While waiting for my wedding dress fitting, I aimlessly scrolled through the local CityThread forum to pass the time. Darren had texted me thirty minutes ago, apologizing. He said he was tied up in a critical lab meeting for his state-funded research project and couldn’t make it to help me choose. At the top of the trending page was an urgent advice thread. The original poster wrote: “Help! A stray dog just licked my hand in the elevator. No open cuts. But ten minutes later, my boyfriend kissed my hand and pinned me against the car seat, kissing me wildly. Do we both need rabies shots?” The comment section below was filled with teasing and jokes: [Get the shots, girl! And absolutely no sex before that. This stuff spreads through body fluids.] [Oh my god, what if you get pregnant? You’re going to give birth to a puppy lol!] As an infectious disease specialist, I scoffed under my breath. I was about to swipe away from the sheer lack of basic science when my eyes caught the attached photo. It was a picture of two hands, fingers tightly locked. Slipped just under the man’s jacket sleeve was a distinctive sapphire cufflink. It was a rare piece I had spent a fortune to win at an overseas auction. Just this morning, I had personally fastened it onto Darren’s sleeve as an engagement gift. My gaze drifted back to the comment about “giving birth to a puppy.” I tapped reply: “Get the shot. Aim straight for the temple. Otherwise, it won’t work.” 1 Inside the fitting room of the bridal boutique, the vanity lights were blindingly bright. The stylist adjusted my train, smiling warmly. “Dr. Sawyer, Professor Mercer has incredible taste. This gown is absolutely perfect for you. He even called ahead to specify that the veil should be a soft, low-saturation blue to match your engagement cufflinks.” I looked at my reflection in the mirror, staying quiet. My phone screen was still open to that photo on CityThread. I tapped on the poster’s profile. Her avatar was a cartoon dog, and her bio read: DaisyDreams. Her posts suggested she was a college student. I went back to the attached photo. The fingers were tightly intertwined, the girl’s nails painted a glossy cherry red. The man’s sleeve was pulled back just enough to reveal the cornflower blue sapphire, catching the dim light of the car interior. Before leaving the house this morning, I had fastened them myself. I had spent six months tracking down those cufflinks through an international auction house. They were a one-of-a-kind set. He had leaned down, letting me adjust his cuffs, and smiled. “Something this expensive? I’m going to have to treat it like a sacred relic.” I zoomed in on the image. In the dark reflection of the car window next to the cufflink, a blurry set of characters was visible. Level B2, near the west elevator. It was the underground parking lot of St. Jude’s Medical Center. Where Darren always parked. “Dr. Sawyer, should we take the waist of this gown in a little more?” the stylist’s voice broke through my thoughts. I turned off my screen and looked up. My gaze settled on my reflection in the floor-length mirror. “No need to alter it,” I said, my voice flat. The stylist stepped closer, looking puzzled. “But Professor Mercer called this morning specifically to tell us that you’ve been losing weight from working so many surgeries. He insisted we line the waist with the softest silk satin so it wouldn’t pinch you.” Hearing those words, a cold dread began to pool in my chest. Before leaving today, Darren had played the part of the perfect fiancé. He had stood by the entryway, gently adjusting the collar of my coat. His hands had been so warm as they brushed through my hair. “Help me take it off, please,” I said, turning away from the mirror. The stylist hesitated, her hands hovering. “Don’t you want to take a few photos to send to Professor Mercer? He handpicked this design himself.” “No,” I replied, my tone distant. After changing back into my street clothes, I grabbed my bag and walked out. The crisp spring breeze carried a chill, instantly washing away the sweet, heavy scent of the bridal boutique. As soon as I got into my car, my work phone vibrated aggressively. It was an urgent notification from the emergency department’s internal consult group. [Urgent consult requested at the Rabies Clinic. Patient suspected exposure to a stray dog. Requesting Infectious Disease evaluation. Patient Name: Daisy Collins.] Daisy Collins. DaisyDreams. The words from the forum post echoed in my mind: “…pinned me against the car seat, kissing me wildly.” A wave of nausea hit me. Rabies has a long incubation period with absolutely no symptoms. Once the disease manifests, the mortality rate is one hundred percent. It is completely incurable. So is betrayal. I took a deep, steadying breath and gripped the steering wheel. A bit of silver glitter from the wedding dress had rubbed off on my coat sleeve, sitting there like a layer of ash that wouldn’t wash away. 2 “Dr. Sawyer, thank goodness you’re here. This patient is incredibly hysterical.” The moment I stepped into the ER lobby, Dr. Harris hurried over to meet me. The door to the exam room at the end of the hall was cracked open. Even from a distance, I could hear soft, trembling sobs coming from inside. “Dr. Mercer, am I going to die? I haven’t even graduated yet. I don’t want to die.” Then came Darren’s voice, low and comforting. “Don’t think like that, Daisy. It was just a lick. There’s no broken skin, so you’re going to be fine. I’m right here with you.” I stopped in my tracks and looked through the glass pane. Darren was sitting on the edge of the examination bed, holding Daisy gently against his shoulder. One hand patbed her back in slow, rhythmic circles, while the other held her hand, inspecting it with deep concern. It was a look I hadn’t seen on his face since we first started dating ten years ago. I pushed the door open, my heels clicking sharply against the linoleum floor. “If Professor Mercer is so certain she’s fine, why are we wasting emergency room resources and calling for an urgent ID consult?” Darren whipped his head around. The moment he saw me, the tenderness on his face froze, replaced by a sudden, stark panic. He instinctively let go of Daisy and stood up straight. “Marina? What are you doing here?” “The consult was posted to the department group. Why wouldn’t I be here?” I walked in slowly, my eyes sliding over the two of them. He swallowed hard. “I… I didn’t mean it like that.” “Didn’t you say your research project was at a critical stage? So critical that you couldn’t even make time to see me try on wedding dresses because you had to monitor the data yourself?” My voice was steady, completely devoid of emotion. Darren’s throat worked as he struggled to find words. “Yes… it is. I just stepped out of the lab for a moment and happened to run into Daisy. She was terrified by a dog.” “I’m her advisor. It’s my responsibility to look after my students’ well-being.” “Happened to run into her?” I let out a dry, quiet laugh. “What was the topic of your discussion today? Whether rabies can be transmitted through a kiss?” Darren’s face flushed deep red, his voice rising. “Marina! What are you implying? This is a hospital. Don’t start a scene over nothing!” Daisy shrank back on the bed, her shoulders trembling as tears spilled over. “Dr. Sawyer, please don’t blame Dr. Mercer. I was just so scared, and I grabbed onto him. If I’ve upset you, I’m so sorry.” Looking at the two of them, I felt nothing but a profound sense of absurdity. I pulled on a pair of sterile gloves and stepped up to Daisy’s side, completely professional. “Show me your hand.” Daisy hesitated, looking at Darren for permission before slowly extending her hand. I bent down to examine it. The skin was entirely intact. No redness, no swelling, no abrasions. “According to standard protocols, this is a Category I exposure,” I said, pulling off the gloves and tossing them into the biohazard bin. “No vaccine is required. Just wash it with soap and water.” Daisy bit her lip, her voice shaking. “Dr. Mercer, will I really be okay?” Before Darren could offer more comfort, I spoke up. “With proper hygiene, the risk is negligible. The real danger is when people assume everything is fine, let things linger, and fail to address the underlying issue.” Daisy stared at me. “But I don’t feel sick at all.” I set the chart down on the counter. “That is the most terrifying part of the disease. During the incubation period, there are absolutely no symptoms.” The room fell into a heavy silence. I began filling out the intake form, asking about the dog’s vaccination status and where the encounter took place. Daisy’s answers were a mess—first she claimed it was a rescue dog from a shelter, then she said it was a stray near the elevators. Halfway through, I paused and looked up. “Which one was it?” She clutched her phone, staying silent. Darren answered for her. “It must have been a stray. Let’s just treat it as a standard exposure for now.” I raised my eyes to meet his. “You are her academic advisor, Darren, not her spokesperson.” Darren’s expression darkened. 3 “Marina, don’t make this something it isn’t. Daisy is one of my brightest students, and she has no family in the city. She was simply out of her mind with fear.” Darren took a step forward, reaching out to grasp my hand. I stepped back, letting his hand hang awkwardly in the air. His face tightened with embarrassment. “Marina, do you always have to be this cold and confrontational?” he muttered. “It was a minor incident. There’s no need to speak to her so harshly.” I looked at him, my expression blank. “Confrontational? I am stating clinical facts.” Suddenly, Daisy gasped, clutching her chest as she leaned back against the pillows. “Dr. Mercer, I feel so dizzy… My heart is racing.” “Is the virus already in my bloodstream?” She drifted sideways, falling naturally toward Darren. He caught her immediately, his face etched with panic. “Marina, please, just run another exam! The incubation period varies, but what if she’s an exceptional case?” As a senior general surgeon at St. Jude’s, Darren knew the basic pathology of viral transmission perfectly well. But his judgment was clouded by concern—or perhaps he was simply enjoying the thrill of being so desperately needed by a young girl. “An exception?” I picked up the clipboard and signed the chart with a swift, fluid motion. “Medicine doesn’t deal in ‘what ifs.’ If she’s experiencing sudden dizziness and palpitations, I suggest a psychiatric consult to rule out hysteria.” Just then, the duty nurse walked in with the standard pre-exposure prophylaxis intake sheet, ready to verify Daisy’s information. Without looking up, the nurse began reciting the routine questions. “Daisy Collins, correct? Any chance you might be pregnant, or are you currently trying to conceive?” It was a standard question before administering certain clinical interventions. Daisy flinched violently. Her head snapped up, her eyes flying to Darren. Darren went entirely pale, a look of sheer panic crossing his features. I watched them, my gaze locked onto Darren’s face. Daisy bit her lip hard, her voice barely a whisper, yet loud enough to echo in the quiet exam room. “Dr. Mercer… what we did last night, could that have any effect?” The room fell dead silent. The nurse’s pen froze over the paper, and she let out a tiny, sharp intake of breath. The confession was far more damaging than any formal accusation of an affair could ever be. I remembered the advice thread online. No sex before that. This stuff spreads through body fluids. The irony was swift, cutting straight through me. Darren gasped, trying desperately to salvage the situation. “Daisy! You must be running a fever. What on earth are you talking about?” Daisy seemed to realize her slip of the tongue. Her face went translucent with dread. She scrambled to sit up, reaching out to grasp Darren’s arm. In her haste, her hand caught the fabric of his shirt cuff. Clink. A small, sharp sound echoed through the room. The sapphire cufflink hit the linoleum floor. Daisy gasped, losing her footing, and stepped directly onto it. With a sickening, crunching sound, the rare cornflower blue sapphire shattered into a dozen pieces. 4 The air in the room grew heavy. The engagement gift I had spent months searching for, pulling strings just to bid on at an auction, was crushed under a student’s shoe. Along with ten years of my life, it was reduced to glittering dust. Daisy covered her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry, Dr. Sawyer! I didn’t mean to. I just felt dizzy and lost my balance.” Even as she apologized, she shrank further behind Darren’s shoulder. Darren looked down at the blue shards on the floor, his brow furrowed. Instead of reprimanding her, he turned to me, his voice laced with irritation. “Marina, look at how badly you’ve frightened her.” “It’s just a cufflink. It’s broken now. I’ll just buy you another one.” Buy me another one. The piece was irreplaceable, and he had no idea of its value, let alone the effort I had put into finding it. He simply didn’t care. “Just a cufflink? Darren, do you have any idea what that meant?” I stood up, a dull ache starting to throb in my chest. Darren pulled at his tie, his impatience flaring. “What could it possibly mean? It’s a piece of jewelry, Marina.” “You are always like this—so rigid, so demanding. You take every little thing and turn it into a federal case.” “Do you have any idea how suffocating it is to be with you?” Suffocating. The word hung in the air, scraping against my nerves. I had stayed by his side from his days as a struggling resident to his current position as a respected surgeon. I had turned down prestigious fellowships abroad to help him build his career. And now, he found me suffocating. Daisy peered out from behind him, offering me a paper tissue. “Dr. Sawyer, I am so incredibly sorry. Let me pay you back for it. I know I’m just a student, but I can set up a payment plan…” As she reached out, she deliberately tilted her phone toward me. The screen lit up. The wallpaper was a photo of Darren sleeping soundly, bare-chested. Daisy was snuggled against his shoulder, flashing a peace sign at the camera. The background was the master bedroom of the condo we had just bought together. What we did last night. The pieces of the puzzle clicked together, and the last of my composure vanished. They hadn’t just kissed in his car. They had been sleeping in my bed. I looked coldly at Daisy, ignoring her tissue. “A poor student? You’re living in my apartment and sleeping with my fiancé. You seem to be doing quite well for yourself.” Daisy’s face drained of color, clearly not expecting me to lay everything bare in front of the nurse. She quickly tucked her phone away, her eyes filling with tears. “Dr. Sawyer, what are you saying? I don’t understand…” She reached out, trying to grab my arm. “Please don’t be angry with me. I really didn’t mean to…” I instinctively pulled my arm back. “Don’t touch me.” Daisy screamed, throwing herself backward and hitting the floor with a loud thud. “Daisy!” Darren snapped. He lunged forward, pushing me back with force. “Marina, you’ve gone too far! She’s just a kid who looks up to me. How could you be so vicious?” Caught off guard, I stumbled back several steps. My back slammed hard against the glass-fronted medicine cabinet. Crash— The sound of shattering glass filled the room. Heavy shards rained down. One large piece sliced deep into the palm of my right hand. Blood began to pour, dripping onto the clean white floor in bright, terrifying pools. My right hand. My surgical hand. I leaned against the cabinet, my entire body shaking with white-hot pain. But Darren didn’t even look at me. He was already on his knees, gently checking Daisy’s arms and legs for scratches. Looking at the blood on my hand, a strange, quiet sense of relief washed over me. The sickness that had been incubating in our relationship for years had finally shown its face. It was fatal, and there was no point in trying to cure it anymore. I pressed my left hand over the wound, holding it tight as I walked toward the door. “You’re free, Darren. We are done.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “462735”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Ever since I was a little girl, I knew that whatever I wanted, no matter how ridiculous, would always be mine. At six, when I wanted to ace my exams, every single question on the paper was something I had memorized the night before. At twelve, when a girl bullied me, her family unexpectedly packed up and moved out of the city the very next day. At twenty, I casually mentioned how much I missed the snow; at my midsummer birthday gala, artificial flurries blanketed the entire estate like a winter wonderland. But my mother was the sole exception to this rule of my universe. She never held me close. She never spoke a single word of warmth or affection. Desperate to force even a fleeting glance from her, I began a spiral of self-destruction. I drag-raced down dark highways, cut my wrists, and finally, at my own engagement party, drank a glass of poisoned champagne with a smile plastered across my face. Yet the next morning, I woke up completely unscathed. And my mother, true to form, never came to check on me. It wasn’t until the third day after the engagement party that I found an unfamiliar phone resting on my nightstand. The screen was still glowing. On it was an app I had never seen before. A new notification popped up. [Player is nearing death.] [Transfer control to daughter?] … 1 I reached out and tapped the screen. The game loaded painfully slowly, a single line of text materializing in the center of the display: [Life Simulator.] A second later, a character status panel flashed open. I stared at a face that was identical to my own. The same name: Gwen. The same birthday. The same age. Even the faint, tiny mole just beneath my right eye was perfectly replicated. My finger hovered over the screen, frozen. The character attributes were nothing short of flawless. [Beauty: 100] [Wealth: 100] [Health: 100] [Fortune: 100] [Connections: 100] [Wish Fulfillment: 100] [Loved Status: 99] I let out a soft, humorless laugh. It made sense. This character’s profile was a mirror image of my life. Growing up, I was beautiful, brilliant, wealthy, and possessed an absurd amount of good luck. Everyone whispered that I was a child favored by God. But when I scrolled down to the very bottom, the final category was grayed out. [Motherly Closeness: 0] I stared at that digital zero, a sudden, heavy tightness squeezing my chest. Even a game knew the truth. I had everything. Except a mother. I remembered getting a terrible fever when I was a child. One hundred and three degrees. My nanny had been on the verge of tears, the family doctor had rushed over in the dead of night, and even my father had stood by the bedside, his brow furrowed with rare concern. Only my mother sat quietly in the armchair near the headboard, her head bowed, staring at her phone, playing a game. Delirious with fever, I had reached out, weakly tugging at the edge of her sleeve. “Mom, please hold me.” Her fingers paused on the screen. For a fleeting, hopeful second, I thought she was finally going to look at me. But then a crisp notification chime echoed from her phone. Tapping the glass, she didn’t even look up as she muttered, “You’ve had your medicine. Go to sleep.” I slowly pulled my hand back beneath the heavy duvet. The medicine worked wonders that night. My fever broke before dawn. But I lay awake for hours. Because I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. Why was she willing to give me the best doctors, the most expensive medicine, and the softest blankets—but couldn’t bring herself to hold me, not even once? During a parent-teacher conference in elementary school, she sat in the very back row, wearing a pristine white coat. The teacher stood at the podium showering me with praise. She told the room how bright, well-behaved, and effortless I was—the easiest child in the entire grade. The other parents turned to look at my mother, their eyes filled with unmistakable envy. I clenched the hem of my school uniform skirt. More than anything, I wanted to hear her praise me. I even bargained with myself in the quiet corners of my mind: If she just holds me today, I’ll stop caring about how she always plays on her phone. But she just sat there in the back. Head down. When the teacher handed me my award and the classroom erupted into applause, she didn’t even raise her eyes. The moment that truly broke me happened when I was sixteen. I had accompanied her to the hospital for a routine follow-up. In the sterile corridor, a little girl running too fast tripped and fell right in front of her. Her knee was scraped and bleeding, her face stained with tears. To my absolute shock, my mother knelt down. She gently drew a tissue from her purse, wiping away the girl’s tears, her voice incredibly soft. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m right here.” Standing just feet away, I froze, the breath catching in my throat. So, she did know how to comfort a crying child. She was capable of speaking with such tenderness. It wasn’t that she lacked warmth. It was just that her warmth was never, ever meant for me. After we got home, I deliberately tripped and fell right in front of her. My knee slammed hard against the sharp wooden edge of the coffee table. The pain was sharp and real, and tears immediately welled in my eyes. I looked up at her, waiting. She frowned slightly. “Why are you so careless?” Her phone buzzed again. She immediately looked down and went right back to her game. In that moment, I realized just how pathetic I was. Back in the present, a sudden surge of desperation took over, and I began frantically tapping the [Motherly Closeness] stat on the screen. A prompt flashed. [This value cannot be purchased.] Refusing to accept it, I tapped it again and again. [This value cannot be modified by the daughter.] A bitter laugh escaped my throat. Of course. Summer could bring snow. Lethal poison could lose its venom. The entire world could adore me. But never my mother. I prepared to close the app. Just as my thumb brushed the back button, the screen flickered violently. At the very bottom of the character sheet, a line of incredibly faint, translucent text appeared. [View hidden attributes?] I paused. Driven by some inexplicable impulse, I tapped it. The display went pitch black. Every single attribute began to rearrange itself. And there, at the very bottom, a brand-new metric emerged—one I had never seen before. [Maternal Love: 100] 2 I stared at that glowing “100” for the rest of the night, unable to move. When dawn finally broke, I took the phone and walked downstairs to find my mother. She was in the sunroom, a thin shawl draped over her shoulders. Her face was alarmingly pale, her lips completely drained of color. Yet, her fingers were still wrapped tightly around her phone, the screen brightly lit. She was still playing that game. I walked over and stood directly in front of her. “Mom.” Her fingers stuttered on the screen, but she didn’t look up. I stared down at her, my throat tightening. “Do you love me?” She finally raised her eyes to meet mine. For a split second, a wave of sheer anxiety washed over me. I told myself that if she said yes—just once—even if it was a whisper, even if her face remained cold, I would let go of all those years of quiet resentment. I would forget it all. But she merely stared at me, her complexion somehow turning even more ghostly. “Why are you asking this again?” My hands slowly clenched into fists. “Because I need to know.” She looked down, averting her gaze. “Stop acting out.” Those words again. I had heard them a thousand times growing up. When I begged her to hold me: Stop acting out. When I begged her to celebrate my birthday with me: Stop acting out. Even when I woke up from drinking poison, searching for any shred of concern on her face, she had looked at me and said: Stop acting out. My father came down the stairs just in time to hear her. His face darkened instantly, and he pulled me protectively behind his back. “I told you, Gwen, don’t bother asking her.” “If she were capable of loving you, would you have spent your childhood crying yourself to sleep?” My mother’s fingers curled slightly around her phone. My father let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Why the pity act now, Diana?” “When she was burning up with a fever, you were glued to that game. When she won awards at school, you were on that game. Even when she almost died at her own engagement party, you couldn’t tear yourself away from that damn game.” “Have you ever cared about anything other than that stupid phone?” My mother kept her head bowed, her shawl slipping loosely off her shoulders. It was only then that I noticed how terribly thin she had become. She looked fragile, like a piece of paper that could drift away in the wind. Yet, she didn’t utter a single word of defense. A hollow ache bloomed in my chest. I wished she would fight back. Even if she just screamed, That’s not true!—at least I could cling to that lie to comfort myself. But she remained silent. She accepted the silent accusation, behaving as though she truly was the cold-blooded mother everyone believed her to be. My father gently patted my head, his voice softening. “Sweetheart, don’t waste your breath on her.” “Daddy loves you.” “Whatever you want, I will always give it to you.” I looked up at him. “What if I just want my mom?” My father fell silent for a long moment. Then, he said softly, “She isn’t worth it.” As those words hung in the air, I saw the last remaining drop of color drain from my mother’s face. The second time I sought her out was later that afternoon. She was in the study. The curtains were half-drawn, plunging the room into shadow. When I pushed the door open, she was hunched over, coughing. It was a soft, muffled sound, as if she were desperately trying to hide it. The moment she saw me, she quickly flipped her phone face down on the desk. I stood in the doorway, watching her. “Are you sick?” “I’m fine,” she said. “You look terrible.” She knit her brows. “Get out.” I let out a dry laugh. “See? You’re always like this.” “I ask if you love me, and you tell me to stop acting out. I ask if you’re okay, and you tell me to get out.” “Mom, what did I do to make you hate me so much?” She closed her eyes. “You are perfect.” “Then why can’t you just hold me?” The air in the room grew heavy and still. Outside the door, the soft footsteps of a maid approached and then quickly scurried away. Everyone in this household knew the unspoken rule: I had everything, but I didn’t have a mother. That night, I went to find her for the third time. She was sitting in a dark corner of the living room. The lights were off, and the cold blue glow of her phone screen illuminated her face. She looked even ghostlier than she had that morning. Yet, the instant she noticed me, her immediate instinct was to hide her phone behind her back. In that fraction of a second, the last trace of my fragile sadness crystallized into pure, unadulterated anger. I pulled out the mysterious phone, unlocked the game screen, and thrust it directly in front of her face. On the left, the grayed-out stat read: [Motherly Closeness: 0] On the right, a blindingly bright stat glared: [Maternal Love: 100] “Mom,” I stared at her, demanding answers. “Tell me. What on earth does this mean?” The moment her eyes registered the screen, her entire body went rigid. A second later, she lunged to her feet, a look of sheer, frantic panic taking over her face for the very first time. “Where did you get this?” 3 I looked at her, suddenly finding the situation morbidly funny. I thought she never cared about me. Why was she so terrified of a silly mobile game? She reached out, trying to snatch the phone from my hand. I instinctively took a step back, keeping it out of her reach. My father walked through the front door right then. Seeing my tear-stained face, his expression hardened instantly. He shot a freezing glare at my mother. “What are you doing to her now?” My mother ignored him entirely, her eyes locked on the screen in my hand. Her lips parted, her voice incredibly hoarse. “Don’t touch that game.” The very last sliver of hope in my heart withered away. “So there really is a secret. Something you’ve been keeping from me.” She closed her eyes. “Just be good.” I hated those words more than anything. My whole life, she never held me, never comforted me, never explained herself, and never let me near her. She only ever demanded that I “be good.” As if being good was enough to pretend I wasn’t bleeding inside. Turning on my heel, I ran upstairs, slammed my bedroom door, and locked it. The game was still open on my bed. I began tapping wildly on the screen. Tapping the main interface did nothing. Tapping the stats yielded no change. But when I clicked a tiny, overlooked gray gear icon in the top right corner, a prompt popped up. [View Mother-Player Action Log?] I tapped it. The very first entry dated back to when I was seven years old. [Target is unconscious with high fever.] [Mother-Player made unauthorized contact with forehead 17 times.] [Penalty: Pain synchronization for 24 hours.] I froze, my breath caught in my throat. I barely remembered that fever from when I was seven. I only recalled floating in a warm, delirious haze, sensing a cool, gentle hand repeatedly soothing my burning forehead in the dark. The hand had been incredibly light and comforting. When I woke up, I had asked my nanny if it was her, but she had denied it. The next morning, my mother had come down with a high fever too. My father had stood by her bedroom door, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “The kid gets sick, and she has to fake it to get attention.” Back then, I had believed him. I scrolled down, my heart hammering against my ribs. [Target wins first place at parent-teacher conference.] [Mother-Player attempted to praise target.] [Speech blocked.] [Penalty: Loss of voice for 3 days.] I remembered that day clearly. I had deliberately paraded my blue ribbon around the living room. I wanted her to notice me. I wanted her to say I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. Just once. But she had sat silently on the sofa, never uttering a single word all evening. I had assumed she was just ignoring me. It turned out she physically couldn’t speak. The log entries kept scrolling down, one heart-wrenching line after another. [Target crying at night, age 13.] [Mother-Player made unauthorized entry into target’s bedroom.] [Duration: 7 minutes.] [Penalty: Sleep deprivation for 72 hours.] It all came rushing back. I had been ostracized by my best friends at school, crying silently into my pillow until I could barely breathe. The next morning, I woke up to a glass of warm water and an unwrapped strawberry candy sitting on my nightstand. I had assumed the nanny left it there. My eyes burned with hot tears, but I forced myself to keep reading. The final entry was from the night of my engagement party. [Target initiated self-destruction/death event.] [Mother-Player initiated forced correction.] [Violation level: Maximum.] The penalty section below was obscured by a thick block of black pixels. I couldn’t click it open, but a stark red warning was plastered beneath it: [Player’s remaining authority is insufficient.] Suddenly, her recent sickly pale complexion made sense. She had grown so painfully thin, looking as though a gust of wind would shatter her. A soft, hesitant knock sounded at my door. The latch clicked, and the door swung open. My mother stood in the doorway, her face terrifyingly pale. She stared at the phone in my hands, her voice barely a whisper. “Don’t look anymore.” “Please.” I looked at her. She had to lean heavily against the doorframe just to keep her balance. Yet, seeing the screen in my hands, she summoned every ounce of her remaining strength to take a trembling step forward. “Gwen, please… give the phone back to Mom.” I clutched the phone to my chest, and my tears finally broke free, spilling down my cheeks. “Give it back to you?” I thrust the screen toward her, my voice shaking violently. “So you can keep me in the dark? So I can go on believing you hate me?” “So I can keep acting like a fool, begging you to hold me for twenty-six years?” Her eyes filled with a devastating, silent agony. Her lips trembled, but she couldn’t find the words. I stared at her, my chest tearing apart with a physical pain. It wasn’t that she didn’t love me. It was that she couldn’t. “Mom, you love me. You’ve always loved me. Why couldn’t you just tell me?” “Do you have any idea what it was like? Every night, I wondered what was wrong with me. Was I not smart enough? Not good enough? Is that why my own mother hated me?” My mother took another agonizing step toward me. Suddenly, the phone in my hand began to vibrate violently, the screen flashing a blood-red warning. [WARNING: Mother-Player is approaching target character.] [Proximity restriction is about to trigger.] Before I could process the words, my mother was standing right in front of me. She looked at me, tears streaming silently down her pale cheeks. “My sweet girl.” My entire body went rigid. It was the very first time she had ever called me that. The next second, completely ignoring the shrill, deafening alarms blaring from the phone, she reached out and pulled me into her arms. The embrace was incredibly gentle. I stood frozen in her arms, terrified to move. I wanted to wrap my arms around her. But I was terrified. I feared that if I reached out, she would vanish like a ghost. But then, her hand softly patted my back. My hands began to shake as I finally reached up, clutching the fabric of her coat. Her touch was awkward, tentative, and filled with a desperate care. “Don’t cry,” she whispered. “Mom is here.” I sobbed, the tears choking my throat. But we had only held each other for a few seconds before her body suddenly shuddered violently. A dark crimson cough of blood escaped her lips, staining her pristine white shawl. “Mom!” I panicked, desperately trying to support her sagging weight. My father burst into the room, alerted by the commotion. When he saw the blood splattered across the floor, his face drained of color. He lunged forward to pull me away, but I violently shoved his hand off. “Don’t touch her!” I screamed. My father frozen, stunned. I dropped to my knees, cradling my mother in my lap, frantically wiping the blood from her chin with my sleeve. But no matter how hard I wiped, the blood wouldn’t stop. Yet, a soft, peaceful smile spread across her pale lips. She looked at me, her eyes filled with a tender warmth, as if her deepest wish had finally been fulfilled. “I wanted… to hold you every single day, my sweet girl.” “But the system said… if I got close to you, you would lose your fortune. Your perfect life.” “You would feel pain. You would get sick, meet misfortune, and get hurt by this world.” “Your mother was weak.” “I had to pretend I didn’t love you.” I shook my head violently, tears blinding me. “I don’t care about fortune! I don’t want to be the main character! I just want you to live!” She raised her hand, her cool fingertips brushing against my cheek. This time, the system’s alarms shrieked so loudly they threatened to split my skull. But she didn’t pull away. “My baby was meant to be loved by the whole world.” “But Mom forgot…” “…all you ever wanted was me.” Her hand slipped limply from my face. The screen in my hand flared with a blinding crimson light. [Mother-Player HP: 0.] [Original player is disconnecting.] [Direct bloodline detected. Transfer system control to daughter?]

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We got a new nepo baby at the office. She was the kind of person who genuinely believed that those of us doing the heavy lifting were just corporate drones rotting at the bottom of the food chain. The very first time we met, she slammed her hands on my desk and threatened to fire me. I didn’t even blink. I packed my bag, stood up, and threw her a double middle finger on my way out. My boss tried to play mediator, bringing her to my door for what was supposed to be an apology, but instead, he pulled me aside to give me a warning. “All those stories online about star closers being irreplaceable? Don’t let them go to your head,” he said. “Without the platform I built for you, you’re nothing.” It was almost funny. He knew damn well I was his top producer. Did he really think I was going to swallow that kind of disrespect? So, I walked. I started my own firm, and I took our entire core team with me. My former boss and his little nepo darling lost their minds, promising they’d blackball me from the industry. But here’s the hilarious part: halfway through blackballing me, they ended up on their knees begging for my mercy. Honestly, I preferred them when they were arrogant. 01. “Gabrielle, you barely show your face at the office, and when you do, you’re just face-down at your desk sleeping?” “If everyone were as lazy as you, how is this company supposed to run?” I rubbed my eyes, blinking through the exhaustion. Looking up, I saw a woman standing over me, hands on her hips, her expression tight with self-importance. This had to be Teresa. The legendary nepotism hire the office had been whispering about for a week. On her very first day, she had cozied up to the other executive hires, loudly proclaiming her philosophy: “I get you guys. You can’t carry your Chanel bags or drive your sports cars around here. If the corporate drones see it, they can’t even hide their pathetic little jealousy.” “But hey, we won the genetic lottery. We were born into this. Dealing with the envy of the lower class is just a burden we have to bear.” “These drones are just garbage at the bottom of the food chain.” “My dad always says, never be too nice to the help. If you give them an inch, they’ll take a mile, and then they’re impossible to manage.” The other connected hires had looked uncomfortable and immediately backed away. Even in high society, there’s having privilege, and then there’s being stupid enough to broadcast it. Within days, Teresa became a pariah. But she didn’t care. She posted dramatic quotes on her Instagram: Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Or If this were the old days, none of you would even be fit to wipe my boots. Seeing her now, looking down her nose at me. I had a throbbing headache from sleep deprivation. I rubbed my temples. “I’m sleeping because I’ve been working thirty days straight. I just got back from an international pitch, and my body clock is completely shot. I…” Teresa cut me off, her face darkening. “I don’t care about your excuses. You were late, and you were sleeping on company time. Those are facts.” She glared at me, chin tilted high. “If you can’t fall in line, you won’t be here much longer.” As soon as the words left her mouth, a quiet snort echoed from across the silent room. Then another. I couldn’t help it—I laughed too. I pointed a finger at my chest. “You’re firing me? Does Richard know about this?” Teresa’s face flushed crimson at the laughter around us. It was obvious she had wanted to use me to establish dominance, to make an example of the office veteran. Now she was backed into a corner. “I am the newly appointed Head of HR,” she said, her voice dropping to a cold, defensive hiss. “I have every right to terminate employees.” She crossed her arms, her eyes dripping with condescension. “I can’t stand people like you. Coasting on your tenure, acting like you own the place. You and your team treat this office like a retirement home. The company hired me to get results, and I’m going to make sure they get their money’s worth!” She went on and on, her voice rising in righteous indignation. I looked down at my desk. Laptop, charger, notebook. No family photos. It was the perfect clean slate. I unplugged my charger, shoved it into my pocket, and stood up. “Stop right there! What do you think you’re doing?” Teresa screeched behind me. “You just fired me, didn’t you?” I called over my shoulder. “Why do you care what my attitude is?” More stifled laughter broke out across the bullpen. Teresa looked like she was about to burst a blood vessel. “Gabrielle! If you walk out that door, don’t you dare think about coming back! I will make sure your termination is processed immediately!” I turned, flashed her a bright, mocking smile, and said, “Eat shit, Teresa.” And then, I raised my middle finger high in the air. 02. “Gabrielle, you’re a legend. She literally smashed two planters in the lobby after you left.” “It takes a monster to tame a monster. I’ve been taking her crap for a month, and I was about to lose it.” “Where did Richard find this lunatic? Calling us human capital and garbage.” “I heard her family is insanely connected. She fired three of Richard’s useless cousins last week, and Richard didn’t say a word.” “Gabrielle, tell me you’re not actually leaving. Take me with you!” “Relax, Gabrielle is the top producer. Firing her? Richard would have to beg on his knees at her doorstep by tomorrow morning.” “Lmao.” This was our private Slack channel—no bosses allowed. Then, the official company-wide announcement channel chimed. Teresa had posted: [Termination Notice: Gabrielle Fletcher] It was a long-winded, corporate-speak diatribe about how Gabrielle Fletcher had failed to clock in, was chronically tardy, skipped shifts, and had created a toxic work environment. Therefore, she was terminated immediately to set an example. Our private channel went dead silent. I typed a single response in the main channel: [I respect the company’s decision. However, since this is a wrongful termination in violation of my contract, please have my severance package ready. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.] The second I hit send, I was removed from the workspace. My phone started blowing up with screenshots from my teammates. Some had tried to argue, pointing out that sales agents had flexible hours and weren’t bound by standard desk-clock policies. I texted them back: [Don’t waste your breath arguing with an idiot. Focus on your work for now. Let me handle this.] I leaned back against the headrest of my Uber, feeling like a ghost. I was too exhausted to fight them today. For a month, I had slept on planes, survived on espresso, and pushed myself to the brink of collapse just to secure our European expansion. I had come in today to present the signed contracts. Well. Now I didn’t have to. The next morning, a heavy pounding on my front door woke me. I dragged myself out of bed, checked the security camera, and smiled. 03. Standing on my porch was my boss, Richard, and behind him, a deeply resentful-looking Teresa. “Well, look who it is,” I said, opening the door with a lazy grin. “Are you here with my severance check, Richard?” Richard sighed, giving me a weary, apologetic look before nudging Teresa forward. “Teresa is new to the corporate structure here. She didn’t understand how we operate. I brought her to apologize.” Teresa stood rigid, her shoulders tense. She forced out three words through clenched teeth: “I am sorry.” Then she whipped her head toward Richard. “I apologized. Are we done?” She threw me one last venomous glare, spun on her heels, and stormed down the driveway. I stood there, letting out a dry laugh. Richard rubbed his hands together, looking deeply uncomfortable. “Look, Gabrielle. She just got back from finishing her degree in Europe. She doesn’t understand the nuances of how things work here. Don’t take it personally.” “Her father is the head of the State Business Alliance. You know how it is. Sometimes you have to play the game.” “I’ll apologize on her behalf. The firing? Forget about it. It’s null and void.” I stared at him. Richard looked every bit the tired, middle-aged executive, his face etched with the compromises he’d made over the years. He was a master at smoothing things over, at pretending a mess was just a minor misunderstanding. “Oh, she understands nuances just fine,” I said. “She just chooses who she plays them with. She treats the assistants and the support staff like servants, threatening to fire them over nothing. She fired Maria, our cleaning lady of ten years, because she was ten minutes late changing her trash can.” “But when it comes to the local senator’s nephew or the city commissioner’s daughter, she’s handing out promotions and raises before she even knows their names. You’re practically handing her the keys to your company.” “Her father is just a business alliance president, Richard. He’s not God. Why are you bending the knee to this girl? What are we doing here, preparing the whole office to be her personal servants?” “If I didn’t know how much you loved Enid, I’d think you were sleeping with her.” Richard’s face drained of color, then flushed a violent, angry red. He had been holding back, trying to play the benevolent boss, but my words shattered his composure. “Gabrielle, watch your mouth,” he snapped, his voice trembling with rage. “You’re a girl from a small, dead-end town. Your credentials are mediocre. Your degree is from a state school. I gave you a platform to show what you could do. You should remember where you came from.” “And Teresa isn’t entirely wrong. Look at how those junior agents follow you around like a cult. It’s a toxic clique. If I don’t nip this in the bud, who’s actually running this company? You or me?” “You think you’re the only one allowed to build an alliance? Teresa is building relationships that actually matter. The people under you are just like you—clueless about how the real world works!” He was practically shouting now, his chest heaving as he spat out his frustration. “Don’t get cocky just because you had a few good quarters. Those stories about irreplaceable top sellers? They’re fairy tales. Without my platform, you’re absolutely nothing.” “I came here to give you your dignity back. If you want to come back to work, fine. If not, do whatever the hell you want.” He slammed his car door and sped away. I stood on my porch, replaying his outburst in my mind. What had I said that made him snap like that? We had argued over business before, but it had always been professional. He had never made it personal. He had never insulted my background. When a man lashes out with that much unprovoked venom, you’ve touched a nerve. A cold, sickening realization began to form in my chest. An hour later, I went down to my building’s leasing office and requested the security footage from the elevator, the parking garage, and the lobby. The footage was crystal clear. In the elevator, Richard and Teresa were holding hands, their fingers laced together. In the parking garage, Teresa was throwing a muffled tantrum, and Richard was pulling her into his arms, kissing her, whispering in her ear. My stomach dropped. I didn’t care about Richard. But my heart broke for Enid. Enid was the co-founder of the firm. She had built it alongside him before stepping back to raise their family. She was the only reason I had stayed loyal to that company for so long. 04. I met Enid at a quiet coffee shop downtown. I sat in a booth, my hands wrapped around a warm mug, my stomach in knots. When she walked in, smiling as she spotted me, a wave of sadness washed over me. It had been a year since we last caught up. Back then, she had looked tired from managing the household, but there was still a spark in her eyes. Now, she had deep, dark circles under her eyes, and streaks of silver had overtaken her soft brown hair. But what shocked me most was the gentle swell of her belly. She noticed my gaze and blushed slightly, resting a hand on her lower back as she carefully slid into the booth. “I know, I know. A geriatric pregnancy. No hair dye, no Botox… I look like a ghost, don’t I?” She and Richard already had two daughters, one in middle school, one in high school. Getting pregnant at forty-eight… it was obvious what she was trying to do. She was trying to save her marriage. “No,” I said softly. “You look beautiful, Enid. You always do.” “You always know just what to say. Why the sudden invitation? Richard told me you’ve been working yourself to the bone.” She looked at me with genuine warmth. “Sometimes I wanted to call you, but he always insisted I shouldn’t distract his star player.” I forced a tight smile. “I just missed you. Can’t a girl grab coffee with her favorite mentor?” I gripped my phone tightly in my pocket, the video file resting on the screen. Part of me wanted to keep quiet. Mind your own business, the rational part of my brain screamed. Don’t destroy her life. But Enid wasn’t just my former boss. She was the woman who had saved me. When I was a teenager in a suffocating, impoverished Appalachian town, Enid’s charity foundation had sponsored my education. She was the one who paid for my textbooks, who sent me letters of encouragement, who gave me the courage to apply to college. Years later, at a career fair, I stumbled upon a tiny booth for a startup run by her and her then-boyfriend, Richard. The company was struggling, and barely anyone was looking at their table. I turned down a prestigious corporate offer and handed Enid my resume. She hadn’t recognized me at first, but she had been thrilled by my credentials. Later, as we worked late nights side-by-side, she realized I was the girl she had sponsored. She had wept tears of joy, seeing how far I’d come. She was the anchor that kept me at that firm. “Gabrielle? Gabrielle, honey, are you okay?” Enid’s voice pulled me back. “Yeah,” I breathed, blinking back tears. “I’m okay.” “You have so many broken capillaries in your eyes. You’re still pushing yourself too hard,” she said, her voice dripping with maternal worry. “I made some soup for you. It’s in the car. You have to take it home and eat. You look like you haven’t had a real meal in weeks.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. People hate the messenger because they associate them with bad news. In the adult world, the unspoken rule is to look the other way, to let people live in comfortable ignorance. But I couldn’t let her live a lie. I looked straight into her gentle, tired eyes. “Enid, there’s something I need to tell you.” “And if you hate me after you hear it, I’ll understand.”

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The day Christian returned from Wall Street as a newly minted hedge fund titan, everyone in our social circle toasted to my impeccable taste. They told me I’d bet on the winning horse. He had bought out the sky, lighting up the Hamptons with three consecutive nights of private fireworks leading up to my birthday. He’d even sent over a custom-made, million-dollar couture gown via his personal assistant, alongside a team of celebrity makeup artists to prep me for tonight’s gala. But beneath the layers of silk and diamond powder, my chest was tight with a cold, inexplicable dread. Because the moment I opened my eyes in the dressing room, I saw her. A ghost. She stood directly behind me, her hair matted, her face a map of bruises and lacerations. Her eyes were swollen to terrifying slits, fixed entirely on me. “Cara,” she whispered, her voice like dry leaves scraping pavement. “Don’t trust him. Don’t go to the gala tonight. If you do, he will destroy you. You won’t survive him.” It was absurd. I shook my head, trying to blink her away. “He spent months planning this night for me. Everyone is waiting. How could I not go?” I smoothed down the heavy skirts of my gown, my makeup immaculate, and turned to leave. But the specter lunged forward, blocking the door. She reached up with trembling fingers, parting the tangled curtain of her hair. The moment her face became clear, the corsage I was holding slipped from my fingers, shattering a crystal vase on the floor. She had my face. She was me. 1 “You’re terrified, aren’t you?” the ghost said, a tragic, hollow smile twisting her lips. “I don’t blame you. I am you. Ten years from now. They broke me, Cara. They killed me, and now I’m just a stray soul wandering the dark.” I stared at the mirror image of my own features, my voice trembling so hard the words barely formed. “That’s impossible… Christian loves me. He’s been nothing but devoted.” “Devoted?” The ghost let out a sharp, bitter laugh. She pulled back the sleeve of her tattered dress, revealing a patchwork of scars—some silver and faded, others jagged, raw, and angry. “Look at this. Every single one of these is his doing.” “Tonight,” she continued, stepping closer until I could almost feel the chill radiating from her, “Christian will get down on one knee in front of the entire city. He will slide a ring onto your finger, and you’ll cry tears of pure joy. You’ll say yes, believing it’s the beginning of your fairytale. But it’s the gateway to your execution.” My fingers clawed into the silk of my dress, my nails digging deep into my palms. “Once you’re married, the mask will slip,” she whispered, her eyes burning with an ancient, toxic hatred. “You’ll slowly realize his warmth was nothing but a calculated performance. He has a mistress, Cara. Marina. Your best friend. The only woman he has ever truly wanted. To them, you’re just a prize Marina wanted to steal from you. He used you as a stepping stone to build his empire, and the second he didn’t need you, he cast you aside. He stood by and watched while Marina took my life.” A freezing sweat broke out across my collarbone. Marina had been my shadow since high school. We were inseparable. She was the one who had practically organized every detail of tonight’s gala. “I don’t believe you,” I said, shaking my head, my voice sounding thin and detached. “Marina hates Christian. She’s always found him insufferable. She would never do this to me.” I remembered when I first started dating Christian back when he was a broke, struggling analyst. Marina had rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. “Honestly, Cara, you’re a Henderson. You could have any old-money heir in the state. Why are you dumpster-diving in the slums for a boyfriend? This is charity work, not a relationship.” I had smiled, keeping my secrets. “You don’t see it, Mari. He’s got hunger. He’s a long-term investment.” She had just scoffed. The ghost seemed to read my memories. A tear slipped down her bruised cheek. “She played her part well, didn’t she? She pretended to despise him so you’d never suspect her. But inside, she was rotting with jealousy. Even back then, when she stayed over at your apartment, she’d slip into Christian’s bed in the dead of night. They mocked you behind your back. You won’t find out until it’s far too late to run.” “I don’t know what kind of sick trick this is,” I gasped, backing away until my spine hit the vanity. “But I won’t let you poison my mind against my boyfriend and my best friend!” The ghost looked at me with profound pity. “You still doubt me? Tell me, Cara. Do you have a small, strawberry-colored birthmark right at the base of your hairline on the back of your neck?” My breath caught. “How… how could you possibly know that?” It was tiny, hidden by my thick hair. Even Christian had never noticed it. “Because I am you,” she said softly. She turned her back to me and swept her matted hair to one side. There, in the exact same spot, was the identical red mark. My world tilted. “I had to die to finally see the truth,” she whispered. “Please, Cara. I am begging you. Do not go down to that party. Break it off with him. Leave tonight. If you don’t… you’ll see Marina show up in the exact same couture gown as you. She will demand the first slice of your cake. And Christian… Christian will slap you in front of everyone, call you hysterical, and carry her out of the room.” I stumbled backward, a breathless, hysterical laugh bubbling up in my throat. “That’s insane. Christian would never.” We had been together for three years. He anticipated my every need. He dried my hair after every shower; he put on my socks when my feet were cold. Everyone envied us. He had gone to Wharton, conquered Wall Street, and came back only to put a ring on my finger. He had never even raised his voice at me. Right then, his warm, smooth baritone floated up from the bottom of the stairs. “Cara, darling? Are you ready? The fireworks are about to start.” 2 I turned around and saw Christian standing at the foot of the spiral staircase, looking breathtakingly handsome in his tailored Tom Ford tuxedo. “Everyone is waiting for you,” he said, holding out a hand, his smile radiant. “My leading lady.” Behind me, the ghost screamed, “Don’t go, Cara! If you step foot in that room, there is no turning back!” I whipped my head around. The corner of the dressing room was empty. “What’s wrong? You look pale,” Christian said, stepping up the stairs and cupping my cheek. His eyes were filled with the familiar, tender concern that had always been my anchor. My eyes stung with sudden tears. I shook my head. “Nothing. Just… a daydream, I think.” I cast one last glance at the empty corner. Who was I supposed to believe? A bruised apparition, or the man who had spent three years building a life for us? Yet, a dark seed of doubt had been planted. I took his hand and let him lead me to the gala. If he was playing a game, I needed to see his hand. The party was held in the massive glass conservatory on our estate, lit up like a crystal palace. Hundreds of guests from New York’s high society chatted over champagne. As we walked in arm-in-arm, Marina glided toward us, carrying a massive bouquet of white roses. “Cara! Happy birthday, babe!” she cried, her face bright as she pressed the flowers into my arms. “Oh, that dress looks absolutely divine on you. I knew it would!” I didn’t answer immediately. My eyes traveled down her body. Sensing my gaze, she looked down at herself and laughed airily. “I know, I know. It’s your big night. But we’re practically sisters, right? I couldn’t resist. You don’t mind that we’re matching, do you?” A sudden, heavy silence fell over our immediate circle. Guests looked between Marina and me, their whispers rustling like dry leaves. “Oh my god, how awkward. I literally thought she was the birthday girl from behind.” “Isn’t this Cara’s night? Even for a best friend, that’s incredibly tacky.” Looking at the midnight-blue silk of Marina’s gown—an exact, stitch-for-stitch replica of my custom couture—my chest tightened. She will show up in the exact same couture gown as you. She will demand the first slice of your cake… “I thought you said you were wearing the blush pink gown tonight, Marina,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. Marina blinked, her lower lip trembling instantly. “Cara… are you mad at me?” “The pink one had a broken zipper,” she whimpered, looking utterly defenseless. “And I was just so obsessed with your midnight-blue dress. I asked Christian if there was any way his designer could make a second one.” She reached out, sliding her hand comfortably around Christian’s free arm. “Thankfully, your fiancé is a sweetheart. He pulled some strings and got me this one.” I stared at her hand on his arm. Christian usually loathed being touched by anyone else. Yet, he didn’t pull away. He stood there, letting her cling to him, a faint, indulgent smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “It does suit you, Marina,” he murmured. Seeing the ice in my eyes, Christian quickly added, “Cara, honey, Marina is family. You always told me to treat her like a sister. When she asked, I didn’t think twice. You’re not actually going to make a fuss over a dress, are you?” A man in a bespoke suit walked up to Marina, holding two glasses of champagne. “You must be Christian’s fiancé. Stunning, absolutely stunning. A match made in heaven.” Marina blushed, pointing a manicured finger at me. “Oh, no, you’ve got it wrong. My best friend Cara is the lucky girl.” The man stammered an apology and hurried away. Marina turned to me, still holding Christian’s arm. “Cara, don’t be silly. I’m just basking in your glow tonight. People are just blind, that’s all.” Before I could demand she go change, Christian patted her hand. “Alright, Mari, stop teasing her.” Marina giggled, letting go of him, and ran toward the center of the conservatory. “Cara! Come over here! The cake is ready!” I walked over, only to freeze. The gorgeous, five-tier custom cake had already been hacked into. Frosting was smeared across the marble table. My blood ran cold. “Who did this?” 3 Cutting the cake before the guest of honor arrives is a massive insult, especially before making a wish. Marina stood there, looking entirely innocent. “Oh, Cara, you were taking forever in the powder room. My birthday is next week anyway, so I figured we could share. I made a wish for both of us! You don’t mind, right?” Anger flared deep in my gut, but I forced my face to remain a mask of cold composure. She held my birthday bouquet, smiling at the surrounding guests. “Just stealing a little bit of Cara’s luck tonight!” A prominent socialite laughed. “You two are adorable. Sharing birthdays like real sisters.” “We are,” Marina chirped. “Cara never minds.” She picked up the silver knife, cut a slice, and took a bite straight from the plate. “Mm, delicious.” I stared at her. I had always known Marina could be self-centered, but this was a pathological level of disrespect. I stepped forward, keeping my voice level. “Marina. That cake was custom-ordered. My name is written on the plaque.” Marina’s smile faltered, replaced by a defensive pout. “I know that, silly. Are you seriously angry because I took a bite? Cara, don’t be so petty.” She reached out to grab my hand, but I stepped back. “I do mind.” “Marina is just excited, Cara,” Christian interjected, his voice carrying a sudden, sharp edge. “Let her have her moment. You can make your wish on the rest of it. It’s not a big deal.” I turned to look at him, my heart feeling like it was being squeezed by a heavy fist. “I said, I mind.” Marina’s eyes welled with tears. “Cara… I just wanted to make sure it tasted okay for you…” “It’s my birthday,” I cut her off. “Who gave you permission to touch it?” The entire conservatory went dead silent. Guests held their breath, their eyes darting between us. Christian’s brow furrowed. “Cara, you’re embarrassing yourself. You’re being cruel.” I let out a cold, sharp laugh. “My party. My cake. She ruined it before I even walked in, and I’m the one being cruel?” Marina clutched Christian’s sleeve, tears spilling over her cheeks. “Christian, I’m so sorry… I didn’t know Cara would react like this. Please, talk to her…” Christian’s expression softened as he looked down at her, then hardened when he turned back to me. “She apologized. Drop it, Cara. It’s just cake. Why do you have to ruin your own night over something so trivial?” Every word from the ghost echoed in my skull. The man who supposedly lived to make me happy was standing in front of a hundred people, painting me as a hysterical bully. I took a slow, deep breath, looking Marina dead in the eye. “Fine. I’ll let the cake go. But the dress? Take it off. Now.” Marina turned white. She covered her chest defensively. “Cara, I know it’s your birthday, but you don’t have to humiliate me like this.” “I won’t ask a second time,” I said. “Either you take it off, or my security team will assist you.” Marina bit her lip, looking like a cornered rabbit. “Cara, Christian bought me this dress. Forcing me to strip is spitting in his face.” She shrank back behind Christian. Christian’s face darkened with pure rage. “I ordered the dress. If you have an issue, take it up with me.” A profound, icy loneliness washed over me. I thought of the ghost, her scarred arms, her tear-stained face, her desperate warnings. “Is that so, Christian? What if I insist?” “Stop acting like a spoiled brat, Cara,” Christian growled. I turned to the edge of the room. “Security. Grab her.” Two of our estate guards stepped forward, laying hands on Marina’s shoulders. I marched up to her and grabbed the neckline of the duplicate dress. Christian lunged, grabbing my wrist with a crushing grip. “Cara, that’s enough! Dragging your best friend’s clothes off in public? Where are your manners?” I tried to keep my composure, but a tear finally slipped down my cheek. “Christian, I want to know why my fiancé and my best friend are acting like they’re the ones celebrating an anniversary tonight.” Suddenly, Marina snapped. She clawed her way out of the guard’s grip and screamed at me. “Oh, cut the princess act, Cara! Just because you were born a Henderson doesn’t mean the rest of us have to spend our lives kneeling to you! I am sick to death of your condescension!” “Do you really think Christian wants to marry you? Ask him! Why do you think he fled to Wall Street for all those years? He was trying to get away from your suffocating, entitled shadow!” I didn’t answer. I reached for a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon from a passing tray and threw it directly into her face. The dark red liquid soaked her hair, dripping down the front of the midnight-blue dress in a grotesque, bleeding stain. Marina shrieked, wiping her eyes. The room was so quiet you could hear the drip of the wine hitting the marble floor. Christian rushed forward, pulling Marina into his arms. He ripped off his tuxedo jacket and wrapped it around her shivering shoulders. “Cara!” he roared, his eyes blazing. “Have you completely lost your mind?” 4 Before I could process the shock, a sharp pain exploded across my cheek. He had slapped me. I stumbled back, clutching my burning face, staring at him in utter disbelief. “You hit me?” “You brought this on yourself,” Christian said, his voice dripping with disgust. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small red velvet box. “I was going to ask you to be my wife tonight. I had this entire night planned to show you how much I loved you.” “But you’re nothing but a spoiled, tyrannical child. Marina is your sister in everything but blood, and you humiliated her in front of our peers.” “A woman like you isn’t fit to be a wife.” With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the velvet box out the open window, into the dark grass of the lawn. Marina clung to him, sobbing softly. “Christian, it’s my fault… I shouldn’t have worn the dress… I’m so sorry…” “You have nothing to apologize for,” Christian murmured gently, adjusting his jacket around her. He swept her up into his arms, carrying her bridal-style. As he walked past me, he didn’t even look at me. But just before he reached the heavy double doors of the conservatory, he paused. “Reflect on what you’ve done, Cara. When you’re ready to crawl back, apologize to Marina, and act like a civilized human being, maybe I’ll consider throwing you another party.” The doors slammed shut. The remaining guests quickly made their excuses, leaving one by one to avoid the fallout. Only a few close friends lingered, looking at me with pity. “Cara, are you okay? We can help you clean this up…” “No,” I whispered, my throat tight. “Please, just go.” They slipped out, leaving me alone in the wreckage of the glass palace. My mutilated cake sat under the harsh lights, my name sliced in half. I stood there for a long time, frozen. Then, a cold hand touched my bare shoulder. “Now do you see?” The ghost stood behind me. Her pale face was streaked with tears, her swollen eyes staring at the empty doorway. “He never loved you, Cara. He was sleeping with Marina before he even left for New York. He came back to drag you into a living hell.” Before I could turn to face her, a heavy, chemical-soaked cloth clamped over my mouth from behind. A suffocating, sweet odor filled my lungs. I thrashed, but my vision quickly dissolved into black. When I finally opened my eyes, the air was freezing and smelled of rust and damp concrete. I was tied to a rusted leather chair in an abandoned warehouse. “She’s awake.” Two men stepped out of the shadows. The taller one grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “Well, well. Boss Christian said that since you love stripping people in public so much, it’s only fair we return the favor.” My heart hammered against my ribs. The shorter, heavier man stepped closer, brandishing a heavy video camera. “And Boss Christian was very specific. He wants high-res, cinematic footage. If it’s not humiliating enough, we don’t get paid. So cooperate, princess.” “Don’t touch me!” I screamed, pulling against the thick ropes binding my wrists to the chair. The short one cursed, lunging forward and grabbing a handful of my hair, jerking my head back. The pain was blinding. The tall one turned on the camera, pointing the lens at my face. “Cry louder. He said the wilder you look, the better. Get her dress open, Frank.” Frank’s thick hands reached for my collar, tearing the delicate silk. The sound of ripping fabric echoed in the empty space. I forced myself to look at them, trying to swallow the panic. “This is kidnapping. You’ll spend the rest of your lives in a federal penitentiary.” They both laughed. “A federal pen? Do you know who we are, sweet cheeks?” the tall one sneered. “We’ve got backing that makes us untouchable. You should worry about yourself instead of our legal troubles.” “Wait,” I sobbed, lowering my head, pretending to break. “Please, I’ll give you whatever you want. Money, jewelry, anything. My fiancé is Christian—the Wall Street mogul. You must know him. Please, let me talk to him…” Frank slapped me across the face, a brutal backhand that left my ears ringing. “Wake up, babe. Christian is the one who hired us.” “You think you’re still the precious Henderson heiress? Christian’s got a new queen now. Her name is Marina.” He reached down to tear the dress further when a slow, mocking applause echoed from the doorway. “Bravo! Truly a beautiful performance.” Marina stood in the entrance, draped in Christian’s Tom Ford jacket, looking down at me with absolute triumph. “You never saw this coming, did you, Cara? The great, untouchable Cara Henderson, brought to her knees by the man who claimed to worship her.” She walked over, crouching down to tilt my chin up with the stem of a champagne glass. “I have spent my entire life suffocating in your shadow,” she whispered, her eyes manic and dark. “Why did you get to be the rich heiress with the perfect life and the brilliant boyfriend? It wasn’t fair. But starting tonight, everything you own belongs to me.” “You threw wine in my face. You tried to strip me. Well, the tables have turned.” She nodded to the two men. “Have your fun, boys. Make sure she remembers tonight for the rest of her very short life.” She smirked, turning to leave. “Let’s see how you escape this one.” “Is that so?” I let out a soft, cold chuckle, my head tilting back. “I knew you were stupid, Marina. But I didn’t think you were this reckless.” I looked up, my eyes locking onto hers. “The only one who isn’t leaving this room tonight… is you.”

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We were locked in a fierce, confidential internal race against Team B for a ten-billion-dollar project when my director sidelined me under a false pretense. On the day he suspended me, Jared clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Wes,” he’d said, “you’re our technical core. This whole project depends on you. Once we lock down this ten-billion-dollar contract, I’ll personally welcome you back with open arms.” So, I stayed home, working myself to the bone on the project proposal. Three months later, we won the bid. But instead of a welcome back, I received a termination letter. Jared sent me a text, each word cutting like shards of ice. [Wes, you’ve got a disciplinary mark on your record now. HR won’t approve your reinstatement. It’s best you look for opportunities elsewhere.] I stared at the screen, then quietly went into my system architecture file, which relied on three of my personal core patents, and revoked the company’s licensing rights. Three days later, my phone rang. It was the CEO. “Wes, don’t sign that severance agreement yet!” 1 “Hey, Wes, did you see the news? We won the bid.” It was my coworker, Toby, calling. His voice was a frantic, breathless squeak. On the television screen in my living room, the local news anchor was announcing the story: Synapse Tech had officially won the contract for Stellaris Group’s ten-billion-dollar AI initiative, the Meridian Project. “I saw,” I replied. My voice was calm, but I couldn’t stop the corner of my mouth from curving upward. We had chased this project for half a year. To guarantee that our strategy wouldn’t leak, my director, Jared, had manufactured a performance issue to temporarily suspend me. It was supposed to be a strategic move. For three months, I’d been cooped up at home, utilizing my three proprietary patents to build the backbone of the entire proposal. Now, finally, the victory was ours. “Man, you’re the unsung hero of this whole thing,” Toby said, his excitement practically vibrating through the receiver. “The corporate bonus pool alone is eighty million. You’re bound to get the lion’s share.” Behind him, I could hear the office. The voices of Nora, Frank, and the rest of the team were a chaotic, joyful hum, overlapping in a celebration I could only observe from a distance. “Three months, Wes. Jared said he’d personally bring you back. We’re already planning a massive welcome-back party for you.” Right then, my phone chimed with an email notification. I tapped it open. It was an automated message from HR, containing an attached document and a brief, clinical note: [Employee Wes Mitchell: Having produced zero output during a three-month suspension, your employment is hereby terminated in accordance with company policy.] Beneath it was a formal pink slip. Seconds later, the same announcement flashed across the company-wide chat channel. The celebratory background noise on Toby’s end suddenly vanished. The line plunged into a heavy, suffocating silence. Then came a text from Jared. [Wes, the project team is at capacity now. I went to bat for you with leadership, but they said because of that disciplinary mark on your file, HR won’t approve your reinstatement. I’m sorry, man.] [Don’t lose heart, though. With your skills, you won’t have trouble finding another gig. A massive firm like ours might be out of reach for a bit, but a smaller shop will snap you up in a heartbeat.] The world seemed to lose its sound. My mind went blank, my thumb freezing over the cold glass of the screen. My mind flashed back to three months ago, to Jared sitting across from me, his eyes wide with manufactured intensity. “Wes, this project is my ticket to a VP spot. You know Team B is breathing down our necks. We have to keep this architecture absolutely locked down.” “This suspension is just a smoke screen to throw them off. Stay home, put the proposal together, and we’ll keep our communications strictly off-line. If you need to run tests on the hardware, come in after midnight.” And so, for ninety days, I lived like a ghost. Whenever I needed to run high-volume data simulations, I’d show up at the office at midnight, dragging myself through the empty, silent cubicles of the R&D wing until five in the morning. Every single line of the foundational code was written by my fingers. Every dataset was processed, analyzed, and refined by me, over and over, until my eyes burned. The entire architectural framework was built, layer by layer, from my own mind. The patented technologies that anchored the entire AI model were things I had spent three years of my life developing, locked in a university lab, barely making it home to see my family. The winning proposal was mine. The patents were mine. I was the one who had spent nights on calls with the client to understand exactly what they needed. And now, they’ve won the bid, and I’m being discarded like trash? Jared sent another message: [I have to head over to the client’s office for a kickoff meeting, so I won’t be around when you come in to sign your exit papers. Truly sorry about that. It was great working with you—wish I could be there to send you off.] A cold laugh escaped my throat. He wasn’t at a meeting. He just couldn’t bear to look me in the eye. “Wes…?” Toby’s voice on the line was small, laced with a mixture of guilt and concern. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice shockingly level. “I’ll head over and sign the paperwork now.” 2 At ten in the morning, I walked into the Synapse Tech office and went straight to HR. Diane, the HR manager, slipped a sheet of paper across the desk. I glanced at the listed reason for termination: [Lack of technical contribution, low productivity.] Without a word, I signed my name and pressed my thumbprint into the inkpad. She handed me the next document: a severance agreement. An N+1 package of two hundred and seventy thousand dollars. Again, I signed and stamped it without hesitation. Diane looked up at me, her lips parting as if to say something, but she ultimately thought better of it. I took my company badge, laid it quietly on her desk, and slid it toward her. She offered a sheepish, uncomfortable smile. When I left the HR office and pushed open the glass doors of our department, the ambient chatter died instantly. Dozens of eyes locked onto me, then just as quickly darted away. Suddenly, everyone became deeply fascinated by their keyboards, the rapid-fire clacking of keys filling the awkward silence. I walked over to the desk I hadn’t sat at in three months and began packing my things. Toby’s desk was right in front of mine. He didn’t dare turn around, keeping his voice to a hushed whisper. “You signed?” “Yeah.” “That fast? Why aren’t you filing an appeal?” I didn’t answer him. No one else spoke either; the air in the room felt thick and suffocating. Suddenly, a notification pinged on everyone’s phones. HR had posted the project bonus distribution spreadsheet to the department-wide chat. I opened it. An eighty-million-dollar bonus pool. Jared took the lion’s share: forty million. The remaining forty million was split among the other twelve team members based on “contribution.” Toby got three million. Even the lowest-ranking junior developer walked away with two million. Fourteen people on the roster. An eighty-million-dollar pool. The smallest cut was two million dollars. By any fair metric, the forty-million-dollar share should have belonged to me—the core architect. But my share was a two-hundred-and-seventy-thousand-dollar buyout. Within seconds, the heavy silence of the office dissolved into a wave of palpable relief and excitement. The hushed, giddy whispers began to drift over the cubicle walls, sharp as needles. “Honestly, it’s a good thing we cut one person loose. Otherwise, Wes would’ve easily taken thirty million. Our cuts would’ve been slashed by two-thirds.” “They did the right thing firing him. Sitting at home for three months claiming he was ‘developing the proposal’—who actually saw him do it? He just wanted an easy payday. The nerve.” “Look at that sour face. Like we owe him something. Just leave already, you’re ruining the mood.” Toby’s lips twitched, caught between a grin and a grimace. He looked at me, hesitating. I ignored him. I picked up the Outstanding Contribution trophy I had won the previous year and tossed it into the trash can next to my desk. The heavy plastic hit the bottom of the bin with a loud, hollow thud. The whispers stopped. I lifted the cardboard box of my belongings, swept a cold glance over the colleagues I had spent three years working with, and walked out without a word. Celebrate while you can, I thought. I hope it lasts. 3 I stepped into the elevator, only to find Rachel, the director of Team B, already inside. She glanced at me and let out a small, mocking smirk—the kind of look reserved for someone who had played a game and lost spectacularly. I kept my eyes fixed on the illuminated floor numbers, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. We descended in silence. When the doors slid open on the lobby, she didn’t move, letting me walk out first. I walked through the grand glass entrance of the building and stopped briefly on the sidewalk to look back at the sleek, blue-gray facade of the tower. This would be the last time. When I got back to my apartment, I opened my desk drawer, pulled out my employment contract, and flipped to the very last page. Three years ago, when I joined Synapse Tech, I was fresh out of grad school. Jared had sat across from me with a warm, friendly smile. “Wes, these two patents of yours are still unproven in the market. The company can’t pay you a direct licensing fee upfront, but we can bundle them into your base salary. Half a million a year. That’s a pretty sweet deal for a kid straight out of school, right?” At twenty-five, half a million dollars sounded like a fortune. I figured it was a great way to cut my teeth in the industry. Because of that, my employment contract included a specific, non-standard addendum: The patent rights were tied directly to my employment. If my employment was terminated, the company’s right to use the patents would immediately lapse. Over the next three years, those two patents generated hundreds of millions of dollars for Synapse Tech. I had repeatedly requested that the company pay separate licensing fees for them, but Jared always fed me the same empty promises. “Wes, you’re young. Think about the long game. Grow with the company. Once I move up to Vice President, the director’s chair is yours.” “Tell you what, I’ll talk to the CEO and see if we can bump your base salary to eight hundred thousand.” I believed him. I worked eighty-hour weeks, putting my health on the line. My newly developed third patent was the very technology that secured the ten-billion-dollar Meridian Project. Yet, when I brought up the patent licensing fees again, HR rejected the request, citing that my five-year employment contract had not yet expired. They expected to use my brain for free for another two years. They wanted to lock down my technology at the lowest possible cost, and then, to keep the forty-million-dollar bonus for themselves, they threw me to the wolves. I stared at that specific clause: The licensing of the patents is contingent on the employment of the patent holder. Upon termination of employment, all licensing agreements are null and void. A slow, cold smile spread across my face. I wasn’t the one who broke the rules. I drafted a formal Notice of Revocation of Patent Licensing and emailed it directly to Synapse Tech’s legal department, carbon-copying Stellaris Group’s project office. Just as I hit send, my phone rang. It was my mother. “Wes, sweetie, I made your favorite pot roast today. Come over for dinner after work.” “Sure, Mom. I’m on my way.” My parents lived in an older apartment building on the sixth floor, with no elevator. My plan had been to buy them a modern condo with an elevator once my project bonus came through. I had already picked out a few places near my rental apartment. Now, that would have to wait. When I opened their front door, the familiar, comforting scent of slow-cooked beef and rosemary washed over me. At the dinner table, my mom smiled warmly. “I saw the news, Wes. Did your project win the bid?” “Yeah.” “So you can finally go back to the office now, right?” I took a slow bite of my food, chewing thoroughly before answering. “Mom, I was fired today.” My parents’ forks froze mid-air. My mom’s voice trembled slightly. “Fired? Why?” I paused for a moment. “The official reason was ‘zero output’ during my three-month suspension.” My mom’s eyes flared with anger. “But they told you to stay home and build that proposal! You barely slept for three months, you didn’t even have time to visit us! How can they do this to you?” I remained quiet. My dad caught my mom’s eye and gave her a gentle, warning look to calm down. “It’s alright,” my dad said softly. “You have the skills. You’ll find a better place.” My mom sighed, reaching over to squeeze my hand, her eyes filled with worry. “Don’t worry about the new apartment, honey. Your father and I can still climb the stairs just fine.” I smiled, though my throat felt tight. “Dad, Mom… you won’t have to wait long.” Suddenly, my phone vibrated. A notification popped up in the department group chat. Jared had sent a digital gift card with a note: ‘A little something for the team. Everyone gets a piece of the ten-billion-dollar pie.’ A flood of brown-nosing replies followed immediately. ‘Oh my god, thank you, Jared!’ ‘Jared is the best boss ever! Stellaris Group knew exactly who had the winning design!’ ‘All thanks to your leadership, Jared!’ I looked at the number of recipients on the gift card. Twelve. Out of a fourteen-person department, excluding Jared himself, I was the only one left out. His ‘everyone’ didn’t include me. Jared posted one more message: ‘This victory belongs to all of us. Celebration dinner tonight, no excuses!’ And then, a tiny line of system text appeared at the bottom of my screen: You have been removed from the group chat by the administrator. I stared at it for three seconds, then closed the app. On my social feeds, local tech blogs were firing off articles about Synapse Tech securing the massive Stellaris contract. I turned my phone face down. It buzzed again. This time, it was an unknown landline. I answered. The voice on the other end was professional and familiar. “Mr. Mitchell? This is Mandy from the Stellaris Group. We just received a formal Notice of Revocation of Patent Licensing from you. Is this correct?” “Yes,” I said. “May I ask why?” I hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Because I was terminated yesterday.” 4 After hanging up, I checked the time. It was seven in the evening. For the first time in three years, I had finished dinner this early. I turned off my phone, took a long, relaxing shower, and put on a movie. By ten, I was in bed, sleeping peacefully until the sun woke me up the next morning. Bright morning light filtered through the curtains, illuminating my bedroom with a clarity I hadn’t experienced in years. No code to write. No simulations to run. No frantic late-night debug sessions. Life, it turned out, could be beautiful. When I finally turned my phone back on, it exploded with dozens of missed calls and over a hundred unread messages. Jared, Toby, Nora, and several unrecognized numbers. I ignored them all and opened a message from Toby that had just popped up. [Wes, why is your phone off? Jared is losing his mind trying to reach you. He’s making all of us call you.] Similar messages from other former coworkers sat in my inbox. I didn’t reply to any of them. Instead, I got out of bed, washed my face, and opened my laptop. I logged into the United States Patent and Trademark Office portal, uploaded my termination letter and the contract addendum, and filed the official paperwork to formally revoke Synapse Tech’s licensing rights. Then, I enjoyed a quiet breakfast. At ten, Jared’s name flashed on my screen again. I let it ring. He called ten more times before I finally picked up. The moment the connection went through, his furious voice boomed through the speaker. “Wes! What the hell did you send to the client? Call them right now and pull it back! Tell them it was a misunderstanding and that the patents are still active!” “Why would I do that?” “Are you out of your mind? Because those patents belong to the company!” I kept my voice cool and steady. “You’ve been freeloading on my work for so long you actually forgot who owns it, didn’t you? Do you need me to email you the USPTO registration certificates?” He choked on his breath, silent for a moment. “But we have an agreement! A five-year contract! There are still two years left!” I smiled. “Jared, I signed an employment contract, not a patent transfer agreement.” His voice died in his throat. I could hear his shallow, panicked breathing. “The contract has a clause…” he stammered. “Your salary included the licensing fees. The company has the legal right to use them.” “Right,” I said. “Maybe you should read that clause a little closer. Since you clearly don’t have it in front of you, let me refresh your memory.” I took a screenshot of the specific sentence—human presence required for licensing validity—and texted it to him. He sounded like a drowning man grasping at straws, unable to form a coherent sentence. I hung up and tossed the phone onto the couch. Half an hour later, it rang again. A different number. “Mr. Mitchell, this is Mandy from Stellaris Group again. I have a few quick questions.” “Mandy, I no longer work for Synapse Tech.” “I’m aware. Synapse told us you left yesterday, but I need to confirm: are the three core patents in the Meridian proposal indeed your personal property?” “Yes, they are.” “Synapse claims you’re in breach of contract by revoking them, and they’ve assured us we can continue using them. But we must verify this. Without those three technologies, Synapse’s proposal doesn’t even meet our minimum technical threshold.” I let the silence hang for a moment. “I had no independent licensing agreement with Synapse Tech. The permission was tied directly to my employment. Now that they have terminated me, they have zero legal right to use my intellectual property.” I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end. “I see. If Synapse were to offer you a separate licensing contract now, would you consider signing it?” “Absolutely not,” I answered without hesitation. “Understood. We will begin a formal compliance audit of the project. Would you be willing to bring the original patent documentation to our office to assist us with the review?” “Mandy, you can verify all of this online via the USPTO database.” She paused. “We have, but there are other matters our director would like to discuss with you in person.” “When?” “As soon as possible.” By one in the afternoon, I was walking into the Stellaris Group headquarters. Mandy escorted me up to the sixteenth floor. Inside the conference room, three people were waiting. In the center sat Lydia, the director of the Meridian Project. She stood up to greet me. “Mr. Mitchell, these are our head of legal and our chief technology officer. Time is of the essence, so I’ll get straight to the point.” I nodded and sat down. “We’ve verified the patents,” Lydia said. “They are indeed yours. Together, these three technologies form a complete, highly advanced pipeline for neural network training, real-time interaction, and deployment. They were the sole reason Synapse Tech won this bid. Without them, their score drops below the qualifying line.” The room fell quiet as they watched me. “Since you’re no longer with Synapse, we need to know: do you intend to license these patents to another firm, or what is your plan?” I met Lydia’s gaze, my voice steady and unwavering. “I plan to deliver the project myself.”

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The air in the grand ballroom was thick with the scent of white roses and expensive champagne—a scent I had spent nearly a year choosing. But when I finally tossed my bridal bouquet, it didn’t land in the hands of a hopeful bridesmaid. It was caught, mid-air, by Cassidy. She arched a perfectly groomed brow, a playful smirk playing on her lips. “Does this mean I’m supposed to propose now?” She turned her gaze directly to the altar. “Gary, you coming with me?” The groomsmen, already half-drunk on pre-ceremony whiskey, erupted into loud, rowdy cheers. They began shoving Gary toward her, practically pushing him off the altar. “Kiss her! Kiss her!” “Come on, Gary, don’t be shy! It’s not like you guys didn’t literally cuddle in the same bed at the bachelor party last night. We all saw you face-planted in her chest!” Gary laughed, kicking playfully at one of his friends. “Shut up, guys. My wife is standing right here.” But I didn’t miss the faint, guilty crimson creeping up his neck. Cassidy shrugged, completely unfazed. “I don’t mind, but I think someone’s little bride is about to cry.” Only then did Gary turn his head to look at me. He reached out, tapping the tip of my nose with a casual, easy gesture. “Don’t be so sensitive, babe. It’s just a joke. Come on, let’s get the ceremony finished.” I slowly pulled my face back, escaping his touch. I reached out and took the microphone from the stunned officiant. “If she wants to object,” I said, my voice echoing clearly through the speakers, “I’m taking her seriously.” Three days later, he stood in front of City Hall, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. But I never looked back. … The rowdy cheers of the groomsmen died instantly. A suffocating silence fell over the ballroom, followed by the quiet, hurried whispers of our guests. Gary gripped my wrist, his face darkening with embarrassment. “Cassidy was just kidding. Do you really have to do this?” “Stop making a scene, Nina. This is the wedding you’ve been dreaming about for years.” “My grandmother is still waiting in her hospital bed to see the video.” Just last night, my grandmother had experienced a rare, fleeting moment of lucidity. With trembling hands, she had placed my palm into Gary’s. He had knelt by her bedside, promising her that he would cherish and protect me for the rest of his life. And then he had gone straight to his bachelor party to mess around with Cassidy. My eyes burned with unshed tears. I raised the microphone, my voice cracking but steady. “Is motorboating her and sleeping in the same bed also just a joke?” The words hit the room like a physical blow. The guests leaned in, their eyes darting rapidly between Gary and Cassidy, hungry for the drama. A flash of angry humiliation crossed Gary’s face. He snatched the microphone out of my hand, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Shut up! Are you trying to ruin our wedding?” Cassidy stepped forward, smoothly taking the microphone from him. Her tone was light, almost bubbly. “Oh, please. Gary and I were taking baths together naked when we were two years old. Isn’t it a little late to start getting jealous now, honey?” With a few breezy sentences, she brushed off their boundary-crossing behavior as childhood innocence. Suddenly, I was the one being unreasonable. Gary’s mother, Mrs. Stanley, stepped up and draped an arm over Cassidy’s shoulder, casting a cold, dismissive look in my direction. “Cassidy is the kind of daughter-in-law I always wanted. Elegant, high-class, from a good family.” She sniffed. “Not like some people from cheap backgrounds who throw tantrums at their own weddings. No class, no manners. I don’t even know what kind of parents raised her—” “Mom!” Gary snapped, cutting her off. “Stop it.” He looked at me anxiously, his eyes filled with a sudden, heavy wave of guilt and worry. My face went entirely pale, a bitter, hollow ache spreading through my chest. Ten years ago, my parents were celebrating their anniversary at a quiet coastal beach. They saw a young boy being swept away by a violent rip current. They swam out, fought the waves, and saved him—but they never made it back to shore. That boy was Gary. If my parents were still here today, no one would dare treat me like this. Cassidy crossed her arms, rolling her eyes. “Are you seriously going to cry over this?” “God. If Gary and I actually wanted to be together, do you really think you’d even be standing here?” “Fine, fine. It’s all my fault. I’ll just leave, okay?” Gary’s face shifted instantly. He chased after her, catching her by the waist to stop her. Then he turned to me, his voice sharp with accusation. “Cassidy flew halfway across the world just to be here for us. If you can’t be grateful, fine, but why do you have to drive her away?” Looking at Cassidy’s smug, triumphant smile over his shoulder, I suddenly felt a profound, exhausting wave of futility. I slid the diamond band off my left ring finger and tossed it toward them. “She doesn’t have to leave,” I whispered. “I will.” “You wanted to steal the groom? Here, you can have the ring too.” Gary caught the ring, his eyes igniting with a sudden, volatile fury. “Nina! You really want to play this card?” “Let me tell you something—if you walk out that door today, we can easily find another bride to finish this ceremony!” “Let her go!” Mrs. Stanley sneered. “I’ll wait to see her crawl back begging.” I gathered the heavy lace skirts of my gown and ran out of the ballroom without looking back, leaving Gary’s furious shouts behind me. I hailed a cab on the street. The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes widening slightly at my disheveled bridal gown. “You alright, sweetheart? Where to?” Sitting in the back seat, the anger in my chest slowly dissolved into a cold, terrifying numbness. Where could I go? Shortly after my parents died, my grandmother, shattered by grief, got into a car accident. The other party demanded a massive financial settlement, and I was forced to sell our family home. It was pouring rain the day of the eviction. I couldn’t get a cab, and I was sobbing on the curb. That was when Gary rode up on his motorcycle, his leather jacket drenched, his face wild and rebellious as he pulled off his helmet. “There’s no PIN. Use it,” he had said, forcing his credit card into my hand before turning back into the storm. By the time I sorted out the medical bills and tried to return the money, he had disappeared. But then, a few months later, he suddenly turned up at my university. He had wrapped a casual arm around my shoulder, winking at a girl who was trying to ask him out. “Sorry, babe. My girlfriend gets super jealous.” Under the autumn sun, his bleach-blonde hair had gleamed. He crashed into my life like a storm. “Play along as my girlfriend,” he had whispered. “Call it even for saving your grandmother.” For three years, I chased him down, desperate to pay back every cent, while everyone else mocked me as his clingy, desperate shadow. When he crashed his motorcycle on a back road, I was the first to arrive. When he broke his leg snowboarding, I brought him homemade meals every single day. Just as I was about to pay off the last of my debt, my grandmother wandered off. It was the worst blizzard Boston had seen in a decade. The snow was knee-deep. The security footage showed Grandma walking out into the freezing night in nothing but a thin sweater. The police searched for hours and found nothing. I was losing my mind. It was Gary who organized thousands of people online to search the city. As the hours ticked away and I collapsed into the snow for the ninth time, he had reached down and pulled me up. “We found her. She’s at the hospital. She’s okay.” I had sobbed into his chest, completely broken. He had clumsily wiped my tears, trying to keep his tone light. “Letting your boyfriend hold you isn’t a bad deal, you know.” For the first time, I didn’t correct him. “Miss? Are you okay?” the driver asked, offering me a box of tissues. I looked in the mirror and realized my face was entirely soaked with tears. “Just keep driving, please.” The city blurred past the window. Only last night, Gary had knelt by Grandma’s bed and confessed: “Actually, ten years ago, the kid your parents saved at the beach… it was me. My family tried to offer twenty million dollars, but your grandma refused. She said a life can’t be bought. She said your parents did what was right.” “Nina, destiny brought me to you. I’ll spend the rest of my life loving you for them.” But less than twenty-four hours later, everything had shattered. My heart felt squeezed by barbed wire. My phone kept buzzing. It was a video sent to the wedding group chat. Cassidy, wearing a stunning red-and-gold gown, was standing arm-in-arm with Gary, drinking and laughing with the guests. Some people threw a tantrum and walked out, so Cassidy had to step in. Honestly, they look perfect together. Why don’t they just get married for real? Show that psycho what she’s missing. I turned off the phone, my cold face reflected in the dark screen. “Take me to The Pinnacle,” I told the driver. I needed to know the truth. At the penthouse, I went straight to his gaming room. Gary kept a locked box here. Once, I had caught him tucking photos inside. When I teased him and tried to look, he had held me close, laughing: “It’s a surprise for our wedding day.” I had been waiting for that surprise for years. It was a four-digit combination lock. I tried his birthday. Our anniversary. My birthday. None of them worked. With trembling fingers, I typed in Cassidy’s birthday. Click. Inside were three thick photo albums, ten keys to luxury sports cars, and a dark green velvet box. I opened the albums. They were filled with photos of Cassidy growing up. On the back of a photo of her as a teenager, holding a helmet and smiling fiercely on a podium, Gary had written: The love of my life. May you always shine. The date was July 5th, 2016. The exact day my parents drowned. “So, you finally found it,” Gary’s raspy voice sounded from behind me. “I used to have feelings for Cassidy, but that’s ancient history.” “That day, I was going to confess to her. But she just laughed and hugged everyone, saying we were all brothers. I never gave her the necklace. And the sports cars I bought her over the years… I never gave them to her either.” “So,” my voice cracked, “the day your confession failed, you got drunk on the beach and walked into the ocean. And my parents died saving you.” I was shaking violently. My parents died for this? For his high school heartbreak? I lost my family, and I had been living a lie with him for eight years. “It was never a coincidence, was it? You transferred to my school out of guilt. You forced yourself into my life, pretended I owed you money, just so you could keep me close for three years. Was it fun, Gary? Playing with my life?” “No, Nina, it’s not like that…” Panic flickered in his eyes. He reached out to wipe my tears, but flinches when I drew back. He pulled out a lighter and flicked it open. “Cassidy and I are just friends. There’s nothing between us. If this box bothers you so much, then—” He threw the lighter into the box. Flames immediately licked the thick pages of the albums. “If you’re still mad, I’ll never speak to her again. Okay?” He pulled out his phone, opened his contacts, and deleted her right in front of me. But a second later, Cassidy’s name flashed on his screen. He hesitated, then answered. “Just let me say goodbye to her. For good.” Three minutes later, Gary stormed back in, his face contorted in anger. “Did you upload that video of Cassidy catching the bouquet? People online are tearing her apart, calling her a manipulative ‘pick-me’! How could you cyberbully her like this?” “Do you have any idea how important her race tomorrow is? This cannot stain her career!” I stared at him, feeling a cold, hollow laugh rise in my chest. “Are the comments wrong? She grabbed the bride’s bouquet and proposed to the groom.” “I told you, it was a joke! And you’re going to ruin her entire life over a stupid joke?” “Nina, I didn’t think you could be this vindictive.” He looked at me with pure disappointment. “I’ve already had my team use AI to swap your faces in the video. You’re going to post an apology statement saying you did it out of jealousy. We need to kill this story now.” Anger reached a fever pitch, and suddenly, I felt entirely calm. “No. I had nothing to do with that video.” “Nina!” He lunges forward, pinning my arms and snatching the phone from my pocket. I fought him, but he hoists me over his shoulder and locked me in the windowless utility closet. Through the heavy door, his voice was muffled. “I’m wiping your camera roll so you don’t leak any photos of us and make things worse. Calm down tonight. The housekeeper will let you out tomorrow. Once I’m back from Cassidy’s race, we’ll go get registered.” The light in the closet was broken. There were no windows. I sat in the pitch black until dawn, when the housekeeper opened the door, gasping at my bloodshot eyes. “Oh, goodness, ma’am. Are you alright?” I shook my head, my throat dry as paper. “Where is my phone, Mrs. Clark?” She pointed to the coffee table. “Mr. Stanley told me to make you some soup before he caught his flight. He said you shouldn’t look at your phone for a few days…” I walked right past her and grabbed the phone. When it booted up, the screen was flooded with missed calls and texts. I clicked a link sent by my old college roommate. The top trending topic on Twitter was Gary’s account, featuring a picture of a marriage certificate and a childhood photo of him and Cassidy. Childhood sweethearts, finally together. @Cassidy_Racer The comments were a sickening wave of congratulations. An heir and a champion racer. True love exists! Good luck at the championship tomorrow, queen! The second trending topic: High school teacher admits to AI face-swap out of spite. The video showed my face swapped with Cassidy’s—making it look like I was the one who crashed the wedding and proposed to Gary. This is pathetic. She almost ruined the bride’s career right before the race. I’m sick to my stomach. This woman is a teacher? What school lets a psycho like this near children? My brain went entirely numb. I swayed, clutching the wall to keep from falling. Then, my phone rang. It’s the school principal. “Nina, the scandal surrounding your personal life has severely damaged the school’s reputation. Effective immediately, your contract is terminated.” “Principal Evans, I didn’t—” He hung up. Before I can call back, Gary called. “How dare you use my name to post those lies? I just lost my job because of you!” “Isn’t that a good thing?” Gary’s voice was thick with sleep, casual and relaxed. “I can take care of you. Being a wife is much better than dealing with screaming teenagers anyway.” “Besides, you’re twenty-six now. It’s time we started thinking about having a baby, don’t you think?” My body shook with a violent, visceral disgust. “Gary,” I whispered, “you make me sick.” I hung up, the tears finally spilling over. Then, my phone rang again. It’s the hospital. By the time I arrived, Grandma was already in the OR. The surgeon handed me a critical notice to sign. “The patient experienced severe emotional stress, causing an aneurysm to rupture. We have an experimental blocker that could save her, but it’s fifty thousand dollars a dose. Do you want us to proceed?” “The golden window is three minutes. If you want it, you need to pay now.” “Do it!” I screamed, my hand shaking as I signed the papers. “Do whatever it takes! Just save her!” I ran to the billing window, my chest tight. Declined. The online banking app said my daily limit was exceeded. I frantically tore open my wallet, dropping cards onto the floor. “Try this one. PIN is 062746,” I sobbed, handing over a card. Declined. “Ma’am, this card has been frozen by the primary account holder.” I froze. It was the joint card Gary gave me. When did he freeze it? There’s no time to think. I pulled out my personal savings card—the one where my entire four years of teaching salary, nearly seventy thousand dollars, was kept. I read off the PIN. The nurse looked at the screen, her face falling. “Ma’am… there aren’t enough funds.” “What? That’s impossible!” My head spun. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Gary. Hey, my card hit its limit while celebrating Cassidy’s win. I used your savings card to buy her a celebratory Chanel bag. Consider it a gift from us… “Gary!” I screamed into the phone as I called him back. “That is my grandmother’s life support money!” Gary chuckled on the other end. “Stop being so dramatic. I’ll pay you back tenfold when I get home. I have to go.” The line went dead. The nurse walked out of the double doors, looking at me with deep pity. “Family of Marian Rogers… I am so sorry for your loss.” The world went entirely quiet. I watched them wheel out a gurney, a white sheet draped over the quiet silhouette of my grandmother. “Gary, are you sure you’re skipping my after-party?” Cassidy punched him playfully in the chest. “That’s cold.” Gary didn’t pull away, just smiled. “I cleared your name, posted a fake marriage certificate, and dealt with my girl’s tantrums. I think I’ve been more than supportive.” “She’s still throwing a fit at home. I need to get back and smooth things over before she does something crazy. My flight is tonight. Tomorrow is our fifth anniversary, and we’re getting registered.” But when he finally unlocked the door of the penthouse, the flowers in his hands fell to the floor.

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I was curled up in Oliver’s lap, casually scrolling through engagement ring designs on my iPad, when the news of Sylvia’s bankruptcy broke. The local socialite group chats were alive with venomous glee, mocking the spectacular fall of Boston’s once-untouchable golden girl. I tilted my head back, pressing a light kiss to his jawline, and teased, “So, Sylvia is back in town and completely broke. Aren’t you going to play the knight in shining armor?” He didn’t even look up from my hand, his fingers idly tracing the curve of my knuckles. A soft, dismissive scoff escaped his lips. “The business world is a war zone, babe. Why would I bail her out? Don’t make me out to be some soft-hearted fool.” A quiet wave of relief washed over me. After all, years ago, Sylvia’s wealthy family had deemed Oliver too poor, throwing him aside like yesterday’s trash. With Oliver’s fierce pride, I knew he wasn’t the type to swallow his dignity and go backward. I slid off his lap and headed to the walk-in closet to slip into a cocktail dress. But when I stepped back out, I saw Oliver standing on the balcony, his back to me. The night air was thick, and a thin trail of cigarette smoke curled over his shoulder. Driven by some inexplicable, dark instinct, I picked up his phone, which he’d left face-up on the velvet sofa. Just as my fingers brushed the glass, the screen lit up with a banking notification: [Wire Transfer Successful: $7,000,000 debited from card ending in 8888. Memo: Repurchase of the Harrington Estate.] The screen’s icy glare burned straight into my eyes. … “What are you looking at so intently?” His deep voice drifted in from the balcony, carrying the low, gravelly rasp of freshly inhaled smoke. My fingers froze. The string of zeros was still burned onto my retinas, but within a fraction of a second, I calmly pressed the lock button and turned the phone face-down on the cushion. “Nothing,” I said. I turned around to face him. There was a lingering storm in his eyes—a dark, unsettled shadow—but the moment his gaze met mine, it vanished, replaced by the familiar, practiced warmth I had known for five years. “Just looking over the schedule for our bridal fitting tomorrow,” I lied softly. Oliver stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ash tray and walked toward me, his long strides effortlessly closing the distance. He brought with him the scent of rich tobacco and the crisp chill of the autumn night, wrapping his arms around me with practiced ease. “You shouldn’t worry about those details. Let the assistant handle it.” He rested his chin on the crown of my head, nuzzling me gently in that soothing way of his. “I cleared my schedule for tomorrow. I’m all yours, the entire day.” I leaned against his warm chest, listening to the steady, unbothered rhythm of his heart. The question—Where did seven million dollars go?—lodged itself tightly in my throat. I closed my eyes, forcing it down, swallowing it alongside the five years of youth I had poured into him. “Okay,” I whispered. The next morning, a persistent, gray rain began to fall over the city. For once, Oliver didn’t check his emails over breakfast. Instead, he meticulously peeled a soft-boiled egg, placing it gently onto my plate. When we arrived at the most exclusive bridal boutique downtown, the manager and her assistants were already waiting under the awning. “Miss Ward, the three custom gowns we had flown in from Paris are ready for you.” I was ushered into the grand VIP fitting suite. Oliver settled onto the plush velvet sofa, mindlessly flipping through an editorial magazine. “Go on,” he said, offering a warm, adoring smile. “I’ll be right here waiting.” The first gown was an incredibly intricate French lace masterpiece with a sweeping cathedral train. The fitting was a slow, delicate process. Three assistants worked in hushed whispers, carefully cinching the corset around my waist. Just as they were about to pin the delicate silk veil to my hair, a sharp, frantic ringtone shattered the quiet of the salon. Through the half-drawn velvet curtain of the dressing room, I watched Oliver bolt upright. He didn’t even notice the heavy magazine slipping from his lap to the floor. He strode to the floor-to-ceiling windows, covering the receiver with his hand, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, his shoulders incredibly tense. By the time I gathered the heavy folds of my skirt and stepped out, he was already grabbing his tailored coat from the armchair. “Oliver?” I called out softly. He turned. His gaze lingered on me for a fraction of a second. There was no awe in his eyes. No praise. Only a thinly veiled, chaotic panic. “An emergency came up with a friend,” he said, buckling his watch and moving toward the door, not even pausing to kiss my cheek or offer a quick embrace. “I need to run over and check on them. I’ll be right back. Whichever dress you love, just put it on my tab.” The heavy oak door of the VIP suite clicked shut. He was gone. The boutique manager stood frozen, holding the veil, her face a mask of polite embarrassment. “Miss Ward… should we…?” “It’s fine,” I said, staring at my reflection in the gilded mirror—so grandly dressed, yet so utterly foolish. “I’ll wait.” The gown was heavy, the tight boning making it hard to draw a full breath. The grandfather clock on the wall ticked with a monotonous, agonizing rhythm. The staff brought me a fourth cup of black tea. By now, the liquid had gone completely cold, a bitter, dark skin forming on its surface. I checked my phone. 8:00 PM. He had promised he’d be right back, yet he had left me sitting in this temperature-controlled room for twelve hours. Suddenly, a sharp, twisting cramp flared in my lower abdomen. My face drained of color, and I bent over, my fingers gripping the delicate lace of the skirt. Cold sweat beaded at my temples. With trembling fingers, I opened my contacts and dialed his number. The long, empty rings echoed through the silent boutique. Just as the call was about to lapse into voicemail, the line clicked open. “Oliver, my stomach really hurts—” “Hello?” The voice that came through the speaker wasn’t Oliver’s deep baritone. It was a woman’s low, purring laugh. My breath hitched. It was Sylvia. “Amelia, sweetie,” she said, her voice dripping with casual, unbothered triumph. “Oliver’s a little busy right now.” In the background, I heard the faint clinking of metal. Sylvia sighed softly, making no effort to hide her smug satisfaction. “The crystal chandelier in the Harrington drawing room is just so heavy. Oliver was worried it would fall and hurt me, so he’s up on a ladder right now, hanging it himself.” The line went dead. The dull ache in my abdomen slowly spread, gnawing at my nerves. I sat on the sofa, motionless, for what felt like hours. It wasn’t until the manager gently asked if she should call me a cab that I snapped out of my daze. I peeled off the heavy white gown and changed back into my sweater and jeans. The Harrington estate was a grand Tudor mansion in the hills, nearly an hour’s drive from the city center. The taxi crawled up the winding, dark mountain road, the windshield wipers thrashing violently against the torrential downpour. By the time I stepped out at the gates, my shoes were completely soaked through with muddy water. The rusted iron gates were left slightly ajar, as if welcoming back their lost mistress. Splashing through the mud, I walked up to the towering glass windows of the main house. Inside, the rooms were ablaze with warm, golden light. Through the rain-streaked glass, the scene played out with devastating clarity. Oliver had discarded his suit jacket. He was in his white dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He stood on an A-frame ladder, tools in hand, looking down to speak to someone below him. Sylvia stood at the base, wearing a silk slip dress, looking up at him with a radiant, joyful laugh. Cradled in her arms was a fluffy Ragdoll cat. Oliver hated cats. In our five years together, if I even wanted to go to a cat cafe, he would claim his allergies were too severe and wait in the car. But now, as he climbed down the ladder, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he reached out and naturally, tenderly, stroked the cat’s head. Sylvia took the opportunity to tug gently on his sleeve, whispering something with a soft, pouty smile. It was a picture of domestic perfection. A warm, intimate tableau that made me, his fiancée, look like a pathetic intruder standing out in the cold. I stood in the pouring rain, watching them through the glass. I watched until my fingers turned numb from the cold, until the cramping in my belly went entirely dull. I walked around to the front entrance and pushed the heavy oak door open. The laughter inside cut off instantly. Sylvia flinched, shrinking back behind Oliver’s broad shoulders, clutching the cat tight. “Amelia…” she stammered, looking at me with wide, tear-filled eyes. “What are you doing here?” Oliver spun around. The gentle warmth on his face hardened into ice the moment he saw me standing there, dripping wet and covered in mud. “Did you follow me?” his brows furrowed, and he took a long stride toward me. I didn’t answer. My eyes bypassed his stiff white shirt and landed on the few strands of white cat hair clinging to his fingertips. He had always told me he was deathly allergic. If I so much as patted a stray dog or cat, he would anxiously insist I wash my hands immediately. Yet here he was, completely fine, letting a cat nuzzle against his chest. It was never an allergy. He just didn’t care enough. “Amelia, did you really have to come all this way in a storm just to make a scene?” When I remained silent, his tone grew sharper, laced with irritation. “Sylvia is severely depressed. She’s completely alone and terrified.” A crack of thunder boomed outside, the bright flash illuminating my trembling, wet hands. The antique grandfather clock in the hall began to chime eleven. I watched him drape his own suit jacket over Sylvia’s bare shoulders, and a quiet, bitter smile touched my lips. “It’s eleven o’clock,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. I didn’t cry. I just looked at him with an eerie calmness. “Oliver, the bridal shop closed at eight.” Oliver’s furious expression froze. His hand, still adjusting the jacket on Sylvia’s shoulders, arrested mid-air. From behind him, Sylvia gently tugged his sleeve, her voice trembling with unshed tears. “Oliver, don’t blame Amelia. It’s my fault. This house is just… it’s so full of my parents’ ghosts. I was so scared. I promise I won’t bother you ever again.” Oliver reached back, catching her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Then he turned back to me, his eyes cold, as if looking at a complete stranger. “Your jealousy is getting entirely out of hand. It’s pathetic,” he said, pointing a finger toward the open door. “Go home. Stop acting like a child.” I looked at the way he stood, a solid shield protecting Sylvia from the world. “Okay,” I said. There was no screaming match. No throwing of insults. I simply turned, walked back out into the night, and opened my black umbrella. Behind me, the heavy oak door slammed shut with a deafening thud. The draft kicked up a spray of muddy water, leaving dark, ugly splatters across the hem of my cream-colored skirt. The love I had spent five years carefully guarding was now completely ruined. The next morning, the soft chime of the smart lock broke the silence of the apartment. Oliver walked into the bedroom, carrying the crisp chill of late autumn on his shoulders. In his hand, he held a paper bag stamped with the logo of a bakery from the West End. Years ago, when we had nothing, I had offhandedly mentioned craving their pastries. He had stood in a sub-zero blizzard for two hours, keeping the box tucked inside his coat to keep them warm for me. He set the bag on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out, his hand moving to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. But right before his fingers could brush my skin, a faint, familiar scent drifted into my nose. It was Sylvia’s signature perfume. The jacket he had draped over her shoulders last night had brought it back. My body reacted before my brain did. I instinctively jerked my head away, avoiding his touch. His hand froze in the air, his fingers twitching slightly before he pulled back, trying to act as if nothing had happened. “I’m sorry about my attitude last night,” he said, his voice dropping into that weary, patronizing tone of patience. “But you have to try to understand. Her family went under. She has nothing left, her depression is back, and she’s been talking about ending it all.” “I couldn’t just sit by and let her die, Amelia.” He opened the bakery bag, pulled out a warm, glazed pastry, and held it to my lips. “Come on, eat it while it’s warm. After this, we’ll reschedule your bridal fitting.” The rich scent of butter and sugar mingled with the ghostly trace of Sylvia’s perfume, turning my stomach. I didn’t yell. My body, still holding onto years of muscle memory, reached out and took the pastry from his hand. A small, relieved smile began to form in Oliver’s eyes. But a second later, I leaned over and tossed the warm pastry directly into the trash can beside the bed. It landed with a dull, heavy thud. “It’s cold,” I said, pulling a wet wipe from the nightstand to meticulously clean the fingers that had touched the pastry. I didn’t even look up at him. “Too stale to chew.” The smile on Oliver’s face vanished. He stared at the trash can, as if unable to comprehend that I—always so compliant, always so gentle—would ever do such a thing. “Amelia,” his voice turned icy, carrying the heavy weight of a man used to being obeyed. “Don’t push your luck.” Leaving those words behind, he stood up and walked into the bathroom. I tossed the dirty wet wipe into the trash can. From that day on, for an entire week, Oliver found endless excuses to stay out all night. And every morning when he returned, the scent of Sylvia’s perfume on his clothes grew stronger. I didn’t call him out. I didn’t make a scene. I ate, I slept, I worked on my fashion designs. I stopped texting him first, and I stopped asking about his schedule. Over those few days, the sharp cramps in my abdomen became more frequent. I spent four hours brewing a rich chicken soup, packing it into a thermos. I planned to go to the clinic for a checkup and have a warm meal afterward. But when I reached the intersection, on some strange, sudden impulse, I told the driver to change routes and head to Oliver’s design studio instead. The receptionist, recognizing me, waved me through with a polite smile. I carried the heavy metal thermos down the corridor to his private office. The door wasn’t fully closed; a narrow gap remained. From inside came Sylvia’s soft, sweet voice: “Oliver, you spent seven million dollars to buy back the Harrington house. Did you really do all that just to help me?” I stopped in my tracks. “Don’t read too much into it,” Oliver’s voice was detached, flat. Sylvia let out a soft, teasing laugh. “Then… does that mean you bought it as our future home?” A heavy silence stretched for several seconds. Oliver didn’t deny it. He only murmured, “Just live there for now.” I looked down at the heavy thermos in my hand, suddenly feeling that my silence and understanding over the past few days had been nothing short of a tragedy. I reached out and pushed the door open. The two of them turned in unison. Sylvia was leaning against the edge of his mahogany desk, and Oliver was standing directly in front of her, their faces far closer than any professional boundary allowed. “Amelia…” Sylvia gasped, looking genuinely startled, and took a sharp step back. She was wearing towering stiletto heels. Her foot caught on the leg of the desk, and she lost her balance, falling backward. “Ah!” Her hand landed squarely on a sharp crystal paperweight on the coffee table. The glass sliced her palm, and a thin line of crimson began to seep out. “Sylvia!” Oliver’s face went pale. Instinct overrode everything. He lunged forward, his shoulder slamming hard against mine in his rush to get to her. The force sent me stumbling backward. My lower back collided heavily with the solid wooden doorframe, and the metal thermos slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly to the floor. A blinding, white-hot wave of pain ripped through my lower abdomen. The color drained from my face. I slid slowly down the doorframe, collapsing onto the hardwood floor. Just a few feet away, Oliver was on his knees, cradling Sylvia in his arms. He had pulled out the silk handkerchief I had painstakingly embroidered with his initials, pressing it firmly against her hand to stem the bleeding of what was nothing more than a superficial scratch. Only when he was sure she was safe did he turn his head, looking at me with a gaze full of defensive anger and disgust. But when his eyes fell on the puddle of hot chicken soup spreading across the floor, he froze. His hand, still holding Sylvia’s wrist, trembled. His gaze traveled from the spilled soup up to my ghostly, sweat-slicked face. A sudden, unbidden wave of panic flashed deep in his eyes. “Amelia…” He instinctively let go of Sylvia, trying to stand. But Sylvia let out a soft, whimpering cry. “Oliver, it hurts so much.” The knee he had just lifted sank right back to the floor. “Amelia, do you have to do this right now?” he hissed, his voice sharp with a defensive, panicked anger. I watched him hover over her. The pain in my stomach was so intense it stole the breath from my lungs. But I didn’t make a sound. I knew that the man in front of me would no longer feel any pain for my tears. To scream would only make me look pathetic. Holding onto the wall, I dragged myself to my feet, shaking. I looked at the soup on the floor, and then at Oliver. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my throat dry, my voice barely audible. “I ruined your floor.” Without another look, I clutched my stomach and walked slowly out of the office. Just as I crossed the threshold, I thought I heard Oliver call my name. I didn’t turn back. A warm, heavy wetness began to trace a path down my thigh, washing away five years of devotion in a single, silent wave.

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I was out of state, right in the middle of a tense negotiation for a massive supply chain contract, when my phone buzzed with an unknown number. “Your piece of shit car is blocking my spot!” a man roared through the receiver, his voice grating and thick with impatience. “You have exactly thirty minutes to get down here and move it, or you’re going to be real sorry.” I was completely lost. My client leaned over, catching the tail end of the shouting. “Ms. Carmichael, the lot where you parked…” he whispered apologetically. “It’s a commuter lot during the day, but they convert it into a pop-up food truck park at night.” The realization hit me like a splash of cold water. I didn’t waste a second. I excused myself and rushed out. But when I finally arrived at the lot, the breath was knocked completely out of my lungs. My car windows were completely shattered. The trunk had been violently pried open with what looked like a crowbar. The windshield wipers and license plates were snapped off, bent into jagged angles, and the hood of the car was piled high with reeking, greasy trash—half-eaten hot dogs, chili-soaked paper boats, and empty beer cans. Swallowing the lump of hot, rising anger in my throat, I tracked down the man who had called me. But instead of an apology, he just sneered, looking me up and down with utter contempt. “That’s what you get for stealing my real estate, lady.” He stepped forward and kicked the dented side panel of my ruined car. “Let’s be brutally honest here. Your little clunker isn’t even worth the price of one of my truck’s tires. Why are you acting like it’s a tragedy?” Watching his chest puff out with arrogant pride, a dark, quiet laugh slipped past my lips. He was right about one thing. The car itself was a cheap, secondhand piece of metal. But what he didn’t know—what he couldn’t possibly fathom—was that the item sitting inside that car was worth more than a thousand of his food trucks combined. … 1 Seeing me standing there in stunned silence, the food vendor’s ego seemed to swell. He took a drag from his cigarette, blew a thick cloud of smoke directly into my face, and lazily rapped his knuckles against my shattered window frame. “What are you staring at? You brain-dead or something?” “Move the damn car!” “You’re cutting into my prime business hours, do you get that?” I pressed my lips together, my nails biting into my palms as I fought to keep my voice steady. “I called you ten minutes ago. I told you traffic was gridlocked and I might be a few minutes late.” “You said that was fine.” “And for the record, I’m not even late.” The second he had called me, I’d ordered a premium Uber. But a mile out from the food park, we hit a wall of bumper-to-bumper traffic. Not wanting to impact his livelihood, I had jumped out of the car, rented a Lime scooter, and navigated the cracked sidewalks the rest of the way. I had even called him while riding to keep him updated. He had chuckled on the phone. Traffic happens, don’t kill yourself getting here. I had rushed. I had sweated through my silk blouse. I had made it within his arbitrary thirty-minute window. And yet, I was staring at a junkyard on wheels. “Are you aware that destroying private property is a felony?” I asked, my voice dropping an octave. The vendor, a burly guy with a greasy apron, pointed his cigarette at my chest. “Felony? What felony? You maliciously squatted on my leased commercial space, and you think you’re the victim here?” His temper flared again, and with a deliberate, vicious motion, he ground his lit cigarette out on my car’s peeling paint job. “Property? You call this trash property?” he spat. “You cost me money tonight, lady! You’re lucky I didn’t set this piece of junk on fire. Now get the hell out of here before I really lose my temper.” The other vendors operating out of the tents and trucks nearby started chiming in, their voices a chorus of resentment. “He’s got a family of four to feed off this truck!” a woman yelled. “Of all the places to park your ugly little hatchback, you pick his spot?” My entire body was trembling, a raw, electric current of fury shooting through my veins. The polite, professional veneer I wore for boardrooms completely evaporated. “This is a public parking lot during the day! Where else was I supposed to park?” I snapped. “Are you all blind? Does this look like a designated food court to you?” The vendor’s eyes went dark. With a sudden, explosive surge of violence, he lunged forward, his thick, grease-stained fingers twisting into my hair. He yanked my head back so hard my neck popped. “Listen to me, you stupid bitch,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Open your eyes and look around. Is this a parking lot, or is this a night market?” The crowd, feeding off his aggression, rallied behind him. “Messing with people’s livelihoods and you still have an attitude!” “If this wasn’t a civilized country, someone would have beaten you half to death by now!” Even the tourists walking by holding their dripping food containers joined in the mockery. “Just apologize to the guy and call a tow truck for your little trash can on wheels!” one guy laughed. As he spoke, he casually tossed a paper tray dripping with rancid cheese sauce right onto my windshield. The sour, synthetic smell hit the back of my throat, making me gag. Drawing on every ounce of adrenaline in my body, I shoved the vendor backward with both hands, breaking his grip on my hair. I stumbled, struggling to catch my breath and recalibrate. “First of all,” I said, my chest heaving. “I am from out of state. I had no idea this lot transitions after five. Second, when you contacted me, I made it here within the timeframe you demanded.” “And finally… you destroyed my car.” My eyes darted to the back seat, to the spot where I had carefully tucked away the antique rosewood box. The seat was empty. Smashed glass covered the upholstery, but the box was gone. “You didn’t just destroy it. You robbed me,” I said, the gravity of the situation sinking in, turning my voice into a cold blade. “You crossed the line into grand larceny. I’ve already dialed 911.” I expected the word larceny to sober them up. I expected a shift in the atmosphere. Instead, a wave of uproarious laughter washed over the lot. Todd—the name embroidered on the vendor’s apron—laughed the loudest, clutching his stomach. “Oh, you’re calling the cops? You think you can scare me with the cops?” “Even if the cops show up, they’re gonna side with me!” Another vendor from a taco stand chimed in. “It’s an unwritten rule around here! You block our spot, we have the right to move or trash your ride. You broke the law first, sweetheart!” A college kid shoving a hot dog into his mouth mumbled through a full cheek, “These people work hard for their money. You got your convenient parking spot, but did you even calculate how much cash you cost him?” Then came the “sympathetic” bystander. An older woman patted my shoulder patronizingly. “Honey, if I were you, I’d just let it go. You were in the wrong. Besides, I know cars. That old thing? You probably bought it used for what, seven grand?” I stared at the sea of faces surrounding me, completely utterly bewildered by the absurdity of it all. “Whether this car is worth seven thousand or seven dollars, it is my private property. Who gave you the right to vandalize it?” Three days ago, I had flown into this city for a merger acquisition. It was supposed to be a quick trip, but when the tech infrastructure audits hit a snag, my stay was extended by a month. To avoid the hassle of endless rideshares, I had bought a cheap, reliable used car just to get from my hotel to the client’s office. A pure A-to-B vehicle. “So what if we trashed it? What are you gonna do about it?” Todd crossed his arms over his chest, his arrogance practically suffocating the space between us. “It’s a junker. And you’re talking about grand larceny?” The corners of my mouth curled up into a humorless, rigid smile. “You’re right. The car isn’t worth much,” I said softly, the silence of my tone cutting through the noise. “But the rosewood box that was in the back seat? That was worth quite a bit.” “Four point five million dollars, to be exact.” 2 The words hung in the humid night air. For three seconds, the food park was dead silent. And then, the cacophony of jeers and mocking laughter erupted, sharper and more vicious than before. “Four and a half million?” “Why stop there? Why not say it was worth a billion?” Todd doubled over, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye, while the vendors behind him didn’t even try to hide their disdain. “What was in that little wooden box, huh? The ashes of a saint? Even a solid gold casket wouldn’t cost that much!” I clenched my fists so tight my nails cut half-moons into my skin. I knew that explaining anything to this mob was like playing the violin to a herd of cattle. The box itself wasn’t the treasure, though the antique wood was valuable. It was what lay nestled in the velvet inside. An exquisite, vintage set of imperial green emerald jewelry. It was the centerpiece of a Sotheby’s auction, a gift I had meticulously tracked down and purchased for my mother’s upcoming 60th birthday. There wasn’t another set like it in the world. Buying it required more than just liquid capital; it required deep-rooted connections in the high-society art world. The moment the courier had delivered it to my hotel, I had transferred it into a custom rosewood humidor-style box, a wood my mother loved for its calming scent. And now, the jewelry, the box, the gift—everything was gone. Todd wiped his nose with the back of his hand and exhaled another cloud of smoke. “Alright, I’m done wasting breath on you. You’ve got two choices. One: move the car.” “Right now. Not a second later.” “Two: you compensate me for my lost revenue tonight!” I glanced around the claustrophobic space. “Moving the car is impossible.” Even if the car wasn’t totaled and I actually wanted to move it, there was nowhere to go. The narrow aisles between the trucks were packed with folding tables, generators, and a sea of pedestrians. It would be hard enough to walk out, let alone drive. Todd wasn’t surprised by my answer. In fact, he looked thrilled. He turned around and grabbed a digital calculator from his prep counter. “Fine. You won’t move, so let’s tally up the damages!” “I’ll be generous and just use my average Saturday night net profit.” “That’s a solid twelve hundred an hour.” “Times six hours of the dinner rush!” “Just for the lost revenue, you owe me seven thousand, two hundred dollars!” His thick fingers aggressively punched the buttons on the calculator, the loud beep, beep, beep grating against my ears. “Let’s add in the spoiled inventory, the labor for my cousins, and my emotional distress…” He shoved the calculator screen an inch from my nose. The digital red numbers blared in the dark. “Fifteen grand!” He raised an eyebrow, a triumphant, ugly grin spreading across his face. “Now let me ask you—are you still mad I smashed your little toy car?” “Your ride is worth maybe seven k, but you owe me double that right now.” He pulled a laminated QR code from a lanyard around his neck. “Venmo, CashApp, Zelle. Hell, I’ll even take Apple Pay.” The crowd murmured, their eyes raking over my appearance. Because I had literally run the last half-mile to get here, my hair was disheveled, my blouse was wrinkled, and I was sweating. I looked like a mess, a far cry from a Fortune 500 executive. “She looks broke. Probably gonna have to max out a credit card!” “Todd, look at her. You really think she’s good for fifteen grand?” Todd cleared his throat loudly. “If she can’t pay, then we’ll just have the cops sort it out.” I tightened my grip on my phone, my expression turning to ice. “Then we’ll wait for the police.” “And when they—” “What the fuck?! Where is my car?!” Before I could finish, a booming, frantic voice tore through the crowd. 3 I turned toward the sound. A burly, thick-necked man in a tailored but slightly ill-fitting suit was aggressively shoving his way through the throngs of people. He was practically vibrating with rage. “Who the hell called me to move my car?!” “Where is it?!” “Where is my goddamn car?!” I couldn’t help myself. I raised my hand. “Your car might have suffered the exact same fate as mine.” The man whipped his head toward me, his eyes wide with horror. A second later, his roar silenced the entire market. “That was a brand-new Mercedes G-Wagon!” I was just about to suggest he stand with me when the police arrived, but Todd suddenly sprang into action. He shot me a warning glare, then immediately transformed. His shoulders hunched, his arrogant sneer melted into an obsequious, fawning smile, and he practically scurried over to the furious man. “Boss! Sir! Your car is perfectly safe!” Todd bowed slightly, his hands rubbing together like a sycophant. “The black G-Wagon, right? With the out-of-state plates?” Watching Todd’s face morph into pure, unadulterated subservience gave me full-body chills. The man yanked his arm away from Todd’s reaching hands. “Yes, that’s my car. Where is it?” “I parked it right here! What did you do to it?!” He ran a hand aggressively through his gelled hair. “I just drove that off the lot last week! It’s a hundred and eighty grand, fully loaded!” He pointed a thick, accusatory finger at Todd and the surrounding vendors. “If there is a single scratch on that paint, a single microscopic dent, I will tear this entire market down to the asphalt!” Todd waved his hands frantically, completely terrified. “Sir, please, it’s a misunderstanding!” “We manually pushed your car out of the way for you!” The taco vendor, who had just been screaming in my face, now looked like a scolded puppy. “Boss, it’s our fault for not putting the signs up early enough. This place turns into a market at five.” “We put it in neutral and rolled it to a VIP spot out back. We were so careful, I swear, we didn’t even get dust on the rims!” The stark contrast in their attitudes made my jaw clench. Todd carefully guided the man toward the back of the lot. He dramatically pulled back a heavy, protective tarp. “Look, sir, we know night markets have a lot of grease and smoke in the air. We saw it was a beautiful new Benz, so we actually covered it with our own tarps to make sure the paint didn’t absorb any odors.” “And—” The man cut him off, still irritable but visibly relieved. “If you could move it yourselves, why the hell did you call me? I was in the middle of a hot towel shave!” Todd scratched the back of his neck, laughing nervously. “Well, boss, once we realized whose caliber of car it was, we wanted to make sure you were in the loop! You might have missed the text.” “Listen, if you’re busy, just leave it right there! I personally guarantee nobody will come within ten feet of it.” A few of the bystanders whistled in awe. “Man, that is a beautiful machine. If only I could afford something like that.” “That’s dream car status right there.” One guy even shuffled forward, phone out. “Sir, do you mind if I take a selfie with it?” The flattery washed over the man like a warm bath. His shoulders relaxed, his chest puffed out, and he pulled a premium cigar from his inner pocket, offering it to Todd. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, kid.” “This beast ran me close to two hundred thousand with the aftermarket trims…” “Why the hell did you treat us differently?” I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I pushed through the crowd, my voice shaking with raw indignation. “He parked in your spot too! Why did you gently roll his car away and cover it with a tarp, but you took a crowbar to mine?!” For a moment, anger blinded me to everything else. Todd looked over his shoulder, his eyes dripping with disgust. “Why? Because your car is a piece of crap! You don’t matter!” The man in the suit turned around, glancing at my decimated compact car. He let out a loud, theatrical laugh. “Honey, welcome to the real world,” he said smoothly. “When you’re broke, nobody respects you. Doesn’t matter where you go.” He adjusted his cuffs, standing tall. “Instead of complaining about fairness, maybe you should work on your financial portfolio.” He tapped the hood of the Mercedes. “Besides, you see this license plate? It’s a vanity plate from the capital. You can’t even buy that kind of status.” I looked at the plate. A jolt of recognition hit my brain like lightning. “If my memory serves me right, this isn’t your car,” I said quietly. “You’re just the driver.” 4 I enunciated every single word. The color drained from the man’s face instantly, his ruddy complexion turning the shade of old parchment. He balled his hands into fists, his knuckles cracking loudly. “You stupid bitch, what the hell are you talking about?” “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” I replied, crossing my arms defensively over my chest. “This car belongs to Mr. Evans, doesn’t it?” Three months ago, I had sat across a dining table from Richard Evans. He had been driving a Maserati back then, but the vanity plate—a highly specific alphanumeric sequence ending in 888—was the exact same one he always transferred to his new vehicles. The driver’s eyes darted nervously. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The crowd sensed the shift in the wind. “Boss, is she telling the truth?” someone asked hesitantly. The driver’s chest heaved. “What truth?!” “This is my goddamn car!” “Who the hell is Evans?!” “You’re full of shit!” Desperate to prove his point, he aggressively clicked the key fob, unlocking the doors with a loud chirp. The flashing LED lights of the luxury SUV drew another round of collective gasps from the crowd. Taking advantage of the distraction, Todd stepped forward and violently shoved me backward. “I don’t know what your problem is, lady, but you’re a pathological liar!” “First you claim you lost four million dollars of jewelry in a junk car, and now you’re trying to say this VIP doesn’t even own his own ride?!” “If it’s not his, what, is it yours?” Caught off guard, I stumbled backward over a cracked piece of pavement. My ankle twisted sharply, a searing pain shooting up my leg as I hit the ground hard. The crowd erupted into laughter, their eyes filled with utter disdain. “People these days are insane. They’ll lie about anything just to save face!” Someone lobbed a half-empty cup of soda at me. It splashed against my shoulder. “You’re lucky this guy has class and isn’t suing you for defamation!” “If you called me a chauffeur, I’d slap the taste out of your mouth!” Up by the Mercedes, the driver’s eyes darted left and right, panic thinly veiled behind his bluster. I gritted my teeth, trying to push myself up off the wet asphalt, but before I could find my footing, Todd aimed a vicious kick right at my ribs. Pain exploded in my shoulder as I scrambled backward to avoid the brunt of it. It felt like my collarbone had splintered. Cold sweat broke out across my forehead. Todd stood over me, casting a long, dark shadow. He shoved his QR code back in my face. “Pay up!” “I’m done wasting my time with you!” Suddenly, the sharp, piercing wail of police sirens cut through the night air. Todd froze, a flicker of panic crossing his features, but he quickly masked it with bravado. “Oh, so you really called them? Good! Let them come. I’ve got the whole lot on my side!” Two patrol cars pulled up, lights flashing in the dark. Officers quickly pushed through the crowd, and one helped me to my feet. I quickly and clearly summarized the situation. But before I could finish, Todd was already shouting. “Officers, you guys are locals! You know how it is!” “She wants you to judge, so judge this! I’ve got a whole family relying on this one truck!” The rest of the vendors immediately swarmed the cops, creating a wall of noise. “This market is how we survive!” “She blocked his space! She was trying to ruin his night! Didn’t her car deserve to be towed?” The sheer volume of the crowd drowned out the officers’ attempts to establish order. Seeing the chaos, I spotted a megaphone sitting on a nearby vendor’s table. I grabbed it and clicked it on. “You publicly destroyed my private property, assaulted me, and committed grand larceny!” my voice boomed over the crowd, echoing off the nearby brick buildings. “If you do not cooperate with the police immediately, you are only adding obstruction of justice to your charges!” Before anyone could shout me down, I pulled my phone out, opened my encrypted files, and held up the digital appraisal and Sotheby’s invoice. “I have just been robbed of a vintage emerald jewelry set valued at four point five million dollars!” “I formally request that the police lock down this scene and conduct a search!” The crowd gasped, a collective sound of shock rippling through the night. “Officers, don’t listen to her! She’s out of her mind!” “Lying to the cops is a crime, lady! You have a death wish?” “She was driving a seven-thousand-dollar piece of junk and expects us to believe she had millions inside? Who falls for that?!” The lead officer looked skeptical at first. But when I handed him my phone, his eyes widened as he scrolled through the watermarked Sotheby’s documents, the insurance policies, and the macro photographs of the emeralds. He looked up, his expression hardening instantly. He signaled to his partner, who immediately got on the radio to call for backup. They began pulling yellow tape to cordon off the lot. The lead officer turned to the crowd, his hand resting on his utility belt, eyes scanning the suddenly nervous faces. He held up his own phone, showing the macro photo of the rosewood box. “This box contained property valued at four point five million dollars.” “This is not a civil dispute anymore. This is a major felony investigation.” “Whoever saw it, whoever took it, step forward now. If you hide it, and we find it on you, you are looking at federal prison time!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “462728”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Three years. That’s how long I chased Lauren. Three years of begging, of worshiping her, until she finally agreed to marry me. But at the altar, right as we were supposed to exchange rings, she drew her service weapon. She pressed the cold barrel of her Glock straight against my father’s forehead. “You son of a bitch,” she hissed, her voice vibrating with a decade of pure, unadulterated hatred. “You’re the monster who murdered my mentor. Officer Badge Sixty-Six Two-Zero-Five.” “Drop your weapon and surrender. Do it now, or I’ll paint this chapel with your blood!” Before my father could even raise his hands, Toby—Lauren’s younger brother—screamed. The sudden, piercing shriek startled her. Her finger, white-knuckled on the trigger, flinched. She didn’t hesitate. Bang. The bullet tore straight through my father’s skull. His body collapsed into a heap on the altar, blood blooming across the pristine marble floor. His eyes stayed wide, staring blankly at the vaulted ceiling, even in death. His custom-tailored wedding suit was instantly soaked in crimson. In a fraction of a second, my life was obliterated. I went from Boston’s golden heir to the worthless son of a dead kingpin. And Lauren? She climbed to the top of the department, stepping over my family’s bones. They handed her a medal. They crowned her a hero. “Dave,” she said to me later, her crisp, dark-blue uniform immaculate, her gaze utterly detached. “I know who your father was. But you’re innocent in this.” “We’re married now. I’ll make sure the prosecutor goes easy on you.” I kept my head down, my fingers digging into the rusted police badge my father had left behind. I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask her: Who is the real criminal here? … The sharp metal edge of the badge sliced into my palm, warm blood pooling in my hand and dripping through my fingers. In the blink of an eye, I lunged. I pressed a long, venom-tipped syringe needle directly against her brother’s carotid artery. I looked up at her, my eyes bloodshot, my voice hoarse with a grief so deep it felt like dying. “I don’t want your damn mercy!” I roared. “I want you to reopen the case!” Lauren slammed her hand down on the hood of the squad car, her knuckles turning bone-white. She glared at me, her voice dropping to a dangerous, low whisper. “Dave, don’t force my hand. Don’t make me put you in the ground right next to him.” I let out a hysterical laugh, my tears splashing onto the wet asphalt. “Then pull the trigger, Detective Donovan!” Just as the tip of the needle was about to pierce Toby’s skin, the icy mask on Lauren’s face finally shattered. She lunged forward, her movements a blur of practiced violence. She grabbed my wrist, twisting it with enough force to snap the bone, wrenching the needle from my grip. Toby collapsed onto the pavement, hacking up bloody spit and shattered teeth. He looked absolutely pathetic. “Get him out of here!” Lauren hissed through gritted teeth. Before the other officers could swarm me, I thrashed violently, throwing my weight forward. I sank my teeth deep into the side of her neck, right over her jugular. I bit down until her skin tore. The metallic tang of her blood flooded my mouth. Lauren gasped, a low grunt escaping her throat. She slammed me backward against the sharp edge of a metal desk. The cold iron bit into my lower back, sending a bolt of agony shooting up my spine. Cold sweat broke out across my forehead. Her shadow loomed over me, blocking out the harsh fluorescent lights. Her chest heaved, her breath ragged. “You’re insane.” “Yes,” I spat, grabbing her collar and pulling her down, forcing her to look at me. “I am. And you’re the one who drove me to it.” “Lauren, the moment you pulled that trigger, I stopped caring about staying alive. I want your life. I want you to pay for what you did to my father!” Lauren looked down at me, her eyes dark, bottomless wells. “Dave, I gave you a way out. You chose this.” Without another word, she snapped the heavy steel cuffs around my wrists and hauled me away. The interrogation room was sterile, bathed in a blinding, aggressive white light that made my skull throb. Lauren had stripped off her dress jacket. Her white button-down shirt was wrinkled and stained with the blood I had drawn from her neck. “This is your absolute last chance, Dave.” She grabbed my chin, her grip so tight I felt my jawbone creak. “Tell me where you got that badge. If you don’t, no one in Boston will be able to protect you.” I tilted my head, staring into her wild, unravelling eyes, and laughed. “Protect me?” I mocked. “Lauren, you still don’t get it, do you? I don’t want to survive. I want you and Toby to burn in hell with my father.” The heavy metal door burst open. Toby stumbled in, half of his face wrapped in thick white gauze, his eyes brimming with tears. “Lauren… please, don’t do this to Dave,” he whimpered, his voice cracking dramatically. “He’s just hurting. I understand what it’s like to lose a father. Even though he tried to kill me just now, I don’t hold a grudge.” I leaned forward, a vicious, mocking smile stretching across my face. “Drop the act, Toby. There’s no audience here.” “Dave, how can you say that about me…” Toby gasped for air, his face completely drained of color. “Lauren, I’m really fine. As long as it makes Dave feel better, I’ll do whatever he wants.” He swayed, pretending his legs were giving out, and collapsed right into Lauren’s arms. Lauren’s expression shifted instantly. She pulled her brother behind her, shielding him, and glared at me with pure, unadulterated disgust. “You are absolutely disgusting, Dave.” Her voice was colder than the air in the room. “Toby barely survived your father’s world, and he’s still here begging for your sake. Yet you treat him like garbage. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the rotten tree.” I leaned back in the cold metal chair, watching their little display of sibling devotion. It made my stomach churn. “You’re right,” I sneered. “And you were raised by that same tree, Lauren. You’re just as rotten as the rest of us.” Before she could react, I snatched a heavy metal pen off the interrogation table. Without a second thought, I plunged the sharp steel tip directly into the bruised, swollen back of my left hand. “Look at it, Lauren,” I whispered, my voice terrifyingly calm as my hand began to throb. “My blood is red. My father’s blood was red. Your blood, Toby’s blood—it all looks the damn same. What makes you think you two are so holy?” Crimson spilled rapidly down my wrist, dripping onto the clean table and splashing onto Lauren’s white shirt. A few drops even flecked Toby’s face. Toby shrieked, cowering behind Lauren like a frightened child. “Blood… Lauren, I’m scared!” Lauren lunged forward and wrenched the pen from my hand, her composure entirely gone. She grabbed my bleeding hand, pressing down on the wound with a force that felt like she was trying to crush my bones. Her eyes were bloodshot, her voice cracking. “Are you insane?! Dave, do you think self-mutilation is going to wash away the sins of the Ward family?” “Sins?” I leaned in, letting my blood smear all over her palms, laughing like a man who had already crossed over to the other side. “Lauren, do you know what the ultimate sin is? It’s murdering the man who saved your life. You’re nothing but an ungrateful animal!” Lauren froze. Her pale, righteous face turned paper-white. Toby clutched her shirt tighter. “Lauren… he’s lying… it hurts so bad… please take me home…” Lauren took a sharp, ragged breath, forcing down whatever emotion was clawing its way up her throat. She shoved me back. My spine slammed against the concrete wall, and for a second, I couldn’t breathe as pain flared through my ribcage. “Don’t try to bait me, Dave,” she said, her voice trembling but cold. “If you want to die, I’ll make sure you stay alive. You’re going to live and pay for every single one of your father’s crimes.” After Lauren left, the officers dragged me out of the interrogation room. Their eyes held nothing but contempt, as if they were looking at a piece of trash. “You’re free to go, Ward. Captain Donovan put up her own bond to bail you out as your spouse.” I had nowhere to go. I scraped together every last penny in my pockets just to buy a simple, cheap black suit. I knelt alone in the dim, freezing chapel of the mortuary, keeping a silent vigil over my father’s closed casket. But the peace didn’t last. The quiet roar of high-end engines shattered the silence. A fleet of dozens of black Rolls-Royces, adorned with festive red ribbons, smashed through the gates of the mortuary. It was a grotesque parade. The black hearse was trapped in a sea of celebratory red wedding cars. Lauren stepped out of the lead Cullinan. She wasn’t in uniform. Instead, she wore a structured, slate-grey designer dress. Pinned to her lapel was the shiny new medal of honor she’d just been awarded. Her face was a mask of cold, untouchable authority, silhouetted against the gray Boston drizzle as white funeral programs and rose petals blew across the courtyard. “Dave. Get in the car,” she commanded, standing over me. “My father’s body isn’t even cold yet, Lauren,” I said, my voice dripping with venom. “And you’re already using his corpse as a stepping stone for your career?” Without a word, she grabbed my wrist, forcing our heavy gold wedding bands back onto my ring finger, pushing it down inch by inch. “Victor Ward got what he deserved. But you’re innocent,” she whispered in my ear, her breath warm, her words dripping with a sickening charity. “You might be the son of a criminal, but you’re my husband now. You belong to the Donovan family. That’s the only reason you’re still breathing.” “No one in this city can protect you but me.” I stared at her for a long second, then let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Protect me? You’re just terrified I’ll die too quickly and the public will start asking questions. After all, if it weren’t for my father, you would have died in a ditch ten years ago.” “Dave, don’t misunderstand my sister,” Toby chimed in. He was dressed in a sleek charcoal suit, draping an arm casually over my shoulder. “She’s doing this for your own good. The loan sharks and rivals your father left behind would tear you apart. But as the husband of a decorated captain? No one will dare touch you.” He leaned in closer, putting on a show of brotherly concern. “Come on. Take off this dusty mourning suit. Let’s get you into a proper tuxedo. Your father can rest in peace knowing you’re taken care of.” Before he finished speaking, his cold fingertips slid down my arm, finding the swollen, infected wound on the back of my hand. And then, he dug his fingernail straight into the raw, pus-filled hole. “Ah—” A white-hot wave of pain blinded me. My spine locked up, drenched in instant cold sweat, and I violently wrenched my hand away. Thud. Toby threw himself backward, tumbling onto the wet asphalt. His forehead clipped the sharp corner of my father’s granite headstone, and dark blood began to mix with the rain on his face. “Toby!” Lauren’s eyes flared with sudden fury. She shoved me hard. I fell into a freezing puddle, the sharp gravel tearing open the palms of my hands. “You are absolutely hopeless, Dave!” she yelled, rushing to scoop Toby into her arms, cradling him as if I were some kind of monster. “Lauren… I’m fine. Dave is just… he’s just grieving…” Toby whimpered, shivering in her arms. But he deliberately pulled back his collar, exposing a nasty purple bruise that he claimed I had given him. “As long as it helps him feel better, I’ll crawl on my knees if I have to…” I wiped the bloody spit from the corner of my mouth and stared at him. “Fine,” I said, my voice carrying over the wind. “You want me to play the happy groom? Then get on your knees. Bow to my father’s grave.” “Ninety-nine times. Do it, and I’ll marry her. I’ll let her keep her shiny medal and her perfect reputation. Deal?” Toby’s eyes welled with tears. “Okay! If it’s for my sister, I’ll do anything!” “Stop!” Lauren snapped, grabbing Toby before he could drop to his knees. She looked at me, her eyes filled with nothing but cold, absolute disgust. She grabbed my wrist, forcing my hand into hers, squeezing so hard my knuckles popped. “You’re marrying me today, Dave. You don’t have a choice.” I looked at her beautiful, victorious face. I raised my foot and kicked the brass tribute urn, sending the burning embers and white-hot charcoal scattering into the rain. As the white paper programs swirled around us like falling snow, I laughed until tears of blood squeezed from my eyes. “Remember this day, Lauren,” I whispered, every syllable laced with poison. “I am your reckoning.” After the wedding, Lauren locked me away in her secluded estate in the hills. She was terrified I would ruin her career with another public breakdown. By nightfall, my body was burning with a hundred-and-two-degree fever. The puncture wound on the back of my hand had grown badly infected, the swollen, angry red flesh weeping pus onto her pristine white silk sheets. The door clicked open. Lauren walked in, holding a bowl of warm broth. “Eat,” she said, her voice flat, placing a bottle of antibiotics and the bowl on the nightstand. I kept my eyes closed, lacking even the strength to look at her. A dry, pathetic laugh rattled in my throat. “Are you so afraid I’ll die, Lauren? Afraid you won’t get to parade your pet criminal’s son around while you climb the ranks?” Lauren’s breath hitched. “Do you have to do this every single time, Dave?” I opened my eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Did you honestly expect me to smile at my father’s killer?” Her eyes rimmed with red. “Dave! When are you going to get it through your thick skull? Your father was a monster! Ending him was my job!” I summoned every ounce of my remaining strength to swing my arm, knocking the bowl off the table. It shattered against the hardwood floor. “Stop pretending, Lauren! It makes me sick!” I snarled. “You didn’t even know who he really was. You just pulled the trigger, and now you play the saint?” Lauren closed her eyes, slowly kneeling to pick up the broken porcelain pieces. Her voice softened, losing its sharp edge. “Dav, you knew what he was better than anyone. He was the Red Scorpion. A single word from him could set the entire East Coast underbelly on fire.” I dragged myself up against the headboard, my vision swimming. “He wasn’t!” As I swung my legs out of bed, my bare sole caught a sharp piece of porcelain. I gasped as a deep gash opened up, blood quickly pooling on the floor. “Stop moving!” Lauren barked, dropping the shards and grabbing my ankle. “Let go…” I muttered, but the pain was too much, and a soft groan escaped my lips. She paused, her grip softening as she cradled my foot in her hands. She had done this a thousand times over the last ten years. She was an orphan my father had taken in. For years, she had protected me, watched over me like an older sister, returning the favor of my father’s kindness. Lauren grabbed the first-aid kit from the bathroom. She soaked a cotton ball in rubbing alcohol and pressed it against the cut. “Ah!” I flinched, my back arching as a cold sweat broke out across my neck. “Hold still,” she murmured, her knuckles white as she bandaged my foot. I stared down at her, my voice raw and empty. “You killed him, Lauren. And now you’re trying to heal me. Don’t you find yourself utterly pathetic?” I leaned down, my feverish breath brushing against her neck. “You built your entire career on the blood of the man who raised you, and yet here you are, acting like you care.” “Shut up!” Lauren snapped, her eyes wild and bloodshot. The agonizing guilt she had been suppressing finally broke through her cold facade. “I told you, he brought this on himself!” I grabbed her wrist, digging my fingernails into her skin. I looked straight into her eyes and smiled. “What if he was innocent, Lauren?” “Come closer. Let me tell you a secret…”

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When I walked into my own wedding reception wearing a custom silk gown, the first thing I noticed was the professional octagon MMA cage sitting dead center on the ballroom stage. My fiancé, Garrett, was standing beside it, holding the hand of his “female bestie,” Sabrina. He grinned, walking over to slip a pair of heavily padded leather gloves into my hands. “Flora, babe, it’s a little tradition from my family’s side of the state,” he said, his voice smooth and reassuring. “The bride is supposed to do a quick, playful spar with someone from the bridal party to bring good luck to the marriage. I asked Sabrina to step in so you wouldn’t have to deal with any of the guys. Just play along for the crowd.” I looked at Sabrina. She was standing there in her maid-of-honor dress, looking as fragile and sickly as she always did. I didn’t think twice before stepping through the cage door. But the moment the referee signaled the start, Sabrina’s weak demeanor vanished. She pivoted on her heel and unleashed a professional, devastating spinning heel kick. The blow caught me squarely on the temple, fracturing my skull and knocking me into a severe, hemorrhaging concussion before I even hit the canvas. When I finally woke up in the ICU, my body was a useless weight beneath the sterile sheets. Garrett was standing at the foot of my bed, holding Sabrina’s hand. “The guests flew in from all over, Flora, and the registry was incredibly expensive,” he said, his face twisted into a mask of performative sorrow. “We couldn’t just cancel the wedding. Sabrina offered to stand in for you so we didn’t lose the venue or the gifts. You’re so kind and understanding—you don’t mind, right?” Under the crushing weight of utter humiliation and severe, postpartum-like clinical depression, I eventually rolled my wheelchair to the edge of our high-rise balcony and threw myself off. But instead of the pavement, I woke up in my old bed. One month before the wedding. I didn’t waste a second. I got dressed, drove across town, and knocked on the heavy metal door of the state’s elite combat training center. “Coach,” I said, looking the head trainer in the eye. “Can you teach me how to shatter someone’s skull in thirty days?” 1 The coach looked me up and down. His gaze lingered on my slender arms and pale wrists for three painful seconds before he let out a dry, dismissive chuckle. “Shatter someone’s skull? Sweetheart, with a frame like yours, a stiff breeze could snap you in half.” I didn’t argue. I reached into my bag, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and slammed them onto the metal desk. Five thousand dollars. Every cent of the emergency cash I’d spent two years scraping together. The coach barely glanced at it before pushing it back toward me. “I don’t need the pocket change, kid.” Without a word, I reached over and pulled up my left sleeve, exposing the dark, mottled yellow-and-purple bruises Garrett had left on my arm after a drunken rage the weekend before. The coach’s eyes hardened. He stared at the marks for a long moment, then reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a standard liability waiver, sliding it across the table. “Sign this,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “The gym is not responsible for any injuries sustained during training. This includes, but is not limited to, fractures, concussions, and internal bleeding.” I grabbed the pen and signed my name without hesitating. The coach took the paper, filed it away, and the casual, dismissive look on his face vanished completely. “Alright. Starting today, I’m going to train you with the same intensity I use for professional fighters preparing for a title bout. I don’t know if you’ll be able to shatter anyone’s head in a month, but by the end of this, you’ll definitely want to shatter your own.” That first day, the sparring partners threw me to the mat forty-seven times. Every single time my back slammed into the vinyl padding, the air leaving my lungs in a ragged gasp, the memories of my past life flashed behind my eyelids. I saw Sabrina’s heel coming toward my face. I felt the sterile, cold hospital air, the tubes running down my throat, the weight of a body that would never walk again. I saw Garrett standing there, looking so incredibly burdened by my tragedy while holding the hand of the woman who had crippled me. “Sabrina offered to stand in for you… you don’t mind, right?” Did I mind? He had legally married Sabrina three days after I was paralyzed. They used my savings. They lived in the brownstone my parents had bought for me. Everyone in our social circle praised Garrett for his deep loyalty, calling Sabrina a saint for helping him navigate the tragedy of his “brain-damaged ex-fiancée.” Not a single soul asked how the girl who had been kicked into a wheelchair was supposed to keep living. The memory burned like acid in my throat. I pushed myself up from the mat, ignoring the screaming pain in my shoulders, and raised my gloved hands toward the sparring partner. “Again,” I rasped. The partner looked over at the coach. The coach nodded slowly. “Take her down.” That night, I lay on the thin, hard mattress in the gym’s dorm room, my skin covered in ice packs. My phone vibrated on the nightstand. A text from Garrett: “Babe, just got out of a late meeting and finally grabbing dinner. I’ve been keeping the planners in line so everything is perfect. Just focus on being the most beautiful bride in the world.” I stared at the words “late meeting” for a moment, then opened Instagram. Sabrina had posted a story three minutes ago. It was a mirror selfie of her trying on a white lace wedding dress. In the background, draped carelessly over the arm of a velvet sofa, was the navy silk Hermès tie I had bought Garrett for his birthday last month. Her caption was short: “The favorite always gets the privilege of the first fitting.” My fingers tightened around the phone. I opened our text thread and sent Garrett a voice note, keeping my tone sweet, light, and perfectly trusting. “You’re working so hard, sweetie. I don’t know what I’d do without you handling the venue stuff. I trust you completely.” Then, I typed out a follow-up: “By the way, babe, I just saw a bespoke designer gown online. Apparently, there are only three of them in the country, but the deposit is twenty grand. What do you think?” A long, agonizing two minutes passed before the typing bubbles appeared. “Isn’t that a bit excessive? The off-the-rack ones look amazing on you anyway.” I replied instantly: “But we’re only doing this once, Garrett. And you promised me we’d have the most talked-about wedding in the city. I want everyone to see how much you cherish me.” Another silence. Finally, a single word: “Fine.” I let out a cold, quiet laugh, locked the phone, and turned to face the wall. Garrett, my love. In my past life, you wanted my money, my home, and my very survival. This time around, I’m going to drain you until you have nothing left to give. 2 During the day, I was the perfect, glowing bride-to-be. I gossiped with my coworkers about floral arrangements, tasted samples of vanilla-bean cake, and smiled until my cheeks ached. But the moment the clock struck five, I shed the corporate clothes and threw myself into the ring. I strapped on the headgear, laced up the gloves, and let the rage take over. The same mouth that whispered sweet nothings over the phone to Garrett spent three hours a night screaming through heavy bag drills. Coach Briggs focused entirely on my defense against high kicks. “You said this opponent has a background in dirty combat?” he asked one night, throwing a towel over my shoulders. “Underground street fights,” I replied, taking a long drink of water. “She spent years as a paid sparring partner in unlicensed gyms.” Briggs frowned, rubbing his jaw. “Street fighters don’t follow regulations. They don’t care about points; they care about damage. They go straight for the soft tissue—the temples, the throat, the knees.” He pulled up a video on his tablet, showing a grainy clip of an unsanctioned match. “Watch her hips,” he pointed to the screen. “Before she launches a spinning kick, there’s a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch in her left hip. It’s a micro-adjustment to find her balance. It happens in less than a third of a second.” I leaned in closer, memorizing the movement. “Your window is right there,” Briggs continued. “The second you see that hip drop, you don’t back away. If you back up, you put yourself directly in the path of her maximum force. You have to slip inside the arc, close the distance, and strike from the blind spot.” I nodded. And for the next three hours, I practiced the slip-and-strike over and over until my muscles memorized the rhythm. By the end of the week, I was sparring with a six-foot-two amateur lightweight. When I managed to slip his guard and land a liver shot that brought him to his knees, Briggs let out a rare, genuine grin from the sidelines. Later that evening, my best friend, Naomi, came to pick me up from the gym. When she saw the dark, ugly bruises mapping my shoulders and ribs, her eyes welled with tears. “Flora, what are you doing to yourself? This is insane. You’re getting married in three days!” I pulled off my hand wraps, the coarse fabric scraping against my calloused skin. “Take a look at this first.” I handed her my phone, showing her the files my private investigator had delivered that afternoon. They were bank statements and credit logs under Garrett’s name. A high-interest personal loan for eighty-three thousand dollars. And a pending charge of sixty-two thousand at Cartier. The shipping address? Sabrina Kelly’s apartment. Naomi’s jaw dropped. “That absolute bastard… he took out a predatory loan to buy her Cartier? What did he get you for your birthday, Flora? A ten-dollar grocery store bouquet! Call it off. Cancel the wedding right now!” I shook my head slowly, taking the phone back. “If I cancel, he just walks away with a few bad debts and a bracelet. No, Naomi. I’m going to make sure he crawls out of that venue on his hands and knees.” Naomi stared at me, her expression shifting from horror to a quiet, fierce understanding. “I don’t know what your plan is,” she whispered, “but whatever you need, I’m in.” On the night before the wedding, the investigator sent over one final audio file, recorded via a small tracker planted in Garrett’s car. I pressed play, and Sabrina’s voice filled the quiet locker room. “Garrett, babe, once she’s out of the picture after the wedding, that brownstone is completely paid off, right? We can just transfer the title to your name and move in. It’s perfect.” Garrett’s low chuckle followed. “Don’t rush it, sweetie. Once we get her off the deed and drain her trust account, this whole circus will have been worth every penny.” Sabrina giggled, a sound that made my skin crawl. “You’re terrible, you know that?” “But you love it.” “Obsessed.” The recording clicked off. I sat alone in the dim locker room, listening to the file three more times. My hands were perfectly steady as I uploaded copies of the audio to three separate secure cloud drives. Then, I wired the investigator his final payment with a short note: Perfect work. Worth every cent. 3 Two days before the ceremony, Garrett’s mother paid me an unexpected visit. She marched into my apartment carrying a plastic bag of bruised, discounted apples, sat herself down on my custom sofa, and crossed her legs with an air of absolute authority. “Flora, dear, we need to talk about a small matter,” she began, her tone dripping with artificial sweetness. “That brownstone you’re living in—your parents bought that outright before you met Garrett, correct? Well, now that you’re marrying my son, you’re going to be a family. It’s incredibly tacky for a family home to only have one person’s name on the deed.” I set my teacup down, remaining completely silent. “Sabrina was actually telling me the other day,” she continued, dismissive of my silence, “that a truly modern, loving wife doesn’t keep secrets from her husband. A little generosity now will bring you so many blessings down the road.” Sabrina said. An outsider was dictating the terms of my life, and my future mother-in-law saw absolutely nothing wrong with it. I forced myself to draw a slow, deep breath, letting a sweet, compliant smile spread across my face. “You’re absolutely right, Mom. Do you have the deed transfer paperwork? I can take it to the title company first thing tomorrow.” The older woman beamed, reaching into her designer knockoff purse to pull out a pre-drafted quitclaim deed. She had been carrying it around, just waiting for this exact moment. I took the papers and escorted her to the door. The moment the lock clicked shut, the smile fell from my face. I didn’t take the paperwork to a title company to add Garrett’s name. I took it to a private lender. The brownstone was valued at 1.2 million dollars. Within four hours, I had secured a cash-out home equity line of credit for eight hundred thousand dollars. The funds cleared by mid-afternoon, and I immediately wired the entire balance into Naomi’s offshore savings account. In my past life, Garrett had successfully transferred the deed after my accident and sold the property, leaving me with nothing. This time, he wouldn’t get so much as a single brick. When I returned home that evening, Garrett was surprisingly present in the kitchen. He handed me a steaming mug of dark, herbal tea. “You’ve been looking so tired lately, babe,” he said, his eyes filled with a terrifyingly familiar warmth. “I brewed you some chamomile and valerian root. Drink up, get a good night’s sleep, and you’ll be the most stunning bride tomorrow.” I took the mug. Beneath the heavy scent of honey, there was a bitter, chemical undertone. In my past life, this was the exact tea that had put me into a dead sleep for twelve hours, giving him and Sabrina all the time they needed to coordinate the setup of the MMA cage at the venue. I lifted the mug to my lips, pretending to take a long sip. The moment he turned his back to rinse a spoon, I spat the liquid into a dry paper towel, folding it quickly and stuffing it into my pocket. “Thank you, sweetie. It’s perfect,” I murmured. Garrett’s eyes flared with a brief, victorious light. “Get some rest, then. Big day tomorrow.” He grabbed his coat and walked down the hall to the guest room, locking the door behind him. I pressed my ear to the wall, listening. “Sabrina? Yeah, she drank it. Out like a light,” he whispered into the receiver. “Everything is set for tomorrow.” I heard Sabrina’s faint voice filter through the drywall. “Garrett, when she gets in the ring, do you think I should aim for her left temple or her right?” Garrett chuckled. “Whatever makes you happy, babe. It’s not like she’ll be using either side of her brain after tomorrow anyway.” I walked back to my bedroom, locked the door, and opened my laptop. I spent the next two hours organizing every piece of evidence I had gathered over the past month into a beautifully formatted presentation. I titled the file: Portrait of a Groom. I set a digital timer on the media server, linking it directly to the ballroom’s main projection system. When I finally closed the laptop and lay down, I didn’t feel fear. I felt like a blade that had finally been polished to a lethal edge. 4 The morning of the wedding was crisp and cold. At six o’clock, Naomi arrived to help me dress. When she unzipped the twenty-thousand-dollar custom silk gown and held it up against my bare shoulders, her breath hitched. “Flora… your arms.” The gown was a strapless sweetheart cut, exposing my entire collarbone and upper arms. Under the bright vanity lights, the faint yellowing bruises from my final sparring sessions were visible. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my voice steady. “Just layer the concealer. Thick.” Naomi bit her lip but didn’t ask any more questions. It took three heavy layers of professional-grade body makeup to completely hide the marks of my training. Once the veil was pinned, I stood and looked at my reflection. The woman in the mirror was wrapped in layers of delicate white silk, but she looked nothing like the fragile, broken girl who had been wheeled out of a hospital ward a lifetime ago. The Flora who had died on that pavement was gone. The woman standing here now had crawled back from the grave. At exactly eight o’clock, the limousine arrived. Garrett was waiting by the door, looking exceptionally handsome in his tailored tuxedo. His shave was immaculate, his cologne expensive. When he saw me, a genuine spark of admiration lit up his eyes. I smiled, taking his arm as he led me into the car. Sabrina was already sitting in the front passenger seat, dressed in her maid-of-honor gown. She looked pale, her hair pulled back in a loose, delicate low bun. She turned around, offering me a faint, watery smile. “You look beautiful, Flora.” She let out a small, delicate cough. I reached forward and squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Sabrina. I know you haven’t been feeling well lately, so it means the world to have you stand by me today.” “Of course,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t miss your special day for anything.” I saw Garrett catch her eye in the rearview mirror. It was a fraction of a second—a shared look of absolute, breathless anticipation. They couldn’t wait. The limousine pulled up to the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel. The entrance was flanked by towering floral arches and a plush red carpet. Garrett got out first, offering me his hand with the grace of a perfect gentleman. “We’re here, beautiful,” he whispered. I lifted my skirts and stepped out, securing my grip on his arm. As we pushed through the heavy double doors of the ballroom, the crowd of three hundred guests erupted into applause. I scanned the room. The tables, the centerpieces, the lighting—everything was exactly as I had planned. Except for the main stage. Where the towering champagne fountain was supposed to stand, there was a raised, professional-grade octagon cage. The chain-link walls glistened under the spotlights, the floor lined with thick, blue wrestling mats. Hanging from the corner posts were two fresh pairs of leather sparring gloves. I stopped, feigning confusion. “Garrett… what is that?” Garrett patted my hand, his voice smooth and reassuring. “Don’t worry, babe. Like I said, it’s a tradition from my family’s old neighborhood. Just a playful little spar to bring some excitement and good fortune to the marriage.” He stepped aside, and Sabrina stepped forward, holding a pair of gloves. “Flora,” she said softly, her voice carrying through the room’s microphone system. “Garrett really wanted us to do this. Don’t worry, I’m still feeling a bit weak from my cold. Just a light touch for the cameras.” In the crowd, Garrett’s family and friends began to cheer. “Go on, Flora! Show her what you’ve got!” “Don’t be a party pooper! It’s tradition!” The pressure mounted, a wall of smiling, demanding faces. Nobody saw anything wrong with it. Just like last time. I let the silence stretch for ten seconds, staring directly into Garrett’s eyes. “Alright,” I said, my voice echoing over the speakers. Garrett let out a breath, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But on one condition,” I added. I waved Naomi over. She stepped forward, holding a legal document. “Since this is a contact sport, and we’re wearing expensive gowns, I want to make sure everything is official. We sign a standard mutual liability waiver. If anyone gets hurt up there, we agree not to pursue legal action or damages.” I took the pen and signed my name with a flourish, then handed it to Sabrina. Garrett’s mother laughed from the front row. “Oh, look how serious she’s taking it! How cute!” To them, this waiver was just a joke. To Sabrina, it was a guarantee that she could cripple me without facing a single day in court. She grabbed the pen and eagerly scribbled her signature. I handed the paper back to Naomi, who tucked it safely into her bag. Then, in front of three hundred stunned guests, I unzipped my twenty-thousand-dollar designer gown, stepped out of it, and let it fall to the floor. Beneath the silk, I was wearing a black compression top and athletic shorts. I walked toward the cage, lacing up my gloves.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “462726”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel