I spent twenty-five years completing a quest for Arthur Sterling, and he finally proposed. On our wedding day, his “One That Got Away” crashed the ceremony. “Arthur, you won! I’m divorcing him. Don’t marry her…” I begged Arthur not to go, but he left anyway. “Quest failed. The target will now be terminated.” The next second, Arthur died in the arms of his first love. 01 Before the wedding, I asked Arthur a question as a joke: “If Seraphina showed up today and asked you to leave with her, would you go?” Arthur touched my hair with a faint, unreadable smile. “Don’t worry. She won’t come.” That answer sounded more like he was convincing himself than me. I didn’t stop. “But what if she actually did?” A flicker of hope flashed across his face for a split second, but he quickly masked it with his usual gentle tone. “Don’t be silly, Clara. Stop overthinking.” He knew that every time he softened his voice, I would surrender. But this time, I didn’t stay quiet. “Arthur, I’m begging you. No matter what happens today, can we just finish the ceremony? Please.” Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Clara, enough. Seraphina is married. She isn’t coming to crash a wedding. Get it through your head.” 02 I didn’t want to be this pathetic. I just wanted to live. I am a “Task-Taker.” My first mission was to win over Arthur Sterling and get him to marry me. The task wasn’t actually that hard. It didn’t even require him to love me—it just required us to be legally married before he turned thirty. To complete this, I transmigrated into this world when Arthur was five. Back then, he wasn’t the powerful CEO he is now. He was just the son of a live-in housekeeper, living in the basement of the Vance estate. To stay close to him, I had the System arrange for me to be the daughter of another servant. I grew up with him. I walked through the awkwardness of puberty by his side. We met at 5:00 AM every morning to study, pushing and encouraging each other. We both wore twenty-dollar sneakers and shared one-dollar hot dogs from the street corner. We were poor, but we weren’t insecure. Because we were each other’s backbone. At twenty, we were both accepted into the best university in the country with top scores. On the day we got our acceptance letters, the sun was hanging low on the horizon. The golden hour glowed over the campus track. Arthur turned red and finally took my hand. “Clara, I’m so glad you’re in my world.” 03 Back then, I was glad too. I thought my target was a fearless, loyal boy. Until Seraphina Vance came back from abroad. Everything changed. Seraphina’s father donated a building to our university, and she became our classmate overnight. She was radiant, loud, and free—the ultimate “it-girl.” Among the crowd of boys who fell for her, Arthur was the only one who didn’t look. So, on her first day, Seraphina decided to hunt him. If Arthur was ice, Seraphina was a wildfire. She was determined to melt him. At first, Arthur hated her. He saw her as a spoiled brat who knew nothing of the real world. He told her many times that he loved me, that I was the anchor of his life. But Seraphina didn’t care about rules. She was like a stubborn little heifer, slowly plowing her way into Arthur’s heart. 04 Every day, Seraphina brainwashed Arthur, telling him that what he felt for me was just “friendship.” “You and Clara are just a habit,” she’d say. “That childhood sweetheart stuff is just comfort. Real love is a craving, a fire, a disaster.” “When you two hold hands, it’s probably like your left hand holding your right.” I tried to stop it. But after a decade of companionship, our chemistry was so natural that it lacked the “spark” Seraphina kept talking about. The more I tried to prove her wrong, the more I seemed to prove her right. Arthur and I were both too afraid to break the status quo. Finally, Seraphina forced his hand. At the university’s anniversary gala, she grabbed a guy who had just confessed to her and kissed him right in front of Arthur. That night, the volcano in Arthur finally erupted. I saw him pin Seraphina against a wall in the shadows, desperately devouring her lips. Seraphina got what she wanted. Arthur and I went back to being “just friends.” 05 Later, Seraphina brought Arthur home to the Vance estate. That was the first time I saw the refined Mr. Vance lose his temper. It was also the first time I saw insecurity in Arthur’s eyes. Mr. Vance’s disapproval didn’t pull them apart; it made them cling tighter. So, Mr. Vance cut off Seraphina’s trust fund. In just one month, Arthur’s life savings from his part-time jobs were gone. He borrowed money from me several times. He even did something he never did before: he asked his mother for nearly three thousand dollars. You have to understand, we had been supporting ourselves on scholarships since high school. His mother called me in secret, asking if Arthur was in trouble. I could only lie and say he was starting a tech business and needed capital. In reality, I knew that entire “war fund” was spent because Seraphina wanted a vintage Chanel bag. When they finally broke up, it was ugly. Seraphina couldn’t understand why Arthur gave her such an attitude over an eight-thousand-dollar pair of heels. After all, she used to wear eighteen-thousand-dollar ones. Arthur grit his teeth and said nothing. I knew that he didn’t stop loving her; he just felt he wasn’t “worthy” of owning her anymore. 06 Five years ago, the Vance family’s empire began to sink. But Arthur’s tech startup was beginning to shine. The Vances put out word that they were looking for a strategic marriage alliance. Arthur went there with high hopes, only to be slapped by reality again. Even as a sinking ship, the Vance family was still higher than Arthur could reach. In the end, Seraphina married the second son of the Blackwell family—an old-money dynasty. Arthur started drinking every night. He lived like a hollow shell of a man. I handled the mess at his company during the day and picked him up from bars at night. Every time he was drunk, his face flushed, I would remember the boy under the sunset. It hurt. Back then, he must have truly thought we were enough. 07 Two months before Arthur’s thirtieth birthday. I had given up on the quest. News broke that Seraphina and the Blackwell heir were having a messy divorce. I said goodbye to my mother, planning to travel the world. But Arthur dropped to one knee and proposed to me. After so many years of waiting, getting what I wanted should have made me happy. But I couldn’t tell anymore if I was happy to live, or happy to be with him. Before the wedding, I asked him again and again if he really wanted to marry me. He was always certain. Except when I asked about Seraphina. He couldn’t even manage a lie then. But I didn’t care anymore. As long as the wedding happened, my task was complete. 08 Throughout the ceremony, my heart was in my throat, terrified of a glitch. Arthur was also distracted, as if he were waiting for something. Finally, during the exchange of rings, Seraphina appeared. It was like the butcher’s knife finally falling. I felt a strange sense of relief. “Arthur, you won! I’m leaving him. Don’t get married…” To stay alive, I made one last move. I grabbed the edge of Arthur’s sleeve. “Arthur, please don’t go. Remember what you promised me?” I was so close. Just a few more minutes and I would have lived. Arthur looked at me with an apologetic face, but he brushed my hand away and walked toward his obsession. “I’m sorry, Clara.” “The truth is, I only agreed to this wedding because Seraphina said she wasn’t worthy of me now that she’s a divorcee. I wanted to spite her…” “I thought if I was also a ‘second-timer,’ she wouldn’t feel so insecure.” “I thought about it, and you were the only friend I could ask for a favor this big…” I looked coldly at the man who had been my world for twenty-five years. I didn’t want to say another word. “System, I forfeit the quest.” System: [Are you sure?] “Confirmed.” System: [Quest failed. The target will now be terminated.] Me: “?” Arthur: “Wait—” 09 The moment the System’s notification rang in my head, my mind went blank. Before I could even process it, Arthur’s eyes lost focus. He collapsed right into Seraphina’s arms. Seraphina didn’t realize he was dead yet. She hugged him like a peacock that had won its mate, her voice full of triumph: “Arthur, I knew it. I knew if I turned around, you’d be right here waiting.” She leaned in to kiss him. Her dark eyes looked straight past Arthur at me—full of disdain and provocation. I knew she was smug. In her mind, Arthur was her dog, and I was Arthur’s. For years, she had looked down on me with a natural sense of superiority. But Seraphina, you’re kissing a corpse… 10 At that moment, the only table of guests—Arthur’s “friends”—started whistling and cheering. Some even popped confetti cannons. Bang! Bang! Arthur had probably anticipated the crash, and because Seraphina was still legally married, he had only invited a few close confidants. People who knew all about their messy history. I hadn’t invited my mother. I was afraid something would go wrong, and I didn’t want her to see me die at my own wedding. The only person I invited was my lawyer. He was currently holding his phone, recording this “touching” scene. My original plan was that if the quest failed and I died on stage, my lawyer would immediately leak the footage to the media. I even had the headline ready: “Married Socialite Crashes Wedding; Groom and Mistress Team Up to Kill Bride with Heartbreak.” But I didn’t expect… Arthur to be the one who died! 11 Seraphina kissed him for a long time before she finally noticed the grey, deathly pallor on Arthur’s face. Panic seized her. She pushed him away instinctively. Thud! Arthur fell back stiffly, his head hitting the marble floor of the hotel with a sickening crack. Blood began to pool around him… The System’s cold voice rang out again: [Now he’s definitely dead.] As soon as the words fell, I saw Arthur’s soul slowly drift out of his body. He looked at the corpse on the floor in utter disbelief… And then at Seraphina, who was currently bent over, projectile vomiting in horror. 12 Chaos erupted. Someone called 911, and someone else started CPR on Arthur. I stood there in my wedding dress, calm as a statue, standing by Arthur’s body. Arthur’s ghost floated near me. Seeing that I wasn’t shedding a single tear, his face turned livid. “Clara, I’m dying, and you won’t even cry?” He let out a cold scoff. “Twenty-five years, and your feelings are this cheap? When I wake up, we are through. Not even friends.” I continued to act as if I couldn’t see or hear him. I just sat there, expressionless. Meanwhile, Seraphina finally stopped vomiting and caught her breath. Tears began to stream down her face, one by one. She looked like a broken doll. Seeing her cry, Arthur’s angry expression softened instantly. He murmured, “Seraphina must be devastated…” “If I’m gone, how will she survive?” 13 Ring! Ring! An abrasive ringtone pierced the air. Seraphina’s hand was shaking as she answered the phone. A powerful male voice drifted from the speaker: “I thought we were doing the divorce papers? I’m at the courthouse…” Seraphina’s pale face flashed with panic. She took a few steps away from the crowd. Arthur froze. His ghost reflexively reached out to grab her hand. He grabbed thin air. Seraphina suppressed her sobs and whispered into the phone, “Victor, I’m sorry! I don’t want the divorce anymore…” “The divorce thing was just to make you jealous. I wanted to see if you cared.” Arthur, hearing this, stared at the woman he worshiped like a god. How could those words come out of her mouth? No, she must have a reason. She’s being forced, he thought. He tried to stop her as she walked away, but he passed through her body over and over again. “Seraphina, please don’t go. Look at me… I’m dying…” When he couldn’t stop her, he tried to follow her out of the building, but an invisible barrier blocked him. Arthur’s soul was tethered to me! In the end, he could only watch as Seraphina fled the hotel in a hurry. 14 The hotel Arthur chose was quite remote. It took the ambulance twenty minutes to arrive. When Arthur’s body was loaded into the ambulance, his “friends” immediately made excuses about urgent business and refused to go to the hospital. “Hey, Chloe, call us if you need anything at the hospital. We’re all brothers here.” That was Arthur’s “best friend.” When I didn’t respond, he sheepishly closed the ambulance doors. On the way to the hospital, Arthur’s soul sat silently in the corner. I suppose even he didn’t expect his loyal band of brothers to be so cold-hearted. I closed my eyes and summoned the System in my head. “System, why was it Arthur who got terminated?” “The System’s name is: Blame Others, Not Yourself.” “You worked hard for 25 years and couldn’t win him over. That’s clearly his fault. So, we delete the problem.” I grit my teeth. “Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?” System: “You didn’t ask.” “Your name is very accurate…” 15 At the hospital, after a series of failed resuscitation attempts, Arthur was pronounced dead. His soul was still trying to climb back into his body. He screamed, he cried, he threw a tantrum for a long time before he finally accepted the reality of his death. I took the body to the funeral home. I sent out the obituaries to a few close contacts, notifying them of the funeral tomorrow. After finishing the arrangements, I called my mother. “Mom, I want to visit Mrs. Sterling today. Are you coming?” My mom sounded confused. “It’s only the 10th. You usually go on the 15th.” Arthur’s ghost froze. “Clara, you visit my mom every month?” I stayed silent for a moment. “Mom, there’s something I need to tell you. Get ready… Arthur is dead.”

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I won a $50 million lottery jackpot, and I begged my best friend not to tell my family. She smiled and promised she wouldn’t, but the second I turned my back, she told my older brother. My brother demanded I give him the money to buy a house and get a wife. When I refused, my family emotionally blackmailed me and used a live stream to whip up a cyberbullying mob against me. They locked me in a room, starved me to death, and then bricked my body into the walls of their newly built house. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the exact day the winning numbers were drawn. My best friend smiled at me and asked, “Harper, did you win?” 01 Madison walked toward me, holding her lottery ticket. I narrowed my eyes at her. In my past life, we had been out shopping when I suggested we buy a couple of lottery tickets just for fun. I never expected to actually win the $50 million Mega Millions jackpot. At the time, we were just about to graduate college. My family had cut off all my financial support after I started school, and I was stressing over how to afford rent. That money was a literal lifesaver. After claiming the prize and paying taxes, I donated a portion, leaving me with about $35 million. Because Madison was my best friend, I even gave her $2 million. I begged her over and over not to pick up my brother’s calls and absolutely not to tell my family. She promised she wouldn’t. But when my brother called me at work demanding money and I told him I was broke, she blurted out: “Harper won $50 million! She even donated 5 million of it. She has plenty of money!” When my brother heard that, his eyes turned bloodshot. He choked me, threatening to kill me if I didn’t give him $35 million to buy a luxury house and a wife. I told him all my money was locked in long-term certificates of deposit and couldn’t be withdrawn. But he kept showing up constantly, harassing me and threatening me to go to the bank. I finally quit my job and fled out of state. But my family started doing live streams, crying to the internet that I was an ungrateful, unfilial daughter who struck it rich and abandoned her family. They played the victims perfectly, winning the internet’s sympathy. Their followers doxxed my address. They sent me funeral wreaths. They Photoshopped my face onto obituaries. They mailed me dolls covered in fake blood. My family eventually tracked me down and physically forced me to transfer all the money to my brother. And after they got what they wanted, they locked me in a house and starved me to death. Ultimately, my brother bought a mansion in the city and married Madison. With my money, the two of them lived a life of absolute luxury. Meanwhile, my parents tore down our old family home to build a new one, and my corpse was bricked directly into the foundation walls. I would never be found. So, in my past life, Madison did it on purpose. And in this life, I am going to make every single one of them pay the ultimate price! 02 Watching her walk closer, I pretended to be busy packing my luggage. “The odds are one in a billion. How could I possibly win?” She stopped and stared at me intensely for a few seconds. “Oh, really?” I finished packing my things, looked up, and met her eyes directly. “Yeah.” “Then where’s your ticket? You haven’t taken it out.” I had forgotten. In my past life, it was Madison who dragged me over, dug the ticket out of my bag, and checked the numbers one by one. When we realized I won, she looked even more excited than I was. But her smile vanished almost immediately, replaced by a dark murmur: “I’m so jealous. I wish I had picked that ticket.” It was just a spur-of-the-moment decision to walk into that gas station. We both just asked for random Quick Picks. When the clerk handed the tickets over, Madison grabbed hers first. She specifically picked the one with an ‘8’ in the sequence, telling me it was a lucky number. Then she shoved the other ticket into my hand. In my past life, I had laughed and said that if I won five bucks to cover the cost of the ticket, I’d be happy. Neither of us expected it to be the $50 million jackpot. I think… the moment Madison’s smile vanished in my past life, the moment she realized I had the winning ticket, was the exact moment she started plotting against me. How could she possibly be satisfied with just the $2 million I gave her? In her eyes, she was only one choice away from holding that ticket herself. Therefore, she believed all that money rightfully belonged to her. So, facing her interrogation now… I generously pointed toward the door. “I threw it in the dumpster outside. Do you want to go dig it out and check?” 03 Madison didn’t go. The next day, we packed up our dorm to go our separate ways. In my past life, because I won the jackpot, Madison insisted we live together. Thinking it would be nice to have my best friend around, I generously rented a massive luxury apartment and paid a full year’s rent upfront for both of us. But this time, facing her invitation to room together… I rejected it outright. “I found a cheap hostel. It’s only $50 a night, and I can pay day-by-day. Do you want to come?” Madison shot me a suspicious look. “Harper, why do I feel like you’ve been acting weird since yesterday? Did you actually win the lottery?” My heart skipped a beat. Then, I laughed out loud. “If I won the lottery, would I be miserable enough to live in a $50 hostel? But since you brought it up, want to go buy another ticket? Who knows, maybe it’ll change our destiny!” Madison gave an awkward, strained laugh and linked her arm through mine. “Oh, stop. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… you never showed me the numbers, so I feel like I don’t have closure.” “Stop overthinking it. Your family is local, right? Why would you even need to rent a place?” Madison leaned her head on my shoulder. “Because I want to live with you, duh.” I sneered internally: You just want to stick around to find out if I actually won. But I didn’t call out her hypocrisy. Instead, I pulled out my phone and called my older brother, Jackson. “Hey, Jackson. My college roommate actually has a huge crush on you.” “Yeah, Madison! The one you met before. But don’t tell her I told you. She’s super shy.” 04 Using the hostel as a cover, I went completely incognito to claim my prize. This time, I donated $10 million to charity. After taxes, I had exactly $30 million left in my bank account. I split the money into several different bank accounts for security. Then, I deliberately flaked on signing the employment contract for the job I had lined up, and started preparing my applications for grad school. But to my surprise, Madison still tracked me down. “Harper, I heard from the professor that you broke your employment contract. Why?” I was sitting in the hostel lounge, reading a textbook. I answered her casually, “I just decided I want to go to grad school.” “Are you sure you didn’t win the lottery and decide to retire?” I put the book down. “Look at my family. Do you really think I can afford to retire?” “Right. Has your brother been harassing you lately?” In my past life, Madison knew my family situation better than anyone. She knew I had wildly sexist parents who favored boys, and a useless, deadbeat brother who leeched off them and fully intended to leech off me. And yet, while constantly telling me how “sorry” she felt for me, she pushed me directly into the fire. I shook my head, grabbed Madison’s hand, and patted it. “My brother changed! He got a job at a massive tech company in Silicon Valley. I heard his starting salary is like $150k a year, and he has tons of girls chasing him.” Madison gasped, clearly not believing it. I pulled out my phone and handed it to her. She scrolled through. Jackson’s Instagram feed was suddenly full of photos of him working in a sleek office, and pictures of him posing next to a luxury car. I watched as she tapped to enlarge the car photo. I leaned in. “What kind of car is that? I don’t recognize the logo.” Madison pursed her lips. “That’s a Porsche. It costs over a hundred grand.” I quickly snatched the phone back. “That’s terrifying! If his salary is only $150k, how can he afford a car that expensive?” Madison looked thoughtful. “Do you think he suddenly came into some money?” Then she turned her head, looking at me with a faint, probing smile. “Harper, I saw a banner outside the gas station where we bought our tickets. It said someone won the $50 million jackpot. Who do you think it was?” I picked my book back up and chuckled. “How should I know? Hundreds of people buy tickets there every day.” But Madison suddenly leaned in close, making my skin crawl. “Harper, I went to the gas station. I asked the owner for the physical description of the winner.” My heart gave a violent jolt. Did she actually figure it out? 05 “Harper, what are you so afraid of?” Madison stared at me, a fake, chilling smile on her face. Maybe the trauma of my past life—giving her $2 million only for her to orchestrate my brutal murder—was too fresh. The memory of being slowly starved to death, the pure despair and helplessness, made my whole body tremble. For a split second, I genuinely thought she had been reborn alongside me. Otherwise, why was she so obsessively fixated on whether I won or not? I could have just taken my money and vanished, but then… what about them? They wouldn’t face any punishment. They wouldn’t get their karma. That wasn’t fair. I was going to take every ounce of agony I suffered and return it to them tenfold! Thinking of this, I stood up and looked her dead in the eye. “Madison, honestly… I lied to you.” In my past life, I begged her not to tell my family, and she betrayed me, leading to my agonizing death. This time, not only was I going to tell her, but I was going to redirect the target entirely. “Are you saying your brother took the money?” I nodded. I watched as Madison’s face cycled through a spectrum of colors. “He threatened me not to tell anyone, not even my parents. But you’re my best friend. I couldn’t bear to lie to you.” “But your brother’s credit is ruined. How could he even open a bank account to deposit it?” Madison was suspicious. She pretended to comfort me, but I saw the unmistakable glint of pure greed flashing in her eyes. “That’s the other secret. The money… is actually in my bank account.” “WHAT?!” Madison shrieked, losing her composure. There were too many people in the hostel lounge looking at us, so I pulled her out onto the balcony. I watched her expression morph into pure, giddy excitement. “Harper, we’re best friends forever, right?” I didn’t call out her disgusting hypocrisy. I just pretended to look heartbroken. “Of course! I was even thinking earlier, if I actually had access to the money, I would definitely give you 2 million dollars!” Madison looked at me with wild expectation. She probably didn’t even realize she was gripping my hand so hard it actually hurt. Just as she was at the peak of her excitement, I delivered the fatal blow: “But my brother took the debit card. You know what he’s like. He’s a deadbeat. If he has all that money, he’s just going to blow it all.” I faked a heavy sigh. Madison, breaking from her usual sympathetic act, asked urgently: “Can I look at his Instagram again?” I nodded and handed the phone over. She looked at it, quickly memorized Jackson’s username, and then practically ran out of the hostel. Her next move was glaringly obvious: she was going to seduce my brother. Which was exactly what I wanted. I dialed a number. “Mom, my classmate gave me some extra money. I’m transferring it to you. Give it to Jackson. We can’t let the only son in our family suffer, right?” 06 Madison didn’t contact me for the next few days, but I could tell from her social media that she and Jackson were definitely hitting it off. That night, Jackson showed up at my hostel. I secretly turned on my phone’s camera to record. Before I even got close, he raised his hand to slap me. I dodged it effortlessly. “Jackson, what are you doing?” “You little bitch, I’m out of cash!” I had previously advised him that chasing a rich city girl required spending big money. But where was that money going to come from? Predatory payday loans, obviously. I even generously provided him with a list of shady websites that approved loans instantly with just an ID. But given his atrocious credit score, he couldn’t borrow much. So if he wanted to keep playing the rich billionaire for Madison, he desperately needed more cash. “But I don’t have any money either!” I made my voice sound as pitiful and weak as possible. “If you don’t have money, go sell yourself! You’re in your twenties, you could make a fortune! Are you still a virgin?” My blood boiled. I wanted nothing more than to slap him across his smug face, but I held it back. “Jackson, how could you say something like that?!” He took a step forward and tried to drag me away. But there were people walking around, and Jackson didn’t dare cause a massive scene. I shook off his hand. “Fine, I’ll send you the $500 Madison just transferred to me.” “She gave you money?” Jackson narrowed his eyes at me. He was aggressively average-looking, but he was tall. Since we were kids, while I was malnourished, my parents stuffed him with the best food, so he grew into a towering, intimidating brute. I opened my banking app and transferred the money. “Madison is really nice. She helps me out financially all the time.” As he turned to leave, I called out to him and shoved a business card into his hand. “Jackson, there’s a contact on here. You can borrow $10,000, and the daily interest is only $10!” Jackson’s eyes lit up. He scoffed at me and walked away. 07 Madison asked me to go shopping for clothes. It was only then I remembered our college reunion was coming up. She was absolutely glowing. I smiled. Good. The fish took the bait. I walked over. “Madison, your skin looks amazing lately.” “Oh, really? It’s probably just the glow of being in a happy relationship.” I feigned shock. “You’re dating someone?! Since when?” Madison smiled mysteriously. “I’m going to announce it at the reunion! It’ll be a massive surprise! Now hurry up and help me pick out an outfit.” Watching her walk ahead, I sneered. Madison, the real show is just getting started. In my past life, after I claimed the jackpot, she dragged me to ultra-high-end luxury boutiques, telling me I had suffered for so long and deserved to treat myself. Following her advice, I bought a $1,500 pair of shoes, a $4,000 dress, and an $8,000 designer handbag. But that shopping spree ended up costing me my life. When Jackson came to extort me for money and started digging through my things, she conveniently blurted out: “Careful! Don’t ruin Harper’s $8,000 bag!” Jackson took the bag and immediately pawned it for cash. That was how they realized I could afford an $8,000 bag. She had been digging my grave from the very beginning. So this time, I deliberately took her to a high-end designer store and encouraged her to try things on. Clothes really do make the person. I relentlessly praised how incredible she looked, but when she checked the price tag—$8,000—she visibly flinched. It actually hurt her to look at it. I pretended to look devastated. “If only I had money. I would swipe my card and buy this for my best friend without blinking an eye.” “Never mind, Madison. Let’s just go to the outlet mall downtown.” Hearing the words “outlet mall,” Madison frowned in disgust. Seeing her still hesitating, I put on a pathetic face and turned to the sales associate. “Excuse me, this dress…” Before I could finish, Madison interrupted me loudly: “I’ll take it.” “Madison! You…” She patted my hand dismissively. I knew exactly what she was thinking. It was pure, unadulterated vanity. After all, you have to spend money to make money, right? I immediately snapped a photo and texted it to my parents: [An $8,000 dress, and she bought it without blinking! What kind of crazy rich family is she from?!] 08 At the college reunion, Madison’s arrival instantly stole the spotlight. I deliberately dressed as plainly as possible, making her look even more radiant and glamorous by comparison. In my past life, I could never understand why she was so hellbent on destroying me. Later, I finally understood. She never saw me as a friend. I was just an accessory. By keeping me around as her inferior, she fed her own ego. At her core, she was vain and money-hungry. She desperately craved validation from others. She just used the wrong methods to get it. Sure enough, everyone was whispering: “I just looked up Madison’s dress online. It’s $8,000!” “Oh my god. I thought her family was just middle-class. How can she afford that?” “Who knows? Maybe she bagged a sugar daddy.” Just as they were gossiping, Jackson appeared at the entrance of the restaurant. I pretended to be shocked. “Jackson, what are you doing here?!” But Madison beat me to it. She walked over, grabbed Jackson’s hand, and introduced him to the room: “Everyone, this is my boyfriend. You don’t mind if I brought a plus-one, right?” No one had any objections. I looked Jackson up and down. He must have maxed out those loan shark contacts. He was wearing head-to-toe designer logos, his hair was styled, and standing there, he actually looked the part of a wealthy tech bro. Someone in the crowd said, “Madison, you and Harper were already best friends, and now you’re literally family!” Madison loved the sound of that. So, she made Jackson foot the bill for the entire reunion dinner. When the party ended, Jackson invited some classmates who lived nearby to ride home in his rented Porsche. A few classmates eagerly accepted. The entire ride, they endlessly flattered the two of them. I sat in the back seat, watching Madison’s irrepressible smirk in the rearview mirror, and the corners of my own mouth curled up. The higher you fly, the harder you crash. I wondered what state she would be in when she finally learned the truth. 09 To watch a good show, you obviously need a safe, comfortable seat. I booked a suite at a five-star hotel. But I didn’t check out of the hostel. I went back every day, so if anyone asked, I could say I was pulling all-nighters at the library studying for grad school. So, when Jackson finally called me, his voice was explosive with rage: “You little bitch! Get your ass out here!” I guessed he had already caused a scene with the hostel security. And since he couldn’t find me, he was losing his mind. “Brother, what’s wrong?” “Madison told me you won $50 million and you gave it all to me!” My heart skipped a beat. So she finally asked him. I knew it. Madison’s motives for approaching Jackson were entirely impure. She wouldn’t ask him directly at first. But seeing him spend all that money on her, building this illusion of wealth built entirely on predatory loans, cemented her suspicions. Once their relationship felt stable, she definitely started dropping hints. I deflected the question. “I was just joking with her! She was acting obsessed with the lottery for days, so I just said it to calm her down. Besides, isn’t her family super rich?” “She dumped me!” Jackson snarled viciously. “But I didn’t let her go easy. I never wore protection once.” I was speechless. I guess it’s true what they say: it takes a monster to destroy a monster. Madison had been ignoring my texts. Jackson dragged me straight to Madison’s office building to confront her. She refused to come down, so Jackson started causing a massive scene in the lobby. Her boss eventually told her to handle her personal drama before returning to work, leaving her no choice but to come down and face us. In my past life, this was exactly how it happened. Jackson showed up at my office demanding money. But how did he know where I worked? Madison told him, obviously. When Jackson hit me, cursed at me, and threatened to kill me for the money… Madison pretended to comfort me, but every word was a hidden dagger. Especially that one line: “Harper won $50 million, and she even donated 10 million of it! She has plenty of money!” That completely pushed Jackson over the edge. And her? She stood next to me, looking like a flawless, innocent victim, saying, “Harper, don’t worry, I support whatever decision you make.” This time, I was going to let her taste the blade of betrayal. Seeing me, Madison’s facade finally broke, revealing her true, venomous face. “Harper Vance! Why did you lie to me?!” I blinked innocently, tears welling in my eyes. “Madison, I was doing it for your own good! You were obsessing over it every single day! It was a white lie! But wait… did you only date my brother for his money?” Madison’s face flushed a violent red, then went pale. Jackson lunged forward to grab her, but Madison sneered and dodged him. “Heh! Money? It was all borrowed! You broke, pathetic loser! Stay away from me! You disgust me!” Being humiliated like that, Jackson slapped her hard across the face. In the past, he used to beat me at home all the time. He took all his anger out on me. If he wasn’t banking on selling me off to a rich guy for a dowry, he probably would have beaten me to death. But now, the person getting beaten was Madison. Her eyes filled with tears. She scrambled up and tried to run. I quickly grabbed her arm. How could I possibly let her walk away so easily? I was going to make her stay and enjoy the agonizing humiliation I suffered in my past life! So, I held her wrist with one hand and pushed my brother with the other. “Jackson, you can’t hit people! I’m calling the cops!” Jackson was massive. He could lift me with one hand. He glared at me menacingly. I immediately shielded Madison. “Back off! Madison’s dress cost $8,000! Don’t you dare get blood on it!” Hearing “$8,000,” Jackson’s eyes turned blood red. He lunged past me, grabbed Madison by the throat, and roared, “You bitch! I gave you my money, and you spent it on an $8,000 dress?! And you have the nerve to call me broke?!” The truth was, she bought the dress with her own money, but he didn’t care. Madison’s face turned purple from being choked. I pretended to panic and ran forward. “Let her go! How can you say that to her? If she was only after your money, she never would have dated you in the first place!” That sentence silenced Madison entirely. She was too ashamed to explain the truth, especially with the crowd growing larger by the second, many of them pulling out their phones to record. She didn’t dare admit her intentions were impure, so she had no choice but to swallow the grievance. She even had to beg me: “Harper, save me.” Save you? Of course I’ll save you. Otherwise, how do we play the next round? I stepped back from the crowd and dialed 911. “Hello, police? There’s a violent assault happening here.” Then, I casually sent a text to my parents: [Jackson got arrested!] Taking advantage of the hours it would take them to commute from our hometown to the city, I had security cameras installed in my parents’ house.

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Spring break was just around the corner, and since the research project I’d been leading had finally cleared its final hurdle, I decided to take a week off. My first priority was finalizing the memorial arrangements for my late mentor, Professor Diane Halloway, before heading back to my hometown for some much-needed rest. Diane had been everything to me. She was a woman who had given her entire life to science, never marrying, never having children of her own. When she passed away after a long illness, I stepped up and took full responsibility for her final arrangements. I wanted her to have the dignity in death that she had earned ten times over in life. But when I arrived at the cemetery, the headstone at the premium plot I’d purchased didn’t bear her name. Instead, I was staring at a name I didn’t recognize at all. Confused, I hurried to the administrative office. The woman behind the desk didn’t even look up; she just kept clicking her mouse with an aggressive, rhythmic snap, her face twisted in a mask of bored disdain. “I checked the system,” she said, her voice flat. “Diane Halloway is up on the North Ridge. Row four, plot four.” “North Ridge?” I frowned. “I purchased a private plot in the South Gardens. Plot 6-6.” She finally looked up, her eyes raking over me with a sneer. “Look, honey, the Ridge is for the budget-conscious. Some people share the cost of a plot to keep it cheap. We call it ‘communal resting.’ It’s for the people who lived small and died smaller.” She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “I don’t know who you’re trying to impress, but that South Garden plot? That belongs to the mother-in-law of Elliott Thorne—the CEO of Thorne Industries.” I felt the world tilt on its axis. My breath hitched, caught in a throat that had suddenly gone bone-dry. Elliott. That was my husband. 1 The news hit me like a physical blow, leaving me breathless. The clerk turned back to her computer, resuming a Netflix show she’d paused. “Is there anything else? If not, I have work to do.” I stood there, paralyzed, my voice trembling as I forced the words out. “I’m sorry… what exactly is a… ‘communal plot’?” She rolled her eyes, the epitome of suburban malice. “It’s for the poor folks who can’t afford a real stone. They chip in and pile in together. One stone, six names. Efficiency at its finest.” She looked me up and down, taking in my tailored coat and designer bag. “You look like you’ve got money. It’s pretty cold to let your family rot in a shared grave. They didn’t have much in life, I guess, and now they’re cramped in death.” I took a deep breath, clutching my purse so hard my knuckles turned white. “Check the records again. Please. I am certain that South Garden, Plot 6-6, was reserved for Professor Diane Halloway.” The woman sighed, pivoted her monitor toward me, and tapped the screen. “Can you read? It says right here: Owner: Martha Jenkins. Paid for by: Elliott Thorne.” And there it was. His name. The man I had shared a bed with for nearly a decade. I walked toward the North Ridge, the bouquet of white lilies in my arms crushed against my chest. My mind was a static-filled void. When I finally reached the row and saw the photo on the small, crowded headstone, the tears I’d been holding back finally broke. It was a tiny square of granite. Six photos were plastered onto it like a cheap collage. Diane—the woman who had briefed presidents and pioneered breakthroughs that saved lives—was squeezed into the bottom corner. Dust and dried mud clung to the porcelain of her elegant, familiar face. It was real. The man I loved had taken the woman I revered and stuffed her into a bargain-bin grave. A group of teenagers with neon-dyed hair were standing around the plot. They had left empty soda cans and beer bottles on the grass. They were laughing, talking to one of the other names on the stone. “Hey man, happy holidays,” one of them said, cracking a fresh can. “We’re still saving up. Couple more years and we’ll get you out of this sardine can, I swear. We’ll get you that big house you always wanted.” I looked at the photo they were talking to—a boy with blue hair, barely twenty. He was Diane’s neighbor in death. The red-haired kid noticed me and gave a small, awkward wave. I didn’t say a word. I just stepped forward, knelt in the dirt, and used my silk handkerchief to wipe the grime off Diane’s face. “Are you with the lady in the corner?” the red-haired kid asked, surprised. “First time anyone’s come for her. We thought she didn’t have anyone left.” My heart twisted. Because of my research, I rarely took time off, but I had always trusted Elliott to handle the local details. Every holiday, every anniversary, he would tell me he’d visited her. He’d tell me the flowers were beautiful, that the site was peaceful. “You know this is a shared plot?” I asked, my voice thick. “That your friend is buried with strangers?” They looked at each other, confused. “Yeah, obviously. A plot down in the valley costs more than a house. We’re broke, lady.” I dug my nails into my palms. “How much did this… ‘share’ cost?” “Five grand,” the kid said. I stopped breathing. The plot in the South Garden—the one with the view of the lake—had cost me eight hundred thousand dollars. I said a quiet goodbye to the boys and walked back toward the front of the cemetery, my soul feeling like it had been hollowed out. As I approached Plot 6-6, I saw a woman standing there. She was tall, slender, and dressed in a way that screamed ‘new money.’ I stepped up behind her, my shadow falling across the polished marble. “Martha Jenkins,” I read the name aloud. My voice was a cold edge. “What is she to Elliott?” 2 The woman spun around. Her makeup was flawless, her outfit a curated collection of high-end labels. She looked me over with a sharp, territorial glare. “Who are you? And why are you hovering over my mother’s grave?” I stared at the black-and-white photo of the stranger on the stone, then back at her. “South Garden, Plot 6-6. I bought this land. I paid for this stone.” She blinked, then let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “You’re delusional. I’ve seen people fight over inheritance, but I’ve never seen a crazy person try to steal a grave.” I fought back the rage, my chest heaving. “I bought this plot in March of last year for my mentor, Diane Halloway. I don’t know why your mother is under this grass, but I intend to find out.” “Find out?” She stepped closer, her perfume cloying and expensive. “Go ahead. Elliott Thorne bought this for my mother. Personally. The contracts, the payments, the deed—it’s all in his name. Do you even know who Elliott Thorne is?” I remained silent. She leaned in, her voice a predatory whisper. “He’s the CEO of Thorne Industries. He’s also my boyfriend. He spent nearly a million dollars on this spot without blinking. He did it for me. So, I’ll ask again: who the hell are you?” The last shred of hope I’d been clinging to dissolved. I looked her dead in the eye. “I was Diane’s student,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “And I’m Elliott’s—” “Oh, Diane!” she interrupted, snapping her fingers. “I remember now. Elliott mentioned some old lady who died. One of his wife’s coworkers or something? He said he did the ‘charitable thing’ and found her a spot in the back. That was you? The charity case?” She looked at my crumpled flowers and the dirt on my knees. “Makes sense. You look like you belong on the North Ridge. Don’t come down here trying to grift. It’s pathetic.” Her words were like acid, but it was the betrayal that truly burned. I grew up without parents; Diane was my north star, my family, my everything. When I married Elliott, he had taken my hand in front of Diane and promised to cherish me. He told her, “Don’t worry, Professor. I’ll take care of her forever.” He promised to treat Diane like his own mother. Everything he had said was a lie. “What’s the problem here?” The clerk from the office had walked over, her expression shifting from bored to sycophantic the moment she saw the other woman. “Miss Elwinn! So good to see you. Are you here for your mother?” Elwinn. Melanie Elwinn. Melanie gestured toward me with a manicured hand. “This woman is claiming she bought the plot. Can you believe the nerve? You might want to call security; I think she’s off her meds.” The clerk turned to me, her face hardening. “You again? I told you, your person is in the back. Row four. Move along before I have you escorted out for harassment.” I gestured to the headstone, my voice shaking with suppressed fury. “I have the wire transfer records. I have the receipts. I can prove—” “Nobody cares about your ‘records,’” the clerk snapped. “Mr. Thorne was here himself when Mrs. Jenkins was laid to rest. He handled everything. We all saw him. Who are you compared to a man like that?” A security guard drifted over, nodding in agreement. “I remember that day. Mr. Thorne was very specific. He wanted the best view, said the old lady hadn’t had much luxury in life and he wanted her to go out in style. He was a real gentleman. Very devoted.” Melanie smirked, tapping her chin. “Hear that? Now, run along back to the pauper’s hills. That’s where people like you belong.” I didn’t move. I just looked at her. “Melanie Elwinn,” I said softly. “You used to be his assistant, didn’t you?” Melanie froze, her smirk faltering. “How do you know that? Who are you?” “Why don’t you call your ‘boyfriend’?” I replied, my voice devoid of emotion. “Ask him exactly who I am.” 3 Melanie stared at me for a long beat, her suspicion warring with her arrogance. I knew her, of course. Back when I was pulling eighteen-hour shifts in the lab, forgetting to eat, Elliott used to drive out to bring me dinner. Later, as his company grew, he started sending his assistant to drop off the bags of takeout. That assistant had been Melanie. The clerk shifted uncomfortably, whispering, “Miss Elwinn, maybe you should call him? Just in case…” “I’m not calling him,” Melanie snapped, though the bravado was leaking out of her voice. “Elliott is in the middle of a merger. He doesn’t have time for this trash. I know everyone in his circle—investors, partners, friends. I’ve never seen this woman in my life.” She looked at my plain clothes again—the sensible shoes and the lack of flashy jewelry. “Look at her. Elliott doesn’t associate with people who look like they shop at a clearance rack.” I looked at her designer labels and then down at my own functional attire. It was true that among my peers, Elliott’s background had been the least impressive. My colleagues had subtly suggested I could do better, but I had fallen for his sincerity. He used to sit outside my lab for hours just to catch a glimpse of me. After we married, Diane had mentored him, opening doors and handing him high-level contacts so I wouldn’t have to worry about our finances. She gave him the world so he could build his empire. I looked at the name on the stone: Martha Jenkins. A woman I didn’t know, whose daughter had been sleeping with my husband for years. A woman whose ashes were occupying the ground I had bought for my mother-figure. Diane had died believing in us. Her last words to me were, “Joanna, you’re the best thing I ever taught. I’ve had a good life.” She trusted me. And I had failed her so completely that I couldn’t even protect her final resting place. I pinched the bridge of my nose, forcing the grief back into a cold, hard knot in my chest. I looked at Melanie. “Are you sure you’ve met everyone in his life?” She scoffed. “Positive.” “Then have you met the woman on his marriage license?” The air in the clearing seemed to vanish. The color drained from Melanie’s face. “What… what are you talking about? Elliott is my boyfriend. We’ve been together for three years…” Three years. Even though I knew the betrayal was deep, that number felt like a knife to the ribs. Three years of my life, my money, and my professional resources poured into a man who was building a second life with my own assistant. I remembered the nights he’d come home late, smelling of expensive bourbon, hugging me tight and whispering, “Joanna, I don’t deserve you.” I thought it was love. It was guilt. “He said he loved me,” I whispered to the empty air. He’d said it in front of Diane. He’d said it every night before we went to sleep. He’d promised to be there for every sunset. It was all a performance. The sound of a high-performance engine cut through the silence of the cemetery. Melanie’s head snapped toward the entrance. I followed her gaze. A black Bentley rolled to a stop at the edge of the South Garden. The door opened, and a familiar figure stepped out. I felt a bitter smile touch my lips. “Finally. He’s here. Why don’t you ask him yourself?” 4 Elliott stepped out of the car, looking every bit the powerful executive in his tailored suit and polished Oxfords. “Joanna? What are you doing here?” He hurried toward us, reaching out to take my hand, but I stepped back as if he were a leper. He turned to Melanie, his brow furrowing in frustration. “Melanie, what is this? I told you not to come today.” Melanie’s eyes immediately filled with tears—well-practiced, manipulative tears. “It’s the anniversary of her passing, Elliott! I wanted to see my mom! Why is this woman harrassing me?” Elliott froze. He looked at the headstone, then back at me, a flash of genuine panic crossing his face. “Joanna, listen. This is… it’s a misunderstanding. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back today?” I took another step back, my voice trembling with a cold, sharp fury. “If I’d told you, I wouldn’t have caught the show, would I? Elliott, I don’t even care about the affair anymore. That’s between you and your conscience. I want to know why the eight hundred thousand dollars I gave you for Diane’s burial bought a plot for her mother. I want to know why my mentor is shoved in a communal grave on the North Ridge while you told me everything was ‘taken care of’!” Elliott’s face hardened. The mask of the doting husband slipped, revealing something ugly and impatient. “It’s just a piece of dirt, Joanna. Don’t be dramatic.” He looked at me with an annoying condescension. “Diane wasn’t even your mother. She was just a teacher. She’s dead. What does it matter where she’s buried? She was always so ‘above it all’ anyway. Maybe she’ll enjoy the company of the common folk up there.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails drew blood. “What did you just say?” “I said, get over it,” he stepped closer, trying to loom over me. “Look at yourself, Joanna. Have you even been a wife to me these last few years? You live in that lab. You come home maybe three times a month. I’ve spent every holiday alone while you played with your test tubes. Your ‘projects’ were always more important than me, more important than anything!” He reached out and pulled Melanie into his side, a blatant act of defiance. “I’m the CEO of Thorne Industries. People respect me. And what do I have at home? A cold house and a wife who isn’t there. I found someone who actually sees me. I’m not apologizing for that.” “And Diane? She gave me those contracts because I was her student’s husband. It was her duty. I took the plot because it was practical. Why waste a prime spot on a dead academic when Melanie’s mother needed it?” I stared at him. “That plot was paid for with my money.” He laughed, a harsh, dismissive sound. “Your money? Joanna, your money is my money. We’re married. Your grants, your stipends, your bonuses—you handed them all to me. Who do you think managed your life while you were busy being a genius? Without me, you wouldn’t even know how to pay a light bill.” I felt like I’d been kicked in the heart. So that was it. That was what he really thought of me. “I want a divorce,” I said, my voice steady. “But before that, you are moving her. You are giving Diane her spot back.” He snorted. “How? By digging her up? Don’t be ridiculous. Martha has been there for a year. I’m not causing a scandal because you’re having a tantrum. Think about my reputation.” He softened his tone then, slipping back into that manipulative ‘loving’ voice. “Joanna, you’re just a researcher. You have a modest salary. Your mentor is gone; you have no one left to protect you. Don’t throw away being Mrs. Thorne over a grave. You’ll have nothing.” I looked into his eyes and realized I didn’t recognize the man I had married. The boy who had waited outside the lab with daisies was long dead, replaced by this hollow, greedy stranger. “You’re going to regret this, Elliott,” I said quietly. In the distance, the roar of multiple engines approached. A line of black government-issue SUVs began to file into the cemetery gates. The doors opened in unison, and a dozen men in dark suits stepped out. At the head of the group was an older man with a shock of silver hair. He stood by the lead car, his eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on me. The color left Elliott’s face. He recognized the man. Everyone in the country did. He was the kind of man who only appeared on the evening news during major national events.

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The apology from the customer service representative left me breaking out in a cold sweat. As it turned out, the man I had living in my house wasn’t a “Romantic-Class” incubus at all. He was a “Domestic-Class” model—designed strictly for housekeeping, cooking, and organization. He wasn’t even programmed to provide those kinds of services. The representative’s voice had been frantic, repeatedly warning me that forcing a Domestic model into intimacy wasn’t just a violation of the user agreement; it could trigger a “systemic collapse” or a “frenzy mechanism.” Basically, I was lucky he hadn’t killed me in my sleep. Terrified, I immediately hauled Hudson’s bedding out of my master suite and into the guest room, desperate to rectify my mistake before something catastrophic happened. But my sudden change in behavior seemed to trigger something else in him. It wasn’t long before there was a rhythmic, heavy knock on my bedroom door. His voice came through the wood, carrying a repressed, gravelly edge that made my skin prickle. He asked if I no longer required his… company. Thinking back to how I’d spent the last few months practically throwing myself at him, begging for affection, I felt like a colossal, suicidal idiot. 1. “That’s… that’s right,” I stammered, my eyes darting around the room as a wave of heat climbed up my neck. I struggled to find a plausible lie. “I just… I haven’t been sleeping well. I think I need my own space for a while.” Hudson stared at me for a long beat. His features were striking—a sharp, cinematic jawline and eyes that seemed to hold a permanent, brooding storm. He frowned slightly, his brow furrowing, but he didn’t argue. He simply turned and walked toward the guest room. Watching him go so easily brought a wave of relief, but beneath it, a sharp, unexpected pang of rejection. The truth was, I’d always felt a certain resistance from Hudson. He never initiated touch. He’d shot down my more “adventurous” suggestions time and time again. The only reason he’d been sleeping in my bed at all was because I’d been a shameless brat, threatening to replace him with a newer model if he didn’t. He’d moved in with a dark expression, looking like he was marching toward a firing squad. Even then, he kept his distance. He’d spend the night curled on the very edge of the mattress, his back to me like a stone wall. I’d spent months telling myself I’d just lucked into a “slow-burn” personality type—that I just needed to win him over with patience and charm. How wrong I was. He wasn’t “slow-burn.” He was a domestic professional with a strict “no-touch” policy, and he clearly found my advances exhausting. My face burned with shame. For months, I’d been the sexual predator in a rom-com that wasn’t actually a romance. Just then, my phone buzzed with another message from the agency. [Customer Service]: We are so incredibly sorry for the mix-up, Maddie! Please, please don’t leave us a one-star review. o(╥﹏╥)o [Customer Service]: Can we offer you a full refund for the Domestic model? “No need,” I typed back, feeling a strange sense of loss. “Even if he can’t be a… partner, he’s incredible at everything else.” It was true. Hudson was a domestic god. He knew exactly how to bake artisanal sourdough that stayed fluffy for days; he kept my linens smelling like lavender and expensive sunshine; he even knew the precise temperature to wash my hair so the ends wouldn’t split. I was already addicted to the life he provided. [Customer Service]: Understood! In that case, as a gesture of goodwill, we’re shipping you a Romantic-Class incubus free of charge! •̆₃•̑ My heart did a traitorous little skip. I’d wanted a companion from the start. That was the whole point of this expensive endeavor. If Hudson couldn’t provide that connection, surely there was no harm in finding it elsewhere? I quickly messaged back: “OK.” The bitterness in my chest eased, replaced by a flicker of anticipation. 2. The next morning, I instinctively reached out to the other side of the bed, my hand hitting cold, empty sheets. It took my brain a few seconds to reboot. When it did, a hollow ache settled in my stomach. I’d grown so used to the heavy, silent weight of Hudson’s presence nearby. Without it, the room felt cavernous. I forced myself up, showered, and headed to the kitchen. Hudson was already there, hovering over the stove. He was wearing the pale pink apron I’d bought him as a joke—the strings tied loosely around his lean waist. He looked devastatingly handsome, his profile clean and sharp against the morning light. I spat out my toothpaste foam and cursed the manufacturers in my head. Why would you make a housekeeping unit look like a literal dark fantasy? It was a waste of perfectly good aesthetics. I sat at the breakfast nook, waiting for my eggs. To my shock, Hudson didn’t put the plate on the table. Instead, he walked over, hooked an arm under my knees, and lifted me effortlessly into his lap. “Wait—what are you doing?” I gasped, my hands flying up to his chest to create some distance. Hudson’s grip on my waist tightened. He caught my wrist, forcing me to look up into his eyes. They were dark, unreadable, and intensely focused. “Aren’t I supposed to feed you?” he asked, his voice low. In the past, frustrated by his coldness, I’d assigned him “intimacy chores” to force a bond. One of those chores was feeding me breakfast while I sat on his lap. He’d hated it at first. His body would be stiff as a board, his jaw clenched. But I’d been a tyrant—I’d told him if he didn’t feed me, I wouldn’t eat. Eventually, he’d succumbed. It had become part of our routine. But now? Now that I knew I was basically harassing a service worker? I couldn’t do it. I scrambled out of his lap, nearly tripping over my own feet. “No, no. That’s fine. I can eat by myself from now on.” Hudson watched me for several seconds, his gaze unwavering. Then, he turned his head away, his voice flattening. “Right. I suppose it’s time you learned some independence.” I winced. He’d clearly been waiting for the day he didn’t have to deal with my clinginess. I’d been so blind. After breakfast, Hudson moved with his usual efficiency, clearing my plate and grabbing the keys to the Vespa. He held out my helmet, ready to drop me off at the office. I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling the awkwardness thicken. This was another thing I’d forced on him. I loved riding behind him, using the excuse of “safety” to wrap my arms around his waist and feel his abs through his shirt. A ten-minute commute usually took twenty because I’d find ways to distract him. I used to live for those twenty minutes. Now, I couldn’t bear the thought of making him uncomfortable for a second longer. I snatched the helmet from his hand. “Actually… you don’t need to drive me anymore. I’ll just take an Uber. Or walk. I need the steps.” Hudson froze. His hand stayed extended in the air for a beat too long. Before he could say anything, I ducked my head and bolted out the door. I was giving him his freedom. No more forced touching, no more awkward intimacy. He had to be thrilled, right? 3. I’d only been at my desk for half an hour when my phone chimed with a shipping notification. [Customer Service]: Your Romantic-Class companion is on his way! Check out his profile below and make sure to have his essentials ready. ლ(°◕‵ƹ′◕ლ) I clicked the file. Name: Benji. Height: 5’10”. Weight: 170 lbs. Owner: Maddie Thorne. He was significantly smaller than Hudson. Hudson was a wall of muscle; Benji sounded… manageable. I realized Hudson’s clothes wouldn’t fit him at all. He’d look like a kid playing dress-up in his father’s closet. I added “Shopping” to my to-do list. After work, I hit the mall with a few girls from the office. We got distracted by happy hour and window shopping, and by the time I pulled into my driveway, I realized I had five missed calls. All from Hudson. That was weird. A Domestic model shouldn’t be tracking my location, right? He’d never done that before. The front door swung open before I could even reach for my keys. Hudson stood there, his shadow stretching across the porch. His eyes swept over me, dark and scrutinizing. “Maddie. Where were you? Why didn’t you answer your phone?” “I was shopping,” I said, frowning as I stepped past him. “Since when do I have a curfew?” He didn’t look happy, but his expression softened slightly when he saw the bags in my hands. He caught a glimpse of a plaid button-down sticking out of one of them. A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He knelt to help me step out of my heels, then gathered the shopping bags to take them to the bedroom. A moment later, he walked back out, looking… awkward. He’d tried on the plaid shirt. It was two sizes too small. The fabric was strained to the breaking point across his chest, the buttons clinging for dear life. It made him look rugged, slightly indecent, and entirely too masculine. “It’s a bit snug,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “But I can wear it open.” Oh god. This was a disaster. I used to buy him clothes all the time—mostly sheer fabrics or things with far too many straps. He’d always refused to wear them, sticking to his two sets of “normal” clothes. Seeing him try so hard to please me with this shirt made my heart ache. I cleared my throat, trying to fix the misunderstanding. “It’s too small because… well, don’t wear it. I’ll get you something else.” “No,” Hudson said, and there was a strange warmth in his tone. “I like this one.” “But it wasn’t for you,” I whispered. The air in the room seemed to vanish. Hudson’s eyes went dark, his entire posture turning predatory. He stepped closer, looming over me. “Then who,” he asked, his voice a low vibration in the air, “were you planning on giving it to?” 4. I felt a surge of guilt, like I’d been caught cheating on a husband I didn’t even have. But then, the unfairness of it hit me. Why was I the one feeling guilty? I was just a girl who wanted a little affection. I’d spent months being rejected by Hudson, only to find out I’d been bordering on a criminal offense. He’d led me on! He kept saying “maybe another time” or “not tonight” instead of just telling me he wasn’t programmed for it. “That’s really none of your business,” I said, my voice cold. “Just stick to your chores and stop asking questions.” Hudson flinched. The look of shock on his face was almost painful to witness. “…Fine. I understand.” He stripped the shirt off with efficient, jerky movements, folded it perfectly, and placed it back in my hands. I breathed a sigh of relief, but my mood was ruined. In the past, I was the one chasing him, the one apologizing. Now that I was being firm, he’d probably retreat into being a cold, emotionless robot. Which was for the best. We couldn’t have “vibes.” It was dangerous. However, that night, Hudson knocked on my door again. He was holding a spare duvet, and on his head… he was wearing a pair of clip-on wolf ears I’d bought him months ago. Below that? He slowly hooked a finger into his waistband, pulling it down just enough to reveal a delicate silver hip-chain—one I’d left on his dresser as a hint a long time ago. As he moved, a tiny bell at the end of the chain let out a soft, crystalline chime. My soul nearly left my body. Hudson’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he looked away, his face flushing a deep, bruised red. “This… this was definitely for me, wasn’t it?” I was seconds away from losing all resolve. But then I remembered what the rep said. Domestic models don’t understand the meaning of these things. To him, this was just another “task” he thought I wanted. He was wearing wolf ears and a hip-chain out of a sense of duty, not desire. The thought made me feel pathetic. I waved him away, exhausted. “Just go back to your room, Hudson. Like I said yesterday—I don’t need you in here anymore.” The wolf ears drooped. His expression didn’t change, but his voice sounded hollow. “…Fine.” “Great.” He turned to leave, but I called out to him at the last second. He looked back, his sharp profile softening, a spark of hope in his eyes. “Make a couple of extra dishes for lunch tomorrow,” I said. Hudson’s gaze turned sharp. “Are you expecting company?” “Yeah,” I mumbled, avoiding his eyes. He didn’t need to know that Benji was arriving tomorrow. 5. Still, Hudson was the type of guy who got possessive over a plaid shirt. I was genuinely worried about how he’d react to another incubus in the house. I hopped back onto the customer service chat. “If I have two of them in the house, will they fight?” [Customer Service]: Generally, no! They have different functions, so there’s no overlap. I wasn’t convinced. “In what scenario would they fight?” [Customer Service]: Well, if you had a High-Level model, they tend to have strong territorial instincts. They can get jealous, envious, or even… fall in love with their owners. ~* That settled it. I looked at Hudson’s behavior—there was no way he was in love. He looked relieved every time I stopped touching him. [Customer Service]: We recommend giving the new model extra attention at first to help him settle in. We’re sure you’ll all be one big happy family! I took the advice to heart. The next day was Saturday. I stayed home and watched Hudson irritably write out a menu. After breakfast, he insisted on taking me grocery shopping. The Vespa ride was different this time. I sat as far back as possible, gripping the metal rail instead of his waist. I made sure there was a respectable six inches of daylight between us. “Hold onto me,” Hudson’s voice drifted back, crisp and low. “The road gets bumpy ahead.” “I’m fine,” I said. I’d traveled this road a thousand times; it was smooth as glass. Naturally, the second I said that, Hudson hit a massive pothole. My chest slammed into his back, my nose burying into the firm muscle of his spine. It hurt so bad I thought I’d cry. I gave in and gripped the fabric of his jacket, but I still refused to wrap my arms around him properly. Hudson didn’t say another word for the rest of the trip, but the air around him felt dark, suffocating. He drove faster than usual, leaning into the turns with an aggression that felt like a silent tantrum. God, was he really that annoyed just because I touched him by accident? The supermarket was packed with a weekend sale. Hudson carried all the heavy bags in one hand, using his other arm to create a protective barrier around me so people wouldn’t bump into us. He was attentive, but I hated being there with him. Every time we went, the cashier would make some comment about what a “stunning couple” we were. I used to soak those comments up, preening because Hudson never bothered to deny them. But now, knowing he didn’t feel the same, I just felt like a fraud. Worse, I felt like I was low-key harrassing him by letting people think we were together. So, when the cashier smiled and said, “You two look so sweet together,” I blurted it out. “He’s not my boyfriend!” The cashier blinked, startled. Hudson went dead still. A long, tense silence followed. Then, Hudson spoke through gritted teeth. “Right. I’m not.” I nodded vigorously. See? He’s been dying to clarify that. I’d been delusional. I’d been reading “love” into his “professionalism.” Hudson walked fast on the way home, his long legs eating up the distance until I was trailing yards behind him. I didn’t ask him to wait. I didn’t ask him to carry my purse. When we reached the house, the front door was slightly ajar. Hudson’s brow furrowed. He knew he’d locked it. He stepped in front of me, shielding me as he kicked the door open. Then, his entire body stiffened. There was a stranger in our living room. He was wearing the plaid shirt I’d bought yesterday, and when he saw me, he flashed a pair of adorable dimples. “Master! Thank you for the shirt. I love it!”

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The day before our wedding, I was mindlessly scrolling through Instagram when I hit a post that stopped my heart. It was Toby, my fiancée’s “childhood best friend.” He was leaning against a brand-new, charcoal-gray SUV, grinning like he’d won the lottery. The caption read: “Mentioned I needed a new ride, and my girl came through! So lucky to have her in my corner for life. #DayOne #Blessed” A cold shiver raced from my heels to the back of my neck. My fingers shook as I opened my banking app, navigating to the joint high-yield savings account we’d set up for our house down payment. The screen blurred for a second. The balance, which should have been just north of eighty thousand dollars, was gone. In its place was a pathetic $14.32. The air left my lungs. This was the tenth time. Ten times Lauren had “loaned” our future to Toby. Every single time we got close to a closing date or a wedding milestone, the account was drained, and our life together was pushed back. The last time it happened, I’d looked her in the eye and asked, “Do you actually want to marry me, or are we just playing house until you run out of my money?” She’d looked shaken then—resolute, even. She actually got the money back that time. Like a fool, I believed her. I thought she’d finally chosen me. 1 Now I realized that in this twisted triangle, I was the only one playing for keeps. I was the one being phased out. A wave of pure, cold humiliation washed over me. I didn’t hesitate. I opened our chat and typed: [The wedding is off. We’re done.] The phone rang almost before the message marked as “read.” I picked up, but it wasn’t Lauren’s voice. It was Toby, his tone sharp and mocking. “Ben, are you seriously having a mid-life crisis right now? You’re canceling a wedding because she helped me out with a car? God, you’re so petty. It’s embarrassing, man. You’re like a high-maintenance trophy husband without the trophy.” In the background, I heard the familiar chorus of their “squad”—the group of friends Lauren had known since kindergarten. “Seriously, if Lauren were with Toby, she wouldn’t have to deal with this drama,” a girl’s voice giggled. “Toby’s a real man. He doesn’t keep a ledger on his friends,” another added. These people had spent years treating me like an intruder. Toby was the worst of them. He’d told our mutual acquaintances that I was a “clinger,” someone who only wanted Lauren for her family’s connections, while he secretly posted “vague-grams” implying I was some kind of fraudster. I’d spent months losing sleep over the harassment from strangers on social media who believed his lies. And Lauren? She just told me I was being “sensitive” and that “that’s just how Toby is.” She never told them that of that $80,000, she’d contributed exactly three grand. I didn’t argue. I didn’t defend my manhood or my bank account. I just felt… empty. “I hope you both get exactly what you deserve,” I said quietly. I hung up before they could respond and started pulling my suitcases out of the closet. I expected Lauren to stay out late celebrating with them, but she was home in twenty minutes. She walked in carrying a takeout bag from a Thai place down the street, acting as if nothing had happened. “Hey, babe. You’re probably hungry,” she said, offering a tight, performative smile. “I got your favorite—the spicy peanut noodles.” I stared at the bag. My throat felt like it was closing up just looking at it. “I’m deathly allergic to peanuts, Lauren. I’ve carried an EpiPen since the third grade because of them.” I’d told her a thousand times. But Toby loved those noodles. She’d bought them to appease both of us, forgetting that what fueled Toby would literally kill me. I didn’t take the bag. I just started to laugh. It was a hollow, jagged sound. Lauren’s expression shifted from feigned innocence to irritation. She headed for the kitchen. “Fine, don’t eat. But stop the drama, Ben. It was just a loan.” “I’m calling the movers tomorrow. The engagement is over.” The sound of a ceramic plate shattering hit the floor. Lauren stood in the kitchen, surrounded by shards. “You’re throwing away three years over a house fund?” she demanded, her voice rising. In the past, I would have fought back. I would have asked why Toby’s needs always came before our stability. I would have asked why she let her friends treat me like dirt. I would have asked why she couldn’t remember the one thing that could stop my heart. But the desire to explain myself had died. Our golden retriever, Cooper, skittered into the room, his tail tucked. I leaned down to grab his collar so he wouldn’t step on the broken plate. Lauren thought I was lunging for her—or maybe she was just desperate to stop me from leaving—and she grabbed my arm. I wrenched away instinctively. I lost my balance, my forearm slamming down onto the kitchen island where a jagged piece of the shattered plate was resting. Pain flared, hot and sharp. Blood began to soak through my shirt sleeve immediately. Lauren’s face went ghost-white. She grabbed a towel and hustled me out the door to her mother’s clinic. Her mother, a stern woman who’d never hidden her preference for Toby, didn’t even look me in the eye as she cleaned the wound. She handled the tweezers with a clinical coldness that felt like an extension of her daughter’s neglect. “Honestly, Ben,” she sighed, wrapping the bandage tight—too tight. “It’s late. Lauren is exhausted from wedding planning, and you’re home picking fights over nothing? Marriage is about the big picture. You can’t be this thin-skinned. You need to be a man, not a nag.” When I didn’t respond, her annoyance sharpened. “Toby always had such a level head. If Lauren had ended up with someone like him…” “Mom, stop!” Lauren interrupted, finally catching the look on my face. Everyone knew the score. At the last family dinner, Lauren’s mother had spent the entire evening praising Toby’s “entrepreneurial spirit.” She’d even given him a vintage Rolex that had belonged to Lauren’s grandfather—a piece she’d promised to me as a wedding gift. When I’d asked about it later, the gaslighting was immediate. “It’s just a watch, Ben. Don’t be so insecure. They’re like siblings. Are you really that small-minded?” I’d sat there, face burning, while they shared a look of shared pity for my “fragile ego.” They didn’t realize that I didn’t care about the watch. My own father had a collection of horology that made that Rolex look like a toy. It was the principle. It was the betrayal. My parents were right: you don’t just marry a person; you marry their values. And Lauren’s values were bankrupt. We spent the night in the observation room. Lauren tried to sit next to me, but I moved my chair. She stared at me for a long time before slumping onto the bench across the room. The next morning, we took an Uber home. The moment we walked through the door, a loud POP exploded in my face. Confetti rained down, stinging my eyes and sticking to my sweaty skin. Toby’s sisters, Lexi and Paige, were standing there with confetti cannons, grinning. “Welcome home, Ben! We’re here to stage an intervention—and maybe cook you some breakfast so you’ll stop being such a grump!” I ignored them. My gaze went straight to Toby. He was sitting on my leather sofa, casually holding my briefcase. It was a bespoke Italian leather piece my father had given me for my thirtieth birthday—worth about four thousand dollars. Toby had it slung over his shoulder like a gym bag, and I could see a fresh, deep scuff mark on the corner. This was his move. He’d come over, go into my home office, and treat my belongings like communal property. “Toby,” Lauren said, her voice strained. “Why do you have Ben’s bag?” Toby shrugged, shifting the weight. “Just seeing how it felt. It’s a nice bag, Ben. But you’ve got like five of these, right? Spread the wealth.” “It’s four thousand dollars,” I said. My voice was flat. Dead. The room went silent. Lexi and Paige stopped laughing, their expressions curdling into that familiar look of disgust. “What?” Toby asked. “That bag cost four thousand dollars. You either Venmo me the replacement cost right now, or you put it back exactly where you found it.” Lauren stepped between us, her hand on my chest. “Ben, please. It’s just a bag. Don’t make this a thing…” Toby’s face fell into a rehearsed pout. He tossed the bag onto the hardwood floor instead of the sofa. “God, you’re such a prick. Everything is about money with you.” Lexi moved to comfort him, throwing me a dirty look. “Seriously, Ben. He didn’t mean anything by it. You’re so obsessive.” Paige went to pick up the bag, but her heel caught the strap. The bag slid, slamming its metal clasp into the sharp edge of the marble coffee table. A deep, jagged gouge tore through the leather. “Oops,” Paige smirked. “Guess it wasn’t that high-quality anyway. Probably a knockoff.” Toby nodded. “Yeah, Ben. Don’t let people scam you into buying overpriced junk. You should be smarter with your cash.” I looked at Lauren. She knew the history of that bag. She knew it was a gift from my father. But she just stood there, gripping my arm. “Ben, just let it go. It’s just stuff. Let’s just have a nice breakfast.” In that moment, I realized I wasn’t a person to her. I was a resource. My things, my feelings, my boundaries—they were all obstacles to her “peace.” I walked into my office, grabbed the original receipt and the certificate of authenticity from the safe, and threw them on the coffee table. Toby’s face paled as he saw the price tag. But within seconds, the entitlement returned. “Even if it’s real, why are you being such a bitch about it? I’ve known Lauren since we were in diapers. You’re going to end a friendship over a piece of cowhide?” He used my money, ruined my things, and I was the one who lacked character. I pulled out my phone to call the police to file a report for property damage. Lauren lunged, grabbing my phone and throwing it against the wall. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of glass. “BEN! ENOUGH!” she screamed. “You are driving everyone away! It’s a bag! You’re literally psychotic!” Her voice was so loud the neighbors probably heard. She grabbed Toby’s hand. “Toby, let’s go. He’s having some kind of breakdown. We’ll go to your place.” Lexi and Paige followed them out, muttering about “small-man syndrome” as they passed me. The neighbors were peeking through their doors as the hallway cleared. I looked at them and forced a smile. “Hey, guys. If any of you need a new TV, a Dyson, or a Peloton, let me know. I’m selling everything at half price. Cash only. Today.” My parents had furnished this place for us. Nearly fifty thousand dollars in high-end appliances and tech. If I wasn’t going to live here, I wasn’t going to let Toby use them. The apartment became a bazaar. Within two hours, the place was gutted. My neighbors walked away with deals of a lifetime, and I walked away with a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. I sat on the floor of the empty living room and breathed. For the first time in three years, the air felt clean. By Sunday, Lauren still hadn’t called. She was likely waiting for me to crawl back and apologize for my “outburst.” I spent the weekend finalizing my resignation at the firm. I had a job offer back in my hometown, and I was taking it. Sunday night, my phone—now with a barely functioning screen—buzzed. I was at the gym, hitting the heavy bag, trying to sweat out the last of the resentment. I missed the call. When I called back, Lauren was livid. “Where have you been? Why aren’t you answering?” I was still panting, wiping sweat from my forehead. Before I could speak, a woman I frequently sparred with at the gym walked over and handed me a Gatorade. “Hey, Ben. Take a breather. Don’t forget to stretch those hamstrings.” “Thanks, Sarah,” I said into the phone’s mic. Silence on the other end. Then, a hiss. “Where are you? Who is that? Is that why you haven’t called me? You already found a replacement?” The sheer hypocrisy was exhausting. I didn’t even want to explain. “Ben, we are getting married in a month! You are being so incredibly pathetic—” I took a sip of the drink and laughed. I was at a boxing gym, and she was accusing me of being “shameless,” while Toby was probably currently sleeping on the bed my parents paid for. “I moved the money back into the account,” she said, her voice suddenly dropping into a manipulative, soft tone. “Ben, stop the act. Let’s just fix the wedding plans, okay?” She still thought this was about the money. Before I could answer, I heard Lexi’s voice in the background, loud and performative. “Ben, seriously, Lauren hasn’t slept! She’s been crying over your texts all night. She even had too much to drink yesterday and kept saying how much she—” “Lexi, shut up!” Lauren barked. I felt nothing. No pity. No spark of old love. I remembered when Toby got into a fight at a bar six months ago. Lauren had practically thrown herself in front of a punch to protect him, then turned around and screamed at me for not “stepping up.” I’d ended up paying the other guy’s medical bills just to keep Toby out of jail. Toby had just smirked at me from behind Lauren’s shoulder. I had always been the outsider in my own relationship. “Ben? Are you there? Look, I’m sorry I overreacted about the phone…” I hung up and blocked her. That night, I met my buddy Jason at a quiet bar. For three years, I’d avoided places like this because Lauren “didn’t like the vibe.” Jason poured me a drink and sighed. “Moving back home, huh? I’m gonna miss you, man.” I started to reply when a sharp voice sliced through the air. “Wow. Lauren is at home worried sick, and you’re here throwing back cocktails?” Toby was standing there with Lexi and Paige. He was wearing Lauren’s oversized hoodie. Jason stood up, his face darkening. “Let’s go, Ben. Not worth it.” Toby stepped in front of us, a cruel, secret smile playing on his lips. He pulled a small, velvet-lined box from his pocket. “Look, since you guys were supposed to get hitched next week, I figured I’d give you an early wedding present. A little piece of history.” He opened the box. Inside was a scrap of white fabric, stained with a dark, dried rust color. I stared at it, my face expressionless. “What is that?” He leaned in, his voice a triumphant whisper. “You really don’t recognize it? This is from the night Lauren and I first… well, you know. We were young, we were reckless. I kept it as a souvenir. Thought you should know who really owns her heart, ‘husband.’”

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My roommate, Madison, had only been out the door for five minutes. Her tablet, forgotten on the coffee table, suddenly chimed and the screen flared to life. It was a reflex, really—a quick glance to see if it was something urgent. But what I saw froze the blood in my veins. It was a group chat titled “The Free Ride.” The messages were flying in, a flurry of digital celebration. One notification stood out, written in all caps: “CHEERS TO THIS MONTH’S JACKPOT!” Right after that, a series of Venmo payment notifications popped up on the screen, one after another. Curiosity—the poisonous kind—gnawed at me. I reached out and tapped the chat. The member list was a knife to the gut. It wasn’t just Madison. It was our landlord, Mr. Henderson, and our two other roommates, Kayla and Tinsley. “Seriously, Madison, you’re a genius,” one message read. “If you hadn’t suggested we overcharge Evelyn on the rent, we’d all be broke right now. I can’t believe she actually buys the ‘inflation’ excuse!” “Tell me about it,” another chimed in. “Having her as a live-in maid is the best part. We’ve saved a fortune on cleaning services and DoorDash since she does everything for ‘the house.’ Free labor and free money!” The chat was a riot of laughing emojis and digital high-fives. They were all in there, singing praises to the girl who was footing their bills. Everyone was being thanked. Everyone except me. 1 My fingers were shaking so hard I almost dropped the tablet. I scrolled up. I needed to see how deep this went. Group Creator: Madison. Date Created: January 12, 2023. The day after I’d received my dream job offer. The day I had shared my joy with her, thinking she was my best friend. She hadn’t been celebrating for me; she’d been marking a target. And she’d known the landlord long before we moved in. “Hey, Mr. Henderson,” one early message from Madison read. “I found a live one. She’s my college roommate. Tons of savings, zero street smarts. All she does is work and study. She won’t suspect a thing.” “Nice work, Maddy,” the landlord replied almost instantly. “Let’s do it the usual way then. I’ll draft the ‘special’ lease for her.” The early messages were logistical—moving dates, furniture needs. But by January 28th, Kayla and Tinsley were added to the fold. They were Madison’s old friends from back home. “Welcome to Project Easy Street, girls!” Madison had posted, followed by a shower of confetti emojis. “Wait, is this for real? We actually get to live for free?” Kayla asked, clearly skeptical. “Pretty much! Our human ATM already paid the security deposit. I told her it was double what it actually is.” “Maddy, you are a legend!” “I love this group name. It’s perfect.” “I feel like we’re already family,” Tinsley added, her message dripping with fake sentiment. Mr. Henderson popped in then: “We’re going to get along just fine, ladies.” I stared at the words until they blurred. My stomach did a violent somersault. I pulled out my own phone and began recording, my hands trembling as I scrolled through the history, capturing every toxic word. In the beginning, Kayla and Tinsley were cautious. Most of the talk was about the split. Madison: “Since I set this up, I’m taking the master suite. No arguments.” Kayla: “Tinsley and I will share the bigger guest room on the east side.” Tinsley: “So, how’s the math actually working?” Madison: “Okay, look. This place is fully renovated. Market rate is about $3,500. But I told Evelyn the rent is $6,000. That means we each ‘owe’ $1,500. But since the actual rent is way lower, we just have to cover the remaining $500 among the three of us.” She continued: “Since I’m the lead, I’ll pay $200, and you two split the other $300. Then, for utilities, WiFi, and the HOA fees, I’m going to bill her triple. Whatever is left over after the real bills are paid, we split it 40/40/20. Forty for Henderson, forty for me, and twenty for you two.” “Basically, we’re living here for next to nothing,” Madison concluded. “And if we play our cards right, we might actually turn a profit.” Tinsley’s reply was instant: “I’m in. Kayla?” Kayla: “Hell yes. This neighborhood, this apartment? Say no more.” The real rent was $3,500. I was paying $2,500 a month on my own for the smallest, draftiest room in the back. The sheer audacity of it made the air in the room feel thin. Click. The sound of the front door unlocking. I shoved my phone into my pocket and exited the tablet’s messaging app. Madison walked in, dropping a shopping bag on the counter. She picked up her tablet without a second thought, resuming the show she’d been binging. “Hey, Evelyn!” she called out toward the kitchen, her voice sweet as saccharine. “Is dinner almost ready? I’m starving!” “Almost,” I managed to choke out. I turned back to the stove, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I forced myself to move, to plate the food, to play the role I’d been cast in. The “human ATM” was still open for business. For now. 2 “Oh my god, this braised short rib smells incredible,” Kayla said, inhaling deeply as she sat down. “Evelyn, you’re seriously a lifesaver,” Tinsley added, her smile as bright and hollow as a Christmas ornament. I watched them—their practiced smiles, their easy camaraderie—and felt a wave of nausea. “I left the onions out of your portion, Madison,” I said, my voice eerily steady. “I know you hate them.” “You always remember,” Madison chirped, her eyes locked on her phone. “You’re the best, seriously.” “Let’s eat before it gets cold,” I said, picking up my fork. I couldn’t bring myself to take a bite. “Oh, by the way, Evelyn,” Madison said between mouthfuls. “Mr. Henderson reached out. He said he wants the next year’s rent upfront by March 1st.” I paused, my fork hovering over my plate. “Upfront? We’ve been doing six-month blocks. Why the change?” Madison sighed, the picture of sympathetic frustration. “He says the market is crazy right now. Apparently, there are three other groups willing to pay way more than us if they can sign a two-year lease today. He told me he’s only keeping us because of our ‘history,’ but he needs the security of a full year’s payment to keep the price locked in.” I looked down at my plate, the logic of the group chat screaming in my head. Keep it together. Don’t let them know you know. “I… I only have enough saved for six months,” I lied, keeping my head down. “I’ll have to move some things around. Scrape it together.” “I knew you’d understand,” Madison said, though there was a flicker of tension in her voice. “I was so worried we’d lose the place. I’m broke this month—I’m literally eating through my savings just to stay afloat. The thought of a whole year’s rent is giving me a panic attack.” “It’s brutal,” Kayla chimed in. “Everything is so expensive lately. I feel like I’m drowning.” I listened to them complain about their “poverty,” while the memory of those Venmo notifications burned in my mind. I was paying for their lives, and they were still trying to squeeze more out of me. The meal tasted like ash. They finished every scrap, laughing and chatting while I sat there like a ghost at my own table. When the last plate was cleared, Madison slumped back on the sofa. “Ugh, I’m so full I can’t move. Evelyn, would you mind taking care of the dishes? I really need to finish this episode before I pass out.” Kayla and Tinsley were already halfway to their rooms, murmuring their thanks as they vanished. I stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the wreckage of a dinner I’d paid for and cooked. The water in the sink was cold. It didn’t compare to the chill in my heart. Once I was sure they were all tucked away in their rooms, I locked my bedroom door and leaned against it, letting out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for a lifetime. I put on my headphones and opened the video I’d recorded. 3 The chat history was a jagged blade, twisting deeper with every scroll. I moved back to last winter, right before the holidays. We’d agreed to a massive deep-clean of the apartment. That morning, Madison had been doubled over on the sofa, clutching her stomach. “Evelyn, I’m so sorry. My cramps are so bad I can’t even stand up.” I’d spent an hour making her herbal tea and soup, telling her to just rest. Then Kayla called, saying her boyfriend’s car broke down and she had to go get him. Finally, Tinsley texted saying an “emergency project” came up at work and she’d be at the office until midnight. I spent ten hours scrubbing the floors, the baseboards, and the windows of that massive apartment alone. And then, I found the messages from that day. Madison had posted a photo of me from behind, kneeling on the floor with a scrub brush. “Look at our little Cinderella go,” she’d written. “She’s so eager to please. It’s almost sad.” “God, she really is a born martyr,” Kayla replied instantly. “Check out these shoes I just found at the mall. Cute, right?” “Love them!” Tinsley chimed in. “I’m at the bar around the corner. Send me your location, I’ll meet you there after I ‘finish my project’ lol.” “It’s so nice having someone to do the dirty work,” Madison added with a smug emoji. I gripped my phone, my nails digging into my palms. I remembered that night—I’d been so exhausted I’d skipped dinner and gone straight to bed, feeling guilty that they were all having such a “hard day.” I kept scrolling. Last December. I’d been hit with a 103-degree fever. I was shaking, unable to get out of bed. I’d texted Madison, asking if she could pick up some ibuprofen from the pharmacy downstairs. “I’m so sorry, babe! I’m swamped at work. Maybe call an Uber Eats for it?” I’d ended up taking a cab to the ER myself, sitting in the waiting room for four hours while my head throbbed. Not a single one of them checked on me. At 1:00 PM that day, Kayla had posted a screenshot in the group chat. It was a receipt for a $200 sushi feast. “Rent money just cleared,” she wrote. “Treating ourselves! This spicy tuna is life-changing.” While I was shivering under a hospital blanket, they were feasting on my overpayments. Then came October 18th. My birthday. I’d left work early, excited to celebrate with them. I’d spent $300 on groceries and wine, cooking a four-course meal. I’d sent a photo of the table to our real group chat. Madison didn’t reply for an hour. “Oh, Evelyn! I’m stuck at the office. Don’t wait up.” “Same here,” Kayla followed. “Boss is being a literal demon.” “I’m stuck in a client meeting across town,” Tinsley added. I’d sat at that table alone, watching the candles burn down and the food grow cold. Meanwhile, in “The Free Ride,” Madison had posted a selfie of the three of them at a high-end steakhouse. “Cheers to another free meal!” she’d captioned it. “The idiot is probably still sitting there waiting for us,” Kayla joked. “Her cooking is so mid anyway,” Tinsley added. “I’d rather eat cardboard.” The words burned like a slow-moving fire. Every “thank you,” every “you’re so sweet,” every “we’re so lucky to have you”—it was all a performance. I wasn’t their friend. I was their mark. 4 I forced myself to stop crying. Crying was a luxury I couldn’t afford right now. I spent the next week like a ghost, moving through the apartment with a silent, clinical precision. I backed up the videos, screenshotted every line of the chat, and started a spreadsheet. I sat at my desk late into the night, cross-referencing my bank statements with their “invoices.” The more I calculated, the colder I became. Outside my window, the city lights were warm and inviting, but my small, west-facing room felt like a tomb. They weren’t going to get another cent. Not a single drop. My phone buzzed. A text from Madison. “Hey Eve, you up? I’m starving and craving those dumplings from the night market. Could you grab some? ” I didn’t reply. I stared at the screen until it went black. A few minutes later, I heard her knocking on my door. I held my breath, sitting perfectly still in the dark. Eventually, I heard the front door close. She’d gone out. I slipped out of my room and checked the tablet she’d left on the sofa. “The ATM is malfunctioning,” Madison had messaged the group. “She’s ignoring me. I’m actually going to have to walk down there myself.” “Maybe she’s finally catching on?” Kayla asked. “Doubt it. She’s probably just exhausted from doing all our laundry,” Madison replied. “Anyway, we need to talk. Rent for 2027 is due next Sunday. I want to make sure she pays the full year, and then I’m going to start making things ‘uncomfortable’ for her.” “Why?” Tinsley asked. “My boyfriend wants to move in. He said if we get her out, he’ll cover her portion of the rent—the real portion. We keep the profit from her year-long payment, he moves in, and we finally get rid of the dead weight.” The group erupted in digital applause. “Maddy, you’re a shark. I love it,” Kayla wrote. “Finally, some eye candy in the house,” Tinsley added. So that was the plan. Steal a full year of rent from me, then bully me into moving out so the boyfriend could move in. I recorded it all. But something felt off. The math didn’t fully add up. Why would Mr. Henderson, a property owner, risk legal trouble just for a small cut of the utility overcharges? It didn’t make sense. The risk-to-reward ratio was too low. I went back to my computer and started researching. I looked up every listing in our building, every similar unit in the neighborhood. I messaged a local realtor, posing as a prospective tenant. “A renovated 3-bedroom in that building? You’re looking at about $4,000,” he told me. “Maybe $3,500 if it’s unrenovated or a lower floor.” Our apartment was barely “renovated.” The furniture was cheap, the appliances were old. If they were making a profit, the actual rent had to be even lower than $3,500. I sat there, staring at the screen. Why was the landlord playing along? Was there something else he was getting out of this? 5 The next morning, the banging on my door started early. “Evelyn! What are you doing in there?” Madison shouted. “It’s almost nine. We’re starving! Where’s breakfast?” I sat on the edge of my bed, the sound of her voice grating like sandpaper. “Evelyn? Are you okay? You’re usually up by now.” Her tone shifted into that fake, honeyed concern, but the pounding on the door only got harder. I walked over and yanked the door open. Madison’s hand was frozen mid-air. “What is wrong with you? Are you playing dead?” she snapped, her mask slipping for a split second. “I have a stomach bug,” I said, my voice flat. “If you’re hungry, use an app.” “What’s with the attitude?” Madison blinked, startled by the lack of apology. I didn’t answer. I shut the door in her face. “What a bitch,” I heard her mutter outside. “Seriously, she acts like cooking an egg is a chore.” “I know, right?” Kayla’s voice joined in. “She’s really getting a big head lately.” I went to the kitchen a few minutes later, after I heard them retreating. I saw the bowl of beans I’d put out to soak the night before—I’d planned on making a big batch of soup for everyone. I picked up the bowl and dumped the whole thing into the trash. Nothing. They were getting nothing else from me. I spent the next three days finalizing the data. They had inflated the rent by 80%. They had tripled the utility bills and HOA fees. They had charged me for “repairs” that never happened—leaking faucets, AC tune-ups, plumbing issues. They had even been billing me for their own skincare, tampons, and wine, disguised as “shared household expenses.” I stared at the final number at the bottom of my spreadsheet. $31,450. In two years, they had stolen over thirty thousand dollars from me. That was a down payment on a house in my hometown. That was a new car. That was my future. “I’m so broke, Evelyn… I’m literally eating dirt this month.” “That designer bag is so expensive, I’ll never be able to afford it…” I remembered Madison saying those things while she was using my money to buy the very things she claimed she couldn’t afford. A wave of literal physical sickness washed over me. I ran to the bathroom and gagged over the toilet, but nothing came up. I splashed cold water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked haggard. Pale. There were dark circles under my eyes from two years of overtime and stress, all to support a lifestyle for three people who despised me. I dried my face. I picked up my phone and called Jordan, an old friend from college who was now a high-powered litigator at a firm downtown. “Jordan? It’s Evelyn.” “Evelyn! Wow, it’s been a while. How are you?” “I’m in trouble,” I said, my voice finally cracking. “I need a lawyer. A good one.”

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I woke up in the ICU, every shallow breath feeling like a countdown to a final judgment that had already been passed. Through the haze of sedatives and the rhythmic, clinical throb of the monitors, I heard Brady’s voice. It was low, strained, and anchored by the sharp, calculating tone of his mother, Evelyn. “If you really want to marry that girl—if you want to bring a nobody into this family—then end it with Margot now,” Evelyn hissed. “Stop playing this long, exhausting game.” “She’s dead, Mother.” Brady was silent for a long beat. When he spoke again, his voice broke, a masterpiece of manufactured grief. “I couldn’t just walk away. Five years ago, the Steward family bailed us out. Her grandfather literally handed me the keys to their empire as her dowry. I couldn’t break the engagement.” He paused, a jagged sigh escaping him. “But it was always Isla. I promised her she would be the only Mrs. Whitlock. I just had to wait for Margot to… disappear.” As the fog in my brain cleared, a news report flashed on the wall-mounted TV. I saw my own face—a cold, black-and-white memorial photo. I wanted to scream, but my lungs felt like they were filled with crushed glass. It wasn’t an accident. None of it was. Brady Whitlock and I had been the “it” couple of the city for five years. We had planned our engagement party twenty-four times. And twenty-four times, disaster struck the day before the event. The first time I tried on my gown, I was pricked by dozens of needles hidden in the lining, leaving me bloody and infection-ridden. The second time we scouted the venue, a massive crystal chandelier plummeted, nearly crushing my skull. The third time, the catering headquarters burned to the ground, taking every detail of our preparation with it. People whispered that I was “bad luck.” That I was a curse on the Whitlock family. They urged me to let him go. But I loved him. I stayed. Until the twenty-fourth time. On my way to pick up the rings, I was abducted. They didn’t want a ransom. They just wanted me gone. In the end, I got nothing but a shallow grave. But if the universe is giving me a second chance, I’m not going to be the victim this time. If Brady can’t make a choice, I’ll make it for him. 1. The scent of bleach and hospital-grade soap was thick enough to taste. The steady beep… beep… beep… of the heart monitor was the only thing anchoring me to reality. I snapped my eyes open. The ceiling was a sterile, blinding white. This wasn’t the rusted, freezing warehouse where the kidnappers had left me to bleed out. I twitched my fingers, and a lightning bolt of pain shot from my temple down my spine. “Margot! Oh, thank God, you’re awake!” That voice. Familiar, polished, and utterly hollow. Brady leaned into my field of vision, his handsome face a mask of exhaustion. His eyes were bloodshot, his stubble perfectly groomed to suggest a man who hadn’t slept in days. Looking at him made my stomach turn. This was the man I grew up with. My “childhood sweetheart.” The man who, in my past life, wept over my death while whispering his love for another woman in the same breath. “Brady…” My throat felt like it was coated in sand. “I’m here, baby. You’re safe.” He grabbed my hand, his palm warm and steady. A year ago, this touch would have made me feel invincible. Now, I knew these were the same hands that would eventually push me into the abyss to embrace someone else. Behind him, his mother, Evelyn, crowded into the space. She dapped at her eyes with a silk handkerchief, though her mascara remained flawlessly intact. “Margot, darling, you gave us such a scare. That chandelier… what a freak accident! To think it just fell like that. It’s a miracle you’re alive.” The chandelier. My pupils contracted. I remembered now. This wasn’t the day I died. I had been sent back further. This was the second accident. In my previous life, this concussion kept me in the hospital for two weeks. I had exactly two months left before the kidnapping. Two months to crawl out of the grave they were digging for me. “My head… it hurts so much,” I whispered, closing my eyes to hide the cold fire burning in them. Brady immediately hit the call button, barking orders at the nurses with the frantic devotion of a man who couldn’t bear to lose his prize. Evelyn started her usual routine, her voice a soft, poisonous lullaby. “Margot, honey, I hate to say this, but is it possible you and Brady are just… ill-fated? This is the second time. Maybe we should put the engagement on hold? For your safety?” There it was. The exact script from the first time. Every “accident” was followed by these suggestions—calculated moves to make me feel like the problem, to make me feel like a burden until I was isolated enough to kill. In my last life, I would have sobbed, clutching Brady’s hand, begging them not to give up on me. But now? I just wanted to see them burn. I opened my eyes, letting the tears spill over. I looked directly at Brady, my voice trembling but sharp. “Brady, even your mother thinks I’m a curse. Do you feel that way too? Are you… are you trying to find a reason to leave me?” Brady froze. He wasn’t used to me being direct. He was used to me being a soft, pliable extension of the Steward fortune. Evelyn’s face tightened. “Margot, don’t be dramatic. I’m just worried about you—” “I’m asking him, Evelyn,” I cut her off, my gaze locked on his. The air in the room turned brittle. Brady’s eyes flickered with a momentary panic before he smoothed it over with a look of profound heartbreak. He leaned down, brushing a tear from my cheek with his thumb. His voice was like honey. “Don’t say that. Ever. I’d die for you, Margot. You’re my life. We’ve just had a run of bad luck. As soon as you’re out of here, we’re setting the date again. Okay?” It was an Oscar-worthy performance. I nodded, leaning my head against his chest, listening to the steady lie of his heartbeat. Fine, Brady, I thought, my eyes turning to ice. You said it. Let’s see whose luck runs out first this time. 2. I stayed in the hospital for three days. Brady and Evelyn were there every morning. Brady played the part of the devoted fiancé to perfection. He peeled grapes, sliced apples into perfect wedges, and read me poetry in a low, soothing hum. Evelyn brought homemade soups, claiming they were full of healing nutrients. In my old life, I would have been moved to tears by their kindness. Now, I just watched the theater of it all. It was almost funny how much effort they put into the lie. On the fourth day, the guest I was waiting for finally arrived. She wore a white sundress, her long hair cascading over her shoulders like silk. She looked like a portrait of innocence as she walked in carrying a thermal flask. When she saw Brady, her eyes lit up for a fraction of a second before she caught herself. She looked at me with a shy, timid expression. “Brady? Evelyn? Oh… am I interrupting?” This was Isla Fontaine. According to Evelyn, she was a “distant cousin” from upstate who was staying with them while she finished her degree. In my past life, I loved her like a sister. I bought her designer bags, let her borrow my jewelry, and told her all my secrets. I didn’t realize until I was a ghost that she wasn’t a cousin at all. She was the love of Brady’s life. The secret he was keeping while he spent my grandfather’s money. Brady’s expression softened the moment he saw her, but he quickly masked it. “Isla. What are you doing here? I told you to stay home and study.” Isla looked at me, her lower lip trembling slightly. “I heard Margot was awake. I wanted to bring her some fish soup. I made it myself.” She set the flask on the nightstand, her doe-like eyes brimming with “concern.” “Margot, I’m so sorry. If my stomach hadn’t been acting up that day, I would have been at the venue with you. Maybe… maybe I could have pushed you out of the way.” She started to cry. A delicate, beautiful white lily of a girl. In my previous life, I would have consoled her. I would have told her it wasn’t her fault. But now, I just wanted to see if I could make her wilt. “Isla,” I said, my voice quiet but cutting through her sob. “That stomach ache… was it something you ate?” Isla’s crying stopped abruptly. Brady and Evelyn both shifted, their body language suddenly guarded. I acted like I hadn’t noticed. “It’s just so strange. You were the one who invited me to scout the venue that day. Then, right as we were leaving, you were doubled over in pain. Now that I think about it, thank God you stayed behind. Otherwise, you would have been the one under that chandelier.” I paused, looking her dead in the eye. “You should see a doctor. It almost feels like someone poisoned your breakfast just to keep you away from that spot.” The sound of Evelyn’s paring knife hitting the floor was deafening. Isla turned as white as her dress. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Brady recovered first. He lunged for the knife, his brow furrowed. “Margot, don’t be ridiculous. She has a sensitive stomach. It was just a virus.” “Really?” I blinked, looking innocent. “But Isla always had an iron stomach when we went out for street food in the city. To have a ‘virus’ exactly at the hour of my accident? What a coincidence.” I let the word coincidence hang in the air like a guillotine. The silence was suffocating. I watched the blood drain from their faces, savoring the frantic look in their eyes. I knew why she hadn’t been there. I had seen it as a spirit, drifting through their house after my death. I’d seen Evelyn in the kitchen, stirring a heavy dose of laxatives into Isla’s milk, whispering, “Don’t worry, honey. This will keep you home for a few hours. I can’t risk you being near Margot when the cable snaps.” They had planned to kill me back then, too. And Isla had been in on it from the start. 3. The atmosphere never quite recovered after that. Isla fled the room in tears, escorted by a protective Evelyn. Brady stayed behind, his face a mask of simmering tension. He sat by the bed for a long time before he finally spoke. “Margot, what’s going on with you?” “What do you mean?” “You’re being… aggressive. Did someone say something to you?” I looked at the suspicion in his eyes and felt a thrill of cold joy. So, the golden boy is getting nervous? I let my eyes fill with tears, my voice cracking. “What’s going on? Brady, I almost died. I’m terrified. I was just worried about Isla—worried that someone is targeting the people I love. Why are you snapping at me?” I began to sob, the kind of hysterical, breathless crying that usually made him uncomfortable. “Does she matter more to you than I do? Is that it?” Brady’s wall crumbled instantly. Guilt and annoyance warred on his face before he folded, pulling me into a hug. “I’m sorry, Margot. I’m so sorry. I’m just stressed. You’re right, you’ve been through hell. Don’t overthink it. I just don’t want you getting paranoid.” I buried my face in his shirt, feeling the expensive fabric against my cheek. I smiled, a jagged, invisible thing. For the next few days, I was the perfect patient. I stopped mentioning Isla. I ate their soup. I played the role of the devoted, fragile heiress. I watched them relax, watched them start to believe that my “outburst” was just a side effect of the concussion. They thought they were back in control. They had no idea I was just waiting for the right moment to take back what was mine. A week later, I was discharged. My grandfather’s driver came to pick us up. As we cruised through the city, I leaned my head on Brady’s shoulder and said, almost casually, “Brady, how is the Waterfront Project coming along? The one Steward Global is co-funding with your firm?” The Waterfront Project was the biggest deal in the city. It was the “meat” my grandfather had thrown to the Whitlocks to keep them afloat. Brady was the lead director. In my last life, that project had been a black hole of delays. After I died, I found out Brady had siphoned off nearly thirty million dollars from it—money used to pay off his family’s gambling debts and to buy Isla a jewelry boutique. Brady went stiff beside me. “It’s fine. Smooth sailing. Don’t worry your pretty head about business.” “Is it?” I sat up and pulled a folder from my bag. “I had my personal assistant pull a progress report while I was in the hospital. Some of the line items for ‘Consulting Fees’ looked a little… inflated. I thought you could explain them to me?” Brady took the folder, his face turning an ashen gray as he saw the red-circled figures. Sweat broke out on his forehead. “Margot, this… this is just standard industry movement. You wouldn’t understand the nuances.” He tried to close the folder with a forced smile. “Really? Because it looks like those ‘nuances’ are being wired into a shell company called ‘Isla-Rose Jewels.’” I tilted my head, looking at him with wide, curious eyes. “What a strange name. It’s almost like your ‘cousin’ Isla, isn’t it? And the registered owner… her last name is Fontaine. Is that another coincidence, Brady?” The temperature in the car dropped to zero. The driver, a man who had worked for my grandfather for twenty years, caught my eye in the rearview mirror. He didn’t say a word, but I saw his grip tighten on the steering wheel. Brady’s face went from white to purple. He never expected me to look at a balance sheet. He never expected the girl who used to spend her days at Bergdorf’s to start hunting him through his bank accounts. 4. “Margot, let me explain.” Brady’s voice was a jagged whisper. He grabbed my hand, his grip so tight it bruised. “That’s a friend’s company. We’re using them for interior sourcing. The money is just… moving through. It’s coming back.” What a pathetic lie. I pulled my hand away and rubbed my wrist. “Oh, I see.” “I was almost worried you were taking my grandfather’s money to set up a life for your mistress.” The words hit the air like a bomb. Brady’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “What… what did you just say?” The car swerved slightly as the driver reacted. I just laughed—a bright, hollow sound. “I’m joking, Brady! Look at your face. You’re so serious.” “Isla is so sweet, I know you think of her as a sister. And you love me far too much to ever lie to me, right?” I stared into his soul, waiting for him to blink. He couldn’t. He looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I was a monster he had accidentally let into his house. When we arrived at the Steward estate, my grandfather was waiting. He saw the bandage on my head and pulled me into a hug, his voice thick with emotion. I played the doting granddaughter, making sure not to mention the conversation in the car—yet. Brady followed us in like a kicked dog. At dinner, he was overly attentive, piling food onto my plate, trying to win back the “old” Margot. I let him. I ate every bite. But as coffee was served, I looked at my grandfather. “Grandpa, I want to start working at the firm. Specifically, I want to oversee the Waterfront Project.” The dining room went silent. My grandfather looked stunned. “Margot, you’ve never shown interest in the business.” “Well, things change when you almost have a chandelier fall on your head,” I said lightly. “I realized I can’t hide behind you and Dad forever. I want to learn how to protect what our family has built.” My reasoning was flawless. My grandfather’s eyes sparkled with pride. “But your health…” “I’ll be in the office, not on-site. And besides, I’ll have Brady to guide me. He’s the expert, right?” I turned to Brady and gave him a saccharine smile. “You’ll show me everything, won’t you, Brady? Every single cent of that project?” Brady looked like he wanted to vomit. He couldn’t say no. Not in front of my grandfather. Not when I was being so “inspirational.” He forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. “Of course, Margot. Whatever you want.” The trap was set. Starting the next day, I didn’t go to the office. I told Brady to bring the files to the estate so I could “study in peace.” In reality, I was building a paper trail that would lead to his prison cell. Brady was forced to come over every afternoon, and like clockwork, Isla would find an excuse to tag along. She’d bring pastries, wear her prettiest dresses, and try to reclaim her territory by leaning over Brady while he “explained” things to me. One afternoon, she brought a box of macarons. “Margot, you look so tired from all this reading. Have a treat.” She set the box down, her hip brushing Brady’s shoulder. I looked at the macarons, then at her. “Isla, you’ve been doing a lot of baking lately. Brady must love that.” Isla blushed. “He does.” “Interesting.” I flipped a page in a ledger. “Do you know how much it costs to start a custom jewelry boutique like ‘Isla-Rose’? The startup capital alone is astronomical.” Isla’s smile vanished. “I did some math,” I continued, my voice cold and steady. “Between the lease in SoHo, the renovations, and the initial diamond inventory… you’re looking at ten million dollars, minimum.” I looked up, catching both of them in my crosshairs. “Isla, you’re a student. Where did you get ten million dollars?” “Or,” I leaned forward, “is it not your money at all?” The air left the room. Brady stood up abruptly, snatching the ledger from my hand. “Margot! Enough! What the hell is wrong with you?” He used my full name, his anger finally overriding his mask. Isla began to shake, tears streaming down her face as she clutched Brady’s sleeve. “Brady, I… I don’t know what she’s talking about…” I leaned back in my chair. “You don’t know about the company in your name? Or you don’t know the money was stolen from Steward Global?” “Brady,” I said, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “The fire at the catering company was such a tragedy. We lost all our plans. But I think it’s time we restart. Let’s pick a new date for the engagement.” “The 18th of next month. It’s perfect.” In my last life, the 18th was the day I was murdered. Brady turned a shade of white I didn’t think was biologically possible. He looked at me with pure, unadulterated terror. “What? You don’t want to?” I challenged him. “No… no,” he stammered. “Of course. Whatever you want.” “Good,” I said, standing up. “Oh, and the rings. I want to pick them up personally. Isla, why don’t you come with me? A girl’s day out.” I smiled at the girl who was about to faint. “You wouldn’t say no to your favorite cousin, would you?”

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When I opened my eyes, the world was spinning. The sharp, metallic scent of rusted iron filled my lungs, and the wind whipped my hair across my face. I knew this place. I knew this cold, rooftop air. I was back. Back at the exact moment that had shattered my life. This time, I wasn’t going to be the victim. My phone was already out, the camera lens steady, aimed directly at the “star” of the show—the scholarship student who was currently rehearsing her finest performance. Just like in my previous life, she reached for my hand, her eyes brimming with calculated tears, trying to pull me toward the edge of the abyss. In that life, the man I was supposed to marry and my own flesh-and-blood brother had been her most loyal soldiers. To protect this “fragile” girl, they had me committed to a private psychiatric ward, where I was drugged and broken until my heart finally gave out. They were convinced I was the monster who had pushed her. They turned a deaf ear to every scream, every plea for the truth. It wasn’t until I took my last breath on that sterile hospital bed that the truth came out—the “fall” had been a meticulously staged frame-up. But the clock had reset. This time, I was the one holding the script. I wasn’t just going to survive; I was going to broadcast her downfall to the world. 1. “Lauren,” Sadie Walsh whispered, her back pressed against the safety railing. Her voice was like honeyed poison, her eyes glittering with the thrill of a trap about to spring. “Tell me… if I jump, do you think Bennett will finally call off the engagement?” The wind howled. This was the spot. The exact angle. In my memories, this was where she grabbed my wrist, using a pinhole camera hidden in her sleeve to capture the “evidence” of me pushing her before she let herself fall. The phantom pain of my death surged through me, a wave of nausea threatening to pull me under. I forced my feet to stay rooted to the concrete. I looked at her, and suddenly, I started to laugh. Sadie froze. “What’s so funny?” “You,” I said softly, the amusement not reaching my eyes. “You’re just so pathetic.” Before she could react, my hand moved like a whip. I didn’t push her. Instead, I lunged forward and snatched the secondary phone she had hidden behind her back. I swiped, unlocked it—I knew her passcode from the trial in my last life—and opened the university’s massive social forum app. I hit ‘Go Live.’ The title I typed was simple: NORTHCREST’S DARLING SADIE WALSH: A MASTERCLASS IN STAGING A SUICIDE. I shoved the camera inches from her face, capturing every ounce of the blood draining from her cheeks. “You wanted to know if Bennett would leave me?” I stepped closer, my voice projecting clearly for the thousands of students tuning in. “Let’s find out together.” I took another step. She instinctively recoiled, her lower back hitting the freezing iron railing. “I’m going to give you exactly what you want, Sadie. Let’s see how much your life is actually worth to them.” 2. The viewer count exploded. The comment section was a blurred mess of digital chaos. Wait, is that the rooftop? Is she actually going to jump? Is that Lauren Sinclair? What the hell is happening? Is she LIVESTREAMING this?! Sadie’s face turned a ghostly white. This wasn’t the script. She had planned a tragic scene of a poor, bullied scholarship student driven to the edge by a wicked heiress. She was supposed to be the martyr, the internet’s sweetheart. “Lauren! Turn it off! Give me the phone!” she shrieked, dropping the innocent act and lunging for the device. I stepped aside with practiced ease, the camera never losing focus on her contorted, panicked expression. “Why the rush? The show is just getting started,” I said. “Didn’t you want everyone to see how I ‘pushed’ you? I’m giving you a front-row seat.” The heavy metal door to the roof slammed open with a deafening bang. Bennett Crawford and my brother, Toby Sinclair, charged out like panicked animals. “Lauren! Stop this right now!” Bennett’s face was a mask of fury, his voice raw. He saw Sadie trembling against the rail and froze, his eyes darting to me with a look that was purely murderous. Toby looked just as horrified, his gaze heavy with disappointment. “Lauren, have you lost your mind? Get away from her! If you’re mad, take it out on me!” There it was. The same old story. Without a single question, I was already guilty. In my last life, it was this brand of “justice” that had dragged me to hell. The coldness in my chest met the fire of my current rage, leaving me feeling eerily calm. I slowly turned the camera toward them. The two men I had loved most—and now hated with every fiber of my being. “Take it out on you?” I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Bennett, Toby—which one of you actually saw me touch her?” “Right now, your ‘sweet Sadie’ just threatened to jump to make sure you both hate me forever. I’m just being a supportive friend. I started a livestream so the whole school can witness her big moment.” The comments went nuclear. Holy shit, plot twist? She threatened to jump to frame her? Lauren looks terrifying right now… she might actually do it. Bennett’s face was ashen. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t care about the truth; he only cared about the “fear” on Sadie’s face—his precious, fragile little flower. “I am ordering you, Lauren: shut that phone off and apologize to her!” He lunged at me, his hand outstretched to grab the phone. In that split second, the memory of being strapped into a gurney, the leather restraints biting into my skin, flashed through my mind. In my last life, he had watched them do it. He had stood by while I screamed his name until my throat bled. And here he was, trying to use force again. I didn’t flinch. I shoved the camera directly into his snarling face. “Look at him, everyone!” I shouted. “This is my fiancé, Bennett Crawford. He’s about to hit his future wife because of another woman!” Bennett’s hand stopped mid-air, pinned by the invisible gaze of ten thousand viewers. The chat was a frenzy: He’s actually going to hit her! What a psycho! Lauren is a queen for this. Facing down three losers at once. Toby was vibrating with anxiety. “Lauren, please! You’re making such a scene! Don’t drag the family name through the mud like this!” I smiled at him, a cold, dead thing. “The family name? Toby, the moment you chose a stranger over your own sister, you did more damage to the Sinclair name than I ever could.” I turned back to Sadie, who looked like she was about to faint for real. “So, Sadie. Shall we continue? Or should we talk about the pinhole camera hidden in your left sleeve?” 3. The word “camera” hit the rooftop like a lightning strike. Sadie’s blood drained completely. She began to shake, a visible, violent tremor. Bennett and Toby stood paralyzed, the first seeds of doubt finally flickering in their eyes. The livestream peaked: A hidden camera? No way. She was going to record her own ‘accident’? That’s some Gone Girl shit. If that’s true, Sadie Walsh is a literal sociopath. The tide was turning. It was a physical sensation, like the wind shifting direction. Bennett looked at Sadie, his brow furrowed with a sickening realization. “Sadie… is that… did you?” “No! Bennett, don’t listen to her! She’s lying! She’s trying to ruin me!” Sadie wailed, her left hand reflexively tucking behind her back. The movement was more incriminating than any confession. “Lying?” I stepped into her space. “Then show us. Roll up your sleeve right now in front of everyone watching. Prove me wrong.” “That’s enough, Lauren!” Bennett barked. His face was dark. The truth was too bright for him; he was desperately trying to cling to the lie he had built his hero complex on. “Even if she made a mistake, you can’t do this! Give me the phone!” He moved toward me again, but I backed away, using the phone as a shield. “Don’t bother,” I said calmly. “The police are already on their way.” I glanced at my other phone, where a confirmation message glowed. “Since you don’t believe me, let’s let the law decide.” I looked at Sadie, whose eyes were now filled with nothing but raw, venomous hatred. “Oh, and one more thing. You’re using the university’s guest WiFi for your little ‘SOS’ stream, aren’t you?” I let a small, predatory smile touch my lips. “Too bad my family’s foundation just upgraded the campus network last month. As the daughter of the primary donor, how long do you think it’ll take me to get the data logs showing exactly which device was streaming what and when?” Sadie’s knees gave out. She slumped against the railing, gasping for air. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about… Lauren, I know you’ve always hated me, but you can’t frame me like this…” She was still trying. Even now. In the distance, the sharp, wailing cry of a police siren cut through the air. 4. The sirens shattered what was left of the standoff. A group of campus security and two police officers burst onto the roof, faces set in grim lines. “Lauren! Turn that off this instant!” the Dean shouted, looking more worried about the school’s PR than the girl on the ledge. Bennett saw an opening. He pointed at me, his voice booming with feigned authority. “Officer, it’s her! She’s the one! She’s harassing this girl, trying to drive her to jump, and she’s filming the whole thing!” I watched their pathetic performance with detached boredom until the lead officer turned his gaze to me. “Who called this in?” “I did,” I said, stepping forward. I ended the stream and pulled up the local recording. “Officer, I have the entire incident recorded from the moment I stepped onto the roof. It contains Ms. Walsh’s threats to frame me for her suicide, and the subsequent attempts by these two gentlemen to forcefully destroy the evidence.” I handed him the phone. “I’m also filing a formal complaint against Sadie Walsh for illegal surveillance and invasion of privacy. The device is currently strapped to her left wrist.” “You’re lying!” Sadie shrieked, lurching toward me. A female officer intercepted her. Suddenly, Sadie’s eyes rolled back, and she went limp, collapsing onto the concrete. “Sadie!” Bennett and Toby rushed to her side, their faces twisted with concern. Bennett glared at me. “Are you happy now, Lauren? You’ve literally pushed her to a breakdown!” I folded my arms. “Don’t worry. Faking a faint is the standard exit strategy for a narcissist. She’s fine.” The lead officer didn’t buy the act. He gestured to the female officer. “Check her left sleeve.” “No! She’s unconscious! You can’t just—” Bennett started to interject. The officer’s voice was like stone. “It’s procedure, sir. Step back.” The female officer rolled up Sadie’s sleeve. There, strapped to her pale wrist, was a small, black, pinhole lens blinking with a faint red light. The silence on that roof was absolute. Even though the livestream was over, the truth was out. Bennett’s grip on Sadie’s shoulders went slack. The rage and righteousness on his face crumbled into a hollow, empty mask of shock. Toby just stared, his mouth hanging open. He looked at the camera, then at me, then at the “victim” on the floor. He looked like he was about to be sick. And Sadie? The moment the camera was revealed, her eyelids flickered. The “unconscious” girl was gone. When she opened her eyes, there was no more sweetness. There was only the desperate, jagged glare of a cornered animal. I looked down at her and let a slow, satisfied smirk spread across my face. This is just the beginning.

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When I opened my eyes again, I realized I had been pulled back—shoved, really—into the sweltering humidity of the summer that changed everything. The day Laura was supposed to tell me she loved me. In my previous life, a diagnosis of ALS at forty had scribbled a hurried, cruel period at the end of my story. As I lay dying, Laura had clung to me, her voice breaking into a thousand jagged pieces. She told me that in the next life, she would find a way to protect Parker. She wouldn’t let him slip away again. We had spent decades tethered together by our shared guilt over Parker, supporting each other through the long, gray years, yet never quite escaping the shadow he left behind. That summer after high school graduation, I had accepted Laura’s confession. Back then, we were naive enough to think it was the beginning of our “happily ever after.” We didn’t see the look on Parker’s face. When he found out, he quietly changed his college plans, choosing a school three thousand miles away, effectively severing the “Iron Triangle” we had formed since childhood. The night before he was supposed to leave, he got wasted at a dive bar. He was dragged into the alleyway behind the building. He died there, broken and humiliated under the weight of a senseless beating. That news became the rot at the center of our lives. My story began at five years old, when the wealthy Connors family plucked me from an orphanage to be a companion for their only son, Parker. I remember our first meeting vividly. Parker grabbed his best friend, Laura, and pulled her toward me. He had a piece of saltwater taffy in his hand; he snapped it in half and gave me the larger piece. From that day on, the three of us were the only world that mattered. 1. The neon lights of the karaoke private room flickered, and the air smelled like cheap beer and sweat. My classmates were screaming lyrics into the mic, the clink of bottles providing a rhythmic backdrop to the chaos. Laura and Parker weren’t there. Suddenly, the memory of Parker’s final moments in that damp alley flashed behind my eyes—the blood, the terror. My hands began to shake as I pulled out my phone. I texted Parker: “Hey, I’m beat. Heading home early. Don’t stay out too late, okay?” I grabbed my jacket, muttered a goodbye to the person nearest the door, and bolted. In the elevator, I leaned my forehead against the cool metal wall. Tears I couldn’t control began to track down my face. Not this time, I whispered to the empty air. I won’t let the cycle repeat. The Connors’ estate was a tomb of silence when I arrived. Parker’s parents were already asleep. I crept upstairs, my heart hammering against my ribs. I passed Parker’s room and saw the door was slightly ajar. On his desk sat a framed photo of the three of us in elementary school—grinning, toothless, and invincible. The grief hit me like a physical blow. In that other life, I had said “yes” to Laura. I had been so blinded by my own feelings that I didn’t see Parker’s forced smiles or the way his heart was shattering in real-time. He had fled to a frozen city across the country to get away from us. And then came the alley. When we finally found him, the scene was etched in nightmare. He was covered in blood, his clothes torn to rags. His body was a canvas of cigarette burns and hateful graffiti. But it was his eyes that haunted me most—the lingering traces of absolute terror, pain, and a hopelessness so deep it swallowed the sun. Laura and I stayed together after that, but we weren’t a couple. We were two survivors huddling together for warmth in a house haunted by a ghost. We stayed that way until my body started to fail me, until the ALS began to turn my muscles into stone. The night before I died, she held me, her tears scalding my neck. “Elliot,” she whispered, “if there’s a next life… I have to watch over Parker. I can’t let anything happen to him again.” My chest tightened until I could barely breathe. The tragedy of the past could not—would not—be the prologue of this life. I spent the night staring at the ceiling. The next day, I expected the fallout. In the previous timeline, Laura had planned an elaborate confession that I had just stood up. Knowing her temper, I expected her to storm over and demand an explanation. But my phone stayed silent. No texts, no calls. I checked the group chats. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the messages. “Laura’s been glued to Parker all day.” “Yeah, they’re practically joined at the hip. Didn’t she say she had big plans for yesterday?” “She’s acting super weird around him. Like, she won’t even let him out of her sight.” A cold realization began to dawn on me. I went downstairs to get some water and saw them in the living room. Parker was laughing, peeling a Clementine and popping segments into Laura’s mouth. Usually, she’d swat him away, but today she was still. Her eyes were fixed on him with an intensity that bordered on frantic. Every time he shifted an inch to the left, her gaze followed. Seeing him so vibrant, so alive, sent a jolt of electricity through me. I walked toward them, clutching my glass. “Parker.” He looked up, his smile bright enough to hurt. “Elliot! Come here, man. These oranges Laura bought are incredible.” I started to sit down, but a hand clamped onto my arm with bruising force. Laura pulled me toward the hallway corner, shoving me back against the wall. She stared at me, her eyes rimmed with red, her voice a lethal whisper. “Elliot. Stay away from Parker.” I froze, the air leaving my lungs. “And stay away from me,” she added, her voice trembling with a mix of regret, self-loathing, and something I couldn’t quite name. “It’s better for all three of us this way.” I looked into her eyes, and in that moment, the pieces clicked together with the force of an explosion. Laura. She was back, too. 2. After that, I became the target of Laura’s constant surveillance. If I came within ten feet of Parker, she materialized out of thin air, a human shield between us. If I walked into the kitchen to grab a drink while they were in the living room, I could feel her entire body go rigid. Once, Parker was standing on a chair trying to reach a photo album on top of a high cabinet. I reached out to steady him, but before my hand even brushed his arm, Laura lunged forward, nearly knocking me over. “I’ve got it,” she snapped. Parker frowned at her. “What’s your deal? Why are you being so aggressive with Elliot?” She didn’t answer. she just took the album and handed it to him. Parker turned to me with an apologetic grin. “Ignore her. She’s been acting like she’s on a warpath lately.” He reached into his pocket and tossed me a pack of gum. “Laura bought it. Half is yours—always, right?” The pack was still warm from his palm. I squeezed it, my throat tight. When we were kids, it was always like this. He never had anything that wasn’t half mine. But I knew the rules now. I couldn’t be near them. I started withdrawing. I turned down every invitation. Ten invites, ten excuses. I was lazy, I had a headache, I had to study at the library. Eventually, Parker noticed. On a Saturday, he practically kidnapped me, dragging me to a boba shop while Laura followed behind us, her face a mask of cold fury. Parker dug into his shaved ice, his eyes searching mine with genuine worry. “Elliot, what is going on with you?” he asked. “The three of us haven’t hung out in weeks. Did you and Laura have a falling out?” I stirred the pearls in my tea, unable to meet his gaze. “No. It’s just… graduation anxiety. Waiting for the final scores, you know?” I tried to pivot, keeping my voice casual. “Have you thought about your college list? The state university here is top-tier. It’s close to home, and your parents would be happy to have you nearby.” The silence that followed was sharp. Laura, who had been staring out the window, turned her head. Her voice was ice. “Close to home isn’t always better. Sometimes, it’s better if people get as far away from each other as possible. For everyone’s sake.” The implication was a slap in the face. Parker looked stunned. He nudged her, his voice rising. “Laura! Knock it off! Why are you being such a jerk?” He turned back to me, his expression softening. “Don’t listen to her, El. She’s lost her mind.” Watching him defend me made my heart ache with a dull, throbbing pain. That night, I lay in bed, memories playing like a highlight reel behind my eyelids. Age six: two kids made fun of me for not having parents; Parker and Laura fought them until the kids ran home crying. Age twelve: I had a fever, and they snuck out past curfew to bring me soup. Age fifteen: on the roof of the garage, promising we’d be best friends until we were old and gray. The love was real. But the way Laura looked at me now—with suspicion and exhaustion—was also real. The night before the college application portal closed, Parker and I were sitting on the swings in the park. The setting sun stretched our shadows across the grass. After a long silence, I spoke up. “Parker, promise me something. No matter what happens, don’t go to bars by yourself. It’s not safe.” He blinked at me, laughing. “Since when did you become my nanny? I hate those loud places anyway.” “I’m serious,” I said. “If you’re ever feeling down, or if you’re upset… call me. Anytime. Okay?” He smiled, but before he could answer, a voice cut through the air like a knife. “Elliot. Harrison.” Laura was standing a few yards away, her face pale. She marched over and grabbed Parker’s arm, pulling him off the swing. “We’re leaving.” “Laura, what the hell? I’m talking to Elliot!” “There’s nothing to talk about.” She started dragging him away, but she threw one last look over her shoulder at me. It was a warning, pure and simple. “Stop trying to get inside his head, Elliot. Leave him alone.” Parker looked back at me as he was led away, his face a mix of confusion and apology. I stood there, watching them disappear into the twilight, until the cold settled into my bones. When it came time to submit my applications, I did it in front of them. I picked the local state university, just like them. Parker cheered, pulling me into a headlock. Laura watched me, her eyes dark and unreadable, but she didn’t say a word. What they didn’t know was that later that night, I opened my laptop again. I began looking at international programs. And I began searching for the earliest symptoms of ALS. 3. On Sunday, Mrs. Conner cooked a massive dinner and insisted Laura stay. At the table, she kept piling food onto Laura’s plate, beaming. “Laura, honey, eat up. You’ve been such a good influence on Parker lately. He’s been so happy.” She turned her warm gaze toward me. “In this house, Parker and Elliot are my two heartbeats.” Parker grinned. “Mom, you’re being cheesy.” Mr. Conner chuckled. “Laura’s a steady girl. We’re glad she’s looking out for you.” The atmosphere was perfect. Parker was rambling about his plans for freshman year, and Laura would nod occasionally. I ate in silence, the food tasting like ash. Mrs. Conner looked at Parker and Laura sitting side-by-side and sighed contentedly. “You know, I never noticed it before, but you two really do make a handsome couple. You look right together.” The table went still. Parker’s face turned bright red, and he stole a shy glance at Laura. She didn’t look up, but she didn’t disagree. Mrs. Conner handed me a bowl of soup. “And Elliot, I’m sure you’ll find a wonderful girl soon, too.” I took the bowl, my fingers icy. I forced a polite, shy smile. “Thanks, Mrs. Conner.” After dinner, I started clearing the dishes. As I turned on the faucet in the kitchen, I heard footsteps behind me. Laura was standing in the doorway. “Elliot,” she whispered. “Mr. and Mrs. Conner… they just want what’s best for Parker. They’ve done everything for you.” My heart sank. “I changed your application,” she said. “I used your login. You’re going to the University of Minnesota. It’s far. It’s better for you.” The water rushed over my hands. I gripped a plate so hard I thought it might snap. She was right. Being far away was better for me. But hearing it from her felt like a jagged blade in my chest. I turned off the water and looked at her. “Fine.” She blinked, caught off guard by my easy surrender. I dried my hands and walked past her. “Take care of him, Laura. I won’t get in your way again.” She opened her mouth, but no words came out. That night, my inbox chimed. It wasn’t about Minnesota. It was an acceptance letter from a prestigious university in London, along with an invitation to join a research pilot for early intervention in neurodegenerative diseases. I stared at the screen for a long time. Then, I knocked on the Conners’ bedroom door. I showed them the offer. “Elliot, you want to go to England?” Mrs. Conner asked, surprised. I nodded. “I want to see the world. I want to try something on my own.” Mr. Conner was quiet for a moment. “Do Laura and Parker know?” I shook my head. “Could you… not tell them? Just for a bit? Parker will try to talk me out of it, and I don’t want to lose my nerve.” Mrs. Conner sighed and smoothed my hair. “Oh, honey. If you want to fly, then fly. We’ll keep your secret.” My eyes stung. I hugged them both, tighter than I ever had. “Thank you. For everything.” The next day, I booked my flight. The departure date was set for the day after Parker’s birthday. 4. Two days before the birthday, I went up to the roof to bring in some laundry. Down in the garden, Laura and Parker were sitting on the stone bench. Parker looked tired; his head was nodding. Slowly, his head came to rest on Laura’s shoulder. I saw her body stiffen for a fraction of a second. But she didn’t push him away. Instead, she reached up and gently stroked his hair. I turned away, my throat tight. Back in my room, my phone buzzed. A text from Parker: “Elliot! Laura is taking me to the pier tomorrow! Do you think she’s finally gonna…?” He followed it with a string of blushing emojis. I typed back: “She definitely likes you, man.” “For real??” he replied instantly. “For real.” That night, Parker snuck into my room and crashed on my bed like he used to when we were ten. “Elliot, to be honest, I always thought she liked you,” he confessed, staring at the ceiling. “I used to get so jealous, it hurt.” I looked at him from my desk. “But she’s been so mean to you lately,” he continued, frowning. “I don’t like it. I’ve told her to knock it off, but she won’t listen.” I smiled softly. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter how she treats me. As long as she’s good to you, that’s all that matters.” “How can you say that? You’re my best friend. She has no right to be a jerk to you.” I didn’t argue. I just gave him a quick hug. Parker, you have no idea. She’s being a jerk because she’s trying to save your life. Parker’s birthday party was a small affair at the house. Laura’s parents were there, too. Mrs. Conner held both their hands, her eyes misty. “Seeing you two like this… it’s all I’ve ever wanted. I can finally breathe easy.” I stood on the periphery of the crowd, watching Parker’s face flush deep red. Suddenly, he stood up. “Laura… I have something to say.” The room went silent. He took a shaky breath. “I’ve loved you since we were kids. I don’t want to go to college as just your friend. Will you be my girlfriend?” Laura looked at him. Seconds ticked by like hours. The light in Parker’s eyes began to flicker and dim as the silence stretched. Just as he was about to sit back down, defeated, Laura closed her eyes. Then, softly but clearly, she said, “Yes.” The room erupted. Mrs. Conner burst into happy tears. Laura’s parents were beaming. Parker immediately pulled Laura into a crushing hug. Her arms stayed at her sides for a moment before she slowly, tentatively, wrapped them around his waist. She tilted her head back and kissed his jaw. I stood in the shadows by the door, watching the perfect tableau of their happiness. In the warm candlelight, I remembered her dying words from the other life: “I have to watch over Parker.” You did it, Laura. This time, you won. I quietly slipped upstairs. I left my gift on Parker’s bed. It was a glass jar filled with hundreds of paper stars I’d spent a week folding. Inside every single star, I had written the same five words: Parker, I hope you’re happy. I grabbed my suitcase. The party was still roaring downstairs; no one noticed me leave. A taxi was waiting at the curb. Door shut. Airport. Gate. Boarding. My phone buzzed as the plane sat on the tarmac. Parker. “Elliot!!! Where are you? I’ve looked everywhere! Mom said you went out to get me a surprise?” “Get back here! Laura gave me a watch! I want to show you!” I typed: “I’m so happy for you, Parker. Truly.” Then, I powered down the phone. The plane began its taxi, then lifted into the night sky. The city lights below shrunk into a grid of diamonds, then faded into nothing. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. A montage of my life played out: Parker sharing his candy at five. The three of us eating popsicles on the roof at fifteen. The light in Laura’s eyes the first time she told me she loved me. The white walls of the hospital room, her hot tears on my skin as I turned to ice. “If there’s a next life…” And finally, tonight. The candles. Her saying “yes.” Parker’s radiant, whole smile. A single tear escaped and rolled down my cheek, unnoticed in the quiet cabin. Goodbye, Laura. Goodbye, Parker. I hope that in this life, the two people I love most get everything they ever wanted. Peace, joy, and a long life together. As for me, my battle was just beginning, thousands of miles away, in a body that was destined to betray me.

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Lately, my four-year-old daughter, Daisy, has been bolting upright in bed in the dead of night. Heart racing, I’d pull her into my lap, whispering into her hair, asking if she’d had a nightmare or if her tummy ached. She’d only offer a fleeting, skittish glance before looking away, her voice a tiny, jagged splinter of its usual self. She’d tell me it was nothing, then beg me to stop asking. She said she wasn’t allowed to tell. A cold knot formed in my stomach. What could a four-year-old possibly keep from her own mother? Daisy’s eyes, usually so bright and innocent, were shadowed with a heavy, cryptic dread as she stared at the empty space behind my shoulder. Then, she leaned in, her breath hot and frantic against my ear, her voice dropping to a ghost of a whisper. “I really can’t say, Mommy. If I do, we’ll all die.” 1 In the suffocating darkness of the room, the hair on my arms stood on end. I shook it off a second later. She was four. She’d probably heard some twisted urban legend from a kid at preschool—some playground creepypasta that had taken root in her imagination. A flash of irritation flared in my chest, mostly at whatever brat had scared her. I pulled her close, tucking the duvet around her chin. “Enough with the talk about dying, baby. There are no such things as ghosts. Now, go to sleep.” As I closed my eyes, a faint, rhythmic pulse of light flickered behind my eyelids—the streetlamp outside, maybe? “It’s not a ghost, Mommy…” Daisy muttered, so low I almost missed it. I squeezed her tighter, my voice thick with sleep. “Then we’re fine. We have the best security system on the block. Nothing can get in. Just sleep.” The next morning, the sun felt like a lie. After dropping Daisy off at her classroom, I pulled her teacher, Ms. Crane, aside. I kept my voice low but sharp. “I remember you mentioning a little boy in class who likes to tell scary stories? A bit of a troublemaker?” I asked, my hands buried deep in my coat pockets. “Could you keep him away from Daisy? She’s been having horrific night terrors. Kids this age can’t process that kind of stuff.” Ms. Crane flinched. She leaned in, her expression shifting into something uncomfortably somber. “Beth, I… I thought you knew. That boy, Jamie… he passed away last semester. He fell from the roof of his apartment building. It was a tragic accident. We told the children he just moved away. We didn’t want to traumatize them.” The air left my lungs. Jamie had been dead for months. “Then what about the curriculum?” I pressed, my brow furrowing. “Any Grimm’s fairy tales? Anything dark?” “Absolutely not,” Ms. Crane insisted, her voice earnest. “We’re extremely careful about the media they consume. We focus on growth and positivity here.” I didn’t entirely believe her, so I stayed. I spent the whole day “volunteering” in the back of the classroom, watching. The lessons were sunshine and rainbows. The kids laughed; the teachers were energetic. There was no shadow over that room. I went home thinking—hoping—that tonight would be different. I was wrong. At 2:40 AM, the mattress shifted. Daisy was up again, her small body rigid, her gaze locked onto the far corner of the room. I looked at the dark circles under her eyes. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days, like she was holding a vigil. I was exhausted, stressed about work, and reaching my breaking point. “Daisy, please,” I groaned, my voice cracking. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” She swallowed hard, her little throat bobbing. “Mommy, I told you. I can’t tell you.” I’ve always tried to be the “gentle parenting” type—the mom who validates every feeling—but I snapped. “I have to work tomorrow! I need you to just be a kid and sleep. Whatever is in that corner, if it’s a ghost, tell it to come kill me instead, okay? Just let it be over!” I grabbed her shoulders to turn her away from the wall, to force her to look at me. Daisy let out a blood-curdling scream. “No! Mommy, no! I have to watch it! If I don’t, we’ll die!” She fought me with a strength that terrified me. I could barely hold her down. Just as I managed to pin her back under the covers, a sudden, unnatural chill swept through the room. A draft, icy and sharp, whistled past my neck. I whirled around to the window. It was locked tight. In that split second of distraction, Daisy scrambled back up, her eyes wide and fixed once more on the corner. I lost it. I stomped over to the empty corner, jumping up and down, waving my arms like a madwoman in front of her terrified eyes. “See? Look! There is nothing here!” The bedroom door creaked open. A pale, withered face peered in. It was my mother, Evelyn. She’d moved in with us after her dementia worsened, and she rarely left her bed these days. “Mom?” I breathed, my heart hammering. “What are you doing up?” Her clouded eyes drifted toward me. But they didn’t stop at my face. They slid past me, focusing on the empty air at my back. The confusion on her face curdled into a mask of pure, primal horror. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Behind you…” 2 I spun around. There was nothing but the eggshell-white paint of the wall and my own shadow, elongated and distorted by the nightlight. When I turned back, my mother was collapsing. Her eyes rolled back into her head, showing only the whites. The next few hours were a blur of sirens and sterile hospital fluorescent lights. The ER doctor said it was a severe vasovagal response triggered by “intense emotional stress.” She needed to be kept for observation. I took a leave of absence from work. I had to figure this out. I called Ms. Crane again, my voice trembling. “That boy—Jamie. Are you absolutely certain the kids don’t know how he died?” “Positive,” she said, her voice firm. “We were airtight. We even threw him a ‘goodbye’ party before the news broke. The kids think he’s at a new school in the city.” I hung up, and the silence in my house felt heavy, like wet wool. It was 6:40 PM. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long, bleeding shadows across the hardwood floors. I checked the kitchen, the living room. Empty. I walked to the master bedroom and slowly pressed down on the handle. The room was dim. Daisy was sitting on her play mat, a half-unboxed doll in her lap. She was frozen. Her small, pale face was turned toward the corner, her eyes bloodshot, her eyelids fluttering as if she were fighting the basic human instinct to blink. And then I looked at the bed. My mother, who I’d brought home just hours ago, was doing the exact same thing. Her wrinkled skin was twitching, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches, but she was digging her fingernails into her palms, forcing herself to stare at that same empty patch of wall. A sob escaped me as I rushed to them. These were the two people I loved most in the world—a five-year-old girl and a woman losing her mind to age. What could possibly be powerful enough to command this kind of terrified devotion? “Mom, please,” I cried, clutching her hand. “Daisy won’t say it, so you have to. What is it? Is it making you look?” My mother didn’t move her eyes. After a long, agonizing silence, she leaned her head slightly toward me, her voice a dry rattle. “Can’t say.” She gripped my hand with a strength that bruised my skin. “Truly, Beth… I can’t say. If I do, we’ll die.” Looking at the deep lines of fear etched into her face, I felt a surge of white-hot rage toward whatever was doing this. But I was helpless. I stayed with them, a silent sentry in a room full of invisible monsters. Eventually, they both succumbed to exhaustion and fell into a fitful sleep. I paced the hallway, my mind racing. Daisy had only done this at night, but now the “requirement” had shifted to the evening. The rules were changing. If I didn’t fight back, what would happen when staring wasn’t enough anymore? I went back to the corner. I poked the drywall, searched for hidden projectors, even checked for carbon monoxide leaks. Nothing. My phone buzzed, the vibration making me jump. It was Ms. Crane. Her voice was tight, layered with an anxiety she couldn’t hide. “Beth? You kept asking about Jamie. Is… is Daisy okay?” I caught the tremor in her tone. “What happened at school today, Ms. Crane?” She cleared her throat. “Yesterday, after you kept Daisy home… during nap time, another little boy, Parker, bolted upright. He started staring at the corner, whispering to himself. When I tried to intervene, he told me he couldn’t tell me what he was looking at. He said he’d die if he spoke.” She paused, a shaky breath catching in her throat. “Is that what’s happening to Daisy?”

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