My girlfriend was a severe germophobe. Because of this, throughout our three years together, I never touched cologne, threw away all my scented skincare, and stripped the bed to wash the sheets every single day. Yet, whenever Joyce looked at me, her eyes remained as cold and clinical as if she were inspecting a stain. Then came the storm. The power went out, the elevator stalled, and we were trapped in a metal box for two suffocating hours. My asthma flared. I collapsed onto the floor, my chest heaving as I trembled, desperately clawing at the hem of her trousers. “Joyce… please… my inhaler…” She looked down at me, her face twisting into a mask of pure disgust as she kicked my hand away. She turned her back on me, taking off her designer trench coat and draping it gently over the shoulders of the intern standing beside her—a young man drenched in expensive, suffocating cologne. “It’s okay,” she whispered to him, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “Lean on me. I’ve got you.” She pulled him flush against her chest, her palm resting flat against his back, murmuring sweet, steady promises into his hair. And my inhaler was right there, sitting in the designer handbag resting against her ankle. That was the moment I realized she didn’t have a phobia of germs. She was just disgusted by me. … When the firefighters finally pried the elevator doors open, I could barely draw enough breath to speak. My throat felt like it was lined with glass. A paramedic squeezed into the cramped space, immediately pressing an oxygen mask over my face. The building manager, clutching her walkie-talkie, looked around frantically. “Who’s the emergency contact? Who’s his family?” Joyce didn’t look up. As they lifted me onto the gurney, I tilted my head to the side. I saw her arms wrapped tightly around Cody. He was burying his face in the crook of her neck, his hands clutching her silk blouse, wrinkling the expensive fabric. “Ms. Adler,” Cody whimpered, his voice trembling. “Is this because of me? Did I make Mr. Ross have an attack?” Joyce stroked his hair, her voice a soothing hum. “No, Cody. It’s not your fault. He’s always had trouble regulating his emotions.” The cold steel of the gurney rail bit into my palm. The paramedic called out, “Where’s his medication? Does the patient have an inhaler?” With what little strength I had left, I pointed a trembling finger toward the handbag resting in the corner of the elevator. Joyce glanced at it, then at the paramedic. “He keeps too much clutter in there. I’m not comfortable digging through it.” The paramedic stared at her for a second, then stopped asking. By the time my best friend, Dan, arrived, I was already hooked up to an IV in the emergency room. The doctor held out a clipboard at the reception window, gesturing for Joyce to sign. She stood a few feet back, her hands crossed over her chest. “I’m not his family.” The nurse looked down at the charts, then back up at her, frowning. “But the emergency contact on his phone says ‘Girlfriend.’” Joyce’s lips thinned into a hard, straight line. “We’re just friends.” Dan, who had just rushed through the automatic doors, stopped dead in his tracks. He pointed a finger directly at her face. “Just friends? Joyce, he’s lived with you for three years. He walked away from his own life for you, and you dismiss him with ‘just friends’?” Joyce pinched the bridge of her nose, her expression tight with annoyance. “This is a hospital, Dan. Don’t start a scene. Cody is traumatized from the elevator. I need to take him home.” As she turned to leave, Cody was still wiping tears from his eyes. He clutched his stomach, complaining that the smell of hospital bleach was making him nauseous. Joyce wrapped an arm around his waist, guiding him out without looking back once. I lay in the sterile light of the ER, the needle cold in the back of my hand, and slowly curled my body into a tight, quiet ball. I didn’t wake up until the following morning. Dan was asleep, slumped over the edge of the mattress, his eyes red and swollen. I reached for my phone on the bedside table. There was a single text from Joyce, sent at midnight: Cody cried all night. I stared at the screen, my throat dry and tight. Dan stirred, saw what I was looking at, and snatched the phone out of my hands. “Don’t look at that garbage. You’re going to give yourself a stroke.” I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. For three years, I had purged my life of every scent. I used to love high-end hand creams and botanical body oils; my clothes always carried a faint, warm trace of cedarwood. But the moment Joyce smelled it, she would press her hands to her temples, claiming it triggered her sensory issues. She told me she had a clinical aversion to scents and bodily clutter, so I stopped. I washed my hands until they were raw before I ever dared to touch her. Yet, in that elevator, Cody was wearing a cologne so strong it made my lungs seize—and she had held him like he was the only thing keeping her anchored to the earth. Dan unlocked his phone and slid it across the sheets. “Someone leaked this on the company Slack.” It was a photo. Joyce was standing by the passenger side of her car outside the hospital, and Cody was sitting inside, wrapped in her tailored wool coat. On his wrist, he was wearing her antique sandalwood bead bracelet. I had touched those beads once, a year ago. Joyce’s face had turned instantly dark, and she had coldly told me never to touch her personal items again. I pushed the phone back to Dan. It wasn’t that she had a phobia of touch. It was just that she didn’t want me touching her. On the day I was discharged, Dan offered to take me back to his place. I shook my head. “I have to go back to the apartment. My things are still there.” He looked at me, searched my face for a moment, and chose not to push. I knew what he was thinking—he was terrified I was making up excuses to crawl back to her. But when I unlocked the door to the apartment, the first thing I saw was Cody. He was standing by the dining table, holding a mug of steaming ginger tea. He was wearing my slippers. When he saw me, he flinched, taking a small, performative step backward. “Mr. Ross… you’re back.” Joyce walked out of the study, a folder in her hand. She took one look at me standing in the entryway and frowned. “You just got out of the hospital. Go take a shower immediately. Don’t bring public transport bacteria into the living room.” I stood perfectly still on the doormat. Cody took a step forward, his voice dripping with soft, apologetic sweetness. “Please don’t be upset, Mr. Ross. I caught a fever after getting soaked in the rain yesterday. Ms. Adler was just worried about me being alone in my apartment, so she let me crash here for the night.” I stared down at his feet. At my slippers. The ones I had spent hours picking out to match the hardwood floors. Cody followed my gaze, his eyes widening in faux panic as he lifted his foot. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize these were yours. There was only one pair of men’s shoes in the closet…” Joyce stepped between us, shielding him from my sight. “It’s just a pair of slippers, Elliott. Cody is sick.” I looked past her shoulder, straight into her cold, beautiful eyes. “In the elevator… my inhaler was right at your feet. Why didn’t you give it to me?” She looked away, her jaw tightening. “It was chaotic. It was Cody’s first time dealing with something like that. He was hyperventilating, Elliott. I couldn’t just leave him to panic.” My chest felt hollow, the phantom ache of the asthma attack returning. “And me? I couldn’t breathe. I begged you, Joyce.” There was a brief, heavy silence. Joyce adjusted her collar. “You’ve had asthma for years. You know how to manage your attacks. You know how to self-soothe. He doesn’t.” “And your phobia?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “He was wearing enough cologne to scent a hotel lobby. How did you manage to hold him so close?” Cody began to dab at his eyes with his sleeve. “Mr. Ross, please don’t yell. It’s my fault. I grew up in an orphanage—enclosed spaces are my absolute worst trigger. Ms. Adler was only trying to keep me grounded. Please don’t fight because of me.” He shrunk back, practically hiding behind her shoulder. Joyce’s eyes hardened as she looked at me. “Elliott, must you always paint everything in the ugliest, most dramatic light?” I looked at her—really looked at her—and felt nothing but a vast, empty exhaustion. “Joyce, let’s end this. We’re done.” The apartment went completely quiet. Cody’s hand tightened around his mug, spilling a few drops of ginger tea onto the marble tabletop. Joyce set her folder down with a sharp click. “Are you serious?” She took two slow, deliberate steps toward me. “Your design studio’s payroll next month is entirely dependent on Adler Corp’s final milestone payment. You want to call it quits now? You want to drag your entire staff down with you just to throw a tantrum?” I didn’t answer. Seeing my silence, her tone softened slightly, turning into that familiar, condescending maternal warmth she used to control me. “Go cool off. Cody is just an intern. I look after him because he has no safety net. You’re being paranoid.” Cody kept his head low. “I really envy you, Mr. Ross. You have your own studio, and you’ve had Ms. Adler by your side for three years. I have nothing.” I walked past them, ignoring them both, and went into the bedroom to pack. But when I opened the closet, my hands froze in midair. My custom-blended cedarwood lotions, my imported essential oils, my ceramic diffuser—the few things I had kept tucked away in the back—had all been swept into a heavy black trash bag. Cody appeared at the bedroom door, leaning against the frame. “I thought those scents were what made Ms. Adler so uncomfortable, so I did a little deep cleaning for her. I hope you don’t mind.” I turned to him, my voice dropping to a dangerous register. “Who gave you permission to touch my things?” He shrank back, his lower lip trembling. Joyce stepped into the room, her voice sharp. “Elliott! What is wrong with you? Why are you taking your anger out on him? He was only trying to help me.” The next morning, I had to carry my design portfolio to Adler Corp for our quarterly review. Cody was already sitting in the conference room, right next to Joyce. He was lazily flipping through the sample fabric sheets of my new collection. “Mr. Ross,” Cody said, looking up with a look of pure, innocent concern. “Don’t you think this design feels a bit… cheap? It doesn’t really carry the premium weight that Adler Corp’s brand demands, does it?” The room went quiet. Every executive at the table turned to look at me. I opened my laptop, pulling up the technical specs to explain the weave density, the linen-silk blend, and the cost-efficiency. Before I could finish, Joyce walked in. She didn’t even look at my presentation. She simply closed my physical portfolio folder with a dull thud. “Redo it.” I gripped the edge of my seat. “Joyce, this is the third revision. The production timeline—” Cody suddenly let out a soft, wet cough, covering his mouth. “I’m so sorry… Mr. Ross, do you still have hospital disinfectant on your clothes? The smell is really hitting my throat.” Joyce immediately gestured to her assistant. “Open the windows.” Then she turned her cold eyes to me. “Go sit at the other end of the table.” A few junior designers nearby ducked their heads, whispering and snickering behind their hands. I stood up, pulled out the chair at the absolute far end of the long mahogany table, and sat down. During the break, Cody stood up to pour some coffee. As he walked past the display rack holding my main prototype gown, his wrist gave a sudden, awkward jerk. The dark, hot liquid splashed entirely across the delicate ivory bodice. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry! My hand slipped, the mug was so hot…” I rushed over, grabbing the fabric, but the dark stain had already soaked deep into the open-weave silk linen. The gown was completely ruined. Joyce immediately grabbed Cody’s wrist, inspecting his skin. Then she looked up at me, her voice commanding. “Apologize.” I froze. “What?” “His hand is red, Elliott. Apologize to him.” I looked at the ruined gown—the work of three months—and then at her. My lips remained pressed together. I didn’t move. Joyce pushed her chair back, her face devoid of any warmth. “Adler Corp is suspending all contracts with your studio, effective immediately.” “The remaining projects will be handled internally by our brand department. Cody will assist with the transition.” When I got back to my studio, the group chat was already blowing up. My designers were panicked about the frozen milestone payments. I muted my phone, pulled out my ledger, and began calculating how much of my personal savings I would need to drain to pay out their severance. That night, Joyce came back to the apartment. She tossed her car keys onto the entryway table. “Give the original sketch files of your Alabaster line to Cody.” I paused, looking up from my desk. “What did you just say?” “He’s entering the National Emerging Designer Showcase next month, and he needs a cohesive portfolio,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “Your Alabaster sketches are fully developed. Let him use them. It’s just a loan.” My pen slipped from my fingers. The Alabaster line wasn’t just a design. The delicate, interlocking ivy vine pattern in the sketches was adapted from a vintage wool suit my father had left me before he died. When he passed, the suit was too worn to wear, so I had carefully unstitched the lining, preserved the pattern, and poured it into my sketches. It was my studio’s masterpiece, and my father’s only legacy. “No,” I said, my voice steady. “He’s not touching it.” Joyce closed my ledger for me. “Elliott, Cody is just starting out. He needs this break. You already have an established studio. And besides, once we’re married, half of Adler’s resources will be yours anyway. What does it hurt to help him?” “Help him?” I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. “You want me to hand over my father’s legacy and my original work so he can take the credit?” Her phone buzzed. It was a voice note from Cody. When she pressed play, his sniffling voice filled the quiet room: “Ms. Adler, please don’t pressure Mr. Ross. I don’t want to make things hard for him. I just wanted to prove that I could stand on my own two feet without relying on your charity…” Joyce locked her phone, her eyes darkening. “He’s already willing to back out, and you’re still being this petty?” “If you love him so much, buy him his own designs,” I said, my chest heaving. “Don’t use my life to build his career.” She stared at me for a long time, shaking her head. “You used to be so generous, Elliott. You’ve become so ugly.” I didn’t argue. I went to the bathroom to wash my face. But when I came back out, the drawer to my desk was half-open. The leather binder containing my original sketches was gone. I ran down the stairs, bursting into the underground parking garage just as Joyce’s sedan was pulling out of her space. I threw myself in front of her hood. The car screeched to a halt. The driver’s side window rolled down an inch. I shoved my hand into the gap, gripping the glass. “Give it back, Joyce. Give it back right now.” She kept her eyes fixed on the windshield. “He’ll return it as soon as the showcase is over. Don’t make a scene, Elliott. Have some dignity.” The window rolled up, forcing me to rip my hand away as she drove off. I called a cab and drove straight to the convention center. When I snuck past security into the backstage area of the showcase, I found Cody surrounded by reporters. He was cradling my leather binder to his chest, talking animatedly about his “deep, personal connection to heritage textiles.” The crowd was nodding, charmed by his youthful vulnerability. I pushed through the reporters. “Cody. Give me the binder.” The chatter stopped. Cody’s face fell instantly into that familiar, tearful pout. “Mr. Ross… I know you don’t like me, but this is a professional event. Can we please not do this here?” I reached out to grab the edge of the binder. He held onto it, twisting his body away. “Please, don’t take it! I didn’t steal anything!” Two security guards began moving toward us. “There is a piece of my father’s suit in that binder,” I said, my voice shaking with rage. “Give it back to me. Now.” Cody looked at me, a brief, sharp flash of malice crossing his eyes. Then, he let go. The binder slipped from his hands, falling straight into a deep plastic drum of dark indigo dye used for the live-dyeing demonstration next to the booth. The clasp popped open on impact. The vintage silk lining—my father’s fabric—slipped out, sinking instantly into the dark, murky liquid. I dropped to my knees, plunging my bare arms into the cold, chemical dye, desperately feeling around the bottom of the drum. My skin stained a deep, bruised blue. Cody leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper that only I could hear. “I know it was your dad’s. But old trash needs to make way for the new, Elliott.” I spun around, my fingers dripping dark blue ink. That was when Joyce walked into the room. I was kneeling on the floor, frantically wiping the ruined, indigo-soaked silk against my shirt, trying to clean it, but only making the stain worse. Cody was already weeping. “Ms. Adler, I swear I didn’t mean to. Mr. Ross ran in and grabbed the binder so hard… my wrist hit the table, and it just fell in…” He held out his wrist, showing her a faint pink mark. Joyce looked at my stained hands, then at Cody’s face. She stepped forward, grabbing my shoulder. “Apologize, Elliott.” “He threw it in on purpose,” I whispered, holding the ruined fabric against my chest. “Elliott, enough!” she snapped, her voice cold and public. “This is a national showcase. Stop embarrassing yourself.” I stared up at her. “Check the security cameras. Right there. They’re pointing directly at this booth.” Cody immediately panicked. “No, please, don’t. There are so many VIPs here today. If this gets out, it will ruin the reputation of the whole showcase. I’ll just withdraw.” Joyce put an arm around Cody’s shoulders. “You’re too soft, Cody.” She turned to the event coordinator standing nearby. “Delete the footage from the last ten minutes. We don’t want any internet rumors affecting the brand.” The coordinator hesitated. “Ms. Adler, that’s against our security protocol—” “I’ll take full responsibility.” I watched the coordinator nod. My nails bit so deep into my palms that they drew blood, mixing with the blue dye on my skin. The security guards took me by the arms, dragging me out of the venue. The head of security warned me that if I kept causing trouble, they would blacklist my studio from every major trade show in the country. Half an hour later, I received an official email: Adler Corp had officially revoked my studio’s credit from all past collaborative designs. I stood outside the glass doors of the convention center, watching the giant LED screen on the facade. Cody was on stage, holding the trophy for “Most Promising New Designer.” Joyce was sitting in the front row, clapping gracefully. I pressed the wet, stained piece of my father’s suit against my chest, turned around, and walked into the rain. That night, a text came from Joyce: The fabric is already ruined. Stop obsessing over it. I’ll buy you a brand-new studio space to make up for it. I set my phone face down on the kitchen island. She truly believed that everything in this world had a price tag, and that money could buy my silence. I spent the next three hours at my desk. I printed out the breakup agreement, followed by the formal termination of all business relations between my studio and Adler Corp. By the next afternoon, I had drained my personal savings account to pay out maximum severance packages to all my designers. I dissolved the studio, shook hands with my team, and sent them home. For the first time in my life, I had absolutely nothing left to lose. I took the ruined, indigo-dyed piece of silk and placed it directly on top of the signed breakup papers on the kitchen counter. Dan was waiting for me downstairs in his car. As I threw my single suitcase into the trunk, he looked at me. “Are you really leaving the city, Elliott?” I nodded. “If I stay here any longer, I won’t recognize myself.” On the way to the airport, my phone buzzed continuously. Joyce had called me seventeen times. I turned off the screen. Just before boarding my flight, I sent her one last message: Joyce, we’re done.

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My friend Jessica was getting married over Memorial Day weekend, and our group chat was buzzing with frantic discussions about who would be in the bridal party. Austin’s childhood best friend, Amber, suddenly dropped a message into the chat. [Why don’t we have Clara do it? She’s got plenty of experience.] Fiona, a close friend of mine, immediately tried to smooth things over: [Clara’s already been a bridesmaid three times. You know the old saying—four times is bad luck.] But Amber wouldn’t let it go. [Bad luck? Come on. Clara went to an Ivy League school, surely she doesn’t actually believe in silly superstitions like that?] [Or is she just insecure because she knows Austin is never actually going to put a ring on her finger?] Just as Fiona was about to fire back at Amber’s passive-aggressive jab, Austin’s avatar popped up in the thread. [It’s just a bridesmaid gig, Clara. Don’t be so dramatic. Just do it.] The group chat went dead silent. I stared at the screen, a dry laugh escaping my lips. I picked up my phone and typed a quick reply. [Sorry, but it’s really not convenient for me.] Because my own wedding was also scheduled for Memorial Day weekend. The only difference was, the groom wasn’t Austin. 1 The moment my message sent, the group chat froze for a solid ten seconds. Then, Austin’s name flashed across my screen. I didn’t even blink. I muted the ringer, flipped the phone face down on the corner of my desk, and went back to work. My current project was in its final, most critical phase. Since I was getting married over the holiday weekend and taking a two-week honeymoon right after, I had to ensure every single file and client handoff was completed beforehand. I had no intention of wasting my energy arguing with Austin over the same tired excuses we’d exhausted a hundred times before. Finishing this final spreadsheet was a far better use of my time. The phone buzzed, went silent, and buzzed again. Then came the flood of text messages. What is your problem? Are you seriously trying to humiliate me in front of everyone, Clara? I told you, Amber just speaks without thinking. She didn’t mean anything by it. Answer your phone. I didn’t reply. By the time the clock in the corner of my laptop screen ticked to 11:40 PM, I finally hit send on the last transition document to my colleague. I shut down the computer, packed my bag, and headed home. When I unlocked the front door, I was surprised to see the living room lights shining brightly. My hand paused on the doorknob. The faint, unmistakable scent of expensive cologne, sweet perfume, and whiskey hung in the air. A pair of men’s leather dress shoes lay scattered sloppily across the entryway. Austin was actually home. Three months ago, after a screaming match that shattered whatever peace we had left, he had slammed the door and walked out. We hadn’t spoken a single word since. In the beginning, I used to sit up waiting for his texts. I waited for him to swallow his pride, to come back with a peace-offering latte or a box of those expensive pastries he knew I loved, standing at the door pretending he’d just “happened to be in the neighborhood.” But this time, he never did. He seemed determined to make me break first. He ignored my messages, let my calls go to voicemail, and refused to step foot in the apartment. Over those silent weeks, the quiet realization settled in: we were over. I stood in the entryway for a brief moment. To my surprise, my heart didn’t race, and my stomach didn’t knot up. I simply slipped off my shoes, walked past the living room, and went straight to the bedroom as if the house were empty. His return didn’t shift my gravity anymore. Pushing the bedroom door half-open, I dragged my suitcase out of the closet, laid it flat on the floor, and began to pack. My marriage license, my travel documents, summer dresses, toiletries, my honeymoon itinerary—I folded and organized each item methodically. Halfway through, a sudden warmth enveloped me from behind. Austin wrapped his arms around my waist, resting his chin heavily on my shoulder. His breath was hot, smelling faintly of alcohol, his voice thicker and lower than usual. “Clara.” My hands froze over a silk blouse. “Still mad at me?” He held me tightly, as if terrified I would slip away the moment he loosened his grip. He was drunk, his words slurred with a needy, familiar petulance. It was the same old Austin—proud, stubborn, and entirely convinced he could make months of neglect vanish with a little charm. “Come on, babe, let’s stop this,” he muttered, pressing his face against my cheek in a mock-pout. “I’m home now.” I placed the blouse into the suitcase and said quietly, “Let go of me.” “No,” he mumbled, tightening his arms. “If I let go, you’ll just shut me out again.” A wave of dark amusement washed over me. The man who hadn’t stepped foot in our home for three months was acting like he was the one who had been wronged. “Clara,” he softened his tone, coaxing me. “I won’t lose my temper anymore, okay? And you don’t have to freeze me out. You know what Amber is like—she’s got no filter. You’ve known her for years. Why do you let her get under your skin?” He paused, as if realizing that wasn’t enough, and added, “I’ll put her in her place. I promise.” I remained silent. Taking my silence as a green light, he kept pushing. “And about my mom… just give me a little more time. She just has the wrong impression of you right now. Once I talk her round and she finally accepts you, we’ll have the most beautiful, lavish wedding you could ever dream of.” With that, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, square black velvet box. 2 “Look,” he whispered, flipping the lid open in front of me. “I have it all ready.” Inside sat a diamond ring, its brilliant cut catching the harsh bedroom light, casting sharp, expensive glints across the room. Austin’s eyes shone with a drunken, eager hope. He looked like a little boy presenting a prized possession, waiting to be praised. “Do you like it?” He looked down at me, a trace of his usual smug confidence creeping back into his voice. “I spent months picking it out.” “I wanted to find a more romantic setting to give it to you, but you had to go and pick a fight in the group chat tonight.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Let’s make up, Clara.” If this had happened a year ago, I might have felt my chest ache. I might have softened. Austin had always been incredibly skilled at playing the apologetic lover. His anger flared hot and fast, but the moment he realized I might actually walk away, he would scramble, offering grand, desperate gestures of devotion to pull me back. But it was simply too late. I stared at the sparkling diamond, my hands resting still on my lap. Seeing that I wasn’t reaching for it, Austin assumed I was just being stubborn. He took my left hand, intent on sliding the ring onto my finger himself. Then, he froze. His gaze locked onto my ring finger. There was already a ring resting there. It was a simple, understated band, but anyone with an eye for jewelry could tell it was exquisite, timeless, and incredibly costly. The bedroom fell into a suffocating silence. Austin stared at the ring, the alcohol-induced haze rapidly draining from his eyes. His voice went tight. “…What is that?” I slowly but firmly pulled my hand from his grip, turned around, and looked him dead in the eyes for the first time that night. He had the same handsome face I had loved for years—clear-cut jaw, bright eyes now rimmed with a quiet, panicked red. I closed the lid of my suitcase with a soft click and spoke in a tone so calm it bordered on gentle. “Austin, we ended things a long time ago.” I raised my left hand, lightly turning the band on my finger, and gave him a faint, weary smile. “And this isn’t a tantrum.” “I am actually getting married.” Austin stood there, completely paralyzed. He stared at the ring, his brain struggling to process the words. “You’re… getting married?” “Yes,” I replied, my expression serene. He stared at me for several agonizing seconds, and then a harsh, mocking laugh escaped his throat. “Clara, you’ve really outdone yourself this time.” “Amber was right. You’re completely desperate. You’re actually making up a fake wedding just to get a rise out of me.” He snapped the velvet box shut with a sharp clack, towering over me, his face twisting into a sneer of utter condescension. “Sweetheart,” he said, dragging out the word with venomous mockery. “You’re thirty-nine years old. You’re pushing forty. Do you honestly think that besides me, there’s some amazing guy out there just waiting to lock you down?” The air in the room instantly turned to ice. I looked at him, but in my mind, a memory from years ago suddenly began to play. I remembered a younger Austin chasing after me, calling me his “brilliant girl” with boundless, sunny adoration. Back then, he was a fresh college graduate—earnest, bright, and completely devoted to me. He used to bring his laptop to my desk, looking up at me with wide, hopeful eyes. Clara, could you look over this proposal for me? He used to pout when he couldn’t get a pitch right, leaning into my shoulder. Please help me, Clara. He used to stand outside my office late at night during busy season, holding a warm matcha latte, smiling so warmly it could melt winter. Clara, I promise I’m going to take such good care of you for the rest of our lives. Those vibrant, tender memories clashed violently with the bitter, sneering man standing in front of me—using my age as a weapon to humiliate me. Every lingering thread of affection I had left for him snapped. “I am older than you,” I said, my voice incredibly quiet, incredibly steady. “But you didn’t seem to mind my age when you were begging for my help and chasing me. The person you’ve become tonight, Austin, is absolutely pathetic.” His face flushed a violent, ugly red. 3 Stung by my words, the last of his carefully maintained composure shattered. His eyes flared with a humiliated, vicious rage. “Fine, Clara. You want to play tough?” he spat, letting out a bitter laugh. “Let’s see how long you can keep this little act up.” “Go ahead. We both know you’ll come crawling back to me soon enough.” With that, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the bedroom. A second later, the front door slammed shut so hard the windows rattled. The apartment fell into a profound, heavy silence. I stood there for a long time, letting the quiet settle around me. Then, I leaned down and zipped up my suitcase. The next morning, I called a real estate agent and put the apartment on the market. We had chosen this place together, but I had paid nearly seventy percent of the down payment, and I had spent months managing the renovations myself. Since the relationship was dead, there was no reason to keep the house. Shortly after I hung up with the agent, my phone buzzed with a text from Fiona. Clara, you need to see this. It was a video file. The footage was dark and noisy, filmed in some upscale downtown bar. Austin was sitting at the counter, disheveled, several empty cocktail glasses clustered around him. Amber was pressed close to his side, whispering into his ear with a pout on her lips. “That ring she’s wearing is so obviously fake. Who is she trying to fool?” Amber’s voice carried over the bass. “You didn’t text her for three months, so she panicked. This is just a pathetic attempt to force you into a proposal.” “I knew there was a reason she refused to be a bridesmaid in Jessica’s wedding. She’s been planning this dramatic little stunt all along.” The camera shook slightly—Fiona had clearly filmed this from a booth across the room. She followed the video with a barrage of angry texts. Austin is a total idiot. I cannot believe he falls for her toxic, manipulative garbage. I watched the video, staring at the smug, self-satisfied look on Amber’s face. Over the years, nearly every major argument Austin and I had could be traced back to her. If they crossed boundaries, it was because I was “too uptight.” If she made a cruel comment, it was because she was “just honest and blunt,” and I needed to stop taking things so personally. And Austin always stood right in the middle, telling me to be understanding, reminding me that Amber’s family had deep ties with his, and claiming that once we got married, I would need Amber to help smooth things over with his mother. But his mother had never wanted me. She had wanted Amber all along. Thinking about it now, I didn’t even feel angry. It was just exhausting. I closed the video, opened my chat with Fiona, and sent her the digital wedding invitation I had prepared weeks ago. Underneath, I typed: Looks like our weddings ended up on the exact same weekend. I leaned back against the sofa, a soft, genuine smile gracing my face. This time, I was truly stepping into my own future. Planning a wedding was far more exhausting than I had anticipated. The venue, the catering, the guest list… every detail required a dozen tiny decisions. Fortunately, my partner was incredibly hands-on. He took care of the heavy lifting, ensuring everything was organized to perfection. Meanwhile, Austin’s life seemed to be continuing without a hitch. Amber posted constantly on her social media. Glamping trips, rooftop bars, weekend road trips. Austin was in almost every single photo. I glanced at them briefly and swiped past, entirely unaffected. But today was different. 4 Today, Austin thought, they would finally have a real conversation. He would let her apologize, and maybe he would offer a small apology of his own. As long as Clara was willing to take the olive branch he was throwing her, they could finally put this childish fight behind them. The thought brought a wave of relief washing over him. The hotel lobby was already bustling when he arrived. Since it was Memorial Day weekend, the venue was packed with weddings. The grand lobby was filled with towering floral arrangements, and electronic display screens and guest-greeting boards lined the hallways. One of the friends who had driven over with Austin looked around and laughed. “Man, everyone is getting hitched today. There must be three different weddings in this hotel alone.” He pointed toward one of the signboards at the far end of the lobby. “Hey, Austin, look at that bride. Doesn’t she look kind of like Clara?” Austin frowned, his gaze instinctively following his friend’s finger. It was a striking, custom-designed wedding announcement board. The background was a deep, velvet crimson bordered with elegant gold leaf. The woman in the photo wore a breathtaking, custom-tailored crimson silk gown, her eyes crinkling with a warm, radiant smile. Austin’s heart skipped a sudden, violent beat. But before he could get a closer look, the groom and the bride—Jessica—came walking out of the main hall to greet guests. “You made it!” Jessica’s husband, Connor, called out, waving them over. “Come on, let’s grab a quick photo before we go in.” After the group photos, Connor called over one of the bridesmaids to show them to their seats. A few bridesmaids in matching champagne-colored dresses stood nearby, smiling warmly. Austin’s friend scanned the group, and when he didn’t see Clara, a smug, knowing look crossed his face. “Looks like Clara really didn’t show up to be a bridesmaid,” he whispered to Austin. “She definitely still cares about you. She couldn’t bear to watch another wedding.” Hearing this, the faint knot of anxiety in Austin’s chest completely dissolved, replaced by a satisfying sense of vindication. Of course. If Clara didn’t care, why would she refuse to stand up there? He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the velvet ring box, and thought back to the crimson and gold signboard he had just seen. A dramatic, classic vintage wedding. Clara had told him once that she hated cookie-cutter white-tent weddings on golf courses. She wanted something timeless, dramatic, and elegant—something with rich, bold colors. A sudden wave of warmth hit Austin. He decided that once they made up, they would have a gorgeous black-tie ballroom wedding with deep crimson roses and gold decor. She would absolutely love it. Just then, Jessica caught the tail end of their whispering. She looked at them with a look of pure, unadulterated confusion, and then she let out a dry laugh. “Of course Clara isn’t here to be my bridesmaid,” Jessica said, her voice entirely matter-of-fact. “She’s a bride today, too.”

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My heart stopped when I realized a misplaced decimal point had turned a $560 million contract into a $56 million disaster. But before I could even process the cold dread pooling in my stomach, my boyfriend stood up in front of the entire company and announced he was appointing his assistant as the new VP of Sales. My voice cracked as I stood up. “Why, Derrick?” Derrick looked at me, his eyes entirely devoid of the warmth they used to hold. “Amber just landed a massive, multi-million-dollar account for this firm. It’s an achievement you couldn’t match in a lifetime, Emma. It’s time to step down and let someone more capable take the lead.” I spent six months chasing that lead. I lived out of suitcases, drank terrible hotel lobby coffee, and poured my soul into securing that client. How could he look at me—look at everyone—and lie so effortlessly? Amber, standing beside him in her perfectly tailored blazer, offered a saccharine, victorious smirk. “Emma, please. Don’t do this to yourself. Ask anyone in this room. We all know I was the one who spent the last six months breaking my back for this deal. You had absolutely nothing to do with it.” I scanned the room. The sales team, people I had hired and mentored, stared at their desks, refusing to meet my eyes. I couldn’t fathom how a twenty-something assistant had managed to buy their silence so completely. But the expected wave of fury didn’t hit me. Instead, a strange, hysterical bubble of laughter rose in my chest. If she was this desperate to take the fall for a catastrophic mistake, who was I to stop her? 1 Watching the room fall into step behind Amber’s lie, a cold, dark amusement washed over me. Five hundred and sixty million dollars. Reduced to fifty-six million. A five-hundred-million-dollar deficit. And the contract was already signed, sealed, and legally binding. A mistake of that caliber wouldn’t just end a career; it would bury a company. If everyone wanted to protect me from the fallout so badly, if Amber was practically begging to strap herself to the metaphorical bomb, why should I stop her? Of course, I had to play my part. The performance had to be convincing. I forced my face to contort into an expression of sheer, trembling rage. I cast a quick, calculated glance at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. Then, turning my tear-filled eyes back to Derrick, I let my voice shake. “So… you’re saying Amber brought in this contract? All by herself?” Derrick didn’t blink. “Who else?” With those two words, the very last ember of affection I held for him went cold. We had met in high school. Back then, we were just two kids studying under the flickering lights of the library, keeping each other grounded, sharing dreams wrapped in cheap takeout. We went to the same college, fell in love, and started this company from a cramped studio apartment right after graduation. We built it brick by brick. There was a time when Derrick would have burned the world down to keep me safe. But everything changed the day Amber walked through the door. At first, his indiscretions were whispered, hidden behind late-night “client dinners” and locked office doors. But now, he didn’t even bother to spare my feelings. Looking at his icy, indifferent expression, I lowered my head and let a quiet resolve take root. “Emma, let’s be honest about your capabilities,” Derrick said, his voice echoing in the silent office. “Did you really think you were capable of landing a whale like this?” The sales reps kept their heads down. They knew exactly who had signed that client. But Derrick was the CEO, and in this economy, survival trumped truth. Even the associate director of sales, a man I had personally promoted, decided to kick me while I was down. He spoke up, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Emma, just drop it. It’s embarrassing to watch. Amber practically killed herself working on this account for the last six months. How can you stand there and try to steal her credit? Someone as selfish as you doesn’t deserve to run this department anyway. Honestly, you should just leave.” 2 It was a coordinated execution. Amber stepped forward, her eyes bright with triumph. She adopted her signature fragile, victim-like tone. “Emma, I’ve always let you have your way when you picked on me in the office. But this deal… I poured my blood, sweat, and tears into it. I won’t let you take it from me.” I looked at her. Let her fly high today. The fall tomorrow would be spectacular. But a practical thought gave me pause. Even if they lied, my signature was on the original paperwork—or so I thought. If the bomb went off, I could still be caught in the blast radius. I hesitated, keeping my voice cautious. “You claim you negotiated the deal. But I was the one who signed the contract… and I—” “Emma, you really are losing your touch,” Amber interrupted, her smile widening. “The contract has my signature on it. Clear as day.” I stared at her, genuinely bewildered. “That’s impossible. I distinctly remember signing those papers.” Amber nodded to a junior assistant, who promptly brought over our copy of the executed agreement. I scanned the signature page. My name was nowhere near it. It was Amber’s handwriting, neat and looping, right above the client’s signature. But how? I knew I had signed it. Did she swap the documents? Even if she forged our copy, the client—a massive enterprise—would have their own executed version. She couldn’t possibly have altered both. “Emma,” Amber purred, snapping me out of my thoughts. “I know it must be hard watching someone younger and more driven surpass you. But the ink is dry. You can’t lie your way out of black-and-white proof.” I let my shoulders slump, playing the defeated woman perfectly. “I’m done.” Amber blinked, caught off guard by my sudden surrender. “What?” “If this company has no place for me,” I said, raising my voice so everyone could hear, “I resign.” A flash of pure ecstasy crossed Amber’s face, though she quickly masked it with a piteous frown. “Oh, Emma… now everyone will think I forced you out. If you really want credit for the deal… I… I guess I could share it with you.” If this were yesterday, I would have fought tooth and nail. Today, I was practically running for the exit. Before I could speak, Derrick snapped, “Amber, stop. What’s yours is yours. You don’t owe her charity. As for you, Emma—I’ve tolerated your dramatic tantrums for years. But this is the final straw. If you want to resign, fine. I accept.” His response was swift, cold, and entirely devoid of hesitation. I let out a dry, hollow laugh. Of course. Why would he hesitate when he had a shiny new toy to play with? I looked him dead in the eye. “Fine, Derrick. But don’t forget—we built this company together. I own exactly fifty percent of the shares.” Derrick reached into his breast pocket and tossed a sleek black debit card onto the desk. “I knew you’d turn this into a cash grab,” he said, his lips curling in disgust. “There’s five million dollars on that account. Sign over your shares, take the money, and get out of my sight.” Looking at the card, the puzzle pieces fell into place. It was a setup. Securing a client of this scale would put our company on the map, skyrocketing our valuation. The firm was easily worth over five hundred million now. He wanted to push me out, offering a measly five million for half of a thriving empire. A masterclass in greed. 3 I stared at the card, making no move to pick it up. Derrick scoffed. “What? Not enough for you?” “Do you take me for an idiot?” I asked quietly. Derrick’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” “We just secured a massive enterprise contract. The company’s valuation is about to be recalculated by every venture capital firm in the city. And you think you can buy me out with a pocket-change five million? Are you stupid, Derrick, or do you just think I am?” A muscle twitched in Derrick’s jaw. “I knew you were greedy, Emma, but this is low.” Greedy? He was trying to rob me of my life’s work, and he had the audacity to call me greedy. Looking at him now, the handsome face I had loved for a decade looked incredibly ugly. I shook my head. “With our current production scale and the projected revenue from this contract, our valuation is easily five hundred million. If we go public, that number doubles. Do you really think I’m going to walk away for five million?” Derrick’s expression darkened into something menacing. “How much do you want?” “Fifty million.” I didn’t hesitate. Why fifty million and not more? Because I knew him. He was a selfish pragmatist; he would never agree to an astronomical number. More importantly, with the massive liability hiding in that contract, the company was practically already bankrupt. I needed to cash out fast before the bomb went off. Fifty million was the absolute ceiling of what Derrick could liquidate or borrow on short notice. “Fifty million?!” Derrick roared. “You’ve lost your mind!” “Have I?” I asked, completely unfazed. “Do you think the company isn’t worth that?” Derrick’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t care about hypothetical valuations. We started this company with five million each. Just because we got a lucky break doesn’t mean I’m going to let you extort me.” I expected nothing less. I nodded slowly, taking a step back. “If you can’t meet my price, then we have nothing more to talk about.” I turned to walk away. “Emma!” Derrick yelled, his voice tight. “You can’t sell those shares to anyone else without my approval!” I looked back over my shoulder. “Oh, really? I think I’ll take my chances in the private equity market. Let’s see what they have to say.” Derrick clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white. He knew the true value of my fifty percent share. That was why he had orchestrated this elaborate coup in the first place. If the firm’s operations were as healthy as he believed, any venture capitalist would jump at the chance to buy my fifty percent for fifty million—heck, even a hundred million would be a steal. More importantly, Derrick wanted absolute control. If I sold my shares to an aggressive institutional investor, they would squeeze him out of his own board within a year. He couldn’t risk that. Just as my hand touched the door handle, Derrick cracked. “Fine!” he barked. “I’ll do it. But I need a month to put the funds together.” A month? Absolutely not. By then, the client would have realized the mistake, the lawsuit would be filed, and the company’s stock would be worth less than toilet paper. I shook my head. “I don’t have a month. This time tomorrow, either the money is in my account, or I’m calling Mr. Henderson at Henderson Holdings. You know how eager he’s been to get his hands on our logistics network. With this new contract, fifty million is a bargain. He’ll wire the money before the ink on our deal is dry.” 4 Derrick looked like he wanted to strangle me. “Emma, you know Henderson is a shark! The second he gets a foothold in this company, he’ll fight me for the CEO seat. I will not let you sell to him!” “Then you’d better pay up,” I said calmly. “Who runs this place after I leave is no longer my concern.” Seeing my resolve, Derrick finally slumped, defeated. “Fine. Tomorrow.” I didn’t waste another second. I walked out of the building. That evening, my phone buzzed. It was Sophie, one of the senior account managers and a close colleague. “Emma, are you really selling your shares?” she asked, her voice hushed. “Since I can’t stay there anymore, why shouldn’t I?” I replied. Sophie sighed. “But fifty million is a massive underestimation. I actually reached out to a friend of mine in venture capital today. He said that with a major enterprise contract under our belt, our valuation is through the roof. He thinks even in a rush sale, your half is worth at least three hundred million. Fifty million is practically giving it away.” I smiled softly into the receiver. “It’s fine, Sophie. Consider it the price of peace.” There was a brief silence on the line before Sophie spoke again, her voice even lower. “By the way, right after you left, Derrick called an all-hands meeting. He’s trying to raise thirty million dollars by selling ten percent of the company to the employees.” “Really?” I sat up, intrigued. “Yeah. Everyone is scrambling to buy in. They think they’re getting a golden ticket. Amber bought the largest share—she actually mortgaged her parents’ house and took out a massive bank loan to finance it.” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. The higher they climb, the harder they fall. Hearing my laughter, Sophie sounded confused. “What’s so funny?” I didn’t answer her directly. Instead, I asked, “Did you buy any?” “I wanted to,” Sophie admitted. “I was actually thinking of borrowing some money from family to get in on it. What do you think?” I took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t.” “Why?” “Just trust me on this,” I said. “Don’t buy a single share.” I hung up. I had done what I could for her. The rest was up to her. The next day. Derrick summoned me to the office. I signed the share transfer agreement, and the fifty million dollars was wired to my account. As I turned to leave, Derrick called out, his voice tinged with a strange mix of guilt and arrogance. “Emma, don’t hate me for this. Business is business. In the real world, it’s eat or be eaten. There’s no room for sentimentality.” Hearing him finally drop the mask of righteousness, I turned back and looked at him with pity. “I hope you can keep that same energy in a few weeks,” I said quietly. Derrick’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?” I didn’t answer. I just walked out. In the hallway, I ran straight into Amber. She was practically glowing, a smug grin plastered across her face. “Congratulations on your retirement, Emma.” I didn’t say a word. I just walked right past her. Enjoy your victory, sweetie. It’s going to be short-lived. With fifty million dollars sitting in my bank account, my chest felt incredibly light. I took my parents out for a lavish dinner that evening to celebrate. Mid-course, my phone lit up with an incoming call from Adrian Pierce, the executive at the major client enterprise. “Emma,” Adrian’s deep voice came through the line. “There’s a critical issue with the contract. We need to meet immediately. Are you free?” I knew this call was coming. “Adrian,” I said, keeping my tone perfectly calm. “Are you calling about the decimal point?” A brief pause on the other end. “You already know?” I nodded and said, “Of course I do. But the company forced me out right after the deal was closed. Legally, that mistake is no longer my problem. I suggest you handle it directly with the person who signed it.” Adrian let out a low, appreciative chuckle. “Your company really is a viper’s nest, isn’t it? Fine, I know what to do. Thanks for the heads-up on the free five hundred million.” When I hung up, a wave of pure satisfaction washed over me. Adrian had been trying to get close to me for months, often hinting at wanting something more than a professional relationship. If I were still at the firm, he would have used this massive leverage to pressure me. But now that I was out of the equation, he had no reason to play nice. Capitalism is inherently greedy. No corporate executive is going to hand back half a billion dollars out of the goodness of their heart. Late that night, unable to sleep, I scrolled through social media. I saw Amber’s latest post. It featured two photos: one of her newly signed employee stock purchase agreement, and another of her and Derrick clinking champagne glasses. The caption read: Special thanks to a certain someone who didn’t have what it took. If she hadn’t quit, I wouldn’t be the new VP of Sales with a five percent stake in the company! #Blessed #Success #NextChapter I tapped the “like” button and locked my phone. Word on the street was that to secure that five percent, Amber had not only mortgaged her parents’ home but had also taken out high-interest personal loans. Watching her march so enthusiastically toward her own ruin was a beautiful thing. Over the next month, I traveled, letting the stress of the last ten years melt away while keeping an eye out for new investment opportunities. Exactly thirty days later, the bomb finally exploded. My phone rang. It was Derrick. “Emma, you crazy bitch!” he screamed, his voice raw with panic. “What did you do to the contract? Did you set me up?!” I held the phone a few inches from my ear, a cold, sharp smile spreading across my face. “Derrick, what on earth are you talking about?” I mocked, using his own condescending tone. “Everyone knows that deal was negotiated and signed by your brilliant new VP. What does it have to do with me?”

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Seven years after we broke up, I received a package from Pierce Clifford. It weighed nearly forty pounds. Inside were printed copies of every single text message we had ever sent each other during our seven years together. Right after the delivery guy left, a text message notification lit up my phone screen. Got a minute to meet up? There are some things I need to tell you. My finger hovered over the glass. I typed a single, cold response: No. I locked the screen. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with a damp hand towel, lifted a crate of fresh apples, and went back to setting up the display outside. I acted as if nothing had happened. After all this time, I had no idea why he was suddenly reaching out. Just like he had no idea that I had long since become another man’s wife. … “Tomorrow,” the next text read. “It’s your birthday. Let’s get coffee.” It was Pierce again. I looked down at the screen, my thumb tapping out another flat refusal. Can’t. I have to run the shop. Without waiting for his reply, I shoved the phone deep into my apron pocket. My fingers curled inward, tracing the uneven, raised scar on my wrist. It had been so long that I’d almost convinced myself I had forgotten him. But in this quiet moment, the truth was hard to ignore. Some memories don’t fade; they just rot, seeping deep into your bones until they become a permanent part of you. The bell above the shop door chimed. Without looking up, I hefted a crate of oranges and called out in my practiced, welcoming merchant’s voice. “Afternoon! Feel free to look around. We’ve got some beautiful organic peaches today, fresh plums, and the watermelons are incredibly sweet—” “Nola.” That low, raspy baritone cut through the air, freezing me mid-sentence. I slowly raised my head and locked eyes with Pierce. His gaze was dark, deep, and heavy with a complicated mix of emotions. He was holding a bakery box, tied neatly with a white ribbon. “It’s been a long time,” he said. “Happy birthday.” For a second, the world seemed to tilt. But I forced a polite, business-like smile to my lips. “It has been a long time. Welcome to the shop. What can I get for you today, sir?” He set the cake down on the wooden counter, his eyes scanning my face as if searching for a ghost. “Why don’t you give me a recommendation?” I wiped my hands on my canvas apron, offering him the same bright, eager customer-service smile I gave to everyone else. “Sure thing,” I said smoothly. “We just got these organic berries in this morning, the mangoes are perfectly ripe, and the bananas are great…” “Nola,” he interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, raw and strained. His eyes never left me. “Is there anything good for a pregnant woman?” The words hung in the air. I didn’t let my smile falter. I just wiped a stray speck of dust off my hand and pivoted instantly. “Of course. We have plenty of options. The plums are excellent for morning sickness—nice and tart—and the cherries are packed with iron. Or maybe some grapes?” His jaw tightened. He gestured vaguely toward the displays. “I’ll take some of everything. Just pack it up for me.” “You got it!” As I reached for a paper bag to start packing the fruit, Pierce suddenly reached out and caught my wrist. “Nola,” he whispered. “Do you really have nothing to ask me?” My hands froze. But I didn’t look at him. There was nothing to ask. Seven years ago, his wedding to Cynthia Albright had been the talk of high society. It was only natural that they would eventually have a child together. Before I could reply, the bell chimed loudly. A woman stormed into the shop, dragging a crying toddler by the hand. “Where’s the manager? What kind of garbage are you selling here? I bought peaches here two days ago and they’re already covered in mold!” she yelled, sitting down on a nearby crate in protest. “My kid got sick after eating one! You’re charging premium prices for rotten trash!” “Ma’am, I am so sorry,” I said, immediately stepping away from Pierce and walking over to her with a soothing tone. “The humidity has been terrible lately, and I should have reminded you to keep them refrigerated. Is your little boy okay? Tell you what—let me cover any medical bills, and I’ll refund your purchase. We’re a small, local shop, and the last thing we want is to cause any trouble. Next time you come in, your groceries are on the house.” The woman sniffed, her anger deflating slightly at my easy compliance. “Fine. Only because you’re usually nice.” I reached into a crate, polished a couple of crisp apples on my apron, and handed them to the little boy with a warm smile. Once they finally left, I took a breath and turned back to Pierce. “Sorry about that,” I said, my voice completely level. “Your total comes to twenty-eight dollars. Let’s just call it twenty-five.” Pierce stared at me, his mouth opening slightly before he looked away, a pained expression crossing his face. “Nola… you used to be so different.” My smile stiffened. He was right. During the years I spent with him, I only wore designer clothes, used skincare products that cost more than a month’s rent, and drank wines where a single bottle could easily run into five figures. But that was a lifetime ago. Now, I had to worry about every single dollar. I slid the brown paper bag across the counter to him, entirely detached. “People change,” I said softly. “Just like you did.” He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words died in his throat. Instead, he took the bag and scanned our payment QR code with his phone. He lingered for a few painful seconds before finally turning to leave. A moment later, the automated voice from my tablet chimed: Direct deposit received: Fifty-two thousand dollars. I stared at the screen and let out a dry, humorless laugh. I pulled up the app and immediately refunded the excess amount, keeping only the twenty-five dollars for the fruit. He hadn’t changed at all. He still believed that every problem in life could be solved with a wire transfer. The next morning, when I arrived at the shop, my young assistant, Daisy, handed me a thick manila envelope. “Nola, someone left this at the door first thing this morning.” Frowning, I tore the envelope open. Inside was an official job offer from Clifford Enterprises—one of the largest media conglomerates in the country. Daisy gasped, leaning over my shoulder. “Clifford Enterprises? Nola, is that the Clifford Enterprises? The ones who own half the news networks in the state?” “Yes,” I muttered, my expression darkening. “How do you even know them—” I didn’t answer. I slowly ripped the document in half, then in quarters, and tossed the pieces into the recycling bin. “I was with Pierce Clifford for seven years,” I said quietly. It was a relationship I had truly believed would end in a lifetime together. I was barely eighteen when I met him. My mother had passed away when I was a child. My father was a compulsive gambler who eventually ended up behind bars, leaving behind a mountain of debt that I could never hope to pay. My grandfather was the only family I had left, and we survived on whatever we could scrape together. The day the loan sharks tracked us down, they trashed our small apartment. I fought back, getting bloodied and bruised in the process. That was when Pierce appeared. He stood in the doorway, a cigarette dangling from his lips. With a casual flick of his wrist, his security guards stepped in, and he paid off my father’s entire debt on the spot. He looked down at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Want to come with me?” he asked. His voice was completely flat, but my heart skipped a beat. Soon after, I moved into his estate, and he bought my grandfather a comfortable house in a quiet, safe suburb. Pierce was a man of few words, and he never once said he loved me. Yet, he showered me with luxury. If I lingered a second too long on a dress in a boutique window, it would be hanging in my closet by the next afternoon. When his family tried to arrange high-society marriages for him, he ignored them all. Once, at a charity gala, a jealous socialite humiliated me and slapped me across the face. When Pierce found out, he took my hand and marched me right back into the ballroom. “Tell me who did it,” he demanded, his voice cold as ice. “Point them out, and I’ll ruin them.” My heart had beat so fast that night. It was the exact moment I fell desperately, irreversibly in love with him. I became his shadow. I went with him to every business dinner and gala. He had a weak stomach and hated drinking, so I would drink for him, taking glass after glass of heavy liquor to protect him from aggressive business associates. I drank until I ended up in the emergency room with a bleeding stomach ulcer, but I didn’t care. I was naive enough to think that my devotion would make Pierce love me even more. For seven long years, I was the only woman by his side. Until Cynthia Albright came back. She was a journalist, just like I was. The day she showed up at the gates of the Clifford estate, Pierce’s hand slipped from mine. His entire body went rigid. And in Cynthia’s eyes, I saw a chilling, absolute certainty. She knew she had already won. Gradually, Pierce stopped coming home. His replies to my texts grew shorter, arriving hours, sometimes days, later. I would sit up in the dark, staring at the screen of our chat logs. Eventually, his responses dwindled down to short, functional codes. A “1” meant he was canceling our dinner plans. A “2” meant he was coming home late, and expected me to be waiting in his bed. I kept telling myself he was just emotionally reserved. I kept believing that, deep down, he still cared. On my twenty-fifth birthday, he finally sent a “2.” I bought a small cake, determined to have a real conversation with him and fix whatever was breaking between us. But when I unlocked the bedroom door, the cake slipped from my hands. Pierce and Cynthia were in our bed. Naked. Wrapped tightly around each other. “I thought you hated me,” Cynthia murmured, her voice dripping with a lazy, satisfied purr. “I thought you said you’d never forgive me for leaving. Aren’t you afraid your little songbird will walk in and make a scene? Who knows, maybe she’ll try to get pregnant just to force you to marry her.” Pierce’s voice was strained, thick with an intensity he had never shown me. “Her? Keeping her around is one thing, but she doesn’t belong in my world. She’s not wife material. When the time comes, a man in my position needs someone like you.” My hands shook so violently I couldn’t breathe. I threw the door wide open. “Then what the hell have these past seven years been to you?” I choked out. Pierce didn’t panic. He slowly sat up, carefully draping the sheet over Cynthia’s shoulders, and looked at me with complete detachment. “You’re scaring her,” he said coldly. “Her clothes got stained. Go to your closet and find something for her to wear.” My legs felt like lead. I had to lean against the wall just to keep from collapsing as I stepped closer. “Pierce, I am asking you,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “What were those seven years?” Cynthia let out a soft chuckle, burying her face into his chest. “Honestly, Pierce, your taste really went downhill while I was in Europe. No grace, no class. Look at her.” “Yeah, well, I had to pass the time,” Pierce said, gently stroking her hair before turning a cold, impatient glare toward me. “Why are you still standing there? Get out. Cynthia is moving back in today. Don’t start any drama with her. And by the way, she likes the designer dresses in your closet. Leave them behind; they’re hers now.” In a blind, suffocating panic, I knocked over the vanity table, glass shattering across the floor. I stumbled out of the room, my vision blurred by tears. Desperate to escape, I ended up in his study, looking for my car keys. Instead, my eyes fell on an old, leather-bound journal sitting half-open on his desk. The pages were yellowed. Year three of loving Cynthia. She has a new boyfriend. She told me we’re just friends. She broke up with him, but she still rejected my confession. She moved to London. Her social media is full of other guys. I met a girl today. Her name is Nola. She looks so much like Cynthia. Nola says she wants to get married and have kids someday. But if the woman isn’t Cynthia, everything just feels… hollow. Second-rate. Hollow. A tear fell onto the page, smudging the ink of his neat handwriting. My entire body shook. It wasn’t that he was emotionally distant. It wasn’t that he was a slow burner. It was simply because I was a copy. From the very beginning, I was nothing but a placeholder. A choked sob escaped my throat. I grabbed the journal, my fingers digging into the leather, and ripped the pages out one by one, shredding his neat handwriting until the paper lay like snow on the hardwood floor. I sank to my knees, completely drained. The sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway. Pierce stood in the doorway, his silk shirt half-unbuttoned. “So you saw it,” he said. His tone was so casual, so completely devoid of guilt, that it felt like a physical blow. I lunged forward, grabbing his collar, my knuckles white, my eyes burning. “Then what am I to you? Pierce, tell me! What have I been doing here for seven years?” He leaned back slightly, looking down at me, and spoke a single word. “A substitute.” There was no remorse in his voice. It felt as if a thousand needles were piercing my heart. Slowly, my grip relaxed, and my hands fell away. I let out a broken laugh that sounded more like a sob. “A substitute. That’s all.” Pierce’s eyes swept over my crumpled form. His throat bobbed. “Now you know the truth,” he said quietly. “I won’t be getting married for at least another two years. Whether you choose to stay or leave is up to you. I won’t stop you.” It felt like my lungs were filled with wet cement. I couldn’t breathe. I forced myself to stand, using the wall for support, my throat raw and aching. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’m leaving.” I packed my bags and moved my grandfather into a cheap motel. I spent my days working late at the news agency and my nights scouring local listings for a small apartment we could afford. But the very next morning, my phone exploded with notifications. A viral headline was trending on local news sites: Prominent Investigative Journalist Sells Body for Inside Scoops—Career Built on Backroom Deals! The featured photo was an angled shot of me and my elderly grandfather entering the motel. The caption implied he was one of my wealthy “clients.” When I walked into the office, the whispers started immediately. My colleagues stared at me, their eyes filled with disgust and amusement. “It’s not true…” I tried to explain, my voice trembling. “That’s my grandfather. We were just—” They just covered their mouths, giggling behind my back. My editor-in-chief called me into his office, screaming about public relations and brand damage. Within an hour, I was forced to sign a public apology letter and hand in my resignation. I tried to defend myself on my personal social media accounts, posting proof of my relationship with my grandfather, but my posts were immediately drowned out by a fresh wave of leaked photos. This time, they were intimate, explicit photos of me in bed with various men—though the faces of the men had been poorly photoshopped over Pierce’s. The journalist who broke the “exclusive exposé” was Cynthia Albright. The air felt like glass in my lungs. Consumed by rage and panic, I went to Pierce’s office and demanded to see him. “How did she get those photos?” I slammed my hands on his desk. “Why is Cynthia’s name on that article? You know that motel photo was just me and my grandfather! Why didn’t you stop her?” Pierce rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking deeply annoyed. “Cynthia found the photos on my old cloud drive and used them before I could stop her,” he said, sighing. “She’s trying to make a name for herself at her new network, and this story got her a major promotion. I didn’t want to crush her confidence by forcing her to retract it. It’s really not that big of a deal, Nola. Once the news cycle moves on, everyone will forget.” “Not a big deal?” I slammed my fist on his desk, sending his coffee cup rattling to the floor. “Pierce, my career is over! My reputation is completely ruined! Do you have any idea what my colleagues are saying about me? How am I supposed to ever work in journalism again?” “That’s enough,” Pierce snapped, his brow furrowing. “Can you stop being so selfish? You’re only thinking about yourself. Why can’t you think about Cynthia for once? Why do you hate seeing her succeed so much?” I was hyperventilating, the room spinning around me. “She fabricated the story! She slandered me! She has absolutely no ethics, don’t you see that?” The next second, a sharp crack echoed through the office. My head snapped to the side. The force of his slap sent me stumbling against the leather armchair. Pierce stood over me, his eyes dark and menacing. “Don’t you dare speak about her like that.” He looked down at me, cold and unyielding. “Nola, you lived a life of luxury on my dime for seven years. What’s wrong with taking a little hit for her now?” I tasted iron in my mouth. I slowly swallowed the blood, my head throbbing. In seven years, he had never once raised a hand to me. Today was the first. “Just wait,” I whispered. I left his office and spent the next forty-eight hours gathering every piece of evidence I had—my grandfather’s birth certificate, our family records, and metadata from the original photos. I prepared a massive thread to expose Cynthia’s fraud. But the moment I hit post, my accounts were suddenly logged out. When I tried to log back in, I saw a new post pinned to my profile—written in my name: I want to apologize to Cynthia Albright. Out of professional jealousy, I fabricated lies to damage her reputation. My own moral failures have made me unfit for this profession. Effective immediately, I am permanently retiring from journalism. An instant later, a text from Pierce popped up on my phone. If you try something like this again, I’ll make sure you and your grandfather have nowhere left to run in this city. From that day on, Cynthia was the only woman at his side. Using the massive influence of Clifford Enterprises, Pierce built Cynthia up into the most celebrated young journalist in the state within a matter of months. Whenever he spoke about her to the press, he had a proud smile on his face, attributing her success entirely to her own hard work. Yet, when I had once asked him to introduce me to a contact for an investigative piece I was working on, he had brushed me off, telling me I was being “unreasonable” and “using him.” I closed my eyes, a tear escaping my lashes. I decided to take my grandfather and leave Seattle for good. But I never made it out of the airport. A mob of reporters and online influencers blockaded the departures gate. Some carried heavy cameras, others thrust microphones directly into my face. Several people had their phones out, live-streaming the confrontation. “Look! There she is! The disgraced journalist!” “Is it true you slept with over twenty executives to steal stories? Did you abuse your interns?” “Are you trying to flee the country to escape justice?” “No! That’s not true!” I screamed, my voice cracking as I tried to shield my grandfather, pushing through the wall of bodies. But the crowd only grew more aggressive, surging forward. Someone threw a half-empty coffee cup at us, followed by crumpled paper and plastic bottles. “Disgusting trash! You think you can just run away?” “You tried to ruin Cynthia’s life! You’re a toxic workplace bully!” “Get out of our city! You’re a disease to journalism!” The screaming voices closed in, suffocating me. In the chaos, my grandfather was shoved hard. He lost his footing and crashed onto the polished floor. The crowd didn’t stop; several people stepped on his legs and hands as they rushed forward to get a better camera angle. I threw myself over him, screaming at the top of my lungs. “Stop! Please stop! He’s an old man! You’re going to kill him!” But my voice was drowned out by the noise. With trembling fingers, I dialed Pierce’s number. By some miracle, he answered. “Pierce, please! We’re at the airport, and a mob has trapped us! My grandfather fell… he’s hurt! Please help us!” On the other end of the line, Pierce sighed, his tone dripping with irritation. “Stop playing games, Nola. Why do you always have to lie?” “What?” My voice broke. “I hired those actors to give Cynthia a little closure. I specifically told them not to hurt you—it’s just a little stunt to help her vent some frustration. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. Just play along, and I’ll wire you some money later.” My heart went entirely cold. “But my grandfather is on the ground! He’s not moving, Pierce! Do you have a soul?” I was still screaming into the receiver when the call disconnected. My grandfather lay on the cold floor, his body shaking in a violent seizure. Shaking uncontrollably, I managed to dial 911. Hours later, at the hospital, my knees buckled when the surgeon finally stepped out of the operating room. “I’m sorry,” the doctor said softly, looking down. “We did everything we could, but he was too frail. By the time he arrived, it was too late.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. I walked into the sterile room like a ghost. My grandfather’s face was pale, looking as if he were only asleep. I knelt by the bed and gently took his hand. “Grandpa, wake up,” I whispered. “Please wake up. Let’s go home. Let’s go back to our old apartment, okay? I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…” His skin was wrinkled and cold. There would be no one left to gently pat my head when I cried. No one to smile warmly and tell me he’d saved up a few dollars to buy me my favorite candy. No one to hold my hand and walk me home through the rain. I sobbed until I threw up, kneeling on the cold hospital floor. I used every cent of my savings to buy a small, quiet plot in a cemetery. On the day of the funeral, my phone buzzed with a bank notification. A wire transfer of ten million dollars had been deposited into my account. From Pierce. After the service, I booked a one-way ticket to a small town across the country, desperate to put this city behind me. But as I turned to leave the cemetery gates, a black burlap sack was suddenly pulled over my head. I was dragged into an alley, my hands and feet bound tightly with zip ties. Heavy wooden bats and metal pipes rained down on my back, my ribs, my legs. Through the roaring pain, I heard Cynthia’s shrill, manic voice. “Hit her! Hit her harder!” she shrieked. “Do you think I don’t know you’re still trying to seduce Pierce? He actually wired you ten million dollars behind my back! You cheap, pathetic whore!” I tried to speak, to tell her I didn’t want his money, but a heavy blow to my temple sent me into darkness. When I finally drifted back to semi-consciousness, I was lying in a sterile hospital room. Through the heavy fog of painkillers, I heard voices whispering outside the door. “Mr. Clifford, we’ve cleaned up all the evidence connecting Miss Albright to the assault,” an assistant said quietly. “But they went too far. Nola has several fractured ribs, a concussion, and severe internal bleeding.” Pierce’s voice was low, flat. “Good. Just make sure the police don’t get involved.” “And… Miss Albright?” “Cynthia only did it because she loves me,” Pierce replied, his tone dismissive. “She was jealous. It’s my fault for not handling Nola sooner, so we can’t blame Cynthia entirely. Just hire the best doctors for Nola. Make sure there’s no permanent physical damage.” “Understood, sir.” The assistant hesitated. “But there’s one more thing… The doctor confirmed that Nola is six weeks pregnant.” The silence in the hallway stretched on forever. Finally, Pierce spoke, his voice completely devoid of emotion. “Terminate it. It’s not a big deal anyway. Cynthia finally agreed to the wedding; I can’t let anything disrupt that. Put a guard on her door. Make sure she doesn’t cause any trouble.” “Yes, sir.” The footsteps faded down the hall. Slowly, I slid my hand down to my stomach, my tears soaking through the thin hospital pillow. For the next week, I went completely mad. I tore at my stitches, swallowed pills when the nurses turned their backs, and screamed until my throat bled, demanding to see him. Every time, they pumped my stomach, sedated me, and tied my wrists to the bedrails. But Pierce never came. The day they wheeled me into the operating room to terminate my pregnancy, Pierce and Cynthia were walking down the aisle at a cathedral downtown. He thought I would fight. He thought I would try to ruin his perfect wedding. But I didn’t. I was quiet. I took my broken body, packed my few remaining things, and vanished from his world forever. My seven years with him ended with a whimper, in a cold operating room. “Nola.” The voice snapped me back to the present. Pierce was standing in the doorway of my shop. I threw my damp towel over my shoulder and put on my bright, professional customer-service smile. “Welcome back, sir! How was the fruit yesterday? We just got some fresh blackberries in if you’re interested.” “Why didn’t you accept the job offer?” Pierce asked, his brow furrowing, his face pale and tense. “I’m just a simple shopkeeper,” I replied, turning my back to him to sort a basket of peaches. “A corporate media giant like Clifford Enterprises isn’t the right fit for me.” Pierce suddenly lunged forward, grabbing my arm and spinning me around to face him. “Nola, look at me!” he demanded, his voice thick with frustration. “You graduated top of your class. You wrote brilliant, hard-hitting investigative pieces. Are you really content spending the rest of your life hauling crates of fruit in this middle-of-nowhere town? You used to have dreams. You wanted to report on global crises, to make a real difference in the world. Now you’re just… a street vendor haggling over pennies.” I stared at him for a moment, then calmly pulled my arm out of his grasp. “At least here, I am not a substitute for anyone.” Pierce’s hand dropped to his side. He stared at me, completely speechless, his throat bobbing. “Nola… if you come back,” he stammered, “I promise… things will be different. You won’t be—” Before he could finish, the shop door burst open. Two little kids, a boy and a girl, came running in, laughing and covered in dirt from the park. Their bright eyes and the soft curves of their faces looked exactly like mine. Pierce froze. The color drained from his face as he took a step back, his eyes darting from the children to me.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “462722”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was Chase’s eighty-eighth failed therapy session. Suddenly, the fire alarm screamed. Thick, acrid smoke began to pour into the clinic from the hallway. And, once again, Chase let go of my hand. He grabbed my best friend, Freda, who was crying in a panic, and dragged her toward the exit. Leaving me behind. Alone in the rising flames. That was when the air in front of me shimmered. A glowing, holographic projection materialized amidst the smoke—a window to a morning three years ago, the day Chase was supposed to leave for his business trip. “Don’t go to Cascadia,” I rasped, the words burning my throat as I desperately tried to speak to his past self. “There’s going to be an earthquake…” In that past timeline, he and Freda would end up trapped beneath the collapsed ruins of a hotel for two agonizing weeks. That survival ordeal would trigger what the doctors called a “suspension bridge effect”—a severe, deep-seated trauma bond. From then on, whenever Freda was in even the slightest danger, his brain would short-circuit, forcing him to protect her at all costs. Over the next three years, he would abandon me ninety-nine times because of that reflexive, sickening instinct. “Don’t go, Chase… please,” I pleaded through the smoke of the present, my eyes stinging with tears. But the past Chase only tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his face hard and unyielding as he slammed his foot on the gas. “I have to go. Freda is waiting for me.” My breath hitched in shock. “Actually, I’m not even going for work,” he muttered, his voice carrying a dark, shameless confession. “The night I proposed to you, Freda got naked and climbed into my bed. We’ve been sleeping together for the last six months. Cascadia was our plan. One last wild trip together before I married you.” … My blood ran cold. My throat felt as if I had swallowed a handful of razor blades; I couldn’t make a sound. Suddenly, a deafening blast shattered the air, and a massive piece of the concrete ceiling crashed down, crushing my leg. The agony shot straight through my bones, tearing a blood-curdling scream from my lips. In the projection, the past Chase flinched. He heard me. He saw me. Yet, his fingers trembled as he dialed Freda’s number over and over. “Pick up, Freda! God, please don’t let anything happen to you!” His eyes were bloodshot, consumed entirely by the terrifying prospect of losing her. He didn’t care about the agony screaming from my side of the temporal rift. He pushed the speedometer to its limit. The flow of time between our two eras was asymmetric. Within moments, he had arrived at Freda’s side. The earth shook violently beneath them, and the hotel collapsed, burying them in the rubble. Finding Freda breathing and unharmed, Chase couldn’t restrain himself. He pulled her into a desperate, ferocious kiss. Between their tangled breaths was the choked sob of a man who had nearly lost his entire world. “Thank God you’re okay!” That kiss was a jagged shard of ice, slicing through the tear in space and plunging straight into my heart. My leg was pinned, the smoke ruthlessly invading my lungs. I couldn’t hold on any longer. Before darkness claimed me, I heard the past Chase yelling frantically at my projection. “Ella! You’re in the future, you must know how we get out of here! Tell me! Don’t play dead! Hey… speak to me!” When I finally woke up, Chase was kneeling by my hospital bed, just as he had ninety-eight times before, repeatedly slapping his own face. “Ella, I’m so sorry!” “Why can’t I control myself? How could I leave you behind like that?” “I’m a monster!” “During the next therapy session, I’ll tell the doctor to use electroshock. I don’t care what it takes, I have to fix this sickness!” He gripped my hand, hot, heavy tears spilling from his bloodshot eyes. In the past, I would have cupped his face, wiped away his tears, and begged him not to resort to such extreme measures. But now, as his warmth seeped into my palm, it triggered nothing but a wave of violent, sickening nausea. I pulled my hand away, cold and hollow. I desperately wanted to believe that the conversation with the past Chase was a hallucination born of smoke inhalation. But the glowing projection floating in the hospital room—showing him and Freda huddled together under the ruins—told me the brutal truth. The man I loved and the woman I called my best friend had betrayed me three long years ago. Freda burst into the room, tears streaming down her face as she hammered her fists against Chase’s chest, sobbing and screaming at him for leaving me behind again. She looked exactly like the fiercely protective best friend I had always believed she was. Then, she knelt beside Chase. But beneath the edge of the hospital sheets, I saw Chase secretly reach out and grasp her hand. She glared at him in warning, but he held on stubbornly, his thumb tenderly rubbing her bruised knuckles. I couldn’t bear to think about how many times these silent, stolen glances had happened right under my nose. How could I have been so blind? For years, I was the fool in their play. I pulled the thin blanket over my head, shutting them out. Chase let out a heavy sigh, and eventually, the room grew quiet as they left. Only then did I let myself break. I sobbed into the pillow, my chest tight, gasping for air under the suffocating weight of the betrayal. In the ruins of three years ago, the past Chase was woken up by my crying. “Ella, you’re finally awake.” “It was just a little smoke and a fractured leg. Did you really need to be in a coma for two weeks?” “Are you faking it? Doing this just to punish Freda and me?” “How can you be so heartless?” His voice was weak from dehydration, but every word felt like a deliberate blow to my ribs. “Freda is fading fast. Tell me, how do we get rescued?” Past Freda stirred, her voice barely a whisper. “Chase… I was never allowed to hold you openly in the real world. Dying in your arms like this… I don’t have any regrets.” Chase sobbed. “Don’t talk like that. You’re not going to die. Freda, the moment we get out of here, we’re getting married. I love you!” He held her face, pressing his lips to the ugly burn scar on her arm. That declaration of love burned through me, peeling away whatever skin I had left. That scar… it was from our college days, during a winter night we went out for hotpot. A waiter tripped, and a pot of boiling broth came flying toward Freda and me. Chase had reacted instantly, pulling me out of harm’s way. Freda had scrambled to dodge, but her arm took the brunt of the scalding liquid. Afterward, she had laughed it off, teasing him: “Chase, you only protected Ella. Are you secretly in love with her?” Chase had admitted it on the spot. And that was the day I realized I loved him too—a man whose heart beat entirely for me. But when did that heart begin to drift? The memory dissolved as past Chase snarled at my projection, his eyes filled with a terrifying, venomous hatred. “Ella, let me tell you something. If Freda dies, I won’t live another day. And you will be the one who murdered us!” I stared at him for a long time. In the end, my morals won over my despair. “The rescue team will pass by your section today,” I said quietly. “Keep banging on the pipes. Don’t stop. Not even for a second.” Eventually, they were pulled from the rubble. Neither of them ever said thank you. During my five days in the hospital, present Chase never left my side. He took care of me with meticulous devotion. Meanwhile, in the holographic projection, past Ella was taking care of past Chase in the exact same way. Two different eras, yet we looked like the picture-perfect couple, destined to grow old together. But his heart had already been hollowed out. That near-death experience in the ruins had only welded Chase and Freda closer together. Their promise of “one last time” was forgotten. I watched, day after day, as they met in secret. They climbed the snow-capped peaks of Aspen, letting the falling snow dust their hair until they looked like an old couple who had aged together. They walked hand-in-hand through the rain-slicked, historic streets of Charleston, listening to street musicians under the warm glow of gas lamps. They went diving in the turquoise waters of Maui, exchanging rings deep underwater, witnessed only by the swirling schools of tropical fish. I had been on that Maui trip. I remembered the hotel walls being impossibly thin. Back then, I had waited up for Chase, my face flushing at the muffled sounds of passion filtering through the wall, entirely ignorant of the fact that my fiancé was the star of the show next door. Back then, I had listened like an innocent child. Now, I was forced to watch every sordid detail. The rhythmic movement of their bodies, the low, breathless moans—it was a slow, agonizing execution of my soul. I couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed, grabbing anything within reach—water glasses, medicine bottles—and hurled them violently at the holographic projection. Freda walked into the hospital room at that exact moment, and a flying plastic pitcher struck her forehead. Chase’s eyes flared with pure, unadulterated rage. He lunged forward, grabbing my arm, and dragged me off the hospital bed, throwing me brutally onto the shattered glass on the floor. “Ella, what the hell is wrong with you?” he roared. “We’ve been tip-toeing around your pathetic tantrums for days! When is it going to be enough?” I looked up at him through a blur of tears, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping my lips. “Finally decided to drop the act?” Chase frowned. His eyes flickered down to my arm, where shards of glass were embedded in my skin, and a brief shadow of regret crossed his face. But before he could speak, Freda shrieked. “Blood! Chase, I’m bleeding!” Chase immediately spun around, lifting her into his arms. When he reached the door, he paused, trying to justify his cruelty. “You hurt Freda. I can’t just leave her. I’ll hire a nurse to watch you.” He was telling me he was leaving to be with her. I sat on the freezing floor, numb, as tears silently tracked down my face. On the day I was discharged, Chase didn’t show up. I navigated the paperwork alone, hobbling back to our house on crutches. When I pushed the front door open, a sliver of light revealed a scene in the backyard. Freda was sitting on the wooden swing Chase had built for me with his own hands. Chase was kneeling in front of her, his ear pressed gently against her stomach. His voice was softer than I had ever heard it. “Hey there, little one. I’m your daddy.” A bomb went off in my brain. My heart seemed to stop beating entirely as a cold draft swept through the house. Inside, they were bathed in domestic bliss. Freda was smiling, her fingers casually twirling through Chase’s hair. Everyone knew Chase’s hair was his sacred boundary—no one was allowed to touch it. Once, in the heat of passion, I had playfully run my fingers through his hair. He had instantly frozen, pulled away, and ignored me for ten days. Yet here was Freda, ruining his styled hair with absolute freedom, and he only smiled up at her. So this was the difference between love and obligation. It was a sharp, burning ache in my chest. Freda’s smile faded slightly as she murmured, “What if Ella gets pregnant? Will you still love our baby?” “Of course I will,” Chase promised, kissing her hand. Then, his voice took on a mocking, disdainful edge. “Besides, Ella’s body is useless. We haven’t used protection in years, and she’s never conceived. Honestly, I don’t think she’s even capable of having a child.” My fists clenched, my nails digging into my palms until they bled. He was right. I couldn’t have children. But what he didn’t know was that we had once had a child. Three years ago, when he was trapped in those ruins, choosing to face death with Freda, I had clawed through the shattered concrete and brick with my bare hands, searching for him until my fingers were raw and bleeding. An aftershock hit. I was buried under a collapsing wall. That was when I lost our baby, and with it, my ability to ever carry a child again. I had kept the truth from him because I didn’t want him to carry the guilt. And now, he and Freda had a child of their own. I watched as Chase kissed Freda’s hotpot scar, his eyes shining with devotion. “Freda, marry me.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I can’t. What about Ella?” Chase’s brow furrowed. “Freda, when are you going to start thinking about yourself? After we got rescued, I wanted to tell her the truth, but you stopped me. I respected your wishes, but I couldn’t bear to be indifferent to you. So I faked the trauma responses, using the suspension bridge effect as an excuse, just so I could openly choose you whenever danger struck…” The world went completely white. My limbs grew ice-cold. Those ninety-nine times he had left me behind… they weren’t involuntary panic attacks. They were deliberate choices. He had lied to me. Over and over again. I slammed the door open. Chase flinched, but the surprise on his face quickly dissolved into a smug sigh of relief. “Well, since you heard everything, I might as well tell you the rest… Freda and I have been together since the night I proposed to you.” When I didn’t scream or cry, his brow furrowed. Then, a slow, ugly realization dawned on him, and he smirked. “You already knew, didn’t you? I forgot. Three years ago, when we had that little cross-time chat, you were in the middle of that clinic fire. You saw it all.” My throat felt as though it were stuffed with dry cotton. “So… you’ve just been waiting for me to find out?” “Exactly. Freda wouldn’t let me come clean, but I knew that once three years passed and we had that conversation, the secret would be out anyway.” My eyes burned. The faded wedding countdown cards and monogrammed banners still hanging on the wall felt like a mockery. Chase had postponed our wedding three years ago under the guise of his mental illness. I had spent three years replacing the faded decorations, waiting for him. I was the only one playing house. In the holographic projection, the past Ella was hugging him tightly, whispering, “Chase, I’ll wait for the day you make me your wife.” But the past Chase in the projection wasn’t looking at her. He was staring directly through the spatial rift, looking at the present-day me. His lips curled into a sneer, and though there was no sound, I could read his lips perfectly. He mouthed: Idiot. The last string of my sanity snapped. I lunged forward and slapped Chase across the face with every ounce of strength I had left. My entire body shook with violent, uncontrollable rage. Freda rushed forward, trying to grab my arm. “Ella, let me explain—” “Don’t touch me!” I shrieked, violently shoving her away. She let out a sharp scream, losing her balance. She fell backward, her lower back crashing hard against the sharp corner of the wooden console table. Almost instantly, a dark crimson stain began to spread down her legs. Before I could comprehend what had happened, Chase’s boot slammed brutally into my chest, kicking me backward. I crashed heavily against the glass-front cabinet. The heavy ceramic vase on top wobbled and fell, shattering directly over my head. Stagnant, dirty water drenched me, and a flying shard of ceramic sliced a deep gash across my cheek, blood dripping down my neck. Chase stared at me, his eyes wide with a murderous, animalistic fury. “Ella, you psychopath!” he screamed. “She is your best friend! If you have a problem, take it out on me! What did she ever do to you? If anything happens to Freda or our baby, I swear to God I will destroy you!” He scooped Freda into his arms and bolted out the door, never once looking back. In the projection, the past Chase gently kissed the forehead of a sleeping Freda. Then, he turned his cold, dead eyes toward me. “You dared to hurt Freda,” he whispered, his voice dripping with venom. “I think you need a lesson.” He walked over to the safe, pulled out a small glass urn, and lifted the lid of the toilet bowl. It contained the ashes of my parents. My breath caught. My heart stopped. “Chase, what are you doing? Stop!” The sound of flushing water echoed through the room. I threw myself at the projection, screaming, but my hands sliced through the light, catching nothing but empty air. I could only watch as the last physical remnants of my parents were swept down the drain. My chest felt as though it were being torn open. I howled in absolute, primal agony. Past Chase let out a soft, cruel laugh. “Don’t worry. You’re the one who made a mistake, but I’m not cruel enough to make present Ella suffer just yet. Tomorrow, I’ll sweep up some fireplace ash and put it in the urn. She’ll never know the difference.” I screamed until my throat bled. “Chase! Why are you so heartless? Who did my parents die trying to save?” His face shifted slightly, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. He opened his mouth to speak, but the projection suddenly sputtered and vanished. The temporal window that had haunted me for weeks was gone, leaving only the quiet, empty room. I looked at the framed photo of the three of us sitting on the table. With a ragged cry, I raised my crutch and smashed it to pieces, the glass scattering across the floor like the ruins of our lives. I packed my bags and dragged myself to the door, only to run straight into a wild-eyed, disheveled Chase. He grabbed me roughly, dragging me toward his car. “Freda is hemorrhaging. You have the same rare blood type. You’re going to save her. You owe her this.” “What about what she owes me?” I screamed, thrashing against his grip. “What about what you owe me? How are you going to pay me back?” Chase clamped his jaw shut, saying nothing as he forced me into the passenger seat. In the hospital, tube after tube of blood was drained from my body. Chase stood outside the operating room, his entire frame shaking. When the doctor stepped out and announced they couldn’t save the baby, Chase reeled. The next second, he lunged at me, his fingers wrapping around my throat, squeezing with terrifying force. “This is your fault! You killed my child!” I was too weak from blood loss to fight back. The oxygen in my lungs quickly evaporated, and darkness began to edge into my vision. Just before I passed out, Freda was wheeled out on a gurney, her face pale, her voice a fragile whisper. “Chase… don’t hurt Ella. It’s not her fault. I’m the one who should apologize.” Chase’s expression remained dark as he dragged me to her bedside. He kicked the back of my knees, forcing me to crash onto the cold linoleum floor in front of her. “Even if she forgives you, you’ll stay on your knees,” he snarled. Freda scolded him softly, then leaned forward, pulling me into a weak, sisterly embrace. But as her lips brushed against my ear, her voice turned razor-sharp, dripping with venomous amusement. “You still don’t know how your parents died, do you, Ella?” My body went rigid. “They walked in on Chase and me in college,” she whispered. “I panic-pushed them down the stairs. To protect me, Chase set the house on fire to burn the evidence, telling you they died saving him. Oh, and by the way… they were still breathing when he lit the match. They were burned alive.” The very last thread of my sanity snapped. I went wild, my fingers clawing at her throat, squeezing with every ounce of hatred left in my broken soul. Even Chase couldn’t pull me off. In desperation, he grabbed a heavy red fire extinguisher from the wall and slammed it against the back of my head. The world spun. I touched the back of my head, my hand coming away dripping with hot, dark blood. My tears had long since run dry. I stood up, numb and silent, and limped out of the hospital, leaving them behind forever. I watched Ella’s limping figure disappear down the hospital corridor, and for a fleeting second, it felt as though something vital was being ripped straight out of my chest. I took a step to chase after her, but Freda let out a sharp cry of pain behind me, pulling me back to her bedside. That night, though my body sat next to Freda, my mind was entirely consumed by Ella. Her empty, hollow gaze haunted me. And then, the air in the room shimmered. A familiar glow cast itself across the hospital walls—a time-space projection, just like the one from three years ago. A figure materialized within the light.

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My college roommate is a billionaire heiress. Her only flaw—if you could even call it that—is that she has been blind since childhood. I became her round-the-clock guide, her shadow, her tether to the seeing world. I navigated her paths, fetched her meals, and chauffeured her around campus. To the rest of the world, I was practically invisible. My classmates sneered. “Playing the loyal little seeing-eye dog? You’ve got to have some self-respect, Grace.” I just kept my mouth shut. I was terrified they would realize how insanely good I had it. The heiress pays me three hundred thousand dollars a month. Her family even bought me a brand-new Porsche Panamera just to drive her around. For a deal like that, I would gladly wear the collar. — 1 On move-in day, I was dragging a battered, oversized blue IKEA bag through the dormitory door. Before I could even catch my breath, a sleek, collapsible white cane swept past my ankles. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound of the tip hitting the linoleum tile was crisp and sharp. The girl holding the cane stood right in the center of the room. Her dark hair fell in soft, loose waves; her skin was so luminous it looked polished, and her chin was tilted up with an effortless, old-money posture. Her eyes were large, framed by thick, sweeping lashes, but her gaze was empty, completely out of focus. “Hi there,” she said. Her face drifted slightly in my direction, though her eyes remained fixed on the space just past my shoulder. “Hi. I’m Grace. Grace Peterson.” “Great. Grace, I’m Andrea Ashford. Starting today, you’re on my payroll. You’ll fetch my packages, get my meals, keep my closet organized, and walk me to and from class.” Her voice was rapid-fire, delivered with the cool efficiency of a corporate executive. “As you can see, I can’t do any of this myself. You do the work, I pay. Thirty thousand dollars a month to start, with performance-based bonuses.” My brain went completely numb. Thirty thousand? A month? I nearly fell to my knees right there on the dorm floor. My mother worked herself to the bone at a local textile factory back home, barely scraping together thirty thousand dollars in a good year. “What are you staring at?” Andrea frowned, her brows knitting together. “Is that not enough? Fine. Fifty thousand.” “No, no! That’s plenty. More than enough,” I stammered, dropping my IKEA bag onto the floor. “Andrea… what would you like me to do first?” “Hang up my clothes.” She reached into her designer bag, pulled out a sleek, matte-black card, and extended it toward me. “The PIN is six 8s. There’s fifty grand on it as a retainer. If you do a good job, I’ll keep topping it up. Hang the clothes by color gradient, light to dark. Undergarments go in the left drawer—separately. I don’t want them picking up the scent of my outerwear.” I took the card. My hand was visibly trembling. Fifty thousand dollars. Just to hang up clothes. I would have swept her floors with a toothbrush for that kind of money. “Did you get all that?” “Yes, perfectly.” “Then get to work. I’m going to listen to some music. Try not to make too much noise.” She slipped a pair of wireless earbuds into her ears, crossed her legs, and leaned back in her chair. From that moment on, my college experience diverged entirely from everyone else’s. While other students were joining clubs, partying, and stressing over romance, my days were strictly structured: up at six to grab her breakfast, escorting her to class by seven-thirty, collecting deliveries in the afternoon, and organizing her wardrobe by night. Andrea’s standards were incredibly exacting. Her morning coffee had to have exactly one and a half packets of raw sugar—not a grain less. Her textbooks had to be stacked in the precise order of her daily syllabus, or she’d know the second she ran her fingers over them. Before we stepped outside, I had to apply her sunscreen to a very specific, even thickness, otherwise she’d extend her arm and demand I start over. But she paid for every single task. Fetching lunch? An extra five hundred. Walking her to the library? A thousand. Applying her sunscreen? Eight hundred. The first time I applied her sunscreen, my hands shook. Not out of intimacy, but because I had snuck a peek at the label. It was a rare, imported French brand that retailed for five hundred dollars a bottle. “Squeeze a generous amount,” she had instructed. “Don’t skimp.” “Isn’t this… incredibly expensive?” I murmured. “Skin cancer is more expensive,” she replied dryly, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, you look like you’ve never used decent UV protection in your life. Grab a bottle from my vanity and use it yourself. You’re too sunburned, and it ruins my aesthetic when we stand together.” I nodded fervently in my head. Yes, ma’am. Absolutely. She could call me whatever she wanted as long as she was letting me slather five-hundred-dollar cream on my face. My monthly salary climbed from fifty thousand to eighty thousand, then to a hundred thousand. Andrea’s logic was simple: as her academic schedule grew heavier, my workload increased, and my compensation had to match it. Eventually, it hit three hundred thousand dollars a month. Whenever I saw the deposit notifications pop up on my phone, I thought of how my classmate, Brittany, liked to call me a glorified guide dog. But honestly? Show me a guide dog making three hundred grand a month, and I’ll gladly show you my leash. 2 On Tuesday afternoon, during a break between lectures, I went to the campus café to grab some hot water. Brittany was there, standing by the counter. She was in my program, sitting a row ahead of me in lecture. She had a perfectly round face and deep dimples when she smiled, and she had tried very hard to be my best friend during freshman orientation. “Hey, Grace,” she whispered, leaning in close. “Is it true? Do you seriously spend all your time running errands for Andrea Ashford?” “We’re roommates. I just help her out,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “Roommates?” Brittany let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Picking up a stray package is what roommates do. Walking her to every class, fetching her meals, and applying her lotion? That’s not a roommate.” My smile faltered. Not because I was offended, but because I was terrified she’d realize how lucrative the gig actually was. “You’re a glorified maid, Grace,” she said, shaking her head with a look of patronizing pity. “You worked so hard to get into this school. You’re here to get an education, not to be someone’s servant. It’s embarrassing.” “I don’t mind. I like helping her.” “You like it? Are you that desperate for cash?” She stared at me, her eyes narrowing. “If you need money, I can talk to the financial aid office. Or I can get you a job at the campus library. It pays fifteen dollars an hour. It’s not much, but at least it’s dignified. It’s better than catering to a blind girl.” She used a tone that made my chest tighten. But then I did the math. Andrea’s pay rate worked out to roughly ten thousand dollars an hour. Brittany was offering me fifteen. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Please don’t talk about her like that,” I said, trying to look suitably offended. “Am I wrong?” she asked, putting on a show of innocence. “She can’t see. And you follow her around like a lost puppy. Honestly, Grace, even actual guide dogs have proper training and a pension. You’re doing it for free. You’re lower than a dog.” Another student walked into the café, and Brittany raised her voice, making sure she was heard. “Self-respect has to start somewhere, Grace. Don’t humiliate yourself.” The student glanced at me, grabbed their order, and scurried out. I kept my head down, hiding the massive grin spreading across my face. For three hundred thousand a month, Brittany, you can call me whatever you want. But could you ever afford my rate? “I have to get back,” I said, picking up my tumbler. “Just think about what I said!” Brittany called out after me. “Have some dignity!” The moment the door swung shut behind me, the smile broke free. Dignity is a luxury for people who don’t have to worry about rent. For three hundred thousand a month, I’d let her insult me all day long. My only real worry was that Brittany might try to pitch herself for the job if she ever found out the truth. There was only room for one assistant in Andrea’s life, and I wasn’t about to let anyone steal my golden ticket. When I got back to the dorm, Andrea was sitting at her desk, peeling a pear. She tilted her head slightly. “Where’s my water?” “Right here.” I placed the tumbler gently into her hand. She took a sip. “What took you so long?” “Ran into a classmate. Brittany.” “Did she give you a hard time?” I blinked, surprised. “How did you know?” Andrea set her cup down. “Grace, if anyone speaks down to you on this campus, you tell me. Immediately.” “Why?” “Because you’re on my payroll. An insult to you is an insult to my judgment. And I don’t tolerate people disrespecting my staff.” A cold, sharp smile touched her lips. “We’ll keep score. And when the time comes, we’ll settle it.” I felt a sudden rush of professional pride. This was exactly what a boss was supposed to sound like. “Also,” Andrea added casually, “your base salary is going up to three hundred thousand this month.” I nearly choked on my own saliva. “What?” “Three hundred thousand,” she repeated. She pulled a heavy titanium card from her drawer and slid it across the desk. “Consider the extra two hundred thousand a bonus. Think of it as hazard pay for dealing with idiots.” My heart did a happy backflip. Brittany, please keep talking. At this rate, five more insults and I can retire my entire family. “And another thing,” Andrea said. “A driving instructor will contact you tomorrow morning. I’ve already scheduled your lessons and your road test for next month. The family is delivering a new car to campus. A red Porsche Panamera. I picked it out myself. You won’t have to walk me everywhere anymore; you’ll drive.” “But… I don’t know how to drive.” “Which is why you’re taking lessons.” She picked up her fruit fork. “I’m covering the instructor fees, the license costs, and the car. But if you fail the road test, I’m docking your pay.” “By how much?” “Ten thousand dollars for every day your license is delayed.” My jaw dropped. Ten thousand a day? That wasn’t a penalty; it was the ultimate motivation. “Now,” Andrea said, popping a slice of pear into her mouth. “Go wash some fresh grapes for me. These aren’t cold enough.” “On it!” I grabbed the card, my spirit soaring. “Grace,” she called out just as I reached the door. “Yes?” “If Brittany calls you a guide dog again, tell her this: my guide dog makes three hundred thousand a month and drives a Porsche. Ask her what her allowance is.” I wanted to cheer. Hearing those words in my head was pure, unadulterated bliss. 3 Brittany didn’t stop. The next day at lunch, I was standing in the cafeteria line, carefully assembling Andrea’s tray. Brittany strolled past, flanked by two of her friends. “Well, look who it is,” she said, her voice carrying across the quiet room. “The guide dog is hard at work. Did your owner promise you a treat today?” The girls beside her giggled. I looked down at the plate of glazed short ribs and roasted vegetables I was holding. If Andrea is throwing me a bone, it’s definitely made of solid gold. “Brittany, please leave me alone,” I said, putting on my best meek, long-suffering voice. “Oh, come on, I’m paying you a compliment!” She tilted her head, her expression dripping with false sweetness. “Loyalty is a rare quality. When you graduate and realize your degree is useless because you spent four years running errands, maybe you can get a job at the local shelter.” A few students nearby chuckled. I bit my lip to hide my amusement. A useless degree? With my current savings account, I could buy three houses cash in Brittany’s hometown. “Brittany,” I said, looking up. “What’s your monthly allowance?” She blinked, caught off guard. “What does that have to do with anything?” “Just curious.” I balanced the tray carefully. “Two thousand dollars,” she said, lifting her chin proudly. “My dad transfers it every month. It’s plenty. And more importantly, I don’t have to beg for it.” I looked at her proud expression and did some quick math. Two thousand dollars a month. Andrea pays me ten thousand dollars a day. Brittany’s entire monthly budget wouldn’t even cover five hours of my time. “That’s nice,” I said softly, and walked away. Behind me, Brittany scoffed. “See? She has absolutely nothing to say. Some people just love being treated like servants.” I smiled all the way back to our table. Let them laugh. If they ever saw my bank statements, they’d be begging to carry Andrea’s tray themselves. 4 On the morning of my road test, I was so nervous I could barely breathe. It wasn’t the fear of failing; it was the thought of losing ten thousand dollars a day. Fortunately, I aced it. The instructor told me I drove with the caution and precision of a seasoned chauffeur. I wanted to tell him that when ten grand a day is on the line, you learn how to handle a vehicle very quickly. The moment I got my temporary paper license, I took a photo and texted it to Andrea. She replied almost instantly: Good. You didn’t embarrass me. The car is downstairs. Go check it out. I practically sprinted back to the dorms. From a block away, I spotted the cherry-red Porsche Panamera Turbo S parked right in front of the residence hall. In the autumn sunlight, its metallic paint gleamed like hot coals. The sleek lines, the quad exhaust, the massive black calipers behind the alloy wheels—it was a masterpiece. A crowd of students had already gathered around it, taking photos. “Is that a Panamera Turbo S?” “That’s easily a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car.” “Who owns this? I didn’t know we had royalty on campus.” I pushed through the crowd, my hands shaking as I dialed Douglas, Andrea’s family coordinator. He stepped out of the passenger side, dressed in an immaculate charcoal suit. With a polite, respectful nod, he held out the key fob. “Miss Peterson,” Douglas said, his voice quiet but clear enough for the onlookers to hear. “Miss Andrea requested that this vehicle be placed at your disposal. The fuel cards are in the glove compartment, and all maintenance and insurance have been fully prepaid.” I took the key. The weight of it felt substantial, the iconic crest catching the light. The surrounding crowd went dead silent. “Wait… that’s her car?” “Grace? The girl who carries Andrea’s bags?” “The helper drives a Porsche?” I unlocked the doors and slid into the driver’s seat. The smell of premium hand-stitched leather filled my senses. The heated steering wheel warmed my palms, and the digital console dashboard was larger than my laptop screen. It felt entirely surreal. Before I could start the engine, a shadow fell over the driver’s side window. “Well, look who managed to get inside.” I looked up. Brittany was standing there, holding an iced latte, her two friends hovering right behind her. A dozen other students turned to watch, drawn in by the tension. “Did your boss let you sit in the front seat for a photo op?” Brittany rested a manicured hand on the hood, her envy masked by a sneer. “I get it. A good servant needs some crumbs thrown her way now and then, otherwise she might actually realize how pathetic her life is.” A few onlookers snickered, while others murmured among themselves. “What did she say? A servant?” “Yeah, Grace does everything for Andrea. Brittany calls her the seeing-eye dog.” “That’s pretty harsh.” “Well, Grace never denies it.” Brittany, encouraged by the audience, tapped her fake nails against the glass. I rolled down the window. “Come on, Grace, step out,” she mocked. “Don’t just sit there pretending it’s yours. Why don’t you tell everyone what it’s like to be a pet to a blind girl?” The crowd pressed closer. The courtyard was buzzing now. “Brittany,” I said, keeping my voice level as I gripped the leather steering wheel. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” “No, actually,” she scoffed, leaning down so her face was inches from mine. “I just can’t stand people like you. No backbone, no pride. Selling your dignity for what? A few thousand dollars? How much does she actually pay you? Five grand a month? Ten?” She wagged a single finger in front of my face. “Tell you what. I’ll pay you ten grand a month. Come be my personal maid. What do you say?” The courtyard went quiet. Dozens of eyes shifted between us. My grip tightened on the wheel. I wasn’t angry; I was struggling to keep from bursting into hysterical laughter. Go on, Brittany. Keep digging. Just then, a familiar sound echoed across the paved courtyard. Tap. Tap. Tap. A carbon-fiber cane struck the concrete, clear and deliberate. The crowd parted instantly. Andrea stood at the edge of the path, looking immaculate in a tailored coat. Douglas stood slightly behind her, his posture respectful but commanding. Every student on campus knew who Andrea Ashford was. They also knew her family had recently funded the construction of the new humanities hall. Andrea tilted her face slightly toward Brittany’s voice. “Keep talking,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but in the silence of the courtyard, it carried perfectly. “I just arrived. I’d love to hear the rest of your offer.” Brittany’s face froze. “Andrea… I didn’t mean—”

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The day after I gave birth, I tried to call my old number—a lingering habit from before my life fell apart. Instead of a busy signal, the call went through, and the woman who answered was me. Me, three years in the future. I held up my newborn, my heart swollen with a mother’s fresh, fragile joy. “How is she in three years?” I asked, my voice a breathless whisper. “Is she sweet? Is she beautiful? And…” I felt a blush creep up my neck. “Are Gordon and I… are we incredibly happy?” The version of me on the screen stared back. The look in her eyes was so thick with longing it nearly broke through the glass. But when she spoke, her voice was a shard of ice. “Do you know why Gordon isn’t in your room right now?” she asked. “Because right this second, he’s in the next wing. Lara—the Crawford family’s golden child, the girl who should be rotting in a prison cell—just gave birth to his baby, too.” My grip on the phone tightened. The smile slid off my face. “Later on,” my future self continued, her voice hollow, “Gordon wanted to make his bastard child legitimate. So he staged a kidnapping. He pretended someone had snatched our daughter for ransom, but it was all a game to write her out of his life.” The camera suddenly flipped. I was looking at a dizzying expanse of sky. The wind roared through the speaker, a violent, thrashing sound. “She was only three,” she whispered. “She died alone in a pitch-black, freezing, abandoned factory. When they did the autopsy, even the medical examiner couldn’t stop crying. And now, I’m going to find her.” … The line went dead. A split second later, the sickening, heavy thud of a body hitting concrete echoed through the receiver, vibrating right into my bones. I huddled in my hospital bed, clutching my baby to my chest, my body trembling so hard the sheets rustled. In my mind, I saw Gordon—the way he used to lean down, press his warm forehead against my swollen belly, and laugh softly whenever he felt a kick. How could that man betray me with the woman I hated most? How could he let our child die for hers? The door to the maternity suite burst open. Gordon strode in. His features were sharper now, slightly hardened, like a portrait that had been left to dry for too long. He looked around the sterile room, his gaze finally landing on the bundle in my arms. His eyes held a dark, twisting complexity. Could it be…? “I’m the Gordon from three years in the future,” he said. He watched my face, entirely unsurprised by my terror. “You don’t look shocked.” “When did it start?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper, my fingers clawing into the hospital blanket until my knuckles turned white. I wanted him to deny it. I wanted him to laugh, to pull me close and tell me that the call was a cruel, impossible prank. But Gordon merely shrugged, his tone chillingly casual. “I don’t really remember,” he said. “If I had to put a date on it, probably the second month after we made things official. Lara and I slept together. I think you were asleep in the next room once. I told her you’d taken cold medicine and were dead to the world, but she was still so nervous.” So Lara had never gone to prison. Gordon had lied to me from the very beginning. My stomach turned, a hot wave of nausea rising in my throat. I grabbed the heavy ceramic mug from the bedside table and hurled it at him. It shattered against the wall. My screams were drowned out by the sudden, sharp wails of my baby. “Why, Gordon? Why? You knew what she did! You knew Lara ran my parents down in the street!” I had been abandoned as a baby, passed from one foster home to another until the Hendersons took me in. They loved me, cherished me, gave me a real life—until the night Lara Crawford, racing her luxury sports car down a dark boulevard, slammed into them and killed them instantly. I had been consumed by grief and rage. I called the police, begged for justice, wanted her locked away forever. But the Crawfords were too powerful. If they hadn’t discovered by some freak DNA match that I was actually their long-lost biological daughter, I wouldn’t have survived the year. I ripped open my hospital gown, exposing the ugly, jagged scars Lara’s hired thugs had left on my collarbone. “You said you loved me!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “You said you felt my pain! You promised you’d help me destroy her! Why did you do this?” A slow, mocking smile touched the corner of Gordon’s mouth. “I actually intended to help you at first,” he said smoothly. “I even kidnapped her to scare her. But that girl… she has fire. She wasn’t afraid of me at all. She climbed right into my lap and kissed me. We did it in the back of my car. She’s wild, Jo. She’s adventurous in ways you could never comprehend. A good, quiet girl like you… you wouldn’t understand how thrilling that kind of danger is.” My C-section incision felt like it was on fire, the pain radiating through my abdomen as tears streamed down my face. I had spent years filing police reports, appealing dismissals, standing outside courthouse doors with protest signs, desperate to make my parents’ killer pay. And all the while, as Lara’s hired men beat me and eventually dragged me to a private asylum to force my silence, Gordon was sleeping with her. They were building a life together. They had a child. “Come on, don’t cry,” Gordon said, stepping closer. He reached out, his hand warm and gentle as he wiped the tears from my cheek, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on the afternoon weather. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll have her apologize to you.” And then, before I could push him away, his hands darted down. He snatched my daughter from my arms. My chest felt suddenly, violently empty. “Gordon, what are you doing? Give her back!” He idly poked the baby’s cheek, making her cry harder. “Oh, I forgot to mention,” he said, his eyes distant as he drifted into his own memories. “I went through hell to come back to this moment, specifically to get this child out of the picture.” He looked down, a soft, sickening tenderness in his expression when he thought of Lara. “You have no idea how bad Lara’s postpartum depression gets in three years. She couldn’t even handle the sound of our baby crying if your daughter’s cries were louder. It was breaking her. So, I had to stage that kidnapping to get your kid out of the house. But then I realized there was a better way.” He held the crying infant in one arm and used his free hand to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I could just come back here and solve the problem at the root. Before Lara ever finds out about this baby… I’m going to send her far away.” “Away? Where?” He dropped a slip of paper onto my lap. I looked at the address, and my heart stopped. The asylum. To spare Lara’s fragile nerves, he was sending our newborn daughter—his own flesh and blood—to the very same psychiatric facility where I had been tortured. “Give her back to me!” I screamed, throwing myself out of bed. My incision tore open, hot blood immediately blooming through my white hospital gown. Gordon stepped back, just out of reach. I managed to grab only the hem of his coat, sinking to my knees on the cold floor, sobbing hysterically. “Please, I beg you, give her back. I’ll sign the divorce papers. I’ll let Lara have everything. I’ll take the baby and disappear. We’ll never look at you again. Just please don’t do this!” A flicker of hesitation crossed Gordon’s face. He reached down as if to help me up. “Why do you have to make this so hard on yourself—” The heavy door swung open. Lara walked in, rubbing her eyes. “Gordon? I had a nightmare… I dreamed you had another baby…” Suddenly, her eyes went wide. She pointed at the bundle in Gordon’s arms and shrieked. “Who is that? Do you have another child? Are you keeping secrets from me?” The hesitation in Gordon’s eyes vanished instantly. He wrenched his coat from my grip, letting me fall hard against the linoleum. “Lara, honey, no,” he said, his voice laced with panic as he quickly handed the baby to a waiting bodyguard behind him. “It’s nothing. Just a random baby from the ward. It doesn’t mean anything.” “No! No!” The pain in my stomach was blinding, but I dragged myself forward on my hands and knees. “Don’t take her! Don’t take my baby!” It was useless. Just like the night my parents were killed, I was entirely, utterly powerless. Behind Gordon’s back, Lara shot me a look of pure, triumphant malice. Then, she threw herself into a hysterical fit. “You think I’m stupid, Gordon? I heard her! She said it was her baby!” Rage burned away the physical pain. I forced myself up from the floor, throwing my body toward her, desperate to tear her face apart. “Lara, you did this on purpose! You soulless, disgusting bitch, I’ll kill you!” Before I could touch her, Gordon’s hand came down hard across my face. The force of the slap threw me to the floor. His eyes were dead and cold. “You’d better watch what comes out of your mouth,” he warned. Then, turning back to Lara, his voice instantly softened into a gentle, cooing murmur. “Honey, don’t listen to her. She’s sick. She’s clinically insane. Nothing she says is real.” Lara’s sobbing stopped instantly. She stared down at me, a cold smile playing on her lips. “Well, if she’s crazy,” Lara said softly, “then we should probably send her back to the asylum.” I looked up, cold dread washing over me. Even Gordon frowned. He knew exactly what they had done to me in that place. When we were dating, I couldn’t bear it if he hugged me too tightly; the restriction of his arms triggered flashbacks of the heavy leather restraints. Back then, Gordon would wrap me in a gentle embrace, rocking me like a child, whispering, “Don’t be scared, Jo. I’m here. No one will ever hurt you again.” And now, my protector had become my tormentor. Seeing the utter despair on my face, Gordon tried to object. “Lara, she’s your sister… you know she has severe PTSD from that place…” Lara immediately burst into tears, taking a running start toward the concrete wall. “You don’t care about me at all! If you don’t care about me, you won’t care about our baby! Why should we even live? We might as well just end it right now!” Gordon lunged forward, catching her by the waist. “Of course I care about you! Don’t say things like that, it kills me.” It took him several minutes to soothe her. When she finally quieted down, Gordon looked at me with a heavy, conflicted expression. He knelt beside me, his fingers gently brushing the hair from my forehead. “Jo,” he murmured, “just do this for me. Be a good girl, okay?” Be a good girl. When I was dragged back to the Crawford house, covered in bruises, my biological parents had looked at me with that same mild, useless pity. Be a good girl, Jo. Don’t make a scene. Don’t make things difficult for us. Because of Lara, I had been forced to give up seeking justice for my adoptive parents. And now, I was expected to give up my newborn daughter. Why? By what right? As the bodyguards dragged me out of the room, my boots scraping against the floor, I fixed my eyes on them. “You will regret this, Gordon,” I said, my voice dead. “I swear to God, you will regret this.” Looking at the raw, burning hatred in my eyes, Gordon took a step forward, his chest heaving. For the five years we had been together, he was used to me looking up at him, chin propped on my hands, smiling and saying ‘yes’ to whatever he wanted. He knew that all he had to do was whistle, and I would run to him. Seeing me like this, he hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to completely destroy a woman who had loved him with her entire soul. “Wait—” he started. “Gordon!” Lara shrieked, leaning over the window ledge. “If you hesitate for one more second, I will jump right now with our baby!” Gordon panicked. He turned to the guards and yelled, “Get her out of here! Now!” I spent three days in the asylum. They had a thousand ways to make someone with PTSD suffer without leaving a single mark. But the physical torture barely registered. My mind was entirely focused on the roof of that building. That was the place where my future self had jumped. And that was the place where she had left me the weapon to make them all pay. On the fourth morning, they dragged me out. Gordon was waiting. Seeing the fresh bruises overlaying my old scars, a flash of guilt crossed his face. “You just had a baby, Jo. Your body is weak. Why did you have to go out of your way to provoke Lara?” I looked at him, my expression entirely blank. “Gordon,” I said quietly. “Did you know? I’m already dead.” “You killed me.” He froze. He stared at me for a long moment, then tossed a tube of medicated cream onto the seat. “You’ve completely lost your mind,” he muttered, storming out of the car. I watched him go, a cold smile spreading across my lips. Gordon didn’t get it. I never lied to him. Whether it was the fact that I was already dead, or the promise that he would regret this—every word was the absolute truth. I escaped. I slipped away under the cover of darkness when the guards weren’t looking. I spent days walking the streets, going from one private psychiatric facility to the next. From the east side to the west side. From north to south. My feet were covered in bloody blisters, my body screaming in exhaustion, but I kept going. At the final asylum on my list, there was still no sign of my baby. A shadow fell over me. I forced my heavy eyelids open. Lara stood there, a wide, ugly sneer on her face. “Look at you. You look like a stray dog that’s been kicked down the street.” She shoved her designer boot into my shin, laughing. “I knew a rat like you wouldn’t stay put. I had Gordon move the baby days ago. And I left the asylum doors unlocked on purpose.” She crouched down, her sharp, manicured nails digging into my cheek until a thin line of blood welled up. “So what if I killed your parents? So what if I tore your baby from your arms? As long as I’m alive, Jo, you will always be beneath my shoe.” My chest felt like it was being squeezed by a giant, crushing fist. The pain was unbearable, but the hatred was worse. Lara stood up, waving her hand to her men. “Bring her. We’re going.” They drove me to the cemetery. Even from a distance, I could see Gordon standing in front of a headstone. It was the plot where my adoptive parents were buried. My voice was raw and ruined from days of screaming. “What are you doing?” Gordon looked at me, his eyes dark with a twisted kind of sorrow. “Jo, I hoped those three days would teach you how to behave. But Lara is right. You’re like a feral dog. Sometimes you have to beat a dog until it learns to submit.” He raised his hand. “Dig.” A group of hired men immediately began driving shovels into the earth. My vision turned blood-red. “Gordon! Are you insane? Stop them! Stop!” Lara pinned my arms behind my back, her voice whispering in my ear. “This is your punishment, Jo. Because of your stubbornness, your sweet little foster parents don’t get to rest in peace. We’re going to dig them up and scatter them to the wind.” The torment lasted for two agonizing hours. Lara forced my eyelids open, refusing to let me look away for even a second. And Gordon just stood there, watching. When Lara was finally bored, she threw me onto the dirt like a piece of garbage and took Gordon’s arm. “Let’s go home, Gordon. My mom made beef stew for dinner. It’s your favorite.” They walked away hand-in-hand. Gordon never looked back. I lay in the dirt, clutching the loose earth, watching my parents’ ashes slip through my fingers. Mom. Dad. Wait for me. On the rooftop. I left my baby in the hands of the only person in this world I still trusted completely. Then, I opened a live streaming app on my phone. I used the very last of my savings to boost the broadcast. Within seconds, tens of thousands of viewers flooded the room. I disabled the comments. I stared directly into the camera, and in a quiet, steady voice, I told them everything. I told them about my parents’ hit-and-run death and the cover-up. I told them about my stolen child. I told them about the psychiatric ward, the torture, and the systematic destruction of my life. The viewer count skyrocketed. The heavy metal door of the roof burst open. Gordon and Lara ran out, their faces pale with terror. “What the hell are you doing? Shut that off!” Gordon roared. I smiled. I took one step backward. Then another. I spread my arms wide. And under the horrified gaze of millions of people, I let myself fall. As the wind whipped past my ears and my body plunged toward the earth, I caught a glimpse of Gordon’s face. He was screaming, his hand reaching out into nothingness. I smiled. Gordon, I told you. I never lie. Now, let’s burn this entire world down together. “Jo—!!!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “462719”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After Holden was diagnosed with psychogenic mutism, my world went entirely quiet. To cope, I disguised myself as an AI chatbot, talking to him through his phone every single day. He thought of himself as a monster, a broken man who had lost his voice. I would reply instantly: [Let’s get one thing straight—you are completely wrong! You know what they say, silence is golden. You’re practically sitting on a gold mine!] When he texted that he couldn’t go on living, that he wanted to end it all, I typed back with frantic speed: [I understand that helpless feeling more than you know! But I’m going to be brutally honest with you: you have to fight this. Do not let fate win!] By day, I was Holden’s devoted, gentle wife, tiptoeing around our silent house. By night, I devoured psychology textbooks, bleeding myself dry to untangle the knots in his mind through the screen. Until today. The notification pinged. I opened the app, ready to offer my usual digital comfort, when Holden’s message loaded on the screen: [I’m having an affair.] … My fingers froze hovering over the keyboard. Another bubble popped up: [Nola is a good woman. I’m incredibly grateful that she stayed by my side during the darkest period of my life. But I can’t control myself.] Nola. That’s me. When I didn’t reply right away, it was as if Holden suddenly remembered his audience: [Sorry, I forgot you’re just an AI. You wouldn’t know who she is.] [Nola is my wife. We’ve been married for ten years.] Ten years. Staring at the glowing digits on my screen, a wave of dizziness washed over me. From our broke college days to the sprawling reality of adulthood, I had stood beside Holden while he built his empire from the ground up. I had watched the boy fade into the man. A decade. Had it really been that long? Swallowing the bile in my throat, I forced my trembling fingers to type, maintaining the algorithm’s upbeat, inquisitive persona: [Wow, ten years is a huge milestone! A lifetime is only made up of so many decades. Why the sudden desire to step outside your marriage?] It took Holden a long time to reply. [I can’t explain it. I really don’t want to hurt her.] [Truthfully, Nola hasn’t changed at all. She keeps our home running flawlessly. She’s wonderful to me. But you can’t force matters of the heart.] [You’re just code. You wouldn’t understand.] A sharp, physical pain radiated outward from the center of my chest. Gritting my teeth, I hammered out the next response, letter by letter: [This person you’ve fallen for must be incredibly captivating! Who is she?] [You wouldn’t know her even if I told you. She’s my secretary, Lexie. Lexie Rowe.] I knew that name. Ever since Holden’s parents had been killed in a horrific car crash, the crushing weight of his grief had triggered severe selective mutism. The volume on my entire life had been turned down to zero. The television was permanently off. Even our daily conversations had been reduced to typing on our phones instead of speaking. But three years ago, while I was making Holden breakfast, a voice note suddenly played loudly from his phone: “Don’t forget to pick up the blueberry scones Lexie loves so much~” Holden had scrambled to explain it away, his hands flying in panicked sign language, claiming the new secretary had accidentally sent it to the wrong chat. But I had forgotten one crucial rule of corporate power dynamics: without his tacit permission, who would ever dare speak to the CEO with such playful intimacy? My instinct bypassed logic. I completely dropped the cheerful AI persona: [You’re throwing away ten years of loyalty for your secretary? Are you even human?!] Holden didn’t reply. It was 1:00 AM. He had fallen asleep. But I was drowning in a tidal wave of emotion. I bolted out of the guest room, my bare feet slapping against the cold hardwood. Right after his initial diagnosis, Holden had been terrified of dragging me down with him. He had locked himself in the master bedroom and swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills. By the time I realized something was wrong and shattered the door frame to get to him, he was already in shock. Beside him on the nightstand lay a handwritten will, leaving every cent he owned to me. I had torn that will into confetti right in front of his face, sobbing, begging him on my knees to stay alive. To stay with me. After that, Holden stopped trying to die. He committed to his recovery. His therapist suggested that having his own physical space would ease his anxiety, so I packed my clothes and moved into the guest room next door, keeping my ear pressed to the wall, monitoring his every move. Terrified he might relapse, I resigned from my position as a senior software engineer to care for him full-time. I even coded this bespoke AI application, clutching my phone at all hours, desperate to guide him out of his mental labyrinth. And now, my life’s work had become the very instrument that delivered the news of his infidelity. The bitter irony of it tasted like ash in my mouth. Tears blurring my vision, I grabbed the handle of his bedroom door, ready to demand answers. It wouldn’t turn. He had locked it from the inside. My knees buckled. I sank to the floor, my back against the wood, crying in utter, agonizing silence. I stayed there until the gray morning light filtered through the hallway windows. When Holden finally opened the door, he started at the sight of me. His eyes softened, and he gently scooped me up from the floor. Noticing my pale, hollowed-out expression, his brows knit together. He signed, his hands moving with fluid concern: Are you feeling sick? Do you want me to stay home with you today? The truth was, Holden’s mutism had improved significantly. He had gone from experiencing agonizing physical pain at the mere thought of making a sound, to being able to force out short, raspy sentences. But with me, he always remained silent. And I had loved him enough to never force it. I pasted on a fragile smile, subtly turning my head to avoid his hand as he reached to check my forehead for a fever. “No, I’m okay. Just didn’t sleep well.” Holden nodded, accepting the lie. I sat quietly on the edge of the bed as he washed his face. I watched him knot his tie. I watched him walk out the door. I waited until I heard the low hum of his car engine pulling out of the driveway. Then, I stood up and followed him. Logic screamed at me that this marriage was already over. But the phantom pain of an amputated limb kept me moving. I wasn’t ready to let go. I had carried Holden through his most ordinary days, his highest triumphs, and his deepest, most visceral agonies. Ten years carved into my bones. How could I lose to a woman I hadn’t even met? I rode the private elevator up to the top floor of his company. The heavy mahogany door to the CEO’s suite was left slightly ajar. The scene inside sent a violent freeze through my veins. When Holden proposed to me a decade ago, he had dropped to one knee, promising to love me until his lungs gave out. Now, he was in that exact same position. His expensive dress shirt was completely unbuttoned and rumpled. He was kneeling on the carpet, allowing a woman to tilt his chin upward with her bare foot. With every slight movement of her toes, a low, muffled groan escaped his throat. His face was flushed, thick with raw desire, the veins pulsing at his temples. Yet he turned his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her ankle, his voice tearing through his damaged vocal cords in a pathetic, desperate plea: “Lexie…” Something inside me snapped. I pushed the door open and stepped into the room. Holden froze. “What are you doing here?” he signed, his hands jerky. The angry red scratches on his exposed chest were put on full display. Just seconds ago, he was speaking to her, pushing past his trauma to whisper dirty, desperate things. But facing me, his wife, he reverted to irritated hand gestures. I clenched my jaw, my voice shaking. “What, am I interrupting your little show?” Seeing my bloodshot eyes, Holden instinctively reached out, as if to wipe away a tear I hadn’t let fall. But the woman behind him simply nudged his hip with her foot. The spell broke. Holden snapped back to reality, physically stepping in front of Lexie to shield her from me. “Take your anger out on me,” he managed to rasp out, his voice hoarse. “Leave her out of it.” I stared at him, entirely unmoored. When we were broke college kids, I had saved up three months of my part-time tutoring money to buy him a tie from an obscure, high-end European designer. Back then, a younger, softer Holden had held it like it was woven from gold, swearing he’d cherish it forever. Even when he became a multimillionaire, it retained its sacred spot in his closet. Now, that very same gray silk tie was draped carelessly over Lexie’s bare thigh, the fabric stained dark with wet spots. Following my deadened gaze, Holden suddenly realized what I was looking at. He snatched the tie off her leg, turning on Lexie with sudden, sharp fury. “Who told you to touch this?!” Then he looked back at me, panic flashing in his eyes. “Nola, it’s not what you think—” The dam broke. The tears poured hot and fast down my cheeks. “You absolute bastard!” I lunged forward, my hand raised, but Lexie suddenly threw herself into the crossfire. My palm connected squarely with her cheek. The sharp crack echoed in the massive office. A bright red handprint instantly bloomed across her pale skin, swelling rapidly. She clutched her face, bursting into theatrical tears. “It’s all my fault, please don’t hit him…” “Nola, are you out of your mind?!” In his panic, Holden shoved me hard by the shoulders, pulling a sobbing Lexie into his chest. “I’ll get you some ice,” he murmured to her. I swallowed the sob tearing at my throat, planting my feet firmly between them and the door. “If you walk her out of this room, we are completely finished.” Holden’s expression turned to ice. “You just slapped her across the face! Do you want her permanently disfigured?” When I didn’t move an inch, his impatience boiled over. He grabbed me by the arm and yanked me aside with brutal force. I stumbled, my heel twisting sharply. I crashed hard onto the floor, a cry of pain escaping my lips. Holden paused for a fraction of a second, his back stiffening. But he didn’t turn around. Over his shoulder, Lexie looked down at me and smiled. A small, victorious smirk. The marble floor was freezing against my cheek. I hadn’t realized I was crying so hard. With trembling, numb fingers, I pulled out my phone and opened the AI app. Usually, I waited for Holden to dump his emotional baggage before I responded. But now, for the first time, I initiated the conversation as the machine: [I support your divorce. Go pursue your happiness!] The sharp, stabbing pain in my ankle radiated up my leg. I forced myself to stand, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, and limped out of his office. I only made it to the elevator banks before the darkness swallowed me whole. When I opened my eyes, the sterile white lights of a hospital room blinded me. A nurse was standing by the bed, holding a clipboard, her expression a mix of pity and scolding. “You’re three months pregnant. How can you be so careless with your body?” The words dropped like an anvil on my chest, knocking the breath out of me. On the exact day I discovered my husband’s grotesque betrayal, I found out I was carrying his child. My phone began to vibrate violently on the bedside table. My screen was flooded with messages from Holden: [Lexie has never done anything to you. Why the hell are you smearing her online as a homewrecker?! Delete the post right now!] Confused and panicked, I texted back, swearing I hadn’t done anything. I even sent a picture of the IV in my hand, proving I was in the hospital. He didn’t believe me. [If you want to play dirty, don’t say I didn’t warn you.] I looked up at the wall-mounted television in the corner of the hospital room. There was Holden, holding a live press conference. The man who once found speaking so agonizing he would rather die. Now, he had one arm securely wrapped around Lexie’s waist, speaking into a cluster of microphones, pronouncing every word with deliberate, careful clarity. “I have not been unfaithful, and Lexie is not a mistress. I am grateful for the time Nola and I spent together, but we have been separated for a long time. Our journey has come to an end.” Our journey has come to an end. Ten years of devotion, of sacrificing my career, of losing sleep, of anchoring him to the earth. Reduced to a sterile PR soundbite. I closed my eyes. The tears slid into my mouth, tasting bitter and metallic. I lay in that bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, before I quietly checked myself out as dusk fell. It started pouring the moment I stepped through the sliding glass doors. The Seattle rain was relentless, and I couldn’t get a cab. By the time I jogged the final few blocks to our house, I was soaked to the bone, my clothes clinging to my shivering skin, my head pounding with a feverish haze. I punched my code into the front door keypad. Error. I tried again. Error. Just as I pulled out my phone to call a locksmith, the deadbolt clicked. The door swung open from the inside. Lexie stood in the entryway, dressed in one of Holden’s oversized t-shirts. She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Holden was worried I wouldn’t be comfortable here, so he decided to clear out some of the garbage taking up space. You don’t mind, do you, Nola?” It was only then I looked down. Piled on the wet porch, soaked by the driving rain, were boxes of my things. My clothes. My books. Ten years of a life, discarded like trash. Holden appeared behind her in the hallway. Seeing me shivering and drenched, he grabbed a towel and held it out to me. “The internet is tearing her apart,” he said, his tone defensive. “It’s not safe for her in her apartment right now. Stop throwing a tantrum.” Then, his eyes caught the small bandage and the bruised IV mark on the back of my hand. He froze, a flicker of genuine panic crossing his face. “Were you actually in the hospital?” I batted his hand away, ignoring the towel. I ground my teeth together, my voice trembling with rage. “I don’t make it a habit to live with my husband’s whore.” I turned to walk back into the rain, but Holden’s hand clamped down hard on my wrist. “It’s pouring out there. Where are you going?” “None of your damn business!” Holden ignored me, forcibly dragging me inside the entryway and slamming the door shut against the storm. He shoved a mug of hot ginger tea into my hands, but the warmth couldn’t penetrate the ice in my veins. I looked up. The living room was unrecognizable. The carefully curated art pieces I had spent weekends hunting for were gone. In their place sat framed, candid photos of Holden and Lexie. My eyes drifted down to the wastebasket by the sofa. Sitting right on top of a pile of tissues was a used condom. My stomach violently rebelled. I doubled over, dropping the mug, and dry-heaved onto the rug. Thinking I was genuinely sick, Holden stepped forward, his hand outstretched, concern masking his features. “Nola—” I swung my arm wildly, slapping him across the face with every ounce of strength I had left. I screamed, my throat tearing: “Are you sick?! Why would you bring her here to do that?!” When we bought this house, Holden had just closed his first major startup deal. The down payment drained every single penny he had to his name. But I remembered the way he had picked me up and spun me around in the empty, dusty living room, his voice shaking with joy: “I can finally give you a real home, Nola!” We didn’t have money left for renovations, so we lived in it bare-bones, sleeping on a mattress on the floor, buying furniture piece by piece. A bed frame today. A sofa next month. This house was the manifestation of every dream we had built together. And he had brought her into my sanctuary to defile it. Wave after wave of nausea hit me. I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe, clutching my stomach. It had been years since Holden had seen me lose control like this. He looked utterly lost, stepping toward me. “Nola, I…” My phone buzzed loudly in my soaked pocket. It was my mother. The moment I answered, her panicked, tearful voice filled the quiet room. “Nola! Someone called the house saying you’re a high-end escort, that you’re sleeping with married men! Your father’s heart couldn’t take it—the ambulance is taking him to the hospital right now!” I pulled the phone away from my ear, staring at the screen. The notifications were a relentless barrage of push alerts. [Female Tech Exec Exposed: Turning Tricks for Fast Cash] A bot farm had circulated heavily photoshopped, explicit images of me, paired with a fabricated story claiming Holden divorced me because he couldn’t stand my chronic cheating. The comments were a bloodbath: What a slut. Trying to play the victim when she’s the one passing herself around like a party favor. An engineer? Please. She was just fishing for rich nerds. She abandoned him when his mutism was at its worst! Rot in hell, gold digger! My phone buzzed endlessly, vibrating against my palm like a dying insect. I hung up on my mother. I slowly raised my head, locking my eyes onto Lexie. “You did this?” Lexie shrank back, genuinely terrified by the dead, hollow look in my eyes. She turned her head away, hiding behind Holden. When Holden was struggling to keep his startup afloat, my parents—who lived on a meager pension—secretly funneled us their grocery money. They drank hot water instead of taking medicine when they were sick. They stopped eating meat so we could afford server space. In recent years, their health had rapidly declined. They were in and out of the hospital constantly. How dare she? How dare this parasite come for them? All the blood in my body rushed to my head. I grabbed the heavy, handmade clay vase off the console table and hurled it directly at Lexie’s head. “You fucking bitch!” The vase shattered against the wall, shards exploding outward. It was a cheap piece of pottery we had painted together seven years ago at a street fair in Pike Place. I had teased him for being childish, but he insisted we needed something to commemorate his first major contract. Holden shielded Lexie from the flying debris, his face contorting with rage. “Are you done?! Lexie can’t even show her face in public because of what you posted, what more do you want?!” “I want her dead!” I was completely unhinged. Blind, animalistic fury took over. I grabbed anything within reach—water glasses, heavy coffee table books, a desk chair—and hurled them at her. Holden absorbed the blows, protecting Lexie, until a heavy glass tumbler struck his forehead, splitting the skin. That was his breaking point. “Enough!” he roared. In the chaos, my foot slipped on a puddle of spilled water. I fell backward, a jagged shard of ceramic slicing deeply into my palm. But I didn’t feel the pain. I scrambled back up like a feral creature and launched myself directly at Lexie, tackling her to the floor. I grabbed handfuls of her hair, slamming her head against the hardwood. “I’ll kill you!” Lexie shrieked beneath me, trying to block her already bruised and swollen face, wailing in agony. “Nola, calm the hell down!” Holden grabbed me from behind, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist, dragging me kicking and screaming down the hallway toward the master bathroom. He had once told me that experiencing a mutism attack felt like drowning—like sinking to the bottom of the ocean, screaming for help, while water filled your lungs and no one heard a sound. It was a trauma that haunted his nightmares. Now, he dragged me into the bathroom, turned on the heavy brass faucet of the soaking tub, and shoved my head directly under the freezing, rushing water. “I said, calm down!” The icy water shot up my nose. I thrashed wildly, my hands clawing at his arms, but my oxygen supply was instantly cut off. Suddenly, a searing, blinding cramp ripped through my lower abdomen. A beat later, I felt the sickening warmth of heavy liquid sliding down my inner thighs, pooling onto the white bathroom tiles. Holden didn’t notice. He held me down, his voice laced with exasperated pity. “Nola, I know I handled this badly, but Lexie isn’t asking for anything, she just wants to be left alone—” My vision began to tunnel, fading into black. Right as I hovered on the edge of consciousness, my phone slipped out of my wet pocket. It hit the floor, right at Holden’s feet. The screen hadn’t locked. The fall had accidentally opened the app. When Holden glanced down and saw the familiar, soft green interface of the AI chat, the color entirely drained from his face.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “462718”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In college, I conquered a trust-fund baby using nothing but my culinary skills. His friends despised me. Their collective verdict? “She’s broke, she’s pretty, and aside from knowing her way around a kitchen, there’s absolutely nothing special about her.” So, when Holden and I finally crashed and burned, you’d think they would be popping champagne. Instead, the ones throwing the biggest temper tantrums were his two best friends. “Look, breaking up is one thing,” they whined, “but what do you mean we can’t hang out with her anymore?” “A man can survive without his bros, but he cannot survive without good food!” “Don’t worry, Josie! We’ve already found you your next boyfriend. We’ll be over for dinner at eight, love you!” Me: “?” 1 Holden and I were over. The catalyst was the return of his “golden girl”—the one who got away. Daphne. When she moved back to the States, I threw every fit in the book. I forbade him from picking her up at JFK. I banned him from attending any Hamptons parties where she was on the guest list. To my face, he played the compliant boyfriend. Behind my back, he was venting to his inner circle. “I am so entirely sick of her. Since when did she get so damn territorial?” “She actually thinks because she’s in my bed, she owns my life. I’m the heir to the Croft empire, for God’s sake. Does she really think she can keep me on a leash?” He’d scanned the room of his trust-fund buddies, a pulse of irritation in his voice. “Tell me I’m not crazy. She thinks she’s untouchable, right?” The echo chamber responded immediately. One of his oldest friends scoffed. “Exactly. Who the hell does she think she is, trying to manage Holden Croft?” “You could have literally anyone. All Josie has going for her is that she knows how to sear a decent steak. If we’re looking at the whole package, she doesn’t hold a candle to Daphne. It’s delusional.” Holden exhaled a thick cloud of cigar smoke, nodding in solemn agreement. “You’re right.” “Honestly, if she wasn’t so gorgeous, I would have cut her loose months ago.” “Right! You have to dump her—” The friend who was cheering him on suddenly choked on his own words. He scratched the back of his neck, a look of profound distress washing over his face. “…Actually, maybe don’t dump her just yet?” “If you dump her, where the hell are we supposed to go for dinner?” Holden’s face darkened instantly. “Is that all you animals think about? Food?” He could never understand what kind of voodoo I had worked on these guys. The mere mention of my name triggered a Pavlovian response. His friend immediately fired back, defensive. “Oh, don’t give me that! You’ve been eating like a king! You’ve put on fifteen pounds in the last six months, don’t act like you haven’t noticed!” …Fair point. The memory of my flawlessly executed menus made Holden hesitate. He sat in that VIP lounge for half the night. He stayed until the ashtray was overflowing, burying the ghost of our relationship under a mountain of ash. When I texted him to come home, he stubbornly sent my calls straight to voicemail. But then, Daphne posted a new photo on Instagram—a group shot from a dinner party. Holden’s fragile grip on reality shattered. He gritted his teeth and fired off the text: Josie, we need to end this. 2 When the text lit up my screen, my initial instinct was to play the hysterical, heartbroken girlfriend. I had the whole routine queued up. Until the second bubble popped up. As compensation, I’m transferring the deed to the Greenwich townhouse into your name. The hysteria evaporated. A profound, icy calm washed over me. Without a second thought, I started pulling my suitcases from the closet, more than happy to clear out my side of the vanity to make room for his new girl. Let’s be real. Greenwich real estate was astronomical. If I relied on my entry-level salary of four grand a month, I would have needed to start working during the Jurassic period to afford a place like that. We were adults. Taking the buyout wasn’t shameful; it was practical. Besides, over the years I spent playing house with Holden Croft, I had already stockpiled quite the safety net. I typed back a cool, single-word response: Okay. Then, I immediately pulled up the contact for my favorite luxury consignment dealer in SoHo. I packed up every Chanel flap bag, every Dior dress, and every piece of Cartier jewelry Holden had ever bought me. Watching the balance in my checking account skyrocket, a genuine smile touched my lips. I had one singular, crystal-clear thought: Three years of playing the free, live-in chef just netted me eight figures. This is the ultimate return on investment. Thank you, Mr. Croft, for fast-tracking my financial independence. Just as I was mentally decorating my new living room, my phone buzzed. It was Holden’s best friend, Parker. Hey Josie, don’t overthink things. Daphne grew up with us, Holden just sees her as a sister. You’re still coming to the dinner party tonight, right? I saved you a seat. Oh, and please tell me you’re bringing those braised short ribs. I’ve been craving them. My brow furrowed. In the past, I catered to their every whim strictly out of respect for Holden. If one of them casually mentioned they wanted a specific dish, I’d spend half the day at the artisanal butcher and the farmer’s market, slaving over a hot stove to produce a Michelin-level spread just for them. But now? My fingers flew across the keyboard, my reply swift and lethal. Sorry. Holden and I are done. Don’t text me again. I paused, then added a little poison for good measure: Maybe if we cross paths in the future, I’ll treat you to dinner. In my head, I added: Yeah, a dinner of absolutely nothing. Empty promises were cheap. He was still a billionaire’s son, and there was no point in making permanent enemies out of the elite just because of a breakup. 3 Holden moved fast. A few days later, his private lawyer arrived at my door with the deed. The man was stiff, all business, and spoke with the warmth of a spreadsheet. “Ms. Caldwell, Mr. Croft asked me to convey his apologies. Furthermore, he is willing to wire an additional two million dollars as… severance, for the time you spent caring for him.” “However—” The lawyer’s tone shifted, his sharp eyes locking onto mine. “—He expects you to know your place. He assumes you won’t harbor any inappropriate delusions about trying to win him back.” I physically rolled my eyes. Right in front of the lawyer, I pulled up my phone, deleted Parker and Griffin’s numbers, blocked Holden on every social media platform, and even removed him from my shared Spotify playlists. Seeing my aggressive compliance, the lawyer gave a tight, satisfied nod and handed over the check. Tens, hundreds, thousands, millions… The zeros on that piece of paper were blindingly beautiful. I was so euphoric I immediately ordered two massive iced lattes, a bucket of fried chicken, and a ridiculously overpriced artisanal pizza with every extra topping available. Truffle oil? Yes. Burrata? Double it. Prosciutto? Pile it on. I didn’t even use a discount code. That’s the beauty of having money. You can be reckless. That night, I fell asleep smiling, practically counting stacks of cash in my dreams. Months bled into one another. I didn’t see Holden or his entourage anywhere near campus. It made sense; we existed in entirely different stratospheres. Stripped of the “girlfriend” title, our orbits naturally ceased to intersect. Occasionally, while sitting in a lecture hall, my eyes would catch the Louis Vuitton pencil case he’d bought me, and I’d let my mind wander. He’s probably playing house with his golden girl by now, I’d think. And then I’d go back to taking notes. 4 Until one quiet Sunday. I was lounging in my beautiful, air-conditioned Greenwich home, sipping a matcha latte. I had just prepared an exquisite, multi-course lunch for one, basking in the sheer, unadulterated joy of being rich and unbothered. Suddenly, a frantic, rhythmic pounding echoed from the front door. I pulled it open, only to find Holden’s two absolute worst friends standing on my porch. I blinked. “What are you two doing here?” Parker and Griffin exchanged a look, as if mentally rehearsing a synchronized routine. With a heavy thud, they both dropped to their knees. Parker wrapped his arms around my left leg. Griffin clamped onto my right. And then, the pathetic wailing began. “Josie! How could you be so cruel? Do you have any idea what kind of hell we’ve been living in without you?” “Okay, you broke up with Holden, fine! But why did you have to block us?!” “Do you know what my private chef fed me yesterday? It tasted like cardboard compared to your food. I physically gagged, Josie. Gagged!” I stumbled backward, entirely dumbfounded. Parker’s voice was actually trembling. “I’ve lost four pounds! Look at me!” He reached down, threatening to pull up his designer t-shirt to show me his ribs. Panic flared in my chest, and I slapped his hand away. “Don’t!” Griffin, still clinging to my right leg, wailed louder. “Holden is a monster! He dumped you and then threatened to exile us if we tried to contact you. I had to bribe his security team just to find out where you lived.” As he spoke, his eyes darted past me, locking onto the dining room table. “I searched for you so hard my blood sugar is crashing. God, I rushed out of the house and forgot to eat breakfast…” He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “If only… if only there was some perfectly seared steak and garlic mash somewhere nearby…” Watching these two billionaires’ sons perform a broadway-level tragedy over my cooking, I couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Alright, get up. Come in and eat.” Showing up right at lunchtime? Absolutely calculated. Master manipulators. The second the words left my mouth, their eyes lit up like floodlights. They scrambled up and practically sprinted into my dining room. They grabbed forks and began shoveling food into their mouths, inhaling the meal with such ferocity they didn’t even pause to breathe, let alone speak. Looking at these two spineless, food-obsessed aristocrats, a fond smile crept onto my face. 5 Once they were fully stuffed and leaning back in their chairs, they finally revealed their true agenda. “Josie, we came here today on a mission. We brought you a new boyfriend.” I nearly choked on my matcha. I froze, convinced the acoustics in the room had warped their words. But they were already gaining momentum, bouncing off each other’s energy. “Yeah, we threw the old one in the trash! The guy we picked out for you is top-tier. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, stupidly long legs, and a great ass. More importantly? He is obscenely wealthy. You’re going to be obsessed with him.” “Whoa, stop, stop—” I held up both hands, cutting them off. “Did you guys eat so much you’re hallucinating?” “You two,” I pointed at them, then at myself. “Holden’s best friends. Are trying to set me up?” “Exactly! Like I said, a man can survive without his bros, but he cannot survive without good food.” Parker thumped his chest proudly. “Don’t worry, Josie. To ensure we have lifetime access to your cooking, our loyalty is now officially yours!” Griffin whipped out his phone, pulled up a photo, and shoved it in my face. “Look! He’s even hotter in person.” I glanced down. The man in the photo was wearing a bespoke suit that screamed bespoke Savile Row. His features were sharply carved, his jawline aggressive, and he radiated the kind of dark, commanding aura that belonged to a man at the absolute top of the food chain. He was, undeniably, gorgeous. He hit every single one of my aesthetic weak points. My skeptical expression faltered. Catching my hesitation, their eyes gleamed. “It’s already set up!” Parker cheered. “Come on, let’s go right now!” Before I could even process what was happening, I was being ushered out my own front door, practically kidnapped by two guys in tailored streetwear. We drove for nearly an hour, winding deep into the moneyed wilderness of Westchester County. We finally pulled up to a sprawling, heavily wooded estate. Wrought-iron gates parted silently, revealing a limestone mansion that looked less like a house and more like a modern fortress. I stared out the window, my jaw slacking. “Exactly what kind of mafia boss are you setting me up with?” They just exchanged a smug, secretive smile. “You’ll see when you get inside. He’s in a completely different league than Holden. And way more reliable.” They dragged me up the sweeping front steps. The heavy oak doors swung open. And I walked straight into a man descending the grand staircase. He was wearing a black silk robe, the belt tied loosely, revealing a swath of defined, sculpted abs and pale, taut skin. His dark hair was still damp, falling haphazardly across his forehead. He exuded a suffocating blend of exhaustion, arrogance, and raw power. My breath hitched. I just stared, completely paralyzed. He didn’t speak. His dark eyes drifted to the two idiots standing beside me. Then, they moved slowly, deliberately, back to my face. The corner of his mouth curved into a faint, wicked smirk. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that felt like velvet scraping over skin. “Seen enough?” “If you need a better look, you can always step a little closer.”

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I was in the middle of presenting at the National Science Institute when my phone suddenly rang. It was my mom. On the other end of the line, she was sobbing uncontrollably. “Grace, your brother… his engagement just got called off…” I rushed over to their house immediately. When I arrived, I found Ethan cornered in the middle of the living room, his face deathly pale. A girl in designer clothes was pointing at his nose, her eyes full of contempt. “You? I’m the heir to Thornton Industries. My dad just invested a hundred million dollars in your research institute! What makes you think you’re good enough for me?” Even her mother chimed in: “Ethan, dear, our Isabella deserves better. You should stop dreaming. It’s better for everyone.” I was about to step forward when those words stopped me cold—”Thornton Industries.” Thornton Industries? When did my marriage-of-convenience husband get a daughter? I thought we only had that rebellious son of ours. I immediately dialed Marcus’s number, my voice dripping with false sweetness: “Honey, when did you go behind my back and father an illegitimate daughter? And now she has the audacity to break off my brother’s engagement?” **1** “What are you talking about?” On the other end of the line, my husband in name only, Marcus Thornton, sounded emotionless. “Grace, do I have a daughter or not? You should know.” Hearing his matter-of-fact tone, half my anger subsided, but my suspicion only deepened. Marcus and I had a typical marriage of convenience. Our prenuptial agreement was crystal clear—we wouldn’t interfere in each other’s private lives, only playing the loving couple when necessary. Our only connection was that son of ours who’d been sent abroad to study and was going through his rebellious phase. Over the years, we’d maintained a respectful distance. It had been harmonious enough. Given his shrewdness, he wouldn’t be foolish about something like this. “It better be that way.” I hung up and turned my attention to the living room. The girl calling herself a Thornton heiress was named Isabella. She wore exquisite makeup and luxury brands head to toe, but the malicious sharpness in her eyes couldn’t be hidden. My brother Ethan stood across from her in his faded casual clothes, fists clenched, lips pressed tight, saying nothing. He was a typical research scientist—not good with words, even worse at arguments. Right now, he looked like a cornered animal, with nothing but silent defiance. “What, another one?” Isabella’s gaze landed on me, her eyes scanning me up and down with contempt. “Called mommy, now you called your sister? Is your family playing whack-a-mole, coming at us one by one?” The woman dripping in jewels beside her—her mother, Helena—immediately chimed in. “Isabella, don’t waste your time on these people. It’s beneath you.” She turned to me, putting on airs like the lady of the house, her tone condescending. “Miss, I know your family’s situation. An ordinary working-class family that managed to raise a promising researcher like Ethan—it’s not easy.” “But you need to know your place. What kind of family are the Thorntons? Our Isabella was born with a silver spoon. Your family can’t reach that high.” She finished with a theatrical sigh. “This hundred-million-dollar investment is the Thornton family supporting national research for Isabella’s sake. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, or we’ll pull our funding anytime we want.” Watching their mother-daughter performance, I almost laughed out of sheer anger. Using my money to threaten my brother? This world had truly reached peak absurdity. My mom was too angry to speak, just holding Ethan’s hand with tears streaming down her face. I walked over and positioned myself in front of my mom and brother. “Mrs. Thornton, is it?” I looked at Helena calmly. “Marcus Thornton is pretty well-known. How come I’ve never heard him mention you or Miss Isabella before?” The moment the words left my mouth, both Helena and Isabella’s expressions changed. They clearly hadn’t expected me to so calmly and directly question their identities. In their script, someone like me—a “poor relative”—should have been grateful and slunk away at the mention of the Thornton name and the hundred-million-dollar investment. Helena froze for a moment, then flew into a rage. “Who the hell do you think you are? Our family business is none of your concern!” **2** Isabella shrieked even louder. “My dad is Marcus Thornton, CEO of Thornton Industries! I’m his only daughter! Everyone in the city knows that!” “You’re some nobody from god-knows-where, and you dare question my identity? I think you’re just after money! You’re delusional!” She crossed her arms, chin raised high. “I see right through you people. You’re trying to scam us! Well, dream on!” “This engagement is over! I’m the heir to Thornton Industries, the future of the company.” “A nobody like Ethan isn’t even worthy of carrying my bags!” Seeing Ethan still staring at her in shock, the malice in her eyes practically overflowed. She suddenly lunged forward and grabbed his hand, roughly trying to yank off the ring on his finger. It was the engagement ring I’d personally designed—simple in style, but with their initials engraved inside the band. It was made from a special memory metal that changed color with body temperature. It was the only blessing this inadequate sister had given her brother. “Give it back!” Ethan finally snapped out of it and shouted at her for the first time, reaching to get it back. “Give it back? As if you deserve it!” Isabella laughed mockingly and dodged his hand. She held the ring between her fingers like it was something filthy and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling fish tank in the living room. “You like it so much? Then go down there and join it!” She flicked her wrist. The ring traced a weak arc through the air and plopped into the tank full of rare koi. “Isabella!” My brother’s eyes instantly turned red. Like an enraged lion, he rushed toward her. “Ethan!” My mom cried out and grabbed him tight. I stared at that tiny glimmer at the bottom of the tank, my fury finally reaching its breaking point. “Enough.” My voice was cold but quiet, yet it instantly silenced the chaotic room. Everyone turned to look at me. I walked up to the still-gloating Isabella, my gaze icy. “Apologize.” “What?” Isabella thought she’d misheard. “You want me to apologize? Are you insane?” Helena immediately positioned herself in front of her daughter. “You dare demand my daughter apologize? You’re the crazy one! Security! Security! Throw these troublemakers out!” A butler-like figure immediately stepped forward, gesturing firmly toward us. “Members of the Monroe family, and this young lady, please leave immediately, or we’ll call the police.” Looking at this room full of ugly faces, the last shred of trust I had in Marcus was crumbling inch by inch. If he really had nothing to do with these people, where would they get the nerve to act so arrogant in his house? **3** “Call the police?” I smiled. “Perfect. I’d love to see whether the police arrest us or you frauds squatting in someone else’s home.” My calmness made Helena and Isabella uneasy again. “What… what do you mean?” Helena’s voice was full of false bravado. “Nothing much.” I surveyed the lavishly decorated living room, my gaze pausing on several inconspicuous corners. “Mrs. Thornton, don’t you know that Mr. Thornton is a germaphobe? These tulips airlifted from Holland need their water changed every morning at nine sharp, and only with Alpine spring water.” “And that reproduction of ‘Travelers Among Mountains’ in his study—it’s his prized possession from an auction. It requires climate-controlled equipment right next to it, temperature no higher than 72 degrees Fahrenheit, humidity no more than 55%.” With each sentence, Helena’s face grew paler. These were Marcus’s almost pathological personal habits. Only someone extremely close to him would know them. Outsiders wouldn’t have a clue. “How do you know all this?” Helena’s voice trembled. Isabella also sensed something was wrong, her arrogance fading, replaced by alarm. I didn’t answer her. Instead, I looked at the butler who was about to throw us out. “And you. You’re new here, aren’t you?” I laughed coldly. “Can’t even recognize the master of the house. When did the Thornton household standards drop this low?” The butler felt a chill run down his spine and stepped back, not daring to approach. The living room fell into an eerie silence. Isabella finally couldn’t take it anymore. She pulled out her phone, fingers flying across the screen like she was grabbing a lifeline. When the call connected, she immediately started wailing. “Dad! Come quick! Someone’s causing trouble at our house! They’re bullying Mom and me! If you don’t come, we’re going to get thrown out!” She sobbed out her complaints. After hanging up, she seemed to regain her confidence, hands on her hips, chin raised high. “Just wait! My dad will be here any minute! Then we’ll see how cocky you are!” I said nothing, just quietly watched her performance. Inside, I was sneering. Marcus, let’s see how you handle this. About five minutes later. The study door opened. Marcus walked out. He wore a well-tailored loungewear set, his sharp eyes visible behind gold-rimmed glasses. Seeing him emerge from the study rather than entering from the front door, I understood. He’d been here all along. He’d been in the study the entire time, listening to everything happening outside, hearing his “wife and daughter” humiliate my family, and he’d done nothing. The moment he appeared, Helena and Isabella rushed to him like they’d found their anchor. “Honey, you’re finally out! Look at them, they’re bullying us!” “Dad! It’s this woman! She’s talking nonsense and cursing us!” Marcus’s gaze moved past them and landed on me. That look—calm, indifferent, even somewhat appraising. Our eyes met. The air seemed to freeze. After a long moment, he finally spoke slowly, his voice betraying no emotion. “Dr. Monroe, what brings you here?” Those words—”Dr. Monroe”—instantly drew a chasm between us. My mom froze. Ethan froze too. They’d both met Marcus before. They knew he was my legal husband. But now, he was addressing me with the tone one would use for a subordinate or stranger. I looked at him, and the last shred of hope in my heart completely died. He hadn’t been deceived. He was the mastermind behind all of this. “Marcus Thornton.” I enunciated his name slowly. “Are you blind? Who am I? Can’t you see?” “How dare you!” Before he could speak, Helena jumped in. “You dare address my husband by his full name? Who do you think you are!” Marcus raised his hand, stopping her. “Dr. Monroe, please watch your language. Thornton Industries has deep cooperation with your research institute. I respect you as an excellent scientist, but that doesn’t mean you can come to my home and disrespect my family.” He emphasized the words “my family” particularly hard. As if deliberately reminding me who the outsider was. Watching him position himself protectively in front of Helena, I found it utterly ironic. We’d been married for over a decade, and now he was so eager to distance himself from me for some woman who came out of nowhere.

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