom! I’m not ignoring you! I want to answer, I really do… but I can’t anymore. By noon the next day, Mom and Naomi arrived back at our suburban house. The moment Mom unlocked the front door, she slammed her keys on the console and shouted into the quiet house. “Maeve! Get out here right now! Why did you ignore my calls yesterday?” Her voice carried the weight of a storm that had been brewing all morning. Even as a spirit, I flinched, instinctively retreating a step. My bedroom door remained tightly shut, yielding nothing but silence. Mom dropped her bags and marched down the hallway. “Are you deaf? I told you to come out here!” Silence. How could there be anything else? She grabbed the brass doorknob and twisted. My breath hitched—or rather, the memory of my breath did. If she opens it, she’ll see the blood. She’ll see the mess. But the knob resisted. It was locked. I felt a strange wave of relief. Thank god I had remembered to lock it before the dark crept in. But the locked door only fueled Mom’s rage. Her chest rose and fell sharply. “Oh, locking me out now, are we? Fine! If you want to play that game, you can stay in there for the rest of your life for all I care!” Standing beside her, I let out a soft, bitter laugh. The rest of my life… I guess that’s exactly what I’m doing. Mom turned on her heel and went to the kitchen to prepare lunch. But when she pulled open the refrigerator door, she froze. The shelves were practically bare. “Wait… there’s nothing in here? Then how did Maeve…” Naomi quickly hid a box of cookies behind her back and pointed an accusing finger at the empty fridge. “Mom! The fridge is totally empty! I left so many snacks in here before we left. Maeve must have eaten everything while we were gone!” The faint flicker of concern on Mom’s face vanished instantly, replaced by irritation and a sense of vindicated relief. “Of course,” Mom muttered, letting out a sharp breath. “I should have known. Maeve would never let herself starve. She probably pigged out on junk food just to spite us. I was foolish to even worry about her.” I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. No, Mom! Naomi packed almost all of those snacks in her backpack before you left! And she just ate the rest of them right now! Mom, please stop misunderstanding me. During lunch, there was a knock at the front door. It was our next-door neighbor, Evelyn. “Hey, Diane!” Evelyn smiled, leaning against the doorframe. “Where have you guys been? I’ve been stopping by to see if you wanted to sit on the porch and catch up, but the house was dark.” Mom smiled back, her demeanor shifting instantly to polite warmth. “Oh, Naomi and I took a quick trip up to Winter Wonderland. We just got back.” Evelyn’s smile widened. “Oh, you’re such a wonderful mother to Naomi! But wait, did Maeve not go with you?” The moment my name was mentioned, Mom’s face darkened, and she sighed heavily, eager to unload her grievances. “Don’t even get me started on Maeve. She’s getting more difficult by the day—nothing like Naomi. She lied to my face a couple of days ago, so as a lesson, I left her behind. Now she’s throwing a massive tantrum. Refusing to answer my calls, and now she’s locked herself in her room and won’t even come out to eat.” I stood in the corner of the entryway, keeping my eyes on the floor. To her, I will always be the broken child. Evelyn’s brow furrowed, her expression turning puzzled. “That’s strange… I knocked on the door several times over the weekend, but no one ever answered. If Maeve was home, she surely would have heard me.” Mom waved her hand dismissively. “She’s probably in her rebellious phase. Just trying to ignore everyone.” Evelyn didn’t look convinced. She slowly backed out of the doorway, murmuring to herself, “That doesn’t sound like Maeve at all. She’s always been such a sweet, polite girl…” Warmth pricked my eyes. Even if it was just our neighbor, someone remembered who I actually was. Someone didn’t think I was a monster. That was enough. After finishing her lunch, Mom marched back to my door. This time, she held the spare key in her hand, her eyes flashing with determination. “Alright, young lady. You’ve had your little tantrum. Now let’s see what kind of mess you’re hiding in there!” She shoved the key into the lock, turned it, and threw the door open. A second later, the anger drained from her face, and she collapsed hard onto her knees.

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At the annual Bestseller of the Year Awards, the host playfully teased Beatrice, the author of the latest blockbuster novel. “I heard the villainous female lead in your book is actually based on your former high school best friend?” Beatrice’s eyes welled with tears as she offered a helpless sigh to the camera. “Yes. And the male lead is based on our class president—the one person in this world who cared about her the most.” “Years ago, he faced prison time trying to protect her. Not only did she refuse to testify in his defense, but she also stole the money his mother had scraped together for his legal fees—money meant to save his mother’s life.” “She vanished without a trace for seven years. Poor Luke lost his early admission to Harvard because of her. His entire life was ruined.” Following Beatrice’s tearful accusation, the live chat exploded. Millions of vitriolic comments calling her a gold-digging monster scrolled across the screen in a blur. Just as the public outrage reached its peak, the live broadcast suddenly cut out. The screen flickered, replaced by a newly released police bulletin on a national human trafficking crackdown—specifically, a victim identification notice. On the studio’s giant screen, the video play was grainy and low-resolution. In the footage, an eighteen-year-old girl, unrecognizable from starvation and abuse, huddled shivering in the corner of a decaying barn. Me. A wave of shock swept across the internet. But at the very center of this storm, Luke was standing in a high-end bridal boutique, watching his fiancée try on a million-dollar wedding dress. …… Chelsea twirled, the train of her gown sweeping the floor. The diamonds stitched into the fabric caught the light, casting a brilliant reflection over Luke’s cold, distant face. “Luke, don’t I look beautiful?” Luke pulled himself from his thoughts, stepping forward to gently adjust her train. “My wife is always the most beautiful.” Chelsea leaned into his chest, her fingers playfully tugging at his tie in a seemingly casual test. “I’m glad you think so. I was worried I wouldn’t measure up to that childhood sweetheart everyone whispers about.” Luke’s hands froze on the silk train. The warmth in his eyes instantly turned to ice. “I don’t have a childhood sweetheart. She was just a thief who ran off with a richer man.” “Even if she died in some ditch out there, it has nothing to do with me.” I stood by the vanity mirror as a lingering spirit, quietly watching the disgust hardening in his eyes. Oh, Luke. Just as you wished. I really am dead. Youthful love fades with time. But hatred? Hatred is immortal. I didn’t blame Luke for hating me. He had every right to. Back then, he went too far trying to protect me, crossing the line into what the law deemed excessive force. And I never showed up to testify. He was barred from taking his exams for three years. His mother begged on her knees for legal fees, only to die of a broken heart in utter despair. The golden boy of Oakhaven Prep had his spine snapped overnight. If I were in his shoes, I would hate me too. On the drive back, his assistant handed him a folder. “Mr. Mercer, the redevelopment permit for the old district was approved. We finally bought back your family’s ancestral home—the one your mother mortgaged for the legal fees.” The assistant hesitated, then muttered with lingering resentment, “Your mother went through hell back then, begging for loans. Meanwhile, that ungrateful girl just took the cash and ran…” Luke’s pen tore through the paper, leaving a jagged trail of black ink. “Watch your mouth,” he said, his voice freezing the air in the car. The assistant shuddered and quickly shifted gears. “Right, sorry. We’re heading to the old neighborhood for a site visit. The old neighbors heard you took over the project and want to thank you in person.” Luke leaned back against the leather seat, eyes closed, silent for a long moment before giving a cold, brief nod. The alleys of the old neighborhood were still as narrow as they were seven years ago. As soon as he stepped out of the car, Mrs. Gable, an old neighbor, rushed over. She grabbed Luke’s hand, tears filling her clouded eyes. “Luke, sweetheart. If your mother could see how successful you are now, she could finally rest in peace.” “When she passed, her only wish was for that heartless girl to come back, just to ask her… why?” Luke’s knuckles turned white, veins bulging on the back of his hand. But he quickly relaxed, gently patting her hand. “Mrs. Gable, today is a good day. Let’s not bring up the past.” “If Nicole Collins ever dares to show her face in front of me again, I’ll destroy her myself.” Behind him, the final load-bearing wall of the old Mercer house collapsed with a deafening roar, kicking up a massive cloud of dust. Luke stood before the ruins, his posture straight and unyielding. I drifted behind him, watching him erase the only home we had ever shared. Back then, we were just stepsiblings, brought together by our parents’ marriage. He was quiet, always keeping a respectful distance. But during thunderstorms, he would cover my ears, pulling my shivering body into his chest. When street thugs whistled at me, he would silently shift his weight to block me from their sight. Now, he stands so high, owning the wealth of the entire city. And the girl who once promised to follow him forever has long since turned to ash on a barren, unnamed mountain. Our downfall began with the whispers in those very alleys. The neighbors gossiped, claiming they saw the step-siblings holding each other at the mouth of the alley late at night. In reality, Luke was only drawing a four-leaf clover on my school jacket, a good-luck charm for my upcoming exams. He had smiled and told me he was giving me half his luck, so I would be safe and happy, year after year. But rumors are lethal. My adoptive mother slapped me so hard my ears rang. “Disgusting! Shameless!” “I took you in out of pity, and you’re just as cheap as your biological mother!” That very night, I was sent back to my biological family in the mountains. I didn’t survive my first night there. My biological mother’s creditors kicked the door open. Reeking of alcohol, a man pinned me to the concrete floor, tearing at my clothes. In my despair, Luke, who was supposed to be studying for his exams, burst through the door, his eyes wild and bloodshot. Usually the most stoic, controlled boy, that night he fought like a rabid dog. He gripped a heavy brick and struck the monster’s head, over and over, until the skull gave way. Hot blood splattered across the four-leaf clover on my school jacket. His trembling hand covered my eyes, his voice cracked and raw: “Don’t look. Nicole, I’m taking you home.” But we never went back to school. Two young shoulders couldn’t bear the crushing weight of the world. Luke was arrested for excessive force. I collapsed from sheer trauma and was rushed to the hospital, missing the crucial court date where I was supposed to testify in his defense. When I woke up in the hospital, desperate to pay for my adoptive mother’s sudden medical bills, I pulled out my IV and dragged myself back to my biological family. I knelt on the floor, begging my biological mother to lend me the money to save my adoptive mother’s life. She sighed, handing me a glass of warm water. “Drink this, and I’ll give you the money.” The water was sweet. But after I swallowed it, I never saw Luke again. When I next opened my eyes, I was stuffed into the back of a black van heading deep into the Appalachian mountains. Only later did I learn that my biological mother had sold me to traffickers for three thousand dollars. She even made a trip to the prison. Looking at Luke through the visitor glass, she lied with a face full of disgust: “That selfish brat didn’t want to ruin her own college prospects, so she refused to testify.” “She stole the money your mother scraped together for your defense and ran off with some rich older man.” And Luke believed her. So when he got out, he climbed his way to the top fueled by pure hatred, becoming the powerful mogul he is today. To build good press for his wealthy fiancée, Chelsea, he made a high-profile donation to build thirty elementary schools in impoverished mountain communities. That day, the rusted loudspeaker at the entrance of our remote mountain village crackled to life. Then, Luke’s voice echoed through the speaker. Elegant, composed, and so agonizingly familiar it drove me mad. I was chained in a pitch-black cellar, my right leg broken for three years, the rotting flesh clinging to the bone. For seven years, I had survived the traffickers’ brutality on a single thread of hope—the belief that Luke was still waiting for me to save him. The moment I heard his voice, I thought he had finally come for me. I dragged myself toward the iron door with every ounce of strength I had left. The chains clattered against the damp concrete. “Luke! I’m here! Luke!” Just as my strength failed me, the interviewer’s flattering laugh came through the speaker: “Mr. Mercer, this massive charitable donation… it’s an engagement gift for Miss Harrington, isn’t it?” After a brief silence, Luke’s gentle chuckle drifted down: “Yes. I want to buy my wife a lifetime of peace and safety.” His laugh filtered through the dirt ceiling of my cellar, pure and untainted by any sorrow. My filthy, scarred hands froze in the air. He didn’t come to save me. Slowly, I crawled backward, curling back into my dark corner. It was fine. Luke was out of prison. He was wealthy. He was getting married. The chains fell silent. I rested my head against the cold stone wall and quietly took my last breath. That evening, Luke attended the redevelopment appreciation dinner in the old neighborhood. My biological mother, who should have been hiding from debt collectors in her hometown, had wormed her way in under the guise of an “old neighbor.” Holding a champagne glass, she fawned over Luke. “Mr. Mercer, that girl was so cold-hearted! You were so good to her, yet she wouldn’t even step into the courtroom. She just ran off with some wealthy businessman!” “Your poor mother was worried to death because of her. And when I tried to speak up for you, she blocked my number and vanished.” She smiled obsequiously, trying to worm her way into his favor. “You two were practically siblings. If you’d like, you can treat me like your own mother from now on…” Luke swirled his red wine, his eyes devoid of warmth. “We were never siblings. And I don’t need a mother.” But he tilted his head slightly, gesturing for his assistant to hand over a credit card. “However, since you didn’t try to cover up her lies to the police back then…” “I’ll have my assistant transfer a monthly allowance to this card. It will be enough for you to live comfortably.” Her eyes gleamed with greed as she took the card, bowing repeatedly in gratitude. I stood just two paces away from them. Staring at the woman who had sold me into a living hell for three thousand dollars. My body lies broken, my youth stolen, buried forever in those mountains. Yet my tormentor stands here, smiling, accepting Luke’s charity as if she deserves it. The irony in this world is truly a sick joke. As she tucked the card into her purse, I suddenly remembered three years ago. I had managed to slip my chains once. I risked my life to steal the village chief’s phone and dialed Luke’s number. The second the call connected, I was shaking so hard I couldn’t even form words through my tears. “Luke… please. Help me. My mother…” But before I could finish, a brutal hand grabbed my hair, slamming my head against the brick wall. The trafficker’s coarse, angry voice boomed through the receiver: “You little bitch! Trying to run? I’ll kill you today!” As I screamed in terror, I heard a heavy silence on the other end of the line. Then, Luke let out a contemptuous laugh. “What’s the matter? Does your rich older man have some sick kinks? You have to call me for foreplay?” The line went dead. He blocked my number. He thought it was some depraved prank from a kept woman. He never knew that was my final cry for help before they shattered my legs. My thoughts were pulled back by the sharp vibration of a phone. Luke answered with a frown. It was Beatrice, the author who had just finished her TV interview. The moment the call connected, her frantic, tearful voice filled the quiet private dining room. “Luke! The police report is out. They found Nicole!” “She was trafficked into the mountains. But… she’s gone. She’s dead, Luke!” The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. At the news, my biological mother dropped her wine glass, her face turning instantly pale. She scrambled to her feet, her voice shrill with panic. “Mr. Mercer, don’t listen to her! That brat texted me asking for money just a few days ago!” “She’s struggling out there, and now that she knows you’re rich, she’s teaming up with outsiders to scam you!” Luke’s hand holding his cigarette froze for a fraction of a second. Then, he let out a quiet, mocking laugh. “Did you hear that, Beatrice? Her own mother says she’s alive.” He took a slow drag, his tone smooth and detached. “Tell that woman that if she wants my money, faking her death won’t work.” He pulled the phone away, ready to hang up. But Beatrice’s choked sob echoed through the speaker: “Luke! You’ve been agonizing over her for seven years, just like me. Stop lying to yourself.” “Nicole is dead. She is really, truly dead.” “I’m standing in the county morgue right now. If you don’t believe me, come see for yourself.” The County Medical Examiner’s Office. Luke pushed open the heavy door to the morgue, his brow furrowed. On the steel table sat a clear evidence bag. Inside was a faded, dirt-caked Oakhaven Prep school jacket. Beatrice was already a weeping mess, clinging to the edge of the desk, pointing at the jacket with a trembling finger. “The examiner said… she had multiple compound fractures before she died. She was always so terrified of pain, Luke. How much did she suffer…” I drifted beside Luke, staring at my old school jacket. Seven years ago, I thought my life was just beginning, that I would go to the same college as Luke. Seven years later, our reunion is divided by the boundary of life and death. Luke’s eyes flickered with a violent tremor when he saw the faded four-leaf clover drawn on the fabric. But he forced his jaw tight, masking his sudden panic with a cold, stubborn facade. The detective on duty stepped forward, presenting the victim identification and release form. Without even looking at it, Luke pushed the clipboard back. “Detective, I don’t have a sister.” “She stole my mother’s life savings and ran. Even if this is Nicole Collins, it’s just the price she paid for her greed. It has nothing to do with me.” Even the young officer nearby winced at his coldness. The detailed autopsy report, which outlined years of unspeakable abuse, was dismissed by Luke as mere “karma.” The veteran detective in charge of the trafficking task force can no longer stand his arrogant, self-righteous attitude. With a grim expression, he pressed play on his body camera’s recorded audio. The voice of an old man from the mountain village filled the room. “That girl was stubborn as a mule when they first brought her in. Kept screaming that her mother tricked her, that she had to get back to save a boy.” “Three years back, she managed to steal my phone to make a call. The buyer caught her and broke her legs for it.” “But the strange thing was… the man on the other end didn’t call the police. He just laughed at her, said some cruel things, and hung up. After that day, the light went out in her eyes. She never tried to run again…” Luke’s breath hitched. His tall frame swayed violently, as if struck by a physical blow. He remembered. Three years ago. The call he blocked without a second thought. I had begged him. If he had believed me just once, I would have lived. All color drained from Luke’s lips. His fingers twitched uncontrollably at his sides. Just then, another detective burst into the room, tossing a file onto the table. “The buyer confessed! The victim’s biological mother took three thousand dollars from the traffickers. She drugged her daughter’s water with sleeping pills and sold her into the mountains!” Luke stared at the detective, his eyes turning a horrific, bloodshot red. The fortress of hatred and self-preservation he built over seven years crumbled to dust in a single second. But the sheer, clawing terror inside him forced him to make one desperate, final stand. He glared at Beatrice, his voice a ragged, guttural growl: “Even if she was sold… what about the trial? If she didn’t have a guilty conscience, why did she run back to her biological family? Why did she skip the court date and let my mother die?!” Beatrice looked at him, her tears finally spilling over. She pulled a sealed evidence bag from her coat and slid it across the table. “The medical examiner found this stitched into the lining of Nicole’s jacket.” “Luke, if you still think she betrayed you, open your eyes and look at what she was carrying.”

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I used every trick in the book to marry above my station, to wed Conrad Whitman. Because of that, I bled myself dry trying to become the exact shape of the woman he wanted, bending over backward to please his aristocratic family. But in our tenth year of marriage, he found his true love. … I took a hundred million dollars and walked away without a backward glance. Yet, I keep getting these delayed, desperate phone calls from him: “Jocelyn, why didn’t you ever tell me about all the indignities you suffered?” “You were such a fool.” How do I make him understand? True love alone would never have been enough to make me play the foolish, devoted wife for a decade. What kept me going was something far more potent: the raw, undeniable ambition of a dirt-poor girl desperate to claw her way across class lines. 01 The air in the private dining room was heavy with the scent of shaved truffles and aged Bordeaux. Conrad was drunk. He was sitting in a three-Michelin-starred French restaurant, stubbornly demanding the kitchen make him a greasy, off-menu diner-style cheeseburger. The soft, ambient lighting traced the handsome angles of his face. He looked elegant, untouchable. Like a masterfully restored Renaissance painting. He rambled on and on. Remember to wear a coat when the wind off the Hudson gets sharp. Remember to take your vitamins when you feel a cold coming on. He kept adding more and more zeroes to the severance package outside of our divorce settlement. Until the waiter, looking thoroughly bewildered, placed a makeshift cheeseburger on the pristine white tablecloth. Conrad suddenly stopped talking. He looked at me, his eyes swimming with a sickening blend of sorrow and pity. “I tried to convince myself to just accept this ordinary marriage, to settle for the rest of my life,” he whispered. “But when Camilla appeared… my heartbeat told me I loved her.” “You can’t compromise on love. I’m sorry I wasted the best ten years of your life.” “Don’t live just to please me anymore. Go back to being you. Be the girl who eats a messy burger in a high-end restaurant, the girl who finds joy in a twenty-dollar sundress.” “Go chase the dreams you had at eighteen. Travel the world. And find someone…” His voice broke. “Find someone who actually loves you.” Conrad pushed the plate toward me. The emerald dial of his Rolex trembled against his wrist. Perhaps in his eyes, I was a tragic fool who had given ten years of my youth, received not an ounce of genuine affection, and swallowed an ocean of grievances. But I thought those ten years were fantastic. I was draped in designer silk, untouchable and respected. I knew the sheer thrill of walking through the top floor of a Manhattan skyscraper in a bespoke suit, knowing a single decision I made would impact fifty thousand employees globally. When your average Tuesday lunch is Brittany blue lobster and A5 Wagyu, who the hell misses the taste of a cheap diner burger? The man who, just hours ago, had ripped off his mask and ruthlessly pushed me to sign the divorce papers didn’t need to fake this teary-eyed devotion now. If you don’t love me, just give me the money and let me go. After all, when I sank my claws into him ten years ago, I was only ever after his wealth. 02 I have been a ruthless, self-serving creature since the day I was born. Growing up in a rusting Appalachian trailer park, my grandmother used to tell me that girls didn’t need to eat meat—that I should save the scraps for my little brother. I refused. I would fight tooth and nail, risking a cracked rib from my father’s backhand, just to snatch a piece of protein off the plate. When my parents said they had no money for my education, I stole the cash meant for my brother’s trade school. I drank tap water to kill the hunger pangs, lived off expired canned beans, and dragged myself through high school by sheer force of will. Years later, I was scammed into working at a shady, high-end escort club under the guise of a waitressing gig. That was where Conrad saved me. He had just inherited the Whitman empire and was in town closing a merger. He wore a sharply tailored, three-piece Savile Row suit, his chestnut hair swept back without a single strand out of place. He didn’t look like a man looking for a cheap thrill; he looked like a prince who had wandered into the slums to conduct an academic study. He used a pristine linen handkerchief to wipe my tears, the tips of his ears flushing pink. He told me that if I ever needed help, I could come to him. And so, I did. I clung to him like a parasite. I crawled into his bed. I pushed a well-mannered gentleman to the absolute edge of his sanity until, exasperated and cornered, he agreed to marry me. In those early days, even the housekeeper’s daughter spat at my feet, calling me a manipulative, gold-digging bitch who bit the hand that fed her. But beauty and cunning were the only resources I had. I simply seized every single opportunity to climb upward. I fought, scratched, and bled for my own interests. Was I wrong? As long as the Whitman family didn’t physically kill me, I was willing to play Mrs. Whitman and rewrite my destiny. 03 The day after the divorce was finalized, Beatrice called me to go shopping. She swept into the boutique, the strand of South Sea pearls at her throat swaying gently with her measured steps. “I heard you and my son finalized the papers. After all the scheming it took to marry into the Whitmans, after all the dirt you ate, you’re actually willing to walk away?” She was immediately swarmed by a flock of eager sales associates. When a long moment passed without my reply, she turned and shot me a sharp, disapproving glare. “Is this just because he fancies that Ph.D. girl? Because he’s letting her play at your Vice President desk? You’re just throwing a tantrum.” “This is the perfect excuse for you to step down and just be Mrs. Whitman. Drink tea with me, go shopping. Isn’t this better than reading endless financial reports? As long as you don’t sign that final decree, any woman on the outside is just a motel. You are the home.” She leisurely tried on several cashmere coats. When she stepped out of the fitting room and I still hadn’t spoken, her patience snapped. She tossed a silk scarf aside and lifted her chin, the picture of East Coast arrogance. “I’ll be brutally honest. I despised you at first. You were Appalachian trash. But you turned out to be obedient, clever, and quite comfortable to have around. Frankly, I’m too lazy to break in a new daughter-in-law.” “Say the word, and I will make sure he doesn’t go through with the split.” “My son has lived in an ivory tower his entire life. He doesn’t understand how malicious the world is, and after you married him, you shielded him from all the ugly business. He is completely defenseless against the coy, manipulative games of that little scholar. Once he sees her true colors, once he realizes who really has his back, he’ll come begging for your forgiveness. Ten years of marriage doesn’t just vanish. You already have his heart. Why can’t you just be patient and wait?” I remained utterly silent. Thoroughly irritated, Beatrice spun on her heel, marched out, and slammed the door of her chauffeured Bentley. I followed her out and tapped gently on the tinted glass. The window slid down. “I was just thinking,” I said, my voice smooth and calm, “exactly how valuable is a man’s heart, Beatrice?” “Is it more valuable than the ruthless business acumen, the impenetrable network, and the leverage I’ve built over the last ten years?” “Is it more valuable than the hundred million dollars sitting in my offshore accounts right now?” “Of course I could wait for him.” “But if I wait another ten years, the only things I’ll love will still be money, and myself.” The Bentley’s engine purred to life. Beatrice’s knuckles turned a stark, bony white as she gripped her Birkin bag. 04 The divorce was a clean break on paper, but detaching myself from the corporation required a month-long transition period. I still had to attend board meetings, oversee supplier bids, and show up at corporate galas. Only this time, I attended solely as the outgoing VP. Not as Conrad’s wife. There was someone else standing by his side now. Camilla was the intellectual darling of a family of academics, educated at Oxford since she was a teenager. Even the slight, upward tilt of her eyes when she looked at people carried an air of effortless grace. The Whitman empire spanned the globe, and no matter what topic the guests breached or what language they spoke, Camilla conversed with flawless ease. Whenever a shark-like investor came over to press a drink on her, Conrad instinctively stepped in front of her, shielding her. They were perfectly in sync. It was pouring rain when the gala ended. I stood under the awning of a secluded courtyard, waiting for my car, when a sudden burst of silver, bell-like laughter cut through the dark. Conrad was holding an umbrella for Camilla as they cut across the hotel’s manicured gardens. She wore a flowing white gown; he was in a sharp black tuxedo. The misty, rain-slicked scene was so beautiful it looked like a still from a classic romantic film. Camilla, her cheeks flushed with champagne, playfully shoved Conrad out from under the umbrella. Conrad, a man notoriously obsessed with cleanliness and control, froze for a fraction of a second. Then, he simply reached out, pulled Camilla into the downpour, and wrapped her in his arms. The wet cobblestones caught the dim courtyard lights. She rested her head on his shoulder, and they swayed slowly to the faint jazz drifting from the ballroom, as if the rest of the world had completely ceased to exist. When you’re with the right person, the rain isn’t bad weather. It’s scenery. It’s romance. … I was suddenly pulled back to my second year of marriage. It was the first time I attended a gala as Mrs. Whitman. I understood nothing of the conversations. I just clung to Conrad’s arm and smiled until my jaw ached. I felt so inadequate. I wanted to prove my worth. I remembered my father, groveling and drinking himself sick to please his bosses. So, I started intercepting drinks meant for Conrad. I took every shot, every glass of whiskey. My tolerance was pathetic, and by the end of the night, my eyes were red and my head was spinning. I thought that’s what a good corporate wife was supposed to do. Later, as we left, I ran ahead to open his umbrella. But my hands were clumsy from the alcohol, and I fumbled, letting the icy rain soak his tailored shoulder. He violently shoved me away and got into the town car alone. I can still see the raw disgust in his eyes. You’re so cheap, Jo, he had spat at me. Throwing yourself at those men for a drink—cheap. Panting after me like a stray dog—cheap. … I had been lost in the memory for so long I didn’t notice Conrad had approached. He was standing near the edge of the awning, smoking. The curling gray smoke blurred his sharp profile in the damp night air. He looked weighed down by something. He chose the most trivial opening possible. “Jocelyn. What did you say to my mother the day after we signed the papers? She’s furious with you.” The damp air settled into a heavy silence. Conrad’s Adam’s apple bobbed sharply. “Why do you look so hollowed out? Why are you hiding in the dark watching us, acting like the wounded party?” “If I treated you poorly in the past, it was only because I truly didn’t love you.” “We’re divorced now. I’ve compensated you beyond what’s fair!” This man, usually the epitome of composure, was anxiously rolling the cigarette filter between his fingers, waiting for a forgiveness that was never going to come. I smiled and shook my head. “You’re overthinking it, Conrad.” “I chose my path, and I never complained about the cuts and bruises I got walking it.” “I was just looking at the two of you and feeling a bit nostalgic. You wasted ten years of my life, but I wasted ten of yours, too. If we had never crossed paths, you’d probably be very happy with Camilla right now.” He was raising the cigarette to his lips, but his hand froze in mid-air. The burning ash quietly broke off and fell onto the back of his hand. It seared the skin red before he finally snapped out of his trance. He called out to me. “Jocelyn. The rain is too heavy. Let me drive you back.” I pointed to the sleek Maybach idling at the curb. “We’re divorced. You don’t need to spare me a single ounce of your attention anymore.” “Just remember to approve my expense report tomorrow. I booked the premium executive car, and the surge pricing is steep.” “After all, tonight still counts as a business trip.” 05 Beatrice Whitman was still holding a grudge against me. Yet, she sent Conrad to pass along a message: she wanted the slow-simmered, 48-hour clarified bone consommé I used to make. I casually told him it would cost a hundred thousand dollars a bowl. The next morning, a clean million had been wired into my account. Money talks. I had no choice but to show up at the Connecticut estate to cook. I just didn’t expect to run into Camilla by the front gates. Conrad was dead serious about Camilla. But Beatrice despised her new daughter-in-law. She found her tastes pedestrian and her domestic skills non-existent. I heard that Camilla had hired a team of Michelin-starred caterers to handle the annual Founders’ Eve Dinner—a deeply sacred Whitman tradition. Beatrice was so enraged she threw Camilla out of the house. Hearing this, I chuckled and called out to Camilla as she lingered by her car. “Come back inside. I’ll teach you how to placate her.” Camilla crossed her arms, eyes narrowed. “Why would you be so kind?” I simply carried my bags of premium ingredients into the massive kitchen. The Whitman family had old colonial roots, and Beatrice despised the modern, deconstructed plates Camilla favored. She liked her ancestral soups. To make it, you had to wake up before dawn to source the marrow bones, soaking them in ice water for hours to draw out the impurities. The root vegetables had to be a specific heirloom variety, or the broth would taste like dishwater. It required constant skimming, adjusting the simmer by fractions of a degree over two days, to achieve that crystal-clear, liquid-gold perfection. “Are you insane?” Camilla gasped. “You expect me to personally go to a butcher at five in the morning? Can’t this family afford a chef?” Ah. Because the Whitman men preferred modern steaks and French dining, the estate didn’t employ a chef specialized in these obscure, archaic family recipes. The men made the money; the men were gods. No one cared about Beatrice’s seemingly trivial, nostalgic preferences. “Then what is wrong with me hiring a professional team?” Camilla demanded. Because to old-money traditionalists, the Founders’ Eve Dinner wasn’t just a meal. It was a test of the matriarch’s devotion, an exhibition of the wife’s domestic endurance. Outsourcing it to strangers was tantamount to spitting on the family crest. Honestly, it wasn’t that hard once you got used to it. Wake up at four, hand-roll the pastries, clarify the broth, arrange the silver… you were usually done by dusk. Before Conrad married, Beatrice did it all herself. Then I arrived. And I did it alone, quietly. By the tenth year, my hands knew the motions by heart. … Beatrice was an incredibly simple woman to please, if you knew how. She was the easiest target in the Whitman hierarchy. Camilla stood there stunned for a long time, until a senior maid gently tugged at her sleeve. “Don’t worry, Miss Camilla. Mr. Conrad has finally found a woman he truly loves. Everyone in this house wants to help you. We will make sure Mrs. Whitman accepts you.” “Exactly! My mom and I will secretly watch the stove and prep the pastries for you. You don’t have to worry about a thing!” a younger maid chimed in. A slow, triumphant smile spread across Camilla’s face, blooming into the smugness of absolute victory. “Jocelyn, you just made it sound exhausting to scare me off, didn’t you? I’m not an idiot. The Whitmans have a small army of staff to do the heavy lifting!” I slowly washed my hands at the copper sink, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. They’re willing to help you. Because a pure, educated, high-born woman like you is worthy of being Mrs. Whitman. I wasn’t. … I got the broth perfectly settled into a simmer and left the rest to Camilla’s “supervision.” I packed my things and left the estate. I had just walked halfway down the long, winding driveway to get cell service for an Uber when I looked up. The senior maid was driving her beat-up Honda down the hill, her daughter in the passenger seat. The trunk was overflowing with trash bags full of their belongings. “Mom, you’ve worked for the Whitmans for forty years! You were here before Madam Beatrice even married into the family! Why would Mr. Conrad fire you? What did you even do wrong?!” the daughter wailed. “Hush, just stop talking…” the older woman wept. The wind carried their voices right to my ears, making my steps slow to a halt. A second later, my phone vibrated. It was Conrad. After a long, suffocating silence, his raspy voice came through the speaker. “Jocelyn. They’ve been bullying you this whole time. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

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My boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend accidentally added me to her group chat with her best friends. The group was named “The War Room.” She had no idea who I was. When I joined, they were in the middle of debating Strategy Three for “Reclaiming Glenn.” Glenn is my boyfriend. I dimmed my phone screen, leaned back against the sofa, and began scrolling through the chat history. Strategy One: Orchestrate a “spontaneous” run-in. Strategy Two: Muscle in on his company’s new project. I scrolled to Strategy Three, and my finger stopped. “Make his current girlfriend look like an idiot in public. He’ll come crawling back to me. Glenn is fiercely protective, but he cares about his reputation even more. When those two forces clash, you all know which one he’ll choose.” I stared at those words for a long time. I thought back to three months ago, at a party with his friends. I had misspoke—just a minor slip—and he had gone completely silent in front of everyone. It was a heavy, suffocating silence that lasted for what felt like hours. I had assumed it was just his personality. That he was just a quiet man. I changed my profile picture to a simple daisy and typed a message into the group chat: “Hey girls, I actually know someone at Glenn’s current girlfriend’s company. Do you guys need some inside info?” The ex replied almost instantly: “Yes, please! Where have you been all our lives, you absolute gem?” I didn’t reply right away. I was thinking: if Glenn really is the kind of man who values his pride over his partner… I needed to figure out exactly who these people were before deciding how to end this relationship. … 1 I’d been with Glenn for two years. Not a lifetime, but long enough to think I knew him. He was a hard man to summarize. In business, he was decisive and cutthroat; in private, he was quiet, but his loyalty ran deep. The first time I met him was at a crowded dinner party. Someone had cracked a tasteless, boundary-crossing joke at my expense. Before the silence could stretch into humiliation, Glenn smoothly cut in, steering the conversation away so effortlessly that nobody else realized what he’d done. He didn’t even look at me. I remember thinking, Now, he’s interesting. Once we started dating, that protective streak remained. He wasn’t a man of sweet talk or grand declarations, but he showed up. He did the work. I truly believed we were happy. Until that notification popped up on my phone. It was an invite to an unfamiliar group chat. I blinked, trying to recall if I’d joined a new thread or if a friend had added me to a bachelorette party planning group. I hadn’t. There were already over twenty women in the chat, and the messages were flying fast. I scrolled up to the pinned announcement. Commander: Alright girls, the target has been acquired. Code name: G. We have a three-phase strategy. We’re initiating Phase Three today. Slide into my DMs if you have questions. I dimmed my screen a fraction and kept reading. Phase One: Spontaneous run-in. Staking out his favorite coffee shop downtown. Phase Two: Muscling in on his firm’s latest venture, positioning ourselves as potential partners. But it was Phase Three—screencapped and pinned at the top—that made my chest tighten. It was a message from the “Commander” herself: Make his current girlfriend look like an idiot in public. He’ll come crawling back to me. Glenn is protective, but he cares about his reputation even more. When those two forces clash, you all know which one he’ll choose. I stared at the screen, motionless. A thin sliver of late afternoon sunlight sliced through the gap in the curtains, slowly shifting across the hardwood floor. From the study down the hall, Glenn’s low, resonant voice drifted out. He was on a conference call, calmly dissecting quarterly projections. And all I could think about was that dinner party three months ago. I’d had a glass of wine too many and made a casual remark about his previous project. It wasn’t a state secret—just a minor mix-up, a misplaced decimal point in a conversation with his colleagues. But then I saw Glenn’s face. He didn’t get angry. Instead, a wall just… shut down behind his eyes. He went completely, utterly silent. He barely spoke a word on the drive home. I’d written it off as his temperament. He was a man of few words, after all. But reading that text on my screen, a cold knot of doubt began to untangle in my stomach. “He’ll choose his pride. You all know which one he’ll choose.” The woman who wrote that knew Glenn. Or, at least, she believed she did. I tapped my profile settings, replacing my photo with a picture of a single, delicate daisy—a soft, unassuming aesthetic that revealed absolutely nothing about me. Then, I typed: I know someone at his current girlfriend’s company. Do you guys need some info? The chat paused for a heartbeat. Then the Commander replied. OMG yes! Where did you come from? Spill! The rest of the chat erupted. Are you an angel sent from above? Please please please! DM me right now! I didn’t reply. I rested the phone on my lap and looked toward the study. Glenn was still talking, his voice steady, measured, completely in control. I took a quiet breath. If he was indeed the fragile, image-obsessed man his ex claimed he was, I needed to gather my evidence, map out their moves, and plan my exit. But if she was wrong… If she was wrong, I needed to find out who this “Commander” was and why she was so terrifyingly sure of herself. I wanted answers. Both of them. 2 I didn’t rush into the conversation that night. Instead, I muted the notifications, leaned back against my pillows, and read through the entire chat history from the very beginning. Most of the girls in the group were just background noise, chiming in with reaction GIFs or asking for updates. Only two were truly driving the plot: “Commander,” and another user named “UnsweetenedLemon.” Commander’s avatar was a highly edited side-profile shot—chic, aloof, carefully curated to project an air of effortless sophistication. UnsweetenedLemon was the talkative hype-woman, always using overly familiar slang, acting like the loyal lieutenant. I scrolled back to a message from two weeks prior. Commander had written: Girls, I was with him for three years. I know him better than anyone. He acts cold and detached, but he’s obsessed with his image. He cares deeply about how he’s perceived. His current girl is just… average. A nobody. She doesn’t belong in his world. He just hasn’t realized it yet. My finger hovered over the screen. Average. A nobody. I let the words settle in my chest, feeling their dull weight. Then I kept scrolling. UnsweetenedLemon had replied: Don’t worry, Commander. You guys are meant to be. He’ll come back to his senses! Commander: I don’t believe in fate. I believe in strategy. A faint, dry smile touched my lips. You had to admire the sheer confidence. The next morning, Commander tagged me in the main chat: Hey, @Daisy, are you around? You said you have an in at his current’s company. What’s the scoop? As the notification lit up my screen, Glenn walked out of the kitchen holding two cups of coffee. He set one down on the side table next to me without a word. I flipped my phone face down on the sofa cushions and looked up. “Thanks.” “Sure,” he murmured, sitting on the other end of the couch and opening his laptop. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He was wearing a dark blue button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his brow slightly furrowed as he scanned a document. I picked my phone back up, unlocked it, and typed: I’m here. But I don’t just hand out info for free. What exactly are you looking for? Commander replied almost instantly. What projects is his firm bidding on? Are there any weak points in their current vendor negotiations? I paused, then looked over at Glenn. “Hey, how’s that new municipal project coming along? Just curious.” Glenn looked up from his screen, his dark eyes resting on me for a long beat. “We’re pushing through. We should have a decision by next month.” “Is the bidding competitive?” “A few major players are in the mix,” he said, his voice flat. “Why do you ask?” “Just wondering,” I said, offering a light smile. “You’ve been working so hard lately. I wanted to understand what’s keeping you so busy.” He stared at me a moment longer, then looked back at his laptop. “It’s nothing exciting. Just tedious logistics.” I withdrew my gaze, raised my phone, and translated what I had just learned into a vague, tantalizing hint for the chat. The group went wild. This is gold! How do we use this? Commander, look! This is our window! Then a private message notification slid down from Commander: Daisy, can I ask you something? Do you actually work at his firm? I replied: No. But I have my sources. Good, she wrote back. I don’t want this tracing back to him. You understand. I stared at the screen and silently rolled my eyes. Oh, I understand. Better than you think. I set the phone down and picked up the mug Glenn had brought me. I took a sip. It was warm, slightly bitter, but at the exact temperature I liked. Not scalding. Just right. He always made it exactly like this. Looking down into the dark liquid, a sudden, intrusive thought crossed my mind. Did he make her coffee at this exact temperature, too? 3 Over the next week, I played the long game, slowly establishing myself as the most valuable asset in the group. I didn’t rush. I didn’t offer information too eagerly. I waited for them to ask, letting them set the value. Commander soon realized my intel was far more accurate than anything else they had. She started DMing me directly. We talked often. She never asked for my real name, and I never volunteered it. But I learned everything about her. Her name was Victoria. She and Glenn had been classmates in college, dated for three years, and broke up two years ago. According to her, the breakup was merely a matter of “bad timing, but the underlying feelings never changed.” She said it with such casual certainty, as if she were stating an undeniable law of physics. I kept my responses neutral. UnsweetenedLemon, however, lacked Victoria’s discipline. One afternoon, she slid into my DMs: Daisy! Quick question! Have you ever seen his current girlfriend? What does she even look like? I replied: I’ve seen her. Plain. Nothing special. UnsweetenedLemon: Hahaha, I knew it! Total downgrade. What about her job? Is she a nobody too? I typed: Pretty average. And her family background? I: Even more ordinary. UnsweetenedLemon sent back a string of laughing emojis. No wonder Victoria is so confident. Glenn’s just having a phase. He’ll get bored of her soon enough. I stared at the text, my jaw tightening slightly. Plain. Ordinary. I chewed on those words, feeling a quiet, familiar prickle of irritation. I knew I wasn’t some high-society heiress. I came from a comfortable, middle-class family, worked a stable corporate job, and didn’t possess Victoria’s polished, high-society charm. But I had never once felt “less than.” Both truths coexisted in my mind without contradiction. I locked my phone, walked into the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of water. I stood by the sink, watching the tap run, lost in thought. I was under no illusions about who I was, but I also knew my worth. I turned off the faucet, walked back to the sofa, and opened the chat. Victoria had posted a new message in the main thread. Phase Three was officially in motion. Girls, I’ve found our opening. His current girlfriend is attending an industry gala next week. I need someone to help me confirm the exact panel schedule and her RSVP details. I’ll be there in person. Leave the rest to me. The chat erupted in cheers. I stared at the screen, my fingers freezing. The industry gala next week. I knew exactly which event she was talking about. Glenn had mentioned it a few days ago. His firm was hosting a table, and he’d asked if I wanted to accompany him. Which meant… I was already on the guest list. I leaned back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. Victoria was betting that by making me look foolish in public, Glenn would abandon me to save face. She was gambling on his vanity. And the only thing I didn’t know was whether she was going to win. The memory of Glenn’s cold, defensive silence from three months ago flashed in my mind. I closed my eyes, thinking through the angles. Then I sat up, opened my private chat with Victoria, and typed: I can get you the schedule and the seating chart. But I need to know exactly what you plan to do. Victoria’s reply was swift: Don’t worry, I’m not looking to start a scene. I just want to embarrass her slightly in front of his peers. A little public awkwardness goes a long way. You know how he is—he absolutely cannot stand when his people make him look bad. He cannot stand when his people make him look bad. My hand tightened around the phone. I didn’t reply. I needed to answer one question first. If Glenn truly was the superficial man Victoria described, then this relationship was a house of cards anyway, and I needed to know before I wasted another day. But if he wasn’t… Then I couldn’t let Victoria humiliate me. Either way, I needed the truth. And there was only one way to get it quickly. I switched to my personal account, opened my chat with Glenn, and typed: Are you still planning on going to the gala next Friday? He replied almost instantly: Yes. Why? I took a breath and typed: I was thinking we should go together. Let’s make a night of it. A long pause. Three dots appeared, vanished, and then: Okay. Just one word. I stared at it, a strange, hollow feeling settling in my stomach. Then I switched back to my burner account and messaged Victoria: Confirmed. She’ll be at the main keynote at 2 PM. As I pressed send, the noise in my head went quiet. The decision was made. Next Friday, I would see with my own eyes exactly what kind of man Glenn really was. 4 Friday afternoon arrived. The convention center was a sea of dark suits, sharp blazers, and high-stakes networking. Glenn and I had agreed to meet at the entrance. He was already there when I arrived, standing near the registration desk in a charcoal-gray suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. He was looking down at his phone. When he saw me, he tucked his phone away and smiled. “Hey.” As we checked in, he reached over and gently straightened my name tag, his fingers brushing my lapel. It was a quick, instinctual gesture—he probably didn’t even realize he’d done it. The keynote ended, and a thirty-minute coffee break was announced. Glenn asked if I wanted anything to drink. I told him a bottle of water was fine, and he nodded, heading toward the beverage stations. I stayed behind, letting him go. I pulled out my phone and opened the secret chat. Commander: I’m in. Second-floor mezzanine by the coffee carts. I see him. UnsweetenedLemon: Where’s the girlfriend? Commander: Right next to him. Honestly, she looks so basic. I don’t get what he sees in her. I dimmed my screen, turned, and walked toward the stairs leading to the mezzanine. The coffee area was packed, people standing in loose clusters, talking shop. I lingered near the edge of the crowd and easily spotted Victoria. She was wearing a tailored cream blazer, her hair swept up in a polished twist that looked even sharper than her profile picture. She was holding a cup of coffee, her eyes scanning the room. Searching for Glenn. What happened next was meticulously choreographed. She began walking in Glenn’s direction, only to be “accidentally” bumped by a passing attendee. The coffee splashed out of her cup, blooming across her cream blazer. She let out a soft, delicate gasp, looking up just as Glenn turned toward the noise. Their eyes met. The timing was perfect. Glenn, holding a bottle of water and a coffee cup, didn’t react. He looked at her—just a cold, brief glance—and then immediately turned his head, searching the crowd until he found me. He walked right past her, straight to where I was standing, and handed me the water. “Why did you come up here? It’s crowded.” “Just wanted to stretch my legs,” I said, taking the bottle. He nodded, accepting the answer. I glanced over his shoulder. Victoria was still standing there, holding her half-empty cup, staring at Glenn’s back. The expression on her face was hard to read. It was a mix of hurt, disbelief, and underneath it all, a deep, simmering frustration that looked like it had been building for years. The gala wrapped up around five. The crowd began filtering toward the exits. Glenn stepped away to use the restroom, telling me to wait by the main doors. I stood by the glass entrance, pulled out my phone, and logged into the burner account. Commander: He ignored me. UnsweetenedLemon: Did he even recognize you? Commander: Yes. He looked right at me, then walked straight to her. UnsweetenedLemon: Does she know who you are? Commander: No. She’s completely oblivious. She has no idea I even exist— “You’re Daisy.” The voice was quiet, steady, and very close. I looked up. Victoria was standing right in front of me, less than two feet away. She was still holding her coffee cup, the brown stain on her blazer now dry and dark. She was looking down at my phone. I instinctively tried to turn the screen away, but I was too late. She had seen it. The layout of the group chat, the messages, and the small daisy sticker on the back of my phone case—the exact image I used for my avatar. Victoria looked up, her gaze locked onto mine. The lobby was bustling around us, but in our small corner, the air felt frozen. “You’re the one who leaked the schedule,” she said. It wasn’t a question. I gripped my phone, neither denying it nor speaking. I just watched her. She stared at me for what felt like an eternity. Then, she said something I never expected to hear. “I know who added me to that group chat.” She paused, letting the words hang between us. “And they’re the same person who added you.” A cool draft swept through the open doors, loosening a strand of hair from her updo. And in that moment, the frustration I had seen in her eyes earlier finally made sense. It wasn’t malice directed at me. It was the realization that she, too, had been a pawn in someone else’s game. My heart skipped a beat. “What are you saying?” I asked, my voice much steadier than I felt. Victoria looked toward the hallway. “I want to talk,” she said. “About Glenn.” “And about the person neither of us saw coming.” Footsteps echoed behind me. Glenn was walking back. Victoria and I both looked toward him at the same time. As he approached, his eyes darted between us, his brow furrowing into a tight line. The three of us stood there at the entrance of the convention center, swallowed by a heavy silence. The setting sun cast our long shadows across the concrete. I tightened my grip on my phone, taking a slow, deep breath. Some things couldn’t be avoided.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463651”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When the avalanche hit, the rescue helicopter only had room for two more people. My husband, Elliott, guided Bella onto the rope ladder. He didn’t even look back when he tossed the words over his shoulder: “Bella is fragile. You’ve always been strong, Norah. Wait for the next lift.” I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to tell him that my leg, ruined three years ago when I searched for him in a freezing blizzard, couldn’t handle the cold. Not anymore. But he was already gone, ascending into the gray winter sky without a backward glance. Before my consciousness faded in the biting cold, a desperate, foolish thought clung to me: If he comes back for me, I’ll reject the transfer to Charleston. I’ll stay by his side. I waited all night. Nobody came. When I finally opened my eyes in a sterile hospital room, my first instinct was to check my phone. It was a pathetic habit—every time he let me down, I’d still hope to find a missed call, a message, some proof that I mattered. Naturally, there was nothing. Instead, my feed refreshed to show Bella’s latest Instagram post. The photo showed a tiny, superficial scratch on the back of her hand, framed by a very familiar wool sleeve. Her caption read: Someone was making a mountain out of a molehill. He refused to close his eyes all night. Looking at that sleeve, the last lingering ache of hope inside me withered away. She had a paper-cut-sized scratch, and he kept vigil. I spent the night buried in a freezing snowdrift, and he couldn’t even send a text. In the past, this would have made my chest ache, and I would have made excuses for him, telling myself to hold on a little longer. Not this time. Like someone who had been out in the frost too long, I had simply gone numb. The nurse walked in and asked if she should notify my family. I quietly locked my screen. “No,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. “There’s no one to call.” Looking out at the stubborn snow on the hospital window sill, I messaged my lawyer: Don’t hold onto the divorce papers anymore. Let’s start the process. Then, I logged into my company portal and hit the button to confirm my transfer to Charleston. 1 I dragged my left leg, encased in a heavy medical brace, out of the cab. The driver handed me my crutches, taking in my pale, drawn face. “You need help getting upstairs, miss?” “No, thank you. I’ve got it.” Leaning against the elevator wall, I sent Elliott a text. I’m out of the hospital. My leg is in bad shape. The doctor said I absolutely cannot expose it to the cold. I stared at the screen, counting thirty seconds. He replied with a single letter: K. I let out a dry laugh and slipped the phone into my pocket. As I unlocked the front door of our apartment, soft laughter drifted from the living room. Sitting in the entryway was a pair of cream-colored leather flats. I limped in on my crutches. Elliott was kneeling in front of the sofa, a cotton swab in hand, meticulously dabbing ointment onto the faint pink scratch on Bella’s hand. The coffee table was cluttered with antiseptic, gauze, sterile pads, and adhesive bandages. An entire medical kit, as if he were treating a life-threatening wound. Bella flinched, letting out a soft whimper. “Ow, it hurts…” “Just bear with it for a second. Don’t move,” he said, his voice dropping into that gentle, soothing register he reserved only for her. “I’ll be quick.” I stood by the doorway, gripping my crutches, my braced leg stiff, still wearing the oversized grey hospital fleece. Neither of them even looked up. He hadn’t asked a single question about the leg I had nearly lost in the avalanche. Yet here he was, treating her minor scrape like a tragedy. “All done,” Elliott murmured, smoothing down the bandage. He finally raised his head and saw me. He froze for a fraction of a second. His gaze flicked from my face down to the heavy brace, and then to the crutches. I saw his throat bob as he swallowed. But he didn’t get up. “You’re back?” his tone was flat. “What happened to your leg?” “Frostbite,” I replied. “The doctor said I need three months of bed rest.” “Right.” He looked back down, packing away the ointments. “Bella’s scratch is a little inflamed, so I wanted to get it cleaned up first. Go on and get some rest yourself.” Once again. Bella always came first. Bella finally acknowledged me, her face shifting into a perfectly practiced mask of concern. “Norah! Oh my gosh, are you okay? Your leg looks terrible! Last night was so scary…” She paused, biting her lip. “Elliott stayed by my side all night. I kept telling him that you were in a much worse spot, but he said you’ve always been tough. He was sure you’d be fine…” Always tough. Sure to be fine. In the past, those words would have pierced me. I would have felt the sting of hot tears, crying privately where he couldn’t see. This time, I felt nothing but a hollow, cool breeze passing through my chest. “Right. Thanks for looking out,” I said. Then, turning on my crutches, I made my way toward the bedroom. Behind me, the room fell dead silent. I knew Elliott was staring at my back. He was waiting. Waiting for me to slam the door, to demand answers with tear-stained cheeks, to scream, Why do you always do this to me? But I didn’t. I closed the door quietly, sat on the edge of the mattress, and pulled out my phone. The transfer status read: In Review. Estimated processing time: 3 business days. I opened my calendar app and marked a countdown. Three days left. Bella left around nine. The apartment fell into a heavy quiet, and the pain in my leg flared up. The frostbite, combined with the old fracture, had turned my knee into a swollen, throbbing mess. The pain shot deep into the marrow of my bones. I bit my lower lip to keep from making a sound. Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Elliott paused right outside my door. My heart skipped a beat. If he opens the door now, if he just asks if I need to go to the hospital… The silence lingered for a beat or two. Then, his footsteps moved away. Soon, the muffled sound of his voice floated through the thin drywall. He was on the phone, his words perfectly clear: “Bella? Did you make it home okay? Is it cold out? I’ll drive you to your follow-up tomorrow. Make sure you don’t get that hand wet…” I closed my eyes. My phone screen lit up with a message from my attorney: The divorce agreement is ready. Shall I mail it over? I typed back: Send it. 2 The next morning, I began to pack. It wasn’t a dramatic, noisy clean-out; I did it in quiet, deliberate increments. My passport and ID went into my shoulder bag. A few favorite novels were tucked into the bottom of my suitcase. I took our framed photos off the bookshelf and slid them between layers of sweaters. Before heading out, Elliott passed the study and caught me. “What are you doing?” “Just putting away some winter clothes,” I said. He muttered an “okay,” completely incurious, grabbed his keys, and left. Once the front door clicked shut, I went to the living room and took down our wedding portrait. In the photo, we were laughing, radiant. That was before Hannah’s accident. Back when his eyes still lit up when he looked at me. Hannah—Bella’s older sister, and Elliott’s childhood sweetheart. Three years ago, she died instantly in a car crash. I was the last person to see her alive. I had been right there when the car swerved. I reached out, tried to grab her coat, but she slipped right through my fingers. And Elliott had decided, from that moment on, that her death was my fault. I tried to explain. Dozens of times. He never believed me. Eventually, I stopped trying to argue and chose to prove my devotion through silence and presence instead. That winter, when he went on a self-destructive bender after the funeral, I searched the freezing city streets for him all night. I slipped on a patch of black ice, shattering my kneecap—an injury that would plague me for the rest of my life. But to Elliott, it was nothing. In his mind, I owed Hannah a life, and no amount of sacrifice would ever balance the scale. … Around noon, my lawyer called. “Norah, I want to confirm the division of assets. The condo, the cars, the savings accounts—you’re legally entitled to half of everything.” “I don’t want any of it,” I said. “I just want it clean and fast.” The lawyer paused. “Are you absolutely sure?” “Yes.” I hung up and slid my packed suitcase into the deepest corner of the closet, draping a few heavy winter coats over it. When Elliott came home that evening, I was sitting on the couch with the TV on. He seemed to be in a good mood. He kicked off his shoes, walked over, and sat down right next to me. Then, right in front of me, he pulled out his phone and sent Bella a voice note. “Hey, Bella, I’ll take you to your appointment tomorrow. Don’t bother calling an Uber.” His voice was soft, the tone you’d use with a fragile child. He was waiting for my reaction. I knew him too well. Before, every time he flaunted his tenderness for Bella, my eyes would well up. I’d ask him, voice trembling, Why do you have to do this? And he’d give me that cold, dismissive look and say, Bella is Hannah’s sister. It’s my responsibility to look after her. If you didn’t have a guilty conscience, why would it bother you so much? It was his ultimate weapon. Using Hannah’s ghost to silence me. But this time, I didn’t even look up from the screen. He waited a few seconds, put his phone away, and eyed me from the side. “You’re awfully quiet today.” “Just tired,” I said. He let out a dry chuckle, leaning back and crossing his legs. I knew exactly what he was thinking. He thought I was playing a game, building up to a dramatic explosion. He thought I would bring up divorce again, throw a tantrum, and then, after a couple of days of his cold shoulder, break down and beg him to stay. That was how it always went. He was confident. He thought if he ignored me long enough, I’d fall back into line. In the long stretch of silence, I spoke up. “Elliott.” “Yeah?” “If I actually left one day… would you miss me?” He turned to look at me, a confident, almost mocking smile playing on his lips. “Could you actually bring yourself to?” Those five words, tossed out so casually, as if the very idea of me leaving was a joke. He was so sure of his hold on me. Sure that every threat of divorce was just a desperate plea for attention. I glanced down at my phone. A notification was waiting on the screen: Your transfer request has reached final review. Expected processing time: 1-2 business days. I locked the screen and gave him a soft smile. “Right. How could I ever leave?” Satisfied, he turned back to the TV and flipped the channel, looking like a man who had easily won a battle he didn’t even have to fight. I stared at his profile and thought: Two days left. 3 The night of our company’s annual gala, I was awarded Project Manager of the Year. It was my final moment of recognition in this city. Before I went up, Jess, a younger colleague, helped smooth down the hem of my dress. “This is your night, Norah. Enjoy it.” I smiled, keeping the secret that in seventy-two hours, I’d be gone. The event was held at a high-end hotel downtown. When my name was called, the ballroom erupted into applause. Standing under the warm spotlight with the heavy glass trophy in my hands, my eyes caught a familiar figure in the far corner of the room. Elliott was here. Bella was holding his arm, the two of them seated at a table near the back. He had come, but not for me. I looked away and focused on delivering my speech. Afterward, colleagues swarmed me with congratulations. As I was clinking glasses with my director, a sweet, familiar voice sounded from behind. “Norah! Congratulations!” Bella walked up, holding a glass of juice, her smile bright. Elliott stood a step behind her, his face a cool, unreadable mask. “Thank you,” I said, offering a polite nod. Bella stepped closer, leaning in to lower her voice so only I could hear. “You’re so successful, Norah. I’m honestly jealous. I’m so useless at everything, I have to rely on Elliott for literally everything.” She paused, her eyes crinkling. “Hannah used to say the same thing—that you were the most fiercely independent woman she’d ever met.” Hannah again. Every time she invoked her sister’s name, Elliott’s demeanor changed. Sure enough, his jaw tightened instantly. In the past, I would have swallowed my pride and stayed silent. But tonight was my last night in this room. “Bella,” I said, my voice quiet but perfectly clear. “Do you honestly believe you can replace your sister?” Her smile froze. “To Elliott, Hannah is an untouched memory. But you?” I took a slow sip of my wine. “You’re just a convenient shadow he keeps around so he doesn’t have to let her go.” Bella’s face drained of color. Her eyes welled with tears as she turned to Elliott. “Elliott…” Elliott’s expression turned incredibly dark. He glared at me, his eyes cold as ice. “Norah, what did you just say?” “I’m just speaking the truth.” He let out a harsh laugh, turned on his heel, and walked straight toward the podium at the front. I didn’t realize what he was planning until he picked up the microphone. The room fell into a hush. “Excuse me, everyone,” his voice carried through the speakers, quiet but loud enough for every ear in the room. “Regarding the project that was just awarded, I’d like to clarify something. The sustainable research station project that Norah managed actually relied heavily on Bella’s data modeling in the early stages. The credit shouldn’t go to just one person.” A collective murmur swept through the crowd. Dozens of eyes shifted to me. My fingers went white around the glass of my trophy. It was a lie. I had spent eight grueling months working on that project entirely on my own. Bella had merely handled basic logistics; she had never even touched the database. But Elliott had said it. In front of my entire company. At the peak of my professional achievement, he had personally dragged me down from the pedestal and thrown me into the dirt. The whispers rose like a tide. “So she didn’t even do it herself?” “That explains why Bella was so quiet about it…” “How humiliating…” Bella stood behind Elliott, her head bowed, her shoulders trembling slightly as if she were crying. It was an Oscar-worthy performance. I stood frozen, a crushing pain squeezing my chest. Not because of the lost credit. Because of him. He could ignore me, he could withhold his love, he could treat Bella like royalty. But he had no right to take away the one thing I had left—my dignity, my hard work—and ruin it in front of everyone. I quietly set my glass down and walked out. I didn’t explain, and I didn’t argue. As I pushed open the exit doors, my phone buzzed. A text from my lawyer: The petition has been filed. His refusal to sign won’t halt the proceedings. Right beneath it was a system notification: Your transfer paperwork is complete. Please report to the Charleston branch within 72 hours. Seventy-two hours. Three days. Leaning against the cold corridor wall, my leg shook with pain, and my eyes burned. In three days, none of this would matter anymore. 4 It was nearly eleven when I got back. I pulled the suitcase out from the back of the closet and began packing the last of my things. My passport, some documents, a few changes of clothes. The suitcase was small, but I didn’t have much I wanted to take with me anyway. Midway through packing, the front door opened. Elliott was back. I quickly slid the suitcase back into the closet and pulled the coats over it. He pushed the bedroom door open and leaned against the frame, watching me. “Are you still mad?” I didn’t turn around. “No.” “Norah,” he said, walking into the room, his voice tinged with irritation. “I only said those things because you crossed a line with Bella. You know what happened to her sister, yet you still go out of your way to hurt her—” “I understand,” I interrupted him. “I shouldn’t have said it.” He paused, clearly taken aback by how easily I conceded. Usually, after an argument, I’d cry, throw questions at him, and let it drag out. Tonight, I was entirely placid. He studied me for a long moment, his eyes scanning the bedroom. The bookshelf was lighter. The vanity table looked sparser. “What are you packing up?” My heart fluttered. “Just rotating my wardrobe for the season. Putting away the heavy things.” He didn’t press further, turning on his heel toward the bathroom. I let out a slow breath and slipped my passport deep into my purse. The next day, I went to the office to finalize my departure. When I returned, Elliott wasn’t home, so I decided to cook one last dinner. Braised ribs, sautéed greens, and melon soup. He arrived at seven. Seeing the spread, he raised an eyebrow. “Is it my birthday or something?” “Just had some free time,” I replied. He sat down and took a few bites, his mood lifting. He probably thought the incident from last night was behind us, that I was “once again” bowing my head to keep the peace. Halfway through the meal, he said, “Bella’s birthday is next week. Don’t say things like that to her again.” “Okay.” “If you apologize to her, we can just put this behind us.” “Okay.” He nodded, satisfied, and reached for another rib. After dinner, he went to his study to handle emails while I washed the dishes, wiping down the counters until they shone. At nine-thirty, I went into the study to grab my charger. Elliott looked up from his screen. “What’s that folder on your desk?” My chest tightened. On the desk lay a clear plastic sleeve containing my transfer confirmation, which I’d brought home that afternoon. “Just work stuff,” I said, picking it up. “Final project handovers.” He muttered a vague sound and looked back at his monitor. I slipped the folder into my bag, my palms slick with sweat. That was close. By eleven, he was asleep. I stood by the bed, watching him for a long time. I remembered our first year of marriage, how he used to kiss my forehead before sleeping and whisper, Goodnight, sweetheart. He had loved me then. But after Hannah died, that love twisted into resentment, a slow punishment. He had pushed me away again and again, always certain that no matter how far he threw me, I’d still come back. I quietly pulled my suitcase from the closet, zipped it closed, and walked to the living room. I laid the signed divorce papers on the coffee table. Next to them, I left a small note: I had nothing to do with what happened to Hannah. Believe me or don’t—it’s up to you. But this time, I’m truly leaving. Take care. I slid my wedding ring off my finger and set it on top of the note. At four in the morning, I rolled my suitcase to the front door. I took one last, long look at the apartment. Then, I closed the door quietly behind me. … At seven, Elliott woke up to find my side of the bed cold. He walked out to the kitchen to get some water and noticed the papers on the coffee table. He picked them up and scanned them. A divorce agreement. He let out a small laugh. “Again?” He tossed them onto the couch and pulled out his phone. Stop playing games. Just come home. The message failed to deliver. Norah has enabled friend verification. He dialed my number. The number you have dialed is no longer in service. He froze. Running into the bedroom, he yanked open the closet doors. It was half-empty. In the bathroom, all my skincare, my toothbrush, everything was gone. He walked back to the living room, picking up the papers, the note, and the gold band resting on it. His hands began to shake. He frantically called my office. “Norah? She finalized her resignation two days ago. She transferred to our South Carolina branch. Didn’t you know?” The memory of the plastic folder flashed in his mind. Just work stuff. Final project handovers. It had been her transfer confirmation.

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For five years, I hand-prepared premium, raw-food diets for the delicate, show-grade Ragdoll cats belonging to the elite social circle of the Heights. I charged them a neighborly rate of sixty dollars a portion. Then, the new summer intern decided to make a scene in our group chat. “Are you serious? Sixty dollars for a tiny container of minced meat?” she wrote, followed by a series of crying-laughing emojis. “Chicken breast costs less than ten dollars a pound! Is it really this easy to fleece wealthy women?” Before anyone could reply, she dropped a cute, wide-eyed kitten sticker. “From now on, I’ll handle the babies’ meals! Only twenty-five dollars a portion. I’m fresh out of college and don’t need the money—I just love animals and want to get to know you lovely ladies better~” Watching the members of the chat immediately start canceling their orders and leaving my group, I quietly locked my phone. A slow, genuine smile spread across my face. Finally. This thankless, money-losing chore was no longer my problem. 01 “I’ve left the group,” I replied to Vicky Davenport’s final direct message. Her response came almost instantly. “Don’t be so petty, Gwen. Lexie is just young and trying to help us save a little money.” “We appreciated your help over the years, of course. But none of us grows money on trees. You were making a fifty-dollar profit on every single box. You’ve taken enough from us these past few years, haven’t you?” “Let’s just go our separate ways from now on. And please, don’t go spreading rumors about us behind our backs.” I stared at the three consecutive bubbles on my screen. Without replying, I hit block. A second later, my phone vibrated with an incoming audio call. It was Lexie. The very intern who had just promised to underbid my life’s work for twenty-five dollars. I pressed accept. “Gwen, sweetie, please don’t be mad at me~” Lexie’s voice was sugary sweet, laced with a thin layer of condescension. “I honestly just couldn’t bear to see the ladies spending so much unnecessary cash.” “I can easily whip up those meat blends using cheap chicken scraps from the local butcher. It’s barely ten dollars for a whole batch. How did you sleep at night charging them sixty?” I looked down at the wooden crate sitting on my kitchen floor. Inside, packed in dry ice, was fresh New Zealand venison venison loin, flown in just this morning. Ragdolls are famous for their incredibly sensitive digestive systems. For five long years, I had never used cheap scraps. I used human-grade Australian rabbit and New Zealand venison. Each portion was meticulously balanced with Norwegian krill oil, natural taurine, and organic dietary fiber. Every batch underwent a seventy-two-hour deep-freeze sterilization process at minus sixty degrees. My cost per portion hovered around eighty dollars. At sixty dollars, I was losing money on every single order. Lexie kept babbling. “So, Gwen, could you send over your supplier contacts and let me know what grinder you use? Since you won’t be needing them anymore, we might as well share the resources. Think of it as good karma~” “We’re in the same field, after all. Surely you aren’t so small-minded that you’d hold a grudge?” “Sure,” I interrupted calmly. I copied the link to my New Zealand venison importer and sent it to her, along with the specification page for my commercial-grade, high-precision freeze-grinder. Three seconds passed. Lexie sent a voice note, her voice shrill and panicked: “Are you insane? A five-thousand-dollar grinder? And this meat is eighty dollars a pound? You’re deliberately trying to mess with me!” “They’re just rich, clueless women. You can throw any cheap meat in a blender and they won’t know the difference. Why are you acting like you’re above it all?” “A greedy scammer like you deserves to be cast out!” I blocked her number without a word. Then, I went through my contact list and deleted every single member of that neighborhood group. For years, they had fed their prized pets premium raw food funded by my own bank account, only to turn around and accuse me of gouging them. I was finally rid of them. My phone buzzed again. It was Dr. Evans, the director of the city’s most prestigious veterinary hospital. “Gwen, I have a major contract for you. Are you taking clients?” “Go on,” I said, leaning against my stainless-steel counter. “Mr. Harrington—the top CFA breeder—just imported a new line of champion-pedigree Ragdolls. They’re valued in the six figures, and he’s entering them in the national exhibition next month.” “He needs a custom, elite-tier raw diet. His standards are incredibly exacting.” I pulled on a pair of sterile gloves and looked at my pristine prep station. “I’ll take it.” “My base formula starts at three hundred a portion. For show-grade custom nutrition, it’s five hundred,” I quoted, giving him the actual market rate for my expertise. Dr. Evans didn’t hesitate. “Harrington doesn’t care about the price. He only cares about hiring the best veterinary nutritionist in the state. Come by the clinic tomorrow morning. He’s bringing the cats in for their baseline panels, and you can meet him.” “Sounds good.” After hanging up, I browsed the local community pet forum. Pinned right at the top of the homepage was a post Lexie had uploaded ten minutes prior. The title was bold and obnoxious: “Saving the pockets of our neighborhood queens! Unboxing my premium $25 custom cat food~” Beneath it was a gallery of nine photos. Large plastic tubs were filled with a dark, purplish-red meat paste. The texture looked coarse, with a greasy sheen on the surface and dark pools of separated blood pooling at the edges. The comment section was already flooded. Vicky Davenport had left the first comment. “Lexie, this is amazing! Look at that rich color. It looks so fresh!” “So much better than that pale, sickly-looking mush Gwen used to bring us.” Several other women quickly chimed in. “Exactly. When my cat ate Gwen’s food, his stool barely had any odor. That must mean he wasn’t digesting it properly.” “Twenty-five dollars for a massive tub. We were so blind to let ourselves get ripped off for so long.” “We’re signing up for a monthly subscription, Lexie! Let’s show that greedy Gwen that we won’t support scammers!” I stared at the screen, my expression cold. Ragdolls have incredibly fragile gastrointestinal tracts. The consequences of feeding them low-grade, contaminated meat would show up soon enough. But I wrote nothing. I closed the browser, turned back to my prep station, and began inventorying the premium ingredients for tomorrow’s consultation. 02 Lexie was practically living in her comment section, replying to every single post. “Thank you so much for the trust, ladies~” “Handcrafted with pure love for your fur babies! I’m just glad I could save you all from being taken advantage of!” “And honestly, who knows what those weird, mysterious powders some people add to their food actually are? Pure, natural meat is always best~” I scrolled past her photos with detached indifference. The dark, muddy color of her meat paste was a dead giveaway. It was clearly made from expired, freezer-burned trimmings sourced from a low-end distributor. My formulas were a pale, delicate pink because they consisted of pure rabbit loin and organic turkey breast. Dark, oxidized meat in raw pet food usually pointed to only one thing. Diana, the only woman from the old group who hadn’t joined the mass exodus, sent me a private message. She attached several screenshots from their main chat. In the screenshots, Diana had asked: “Lexie, why is the meat so dark? Will the cats get upset stomachs?” Lexie had replied with an innocent, wide-eyed emoji. “Oh, Diana, that’s just because it’s packed with natural iron!” “I went out of my way to get throat and neck trimmings directly from the slaughterhouse. It’s the absolute most nutrient-dense part of the animal!” “Most people can’t even buy this cut. I had to use a special family connection to get it~” Vicky Davenport immediately validated her. “Lexie goes above and beyond! Gwen would never spend her time sourcing such rich meat for us.” Diana sent me a long, hesitant voice note. “Gwen… are you sure this is safe to feed them? I opened the container Lexie delivered, and it smells incredibly metallic, almost rancid.” I typed out a direct, clinical response. “Neck trimmings are where the animal’s lymph nodes are concentrated.” “They are filled with metabolic waste, localized bacteria, and parasite cysts.” “Feeding unsterilized lymph tissue to a Ragdoll is a guaranteed path to acute gastroenteritis.” “If the meat contains salmonella or toxoplasma, it can easily be fatal.” Diana sent back a horrified emoji. “I’m throwing it out. I’m not feeding this to my baby.” “That’s your choice,” I replied, ending the conversation. The next morning, I arrived at Dr. Evans’s clinic right on time. In the private VIP suite, a refined man in his late forties was waiting beside several beautiful, large-boned Ragdolls. These cats were magnificent—perfectly proportioned with deep sapphire eyes and thick, silky coats. Mr. Harrington stood up and offered his hand. “Gwen. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” “Dr. Evans tells me you are the only nutritionist in the region capable of formulating a true competition-grade raw diet.” I set down the chilled samples I had brought. Inside the vacuum-sealed glass containers were pale, smooth pâtés of fresh venison and rabbit rib. “This is the baseline formula,” I explained. “Fortified with cold-extracted green-lipped mussel lipid and wild-caught krill oil.” Mr. Harrington took a small sterile spoon and offered a taste to his prized male, a massive champion named Poseidon. Poseidon was notoriously finicky, according to his files. But the cat sniffed the pâté once and immediately began licking the spoon clean, purring softly. Mr. Harrington’s eyes lit up. “Incredible. The moisture retention and texture are exceptional.” “I have twelve cats entering the national show next month. I want you to handle their entire dietary regimen.” “I’ve already wired a five-thousand-dollar deposit to your account.” My phone chimed in my pocket with the bank notification. “It’s a pleasure working with you, Mr. Harrington,” I said. On my way home, I stopped by my specialized cold-chain importer to pick up the fresh cuts for the coming week. As I drove, my phone buzzed repeatedly in the console. Diana was still forwarding screenshots from the neighborhood group. Vicky was boasting. “My sweet Casper just ate a whole bowl!” “He never ate this fast when we fed him Gwen’s bland food.” “Lexie really knows what she’s doing. Cats know quality!” Lexie had quickly jumped in. “I’m so happy Casper loves it! Like I said, those strange chemical powders the other seller used must have ruined the natural flavor.” “Cats naturally reject artificial additives. This is just a clean, raw detox~” The “strange chemical powders” she was referring to were high-grade probiotics and organic psyllium husk—essential for preventing bacterial overgrowth and blockages in raw-fed indoor cats. The other ladies were frantic to place orders. “Lexie, sign me up for a monthly plan!” “Me too! Daily hand-deliveries, please!” “You’re an absolute angel, Lexie!” I put my phone on silent, pressed down on the gas, and drove toward my private, temperature-controlled laboratory. 03 My workspace was silent save for the low, rhythmic hum of the cleanroom air filtration system. I changed into full protective gear, passed through the air shower to remove any micro-dust, and stepped into the sterile formulation room. Mr. Harrington’s twelve champions required diets balanced down to the exact gram. I washed the rabbit ribs under high-pressure purified water, trimmed away every trace of tough connective tissue, and fed them into my commercial grinder. I added the precise ratios of pure, clinical-grade supplements. The machine hummed smoothly, dispensing a pale pink, mousse-like blend. I portioned the meals into vacuum-sealed pouches, labeled each with the exact preparation date and nutritional breakdown, and placed them into the blast freezer at minus seventy-six degrees Fahrenheit. Only this extreme temperature could completely eliminate any potential pathogens or parasites. After four hours of intense, uninterrupted labor, I pulled off my gloves and checked my phone. My screen was covered in notifications. Diana had sent over a dozen frantic text messages in the last thirty minutes. I opened the first one. “Gwen! Vicky’s cat is having severe diarrhea!” The next message followed immediately. “It’s not just Vicky. Lydia’s British Shorthair is projectile-vomiting all over her house!” I opened the attached screenshots of the neighborhood group chat. Vicky had uploaded a picture of her litter box. The stool was a watery, foul-looking yellow-brown mess. She had tagged Lexie. “Lexie, is this normal? Casper has never had loose stools like this before.” Lexie’s reply was instantaneous. “Oh, Vicky, don’t worry! Loose stool is a classic sign of a healthy detox reaction~” “Your baby has been eating Gwen’s chemical-laden food for years, so his system is full of built-up toxins.” “My natural raw diet is just purging his digestive tract.” “Keep feeding him the transition meals, and his system will be completely clean in a few days!” The explanation was medically absurd. But Vicky bought it completely. “That makes sense. Heaven knows what kind of garbage Gwen was actually putting in those containers!” “You’re so right, Lexie. Detox is a good thing. I’ll give Casper another portion tonight to help him flush it out.” Lydia chimed in. “My cat’s stool smells absolutely horrific today, but it must be the toxins leaving his body.” “Thank goodness we found Lexie. Otherwise, our cats would still be slowly poisoned by Gwen.” I locked my screen. In Ragdolls, persistent soft stool is the first warning sign of severe mucosal lining damage in the intestines. Continuing to feed them unsterilized, bacteria-laden lymph tissue would inevitably lead to hemorrhagic enteritis. But they had made their choice. I packed Mr. Harrington’s custom orders into a specialized cooler and scheduled a professional cold-chain courier to deliver them. Two hours later, Mr. Harrington sent me a video. His twelve pristine Ragdolls were licking their bowls spotless. Not a single cat showed any signs of discomfort. His voice message was filled with quiet satisfaction. “Gwen, this blend is spectacular.” “I can already see a difference in their coats. You truly are an artist.” “Keep this up, and we’ll take every ribbon at the show,” I replied. By eleven that night, I had shut down the laboratory and was preparing to turn in. Suddenly, my phone screen began to flash violently. The chime of incoming alerts was relentless. Diana had sent a video. It was shaky and out of focus. Vicky’s thirty-thousand-dollar champion Ragdoll, Casper, was collapsed on the floor beside his litter box. His hind legs were twitching weakly. The floor around him was covered in bloody fluid mixed with undigested, dark red meat. The cat was foaming at the mouth, his chest heaving in shallow, spasmodic gasps. Diana’s voice notes were high-pitched with panic. “Gwen! Look at this! Casper is dying!” “Vicky is losing her mind in the group!” “Lexie is claiming it’s because of some delayed poison you left in the cat’s system!” “She’s telling everyone you used toxic preservatives that slowly destroyed his liver over the years, and it’s only showing up now!” 04 I opened the screenshots Diana had forwarded. The neighborhood pet group had descended into absolute madness. Vicky had posted several panicked voice notes, her voice cracking with tears. “Casper can’t stand up! He’s throwing up blood!” “He’s a champion-line import! He cost me thirty thousand dollars!” “The show is next month! What do I do? Someone help me!” Lexie had immediately jumped in to redirect the blame. “Vicky, take a deep breath! This is absolutely not because of my fresh meat!” “I watched the butcher cut it myself!” “This is definitely a delayed reaction to whatever Gwen was feeding him for years!” “A chronic liver toxicity like this only shows up when the body finally tries to heal itself!” She added a crying emoji. “Gwen must have known I was taking over the business, so she left a slow-acting poison in her last batches. How can anyone be so malicious?” The other women immediately turned their fury on me. “Call the police! She needs to be arrested!” “To think we trusted her for years. This is animal abuse!” “My cat threw up bile today too! It’s definitely Gwen’s fault!” I went back to the video Diana had sent and zoomed in on the pool of bloody discharge. Near the edge of the fluid, tiny, pale, translucent threads were writhing slowly. Roundworms. A classic, textbook consequence of feeding raw, unsterilized meat that had never been subjected to professional flash-freezing. But raw parasites alone wouldn’t cause immediate foaming at the mouth and hind-limb paralysis. That level of acute neurological distress and systemic collapse pointed to a severe, systemic salmonella infection that had triggered acute hemorrhagic pancreatitis. That thirty-thousand-dollar cat was already halfway to the grave. Suddenly, my screen lit up with a notification from the group. Lexie had tagged my secondary account—the one I had left in the group chat to observe. “@Gwen, why are you hiding? Come out and face us!” “What kind of poison did you feed these innocent animals?” “Casper is in critical condition. You are going to pay every dime of his vet bills!” “I knew you were a fraud from the start, but this is downright criminal!” Vicky followed immediately. “Gwen, if Casper dies, I will sue you for everything you own!” “Show yourself and pay for what you did!” “You’re a sick, twisted monster who doesn’t deserve to be near animals!”

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