1 My father was a high school literature teacher. My mother was a university professor of comparative literature. To make me write a literary masterpiece, they forced me to eat spoiled food, rewarded the classmates who bullied me, and abandoned me on the interstate, forcing me to chase their car through the freezing night. When they looked at my half-dead body, they only smiled and offered cold comfort. “Dante wrote his masterpiece in the depths of exile, Lana. You simply haven’t suffered enough.” With fanatical gleams in their eyes, they eventually shattered my legs, hoping to breed the next Milton. But when they realized I still couldn’t produce the legendary prose they craved, they came up with a new, twisted script. “Perhaps the misery is still too shallow. In that case, we will use our own lives to pave your path to literary greatness in blood.” … I turned the doorknob with agonizing care, trying not to make a single sound. When I pushed the door open, the house was pitch black. Realizing no one was waiting for me, a sigh of relief slipped past my lips. But as I stumbled through the dark living room, I froze. Two perfectly upright silhouettes were sitting on the sofa. A sudden chill crawled up my spine, pinning me to the floor. Then, my mother’s soft, melodic voice drifted through the darkness. “Lana, the National Creative Writing Contest is tomorrow morning, isn’t it?” I began to tremble. I knew that whenever my mother spoke in that gentle tone, a new round of torment was about to begin. Terrified and unable to squeeze out a single word, I could only watch as she stood up. She slid my backpack off my shoulders, and her hands moved to unbutton my heavy winter coat. I looked at her with pleading eyes, my voice cracking with unshed tears. “Mom, please. I promise I’ll write about the cold. I’ll capture the hunger. But it’s snowing out there, and if I get a fever, I won’t be able to write tomorrow. Can I please keep my coat?” My mother hesitated for a fraction of a second, but my father stepped forward. With a rough, impatient yank, he stripped the coat from my shivering body and shoved me toward the front door. “The cold only tempers the soul, Lana. If you can’t even endure a little winter chill, how will you ever have the depth of a real writer?” “Lana, stop being so incredibly selfish,” my mother added, her voice hardening. “Your father and I are sacrificing everything for your future. Do you honestly think we’d do anything to hurt you?” The heavy oak door slammed shut in my face, locking me out in the freezing snow. My body went numb. I didn’t even dare to crouch down to preserve my body heat. I just stood there, stiff as a board, letting the snow cover my hair. The last time I had collapsed from the cold, a kind stranger had carried me into a nearby 24-hour convenience store. I had foolishly hoped my parents would feel a shred of guilt when they came to get me. Instead, the moment they arrived, they stripped me of my dry clothes right there in front of everyone, screaming and striking me. “You ungrateful little thief! Stealing your grandmother’s pension and running away from home to blackmail us? We won’t let you get away with this!” In an instant, the sympathetic whispers of the bystanders turned into looks of utter disgust. The store owner, who had been gently comforting me, stepped back with a sneer. I had sobbed, trying to defend myself, but no one believed a teenager over her respectable, well-dressed parents. In their minds, no parents would publicly humiliate their child like that unless she truly deserved it. My father’s repeated roars of “Are you still lying?” only cemented my guilt. From that day on, the entire neighborhood knew me as a pathological liar and a thief. Whatever my parents did to me after that was dismissed as necessary discipline for a troubled child. Actually, I was never stupid. In fact, my grades were excellent. But excellence wasn’t enough for them. They didn’t want a good student; they wanted a literary genius whose name would be etched into history. My parents lived by a single, fanatical dogma: “Suffering is the cradle of literature.” Every time I failed to produce the kind of writing they demanded, they assumed it was because I hadn’t suffered enough. And so, the next punishment would be even more severe. I had tried to beg my grandparents for help once. But they only offered empty, half-hearted advice to my parents, which only made my punishments worse. Last Christmas, because my grandmother had dared to say a word in my defense, my parents threw me out of the car on the interstate on our way home. The roaring traffic rushed past me, missing me by inches. The absolute terror of death gripped my throat. I fell to my knees on the gravel, weeping and begging them to take me back, even if it meant getting beaten. But my father only sneered, stepping on the gas without a backward glance. “You’re a smart girl, Lana. Who’s going to hit a pedestrian in broad daylight?” “Just use this time to reflect on your comfortable life. Maybe the inspiration will finally strike.” I ran down that interstate, chasing the fading red taillights of their car through the freezing night. By the time I collapsed on the side of the road, my skin was bruised purple by the wind, and my feet were a bloody mess. The blood had dried and fused my socks to my raw flesh, making them impossible to peel off without tearing skin. I never caught up to them. A truck driver found me unconscious and called an ambulance. But my body was too resilient. After three days in the intensive care unit, the doctor announced that I was out of danger. As I lay there, listening to the doctor’s relieved voice through a haze of pain, a single, dark thought consumed my mind: I should have died out there. Now, standing in the snow, I waited until the neighborhood streetlights finally flickered off. Only then was I allowed back inside. The next morning, I woke up with a raging fever. Seeing my flushed face and glassy eyes, my parents didn’t look worried. Instead, their eyes lit up with absolute ecstasy. “Franz Kafka wrote his finest works while burning with fever! This is the perfect state for you to write your masterpiece today.” “You’re going to bring home that first-place trophy, aren’t you, sweetheart?” 2 I dragged my heavy, feverish body to school. The moment I dropped my bag onto my desk, the boy sitting in front of me turned around with a mocking grin. “Well, well, if it isn’t our resident literary genius! What masterpiece are we blessing the world with today, Lana?” Without waiting for an answer, he snatched my backpack, ripped open the zipper, and pulled out my journal. He began reading my private thoughts aloud in a theatrical voice, tearing the pages out one by one, crumpling them into balls, and tossing them to the rest of the class. As the classroom erupted into laughter, I lunged forward to grab my journal. But he gave me a rough, heavy shove. Weakened by the fever, I lost my balance and crashed hard against the floor, my head spinning. The bully startled, taking a step back with an annoyed frown. “Whoa, playing the victim now? I barely touched you!” Another boy threw an arm around his shoulder, laughing dismissively. “So what if she fell? Let her cry.” “Even if she bleeds, her parents would probably thank us for helping them educate her anyway.” I slowly pushed myself up from the cold floor and silently began gathering the torn pages of my journal. I didn’t say a word. They were right. My parents would never stand up for me. In fact, they were the ones who had orchestrated this hell. On the very first day of high school, my parents had stood before my entire class and made a public announcement. “Lana is our daughter. If you want to help her build character, don’t befriend her. Push her, challenge her, even rough her up a bit if you must.” “She is a future literary great, and she needs to experience the full spectrum of human suffering to write profound literature. We expect all of you to help us guide her.” At first, some classmates thought it was a sick joke and tried to be nice to me. But my parents immediately marched into the school and screamed at those students in front of the principal. After that, everyone avoided me like the plague. It wasn’t until a school delinquent framed me for stealing that my parents rewarded him with a pair of limited-edition Jordans. From that day on, I became the school’s punching bag. Inside my home and out, every waking second of my life was defined by pain. The classroom door opened, and our English teacher walked in. She cast a brief, cold glance in my direction. “Lana, clean up your trash quickly. Don’t disrupt the exam for the rest of the class.” When the test papers were handed out, before I could even write my name, the teacher tapped on my desk. “Take your test and write it out in the hallway. Your parents specifically requested it.” Amid the snickers and whispers of my classmates, I numbly gathered my pen and paper and walked out. Could great literature truly be born from misery? I sat on the cold floor of the hallway, holding my pen, but my mind was completely blank. My thoughts were like scattered snow in a blizzard, refusing to form a single coherent sentence. I forced my aching brain to think, to create, but the feverish throbbing in my skull offered nothing but pure, unadulterated pain. I had no idea what nonsense I scribbled down on that paper. But when the final bell rang, I knew with absolute certainty that I was ruined. As I walked home with the report card in my hand, I wished with every fiber of my being that I had frozen to death the night before. I dragged my feet, wishing the walk would last forever. But like a well-trained dog, I didn’t even have the courage to run away. The moment I reached the porch, the front door swung open. My mother stood there, a warm, gentle smile on her face. She handed me a steaming mug of medicine. “Drink this quickly, sweetie. If your fever gets any worse, it’ll break my heart.” I drank the bitter liquid in one gulp, a wave of nausea rising in my throat. “Now, let me see what my brilliant daughter wrote today. I can’t wait to frame your essay and hang it by my bed.” She snatched the crumpled report card from my tight grip. As her eyes scanned the failing grade, the smile instantly vanished from her face. 3 My mother’s face turned a sickening shade of gray. She stared at me, her eyes burning with fury. “Lana! You stubborn, ungrateful little brat! We have sacrificed everything to nurture your talent, and you bring home this absolute garbage? Is this how you repay our blood and sweat?” Her voice rose to a shrill, piercing shriek. Hearing the commotion, my father rushed out of the kitchen, tearing the report card from her hands. A single glance was all it took to send him into a violent rage. “We are both esteemed scholars of literature! How did we end up with a daughter as brain-dead as a pig? Do you have any idea how our colleagues laugh at us behind our backs?” He turned to my mother, his face twisted in disgust. “I told you your petty punishments wouldn’t work! Running in the snow is child’s play. You’re too soft on her!” “Only a physical deficit can force her to understand the true weight of existence!” I froze, terror locking my joints. I could feel the raw, violent malice radiating from him. My father scanned the room, and his eyes landed on a heavy steel wrench resting near the toolbox by the door. He picked it up, a twisted, maniacal grin spreading across his face as he stepped toward me. “John Milton wrote his greatest epics in absolute blindness. Byron walked with a clubfoot. It was their physical suffering that gave their words wings. Only when you are broken, Lana, will you understand what true literature is.” “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Even if you can never walk again, your mother and I will take care of you for the rest of your life.” I took a frantic step back, my legs trembling so violently I could barely stand. I had resigned myself to their twisted games, accepting the cold and the hunger, but I refused to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair just to satisfy their sick literary fantasies. I spun around and bolted out the door. My parents’ enraged curses echoed behind me as they gave chase. I ran blindly through the streets, my heart hammering against my ribs. Where could I go? The police? Who would ever believe that two respected academics were trying to shatter their own daughter’s legs with a wrench because of a bad essay? Then, a desperate thought struck me. My grandparents! They were currently staying at my Uncle Luke’s house. Surely they wouldn’t stand by and let my parents cripple me. Gasping for air, I pounded on Uncle Luke’s front door with all the strength I had left. “Help me! Grandma, Grandpa, please open the door!” My grandmother opened the door, her eyes widening in surprise. I threw myself into her arms, sobbing hysterically. “They’re going to break my legs!” “They said… they said my essay wasn’t good because I haven’t suffered enough. They have a wrench. They want to cripple me so I can feel the pain of a tragic writer!” “What?!” My grandfather slammed his hand on the dining table, his face flushed with anger. “This is madness! Don’t worry, Lana. I will put a stop to this right now.” My parents arrived moments later, breathless and furious. But before they could lay a hand on me, my grandparents pulled them into the guest room, slamming the door shut. A tense, suffocating silence filled the house. When the door finally opened, my grandparents emerged with calm, reassuring smiles. My parents followed, their expressions remarkably subdued. “Lana, sweetheart,” my grandfather said gently. “I’ve given your parents a thorough scolding. They were just speaking out of anger. They would never actually hurt you.” “You shouldn’t have run off like that. We’re a family, we can talk things out.” Even my father managed a stiff, awkward apology. “I lost my temper, Lana. I shouldn’t have frightened you like that.” I didn’t know if I could believe them. But standing in that hallway, surrounded by my family, I realized I had no other choice. Looking at my parents’ forced smiles, I forced myself to nod, offering a meek, submissive grin. I quietly followed them back to our car. The moment we stepped back into our house, my mother turned the lock on the front door. Before I could even turn around, my father pinned me to the floor. He raised the heavy steel wrench high above his head, his face contorted in a demonic rage. “You little bitch,” he roared, “let’s see you run now!” 4 The world collapsed into a nightmare of absolute terror. I thrashed beneath his weight, weeping and screaming. “Dad! Mom! I’ll write! I’ll write every single day! Please don’t do this!” But my screams fell on deaf ears. The heavy metal wrench came down with a sickening, whistling sound, striking my leg. A white-hot agony exploded through my body, and a cold sweat broke out across my skin. One strike. Two strikes. Eventually, the sharp, blinding pain faded into a dull, throbbing numbness. The room spun, and darkness swallowed me whole. When I finally opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was my mother carrying a bowl of hot chicken broth. She sat on the edge of my bed, her eyes brimming with tears as she stroked my cheek. “Does it still hurt, sweetheart? You just rest up. We only did this because we love you. Your father and I would never do anything to harm you.” I stared at the ceiling, my eyes completely hollow. I drank the soup she offered, unable to summon the strength to respond to her words. Perhaps they were worried that further pain would ruin my focus, because during my recovery, they didn’t touch me. They brought me pain medication, fed me nutritious meals, and even presented me with the very first object that belonged solely to me. A brand-new, shiny wheelchair. The day my fractures healed enough for me to sit up, they eagerly placed a pristine notebook and a fountain pen on my lap. “Now is your time to shine, Lana. Show us the masterpiece you’ve forged from this trial. Make us proud!” They quietly closed the bedroom door, leaving me alone in the silent room. I unscrewed the cap of the pen and pressed the nib to the paper. But as I stared at the white page, a cold dread washed over me. I couldn’t remember what the letters looked like. In my mind, words had ceased to exist. They were nothing but chaotic, ink-black stains, swimming in a sea of static. I had forgotten how to read and write. As the realization settled in, I didn’t feel fear. Instead, a wave of venomous, triumphant satisfaction washed over me. Look at you, I thought, staring at the blank page. The great literary prodigy you sacrificed everything for is now nothing but an illiterate idiot. I began to scribble wildly on the page, drawing jagged, meaningless lines. When my parents pushed the door open, their faces filled with desperate hope, they were met with a page of absolute madness. My mother gasped, dropping to her knees in horror. My father’s breath hitched, and with a roar of frustration, he flipped my desk over, scattering my papers everywhere. “What is this? How could you do this to us? Is the suffering still not enough? How can you be so stubborn?” He lunged forward to strike me, but he stopped mid-swing. He stared at my face, trembling with a sudden, creeping terror. My eyes were completely vacant. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t cry. I felt absolutely nothing. What could they do to me now? Kill me? Realizing that something inside me had fundamentally snapped, my parents exchanged a frightened glance and quietly backed out of the room, slamming the door behind them. In the weeks that followed, they tried screaming at me, shaking me, even depriving me of food, but I remained entirely unresponsive. I moved through the house like a wooden puppet, immune to hunger, immune to pain. I expected them to finally discard me, or perhaps concoct a tragic accident to rid themselves of their broken experiment so they could start over. But other than the increasingly dark, resentful stares they gave me, nothing changed. Until one evening, my mother prepared a feast of all my favorite childhood dishes. She sat across from me, her eyes red and swollen, looking at me with deep contrition. “We are so sorry, Lana. Your father and I were blinded by our obsession. We were wrong.” “We’ve realized that having you happy and healthy is more important than any book. We will never force you to write again.” Ah, I thought silently, the executioner’s final meal. Without hesitation, I picked up my fork and began to eat. If the food was poisoned, at least the nightmare would finally end. But the food wasn’t poisoned. From that day on, my parents truly seemed to have reformed. They treated me with a warmth and tenderness I had never experienced in my entire life. They became the loving, doting parents I had always dreamed of. Whatever I wanted, whatever I liked, they immediately bought for me. The phrase “suffering is the cradle of literature” was never spoken again. When they discovered that my classmates were still mocking my wheelchair at school, they stormed into the principal’s office and caused an absolute uproar, forcing every single bully to apologize to me on their knees. I had never been so happy. It felt like a beautiful, fragile dream. I sometimes wondered if the steel wrench had actually hit my skull instead of my leg, and this perfect life was just the final, desperate hallucination of my dying brain. Slowly, the icy armor around my heart began to melt. As my legs gradually healed and I regained the ability to walk, my mind began to clear. On the morning of my sixteenth birthday, I stared at a greeting card on the table and felt a jolt of electricity run through my brain. I could read again. An overwhelming wave of joy washed over me. I couldn’t wait to share the news with my parents. I rushed home from school early, pushing the front door open with a bright smile. But the house was silent. Sitting on our living room sofa were my grandparents, their eyes red and hollow. In my grandmother’s trembling hands was a framed, black-and-white photograph of my parents. Her voice was raw and broken. “Lana… your parents went out to buy your birthday cake. There was an accident on the highway. They… they didn’t make it.”

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1 During my live stream as a relationship coach, a girl joined the audio call to ask a question. “My boyfriend has an emotional detachment disorder. What should I do?” I paused for a second before replying. “You could try buying an emotion-sharing bracelet to track his mood changes.” The girl let out a heavy sigh. “His cousin already bought him one of those. But honestly, it feels like a total scam. Every time I get close to him, no matter what we’re doing, the bracelet always shows his heart rate spiking. He’s always ‘excited.’ Don’t believe me? Look.” She turned on her camera and pulled the boy’s wrist into the frame. The camera caught the side of his face, and the live chat instantly went wild. The viewers cheered, gushing about how the girl had found her true soulmate and scored an absolute catch. I stared frozen at the screen. The elegant features, the clean jawline… he was indeed incredibly handsome. But he looked exactly like Eric, my childhood sweetheart and my boyfriend of three years. I slowly looked down at my own wrist, staring at my bracelet. The screen of my bracelet had remained completely blank even when he confessed his love to me, as if his heart were made of stone. But right now, the device on my wrist was vibrating violently, showing that his heart rate on the other end was spiking frantically. He was indeed “excited.” My heart plummeted to the very bottom of my chest. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, trying to stop my body from trembling. When I finally looked back at the screen, the live stream had flooded with even more viewers. The chat was a blur of excited comments. “He’s gorgeous! I’m so jealous!” “Oh my god, how did you land a guy like that? Please share your secrets!” The girl’s cheeks flushed, and she offered a shy, pampered smile. “Actually, he was really easy to win over. I fell in love with him at first sight at a local coffee shop, and then…” She spoke with the effortless confidence of a princess who had been adored her entire life. She went on and on, describing every detail of their relationship. And with every word she spoke, the details of her romance began to overlap with my own life. On Valentine’s Day, I had asked for a simple bouquet of flowers. Eric told me he couldn’t afford them with his part-time wage, but then he turned around and bought her a massive bouquet of nine hundred and ninety-nine roses. I hated cilantro, and he always complained that I was too picky. Yet he would patiently spend ten minutes picking every single leaf out of her bowl, memorizing every little preference she had. When my period cramps kept me awake at night, he told me to suck it up and go to sleep. But when she was on her cycle, he prepared pain relievers and held a heating pad against her stomach all night long. I used to think he just didn’t understand love, that his condition made him numb to emotions. I believed that one day, my warmth would finally cure him. But it turned out the problem wasn’t his diagnosis. It was just that I wasn’t her. The chat began to flood with red heart emojis, with viewers chanting for them to kiss. On the screen, Eric gently cupped the girl’s face, looking into her eyes with a tenderness I had never seen in all our years together. My bracelet was vibrating so hard it hurt my skin. I couldn’t bear to watch another second. I muted the live stream and dialed Eric’s number. A few seconds later, the handsome face vanished from the camera feed. Eric’s deep, familiar voice came through my speaker. “Minka, is something wrong? I’m currently busy at my part-time job.” A wave of bitter disappointment washed over me. I asked, desperate for a lie that made sense. “Where are you working? Didn’t you tell me today was your day off?” There was a tense silence on the other end, followed by the girl’s muffled voice in the background. “Eric, who is that?” Eric’s voice instantly turned frantic. “Minka, the manager is calling my name. I have to go.” The line went dead. I looked back at the live stream. Eric had returned to the camera, gently stroking the girl’s hair. “It’s nothing, sweetie. Just a spam caller.” A spam caller. I sat frozen, the tears finally spilling over my eyelashes and splashing onto my hands. After shutting down the live stream, I curled into a tight ball in the corner of my room. I opened the girl’s profile page on social media. Unlike me, an orphan who had grown up in a sterile group home, her feed was filled with beautiful, sunlit snippets of a perfect life: designer outfits, travel vlogs, and sweet couple videos. Her latest video had been posted yesterday. It was a vlog of her and Eric at Disneyland. The cold, emotionless Eric who never smiled in my presence was laughing like a happy child after she stole a kiss on his cheek. I scrolled down. Almost every single video featured Eric. He spent his days accompanying her to cat cafes and movie theaters, all while telling me he was too busy working extra shifts to take me out on a proper date. The very first video at the bottom of her feed was their official relationship announcement. The date of the post was the day of our high school graduation, which also happened to be our three-year anniversary. On that exact day, Eric had held my hand and promised we would go to the same university. He told me we would save up for tuition together and build a life that would last forever. I just hadn’t realized that his version of forever was so incredibly short. I couldn’t stop the tears. With a trembling finger, I reported her account for harassment, shut off my phone, and buried my face in my knees. Just then, the receptionist at my workplace tapped on my door, telling me someone was waiting for me in the lobby. I wiped my face and walked out, only to run straight into the girl from the live stream. I recognized her instantly. It was Luna. She offered a bright, polished smile and dragged me down to the coffee shop on the ground floor. “Hi there! I’m Luna, Eric’s girlfriend. You were the relationship coach on the stream, right?” “Actually, there were so many details I didn’t get to share on the call. Eric fell in love with me at first sight, too…” I took a sip of my black coffee. It was incredibly bitter. She kept talking, her words like tiny, poison-tipped needles driving straight into my chest. I set my cup down and stood up, desperate to escape her suffocating presence. But Luna grabbed my wrist, her smile fading into something sharp and cold. “I know exactly who you are to him, Minka. I joined your stream today on purpose.” “He doesn’t love you anymore. In his heart, you aren’t even his girlfriend. He’s just too soft-hearted to hurt you, so I decided to do it for him.” I slowly sat back down, staring directly into her eyes. “And what exactly is your role here? The homewrecker?” Luna flinched, her cheeks flushing as she tried to defend herself. “I am not a homewrecker! I’m the one Eric actually loves, not you!” She thrust her hands forward, showing off a gleaming gold ring and a matching bracelet. “Eric bought these for me. I never demanded anything from him, and I didn’t care that he was poor. But he insisted on working three different jobs just to treat me like a princess.” “You were never a girlfriend to him, Minka. You were just a chore. He only stayed with you out of pity. He felt sorry for you because of what your biological father tried to do to you when you were thirteen…” The dark, suffocating memories of my thirteenth year rushed back, threatening to tear my mind apart. My eyes went wide, and my voice trembled with a dangerous, quiet rage. “Eric told you about that?” Luna nodded with a smug, superior look. “Eric didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just dirty, and you expect him to carry your baggage forever.” I let out a hysterical, breathless laugh. I had never imagined that the boy who had dragged me out of that living nightmare, the boy who had held me while I screamed and promised to protect me for the rest of my life, would turn my deepest trauma into a pathetic joke to share with another girl. Luna stood up, looking down at me with utter contempt. “I’ve said what I came to say. If you have any dignity left, stay away from him.” She picked up her bag, which was adorned with a handmade cartoon charm Eric had crafted for her, and walked out, leaving me alone in the quiet cafe. I sat there in a daze for hours, watching the rain start to fall outside. By the time I walked back to the orphanage, a cold drizzle was soaking through my clothes, the wind stinging my face. My phone kept buzzing with messages from Eric, telling me he had finished his shift and asking why I wasn’t home yet. I ignored them all. A moment later, his face appeared on my screen as a video call. I answered it. “Where are you?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine panic. “Why are you walking in the rain?” My bracelet lit up, showing that his emotional state was set to “anxious.” For a moment, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. For years, I had prayed for the day he would finally feel something for me. But now, his concern only made him look like a stranger. “Find some shelter. I’m coming to get you.” He threw on a jacket and rushed out of his room. I hung up and crouched by the side of the road. On the location-sharing app, his icon was moving toward me at a frantic pace. Within minutes, he appeared through the curtain of rain, holding a large umbrella. He rushed over and held the umbrella over my head, soaking his own shoulders. “Minka, why didn’t you call me to pick you up? You’re going to catch a cold. Your health has always been fragile.” I looked up into his dark eyes. They were as gentle as they had always been during the eighteen years we had spent surviving together. But I realized I had never truly known him. We were both abandoned children. From the moment I could remember, my world had consisted entirely of the orphanage and the school, and neither place had felt like home. “You’re an unwanted child,” the other kids would whisper. I used to hide in the dark corners of the playground and cry, until a young Eric found me and promised that he would be my family. From that day on, we became inseparable. We fought off the bullies together, cried together, and shared every meager scrap of happiness we could find. When I was thirteen, my biological father, a raging alcoholic, had suddenly dragged me back to his apartment under the guise of wanting to be a real parent. But that very night, he pinned me to the bed. It was Eric who had rallied the neighbors and broken down the door to save me. It was Eric who had held me through my suicide attempts, whispering that he was there, that he would always be there. He helped me survive those damp, dark years, guiding me toward our eighteenth year, until I finally had the courage to walk with my head held high, to wear dresses, and to believe that none of it was my fault. So how did we end up here? My head spun violently. My strength vanished, and I collapsed backward onto the wet pavement. When I opened my eyes again, a warm towel was resting on my forehead. Eric was hovering over me, his face pale with worry. “Minka, you’re awake. Drink this medicine. You have a terrible fever.” My body felt incredibly heavy. I let him help me sit up and took the cup from his hands. “Minka, don’t go to your part-time job tomorrow,” he said softly. “Just focus on recovering. I’ve looked at several universities. Tomorrow, we should submit our applications together. I want us to go to the same school so we can stay together forever.” My ears rang with a deafening static. The contrast between his words and his actions was too much to bear. My hand trembled, and the porcelain cup slipped from my fingers, shattering against the floor. “Eric, why?” He froze, looking up at me in confusion. “You didn’t go to work today, did you?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Weren’t you on a live stream with a girl?” Eric reached out to grab my hand, his voice laced with panic. “What girl? Minka, the fever is making you hallucinate. Just lie down.” I shoved his hand away and held up my phone, showing him the screenshot of the live stream. Eric stared at the screen for a full minute. His eyes shifted from shock to panic, before finally settling into an eerie, calm resignation. He sat down on the edge of the bed, sighing. “So you know. But it’s not what you think, Minka.” I let out a bitter, breathless laugh. “Stop lying to me. Luna came to find me today.” He went quiet for a moment before speaking. “Minka, I’m just so tired. Neither of us has a healthy soul. We’re too heavy for each other. Luna is like a little sun. Being with her is so easy, so light. But I swear, we’re just friends. I haven’t crossed any lines.” He spoke with such calm, casual sincerity. But as he spoke Luna’s name, the corners of his mouth tilted upward in a subconscious smile, and the bracelet on my wrist vibrated with his excitement. I pointed to the device, my voice shaking with rage. “Then what is this? I thought you couldn’t feel love, Eric?” Eric suddenly stood up, ripping the bracelet off his wrist and hurling it against the wall. “Fine! Maybe I can feel things! But at least she doesn’t act like a paranoid lunatic all day, suffocating everyone around her! I’m juggling school, working part-time, and constantly walking on eggshells to protect your fragile ego! I am exhausted!” I stared at him, my throat dry. I wanted to ask him if he had forgotten all the sacrifices I had made for him, but the words wouldn’t come. My head began to spin again. Seeing my pale face, Eric’s expression softened slightly, and he sat back down beside me. “Minka, please. Don’t make a scene. This is the last time. I’ll cut ties with Luna, okay? Just take your medicine.” He reached for another cup, but his phone suddenly rang. Luna’s terrified, sobbing voice echoed through the room. “Eric, help me! I’m so scared… I came to the orphanage to find you, but a gang of local thugs has cornered me…” The background of the call was filled with the sounds of whistling and lewd laughter. Eric’s face drained of color. He dropped the medicine, pushed past me, and bolted out of the room. My chest felt as if it had been struck by a sledgehammer. He had just promised to cut ties with her, yet he abandoned me without a second thought. I lay in the dark, the tears quietly slipping down my cheeks until my eyes were swollen and dry. Later that night, I heard the frantic voice of the orphanage director from the hallway. “Eric got into a fight and was taken to the police station! I have to go over there right now!” I dragged my aching body out of bed and made my way to the station. The moment I arrived, I ran straight into Eric as he was walking out of the lobby. His face darkened with fury the moment he saw me. “Minka! Did you hire those thugs to attack Luna? Do you have any idea how close she came to being assaulted?” The world seemed to tilt beneath my feet. I leaned against the cold wall for support. “It wasn’t me. We’re in a police station, Eric. You can ask them to investigate.” “Minka, do you want to destroy my life?” Luna emerged from behind Eric, her eyes red and tearful as she clung to his arm. “Those thugs admitted that you paid them to do it. Just because you’re dirty doesn’t mean you have to drag everyone else down into the mud!” With a sudden screech, she stepped forward and slapped me across the face. The force of the blow stung my cheek. I raised my hand to strike her back, but Eric grabbed my wrist and shoved me hard. I lost my footing and crashed onto the floor. He gently wiped the tears from Luna’s eyes before turning to glare at me. “Apologize to Luna, Minka.” I stared up at him, my teeth clenched. “I didn’t do it.” Eric’s chest heaved with frustration. “Fine. You’ve made your choice. Don’t regret this.” I didn’t understand what he meant until I unlocked my phone an hour later. The school group chat was flooded with a video. It was a recording of the night my biological father had tried to assault me when I was thirteen. A barrage of cruel, mocking messages began to fill my screen, and my phone started ringing incessantly with calls from unknown numbers. The shame and despair crushed the air from my lungs. I crawled to Eric’s feet, clutching his jeans. “Why? How could you do this to me?” Eric looked down at me, his face devoid of any emotion as he wrapped his arm around Luna’s shoulders. “If you won’t apologize, you have to compensate her somehow.” He walked away, leaving me alone in the sterile hallway of the police station. My vision went dark, and I collapsed onto the floor. When I finally woke up, a week had passed. The director told me I had suffered a severe nervous breakdown from the fever and the trauma. While I was unconscious, she had submitted my university applications for me. I nodded numbly and opened my phone. There was a single thread of messages from Eric. Minka, I’ve moved out of the orphanage. What you did to Luna is behind us now. Consider us even. But Luna is still having nightmares. If you come and apologize to her, I’ll still agree to go to Ames University with you. I didn’t reply. I deleted his contact and cleared the chat. I spent the rest of the summer working extra shifts and saving every penny I could. On the day I boarded the train to my new university, I saw Eric in the crowded station. He glanced at me, but with the mask over my face, he didn’t recognize me. He was too busy trying to make a video call. I declined his call, blocked his number, and sent one final message. Goodbye, Eric. My old bracelet, which I had kept in my pocket, began to vibrate, showing that his emotional state was “anxious.” I tossed the device into a nearby trash can, turned around, and boarded the train heading in the exact opposite direction of his future.

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1 The parrot my boyfriend gave me was unnerving. Every day, it mimicked my exact voice to whisper bleak phrases: “I’m so tired. My head hurts. I don’t want to live.” Simultaneously, I developed severe insomnia. My hair fell out in clumps, and my weight plummeted from 110 to a skeletal 82 pounds. My doctor was baffled, comparing my body to a bucket with a hole in the bottom, leaking its life force into nothingness. When I begged to give the bird away, my boyfriend insisted I was imagining things. Instead of helping, he bought an even larger cage. It wasn’t until I jumped from our rooftop that I saw the truth. In my final seconds of freefall, I looked through the window and saw him embracing another woman, weeping with joy. “Margret, my love, you’ve suffered so long trapped in that bird’s body. Thank God I found a girl with such a vibrant life force this time.” Only then did I realize he had been using my life to nourish his comatose first love. But when I opened my eyes, I was back on the day he brought the parrot home. I smiled sweetly as I accepted the cage. Then, the moment his back was turned, I drove straight to a private vet. “Dr. Ross, this parrot is causing noise complaints. Remove its vocal cords immediately.” … It was our second anniversary. I sat on the living room sofa, watching my boyfriend, Jacob, walk through the front door holding a beautifully wrapped cage. He offered me his signature warm, gentle smile. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart. I brought you a present.” He opened the cage door, and a beautiful blue parrot fluttered onto my hand. “Her name is Margret. She belonged to an old friend of mine who had to move abroad, and he asked me to look after her. I figured you get lonely when I’m at work, so she can keep you company.” I stared at the parrot. The bird tilted its head, its dark, bead-like eyes scanning me with a calculating intensity. It looked like a customer inspecting a piece of meat, deciding if it was up to standard. “Thank you, Jacob. I love her,” I said, reaching out a finger to gently stroke her feathers. The moment the words left my mouth, the parrot opened its beak. My own voice came out of it, perfect and flawless. “I’m so tired.” The pitch, the cadence, the exact weary tone, it was all mine. It sounded as if the words had been ripped directly from my own throat. I calmly withdrew my hand and set the cage on the coffee table. Because I was reborn. In my past life, the parrot had behaved exactly the same way. From the very first moment we met, it had used my voice to utter those depressing words. I had dismissed it as a bird’s natural mimicry, and because I didn’t want Jacob to think I was dramatic or ungrateful, I had kept my mouth shut. I had taken meticulous care of the bird. I fed her on time, cleaned her cage daily, bought the most expensive organic birdseed, and even installed a tiny swing for her entertainment. None of it had mattered. She never stopped tormenting me. Whenever Jacob played with her, she would coo affectionately and rub her head against his fingers. When his friends visited, she would cheerfully chirp “Hello.” Even when the delivery courier rang our doorbell, she would offer a couple of happy, welcoming squawks. But the moment she was alone with me, she opened her beak to say: “I’m so tired.” “My head hurts.” “I don’t want to live anymore.” Over and over, my own voice echoed through the empty apartment. Whenever I suggested finding her a new home, Jacob would knit his brows in annoyance. “How can you be jealous of a bird, Mona? She’s just mimicking what she hears. Why do you have to make everything a struggle?” Then, he would turn to the parrot with a voice full of tenderness. “Don’t worry, Margret. I won’t let anyone take you away.” I had endured that torture for three long months. During the day, I suffered from auditory hallucinations, constantly hearing a voice whispering “I don’t want to live” in my ear. At night, insomnia gripped me, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw those dark, avian eyes staring back at me. My hair fell out in handfuls, and my weight dropped like a stone. When I went to the clinic, the doctor found no physical illness, but my vital signs were rapidly deteriorating. He had frowned, muttering that it seemed as if something were actively siphoning away my life force. In my previous life, I didn’t believe in the supernatural, assuming it was all in my head. That foolish skepticism cost me my life. Now, having returned from the dead, I looked down at the cage. The parrot was staring at me with a look of smug, triumphant satisfaction. I smiled back at her. “Sweetheart, is something wrong?” Jacob asked, noticing my silence. “Nothing at all,” I said, looking up at him. “I was just thinking that Margret is absolutely adorable.” Jacob let out a sigh of relief, reaching over to ruffle my hair. “I knew you’d love her.” He had no idea that in this life, I was going to make him and his comatose darling pay for every single drop of blood they took from me. For the next few days, I played the part of the perfect, submissive girlfriend. I fed the bird on time, changed her liners, and even spoke to her in soft, gentle tones. The parrot continued to repeat those dark phrases in my voice every single day. “I’m so tired.” “My head hurts.” “I don’t want to live anymore.” But this time, the words had no power over me. Because I knew exactly what she was. On Wednesday evening, Jacob returned from work. I was in the kitchen preparing dinner when a loud crash echoed from the living room. I walked out to find our favorite ceramic vase shattered on the floor, water spilling across the table. The parrot was perched on the edge of her cage, tilting her head to look at me. Her eyes were filled with pure, deliberate provocation. Jacob set his briefcase down, frowning as he looked at the mess, then at me. “What happened?” “Margret knocked the vase over,” I said quietly. “She’s a tiny bird, Mona. How could she possibly have the strength to tip over a heavy vase?” Jacob squatted down to comfort the bird. “Did you do something to frighten her?” I didn’t argue. I simply fetched the mop and cleaned up the water. Ten minutes later, another loud crash sounded. My phone had been swiped from the sofa and hurled onto the tile floor. The screen was spiderwebbed with deep cracks. I picked up the broken phone and looked at the parrot. She opened her beak, using my voice to mutter, “I don’t want to live anymore.” Then, she let out a sharp, mocking laugh. It wasn’t a bird’s chirp; it was the distinct, malicious laugh of a grown woman. I gripped the phone tightly, my face entirely calm. Jacob walked out of the bathroom, spotting the shattered screen. “What now?” “Margret threw my phone onto the floor.” He frowned, walking over to the cage. The moment he approached, the parrot shed all her hostility, cooing softly and rubbing her beak against his knuckles. “She’s just an animal, Mona. She didn’t do it on purpose. Stop being so paranoid.” “But Jacob…” “Enough!” he snapped, his voice rising in anger. “Can you stop being so incredibly petty? She’s a bird! You’re constantly picking fights with an animal. It’s embarrassing.” He sat on the sofa, cradling the bird in his hands and gently blowing on her feathers. “Don’t worry, Margret. No one is going to hurt you.” I stood in the center of the room, watching them. My heart was as cold and still as a frozen lake. In my past life, I had sacrificed my sanity and my life for this man’s affection. In this life, I would ensure that every single person who had a hand in my torment would pay in full. I returned to the kitchen and continued cooking. The sizzle of the pan drowned out Jacob’s soft, affectionate murmurs to the bird. I didn’t want to wait another day, but I knew I had to be patient. I needed the perfect opportunity, a moment when they would lower their guard completely. That opportunity arrived sooner than expected. On Friday night, Jacob announced that he had to go out of town for a three-day business trip starting Monday. “Sweetheart, while I’m away, please take extra care of Margret.” I nodded obediently. “Of course. Don’t worry.” He smiled, adding, “Oh, and I asked my mother to come stay with you for a few days. That way, you won’t get lonely.” My heart sank. In my past life, it had been the exact same. Every time Jacob left town, his mother, Victoria, would move in. On the surface, she was there to keep me company. In reality, she was there to monitor me, ensuring I didn’t do anything to harm the precious bird. Because Margret could see through the parrot’s eyes, she could easily report any threat back to Jacob or Victoria. But I had already anticipated this. On Monday morning, Jacob left for his trip. At ten o’clock sharp, Victoria arrived at our apartment. “Mona, dear, I’m here,” she said, offering a tight, polite smile as she immediately marched over to the cage. “How is our sweet Margret doing?” “She’s doing wonderful, Mrs. Eleanor.” She tapped on the bars, and the parrot immediately cooed and nuzzled her finger. “Good girl,” Victoria murmured with satisfaction. She turned to look at me, her eyes sharp and calculating despite her warm smile. “Jacob cares deeply about this bird. It was left to him by a very important… friend. You must take proper care of her.” “I understand.” I poured her a cup of tea and sat across from her, silently counting the hours. Today was Monday. Jacob would be back on Wednesday night. I had exactly three days. And Victoria would be watching my every move. In my past life, these three days had been the absolute peak of my mental collapse. Locked in the apartment with a hostile spirit and a suspicious guardian, I had been unable to escape. But in this life, these three days were my only window of opportunity. Once Jacob returned, I wouldn’t get another chance, and my physical body couldn’t afford to wait. Even if my mind was strong, the spiritual drain of the ritual was a physical reality; as long as the parrot could speak, she would continue to siphon my life force. I had to act now. By Monday afternoon, Victoria was knitting on the sofa while the parrot rested quietly in her cage. I sat at the dining table, pretending to read a book. Suddenly, the parrot opened her beak. “I don’t want to live anymore.” My own voice echoed through the quiet apartment, sharp and jarring. Victoria glanced up from her knitting, casting a cold look at me before returning to her work. She didn’t say a word. I turned another page of my book. “I don’t want to live anymore.” Again, the voice rang out. Victoria set her knitting needles down, offering a small, mocking smile. “Margret is so clever, dear. She mimics you perfectly.” “She certainly does,” I replied with a calm smile. “It’s almost uncanny.” That night, Victoria insisted on taking the bird cage into her bedroom. Before she closed the door, she gave me a final warning. “Make sure her food and water are filled on time tomorrow. Don’t forget.” “I won’t, Mrs. Eleanor.” The bedroom door clicked shut. I leaned against the wall, staring at the empty living room. The ghost of Margret was probably laughing in that room, convinced she was completely safe under Victoria’s watchful eye. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I had saved weeks ago. “Hello, Dr. Ross? Yes, this is Mona. I need to schedule that vocal cord removal surgery for the parrot tomorrow.” On Tuesday morning, Victoria woke up early. She opened a newly arrived package containing premium import birdseed. “This is the best brand on the market,” she said, pouring the seed into the tray. “Full of nutrients. Our Margret is going to love it.” The parrot ate eagerly, nuzzling her hand. I sat at the table, checking my watch. It was 10:15 AM. I had exactly three hours and forty-five minutes. The morning dragged on with agonizing slowness. I maintained my usual routine; reading, cleaning, and refilling Victoria’s tea. The parrot, perhaps sensing some unspoken tension, became increasingly aggressive. She snatched one of my silver earrings from the vanity, holding it in her beak and refusing to let go. When Victoria saw this, she only laughed. “Oh, look! Margret loves shiny things. Just let her play with it, dear.” “Of course,” I said smoothly. A few minutes later, the bird flew over to my purse, unzipped the compartment, and pulled out two hundred-dollar bills, shredding them to pieces. The green paper scattered across the floor. Victoria barely looked up. “You really shouldn’t leave your purse out, Mona. She’s just a curious little thing.” I knelt to gather the shredded paper, remaining silent. The parrot perched on top of her cage, looking down at me with her head tilted. Then, she opened her beak. “I don’t want to live anymore.” First time. “I don’t want to live anymore.” Second time. “I don’t want to live anymore.” Third time. Victoria finally frowned, but her glare was directed entirely at me. “Mona, do you constantly mutter those depressing words around the house? No wonder the bird is repeating them.” “I don’t—” “Young people need to have a more positive attitude,” she interrupted, her voice turning sharp and accusatory. “Jacob works so hard to provide for you. The least you can do is not burden him with your constant negativity. Telling everyone you don’t want to live… what is he supposed to think of you?” I pressed my lips together, looking appropriately chastised. “You’re right, Mrs. Eleanor. I’ll do better.” Victoria nodded with satisfaction and returned to her knitting. On top of the cage, the parrot fluttered her wings, letting out that sharp, mocking laugh. Margret’s laugh. She thought she had won. With Victoria protecting her and Jacob backing her, she believed I was completely powerless. She was dead wrong. I checked the clock. It was 1:45 PM. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from Dr. Ross. Miss Mona, the surgical instruments are prepared. My assistant and I are ready. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my face remained a mask of perfect calm. I stood up and walked over to the cage. Victoria’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Where are you taking Margret? Jacob specifically forbade you from taking her out of the apartment!” I took a slow, deep breath, letting my hands relax. “I’m not going outside, Mrs. Eleanor. Margret looks a bit unwell. I think she threw up some of that new seed.” Victoria’s face immediately filled with concern. “What? Let me see.” “She’s fine, I just need to take her to the guest bathroom to clean her beak.” “Oh. Go on then.” I opened the cage door and slid my hand inside. The parrot instinctively tried to retreat, but my grip was swift and precise. I clamped my fingers firmly around the base of her wings, pulling her out of the cage. She began to thrash violently, opening her beak to shriek. “I don’t—” I quickly muffled her beak with my other hand, marching swiftly into the guest bedroom and locking the door behind me. Dr. Ross and his assistant were already waiting by the window, having slipped in quietly through the first-floor patio. The desk had been converted into a sterile surgical station, complete with a small operating light, anesthetics, and delicate scalpels. Dr. Ross stood up, looking at the blue bird in my hands. “This is the one? She looks quite healthy. Are you sure you want to go through with this? It’s a costly procedure for an in-home visit.” “Yes,” I said without a shred of hesitation. “She has a behavioral issue where she screams profanities and threats constantly. It’s becoming a safety hazard.” “Ah, I see. Very well, let’s get started.” I placed the thrashing parrot onto the table. Her eyes stretched wide with panic, her beak clicking open and shut as she desperately tried to scream. “No! No!” My own voice, filled with terror, squeaked out from her throat. But the assistant held her down, and Dr. Ross quickly administered the anesthetic. Within seconds, the parrot’s frantic movements began to slow, her eyes lidding with sleep. “She’s a feisty one,” Dr. Ross murmured, preparing his scalpel. “But don’t worry. This is a simple, ten-minute procedure.” I leaned down, bringing my face close to her fading gaze. She stared back at me, her eyes filled with a desperate, silent terror. I offered her a cold, vicious smile. “Margret, in this life, no one is going to save you.” The scalpel gleamed in the light. The parrot’s eyes closed completely.

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We had been together for three years. I noticed early on that all of his social media handles were set to April. I thought he simply loved the gentle, romantic arrival of spring, so I never pried. Until our wedding day, when a gorgeous gift arrived from his ex. The name signed on the card in elegant cursive was Avril. In that single, devastating second, the truth hit me. He did not love the month of April. He loved Avril. My heart plummeted into a cold, dark abyss. 1 At my wedding to Owen, a girl in a white dress had clearly had too many drinks. Owen’s face darkened as he grabbed her arm. “Stop making a scene.” She ignored him, her glassy eyes locking onto me. “Hey, I heard you’re pregnant. Have you picked out a name yet?” I instinctively touched my belly, offering a gentle smile. “We’re going to call her April.” “April.” Her laughter grew louder, bordering on hysterical, until tears slipped down her cheeks. “How can you name her April? He already threw April away.” My smile froze. The air in the room turned to ice. It was Luke, Owen’s best friend, who finally broke the suffocating silence. “Nora, my college buddy here is completely wasted. I’ll get her back to her hotel.” After they left, I couldn’t help but look at Owen, my voice carrying a tentative edge. “Owen, who was she?” Owen looked back at me, his expression perfectly calm, without a single hint of guilt. “Just an old classmate.” I wanted to press further, but he quickly cut me off, changing the subject. “Sweetheart, our biggest client is completely hammered. I need to go check on him.” “Okay,” I whispered, the rest of my questions dying in my throat. I watched him hurry away, a cold, inexplicable dread tightening in my chest. 2 My best friend, Becca, walked into the bridal suite holding an elegant gift box. She tossed it onto the table in front of me, her voice dripping with disgust. “Nora, your rival left this behind.” “My… rival?” My heart skipped a beat, and the image of the girl in the white dress flashed in my mind, draining the remaining color from my face. “The girl who was sobbing her eyes out earlier,” Becca said, rolling her eyes. “Crying over someone else’s groom like that. Shameless.” My anxiety spiraled. Becca patted my shoulder gently to reassure me. “Don’t stress too much. Owen is famous for worshiping the ground you walk on. He’d never do anything to hurt you.” She was right. Owen pampered me to no end. Everyone in our circle said I was the luckiest woman alive, that I had married for true love. I shouldn’t doubt him. Taking a deep breath, I tried to shake off the unease. I chatted with Becca while mindlessly tracing the ribbon on the gift box. Then, my eyes caught the silver script on the card. I leaned in to look closer. Her name was Avril. Avril. April. The realization struck me like a physical blow. My mind went blank, my posture collapsed, and I slumped against the vanity. My entire world turned pitch black. “Nora, why are you crying? You’re scaring me!” “Where is Owen? Help me find Owen. I need to see him. I need to see him right now.” “Okay, okay, I’ll call him. You’re pregnant, Nora, please don’t cry like this.” 3 My hands shook so violently that I could barely hand my phone to Becca. I needed to know where he was. My voice trembled beyond recognition. “FaceTime him.” Becca nodded and dialed, but Owen instantly declined the call. I clutched the lace of my veil, tilting my head back as tears escaped my eyes. “Call him again.” After several declined video calls, Owen finally dialed back with a voice call. His voice sounded muffled and tense. “Babe, what’s wrong?” “Where are you?” The dam broke, and my emotions spilled over. “I’m…” He hesitated for a fraction of a second before deflecting. “I’ll be back soon.” “Are you at her hotel? You went to find her, didn’t you?” The words caught in my throat. I slid down against the wall, clutching my knees. “Owen, please just tell me. Who is Avril?” The line went dead silent. I held my chest and sobbed, gasping for air until my throat burned and no more tears would come. I felt incredibly pathetic. On my wedding day, my husband’s first love had shown up, and he had abandoned his bride to run to her hotel room. What was even worse was that we had been together for three years. Every single one of his online accounts was named April. Even when I got pregnant and asked him what we should name the baby, he had answered without a second thought. “April.” I had wondered if the month held some special, romantic meaning for him, but I respected his privacy and never forced him to explain. Only today did I learn that his beloved ex was named Avril. How could he comfortably use my child to memorialize his lost love? What did I represent in Owen’s heart? What did our three years together even mean? If he hadn’t cleared her out of his heart, why did he choose to be with me? What did I do wrong? 4 Half an hour later, Owen burst into the room, drenched in sweat. He asked Becca to leave so we could talk alone. “What is there to talk about?” I raised my swollen, bloodshot eyes to meet his. He knelt in front of me, his voice devoid of any real emotion. “Avril is my ex.” “How long were you together?” “Seven years.” “How long have you been apart?” “Four years.” “Do you still love her?” Owen didn’t answer. His silence was his confession. A bitter laugh escaped my lips, turning into fresh tears. “Why did you both do this to me? She couldn’t let you go, so she ruined my wedding. You couldn’t let her go, so you abandoned me to find her. Owen, what did I ever do to deserve being collateral damage in your love story?” I yanked at my veil, trying to tear it off my head. “Stop hurting yourself, okay?” Owen pressed his lips into a hard line, catching my hands. “Nothing happened between us. I only went to make sure she was safe.” I stared at him, stunned by how casually he could justify his betrayal. “So every time she cries, you’re going to abandon me and run to her side?” I screamed. Owen fell silent again. After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke. “We are already married. Just pretend this never happened.” My vision blurred, and a sharp, stabbing pain flared in my chest, quickly replaced by a wave of furious indignation. Did he honestly believe this wedding was some sort of charitable gift to me? I didn’t want it. I didn’t want any of it. I stumbled back against the wall, pale, cold sweat breaking out. The baby in my womb, as if sensing my agony, gave a tiny, desperate flutter. But the pain that ripped through me was unbearable. I clutched my stomach, my heart drowning in grief. This is your very first kick, my baby. How could it happen at a time like this? 5 Owen frowned, reaching out to help me up. I shrieked, pushing his hands away. “Don’t touch me! You’re filthy!” “Don’t do this, please,” Owen said, his eyes lingering on my stomach as he sighed. “I don’t want us to split up. Really.” His words only made me feel sick. He was absolutely repulsive. If I had never met him, I could have had a clean, honest love. I could have been genuinely happy. He had ruined everything. I grabbed my phone and threw it hard against his chest. “The wedding is over. We are getting a divorce.” Owen froze. A few seconds later, his face hardened, and his voice took on a mocking edge. “You grew up with a single mother, Nora. Do you really think your mom is going to support you divorcing while pregnant?” I never imagined Owen would use my family background as a weapon to hurt me. My heart felt as if it were being carved into a thousand pieces, chewed up and discarded. I buried my face in my hands and wept until my throat was hoarse. I didn’t even notice when he left. 6 After that day, Owen and I entered a freezing cold war. I packed my things and moved back to my mother’s apartment. As Owen had pointed out, I was raised by a single mother. Before my father passed away, my mother had lived through a lonely, emotionally vacant marriage, which made her entirely incapable of empathizing with my pain. When Owen came to the apartment to pick me up, she couldn’t wait to push me out the door. “Owen is giving you an olive branch, Nora. Just take it and go home,” my mother urged, hovering outside my bedroom door. “Stop hiding in there. Come out.” “Mom, please,” I begged through the wood. “Just tell him to leave.” “You are pregnant! What are you throwing a tantrum for? You just have to swallow your pride and live with it.” “I can’t. I won’t just swallow this.” “Marriage is all about turning a blind eye.” She pushed the door open, her expression softening slightly when she saw my swollen eyes. “Besides, it’s not like Owen actually slept with her.” She didn’t understand. Emotional infidelity was far more vicious than physical betrayal. “We’ve been together for three years,” I whispered, the weight of the realization crushing my chest. “He sleeps next to me while dreaming of another woman. What am I to him?” “You just overthink everything. Let me make one thing clear: no matter how much you fight, don’t you dare think about divorce. I won’t have you embarrassing me.” For the first time in my life, I defied her. “I am divorcing him.” My mother looked at me with deep disappointment. “At the end of the day, it’s your own fault for not being enough. If you were perfect, Owen wouldn’t be pining after his ex.” “Mom!” I screamed, covering my ears. “Please stop. I beg you, just stop talking!” A suffocating wave of injustice flooded my chest. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Why was everyone pointing their fingers at me? 7 In the end, I was forced to return to the house with Owen. Once we were inside our bedroom, he shoved his phone into my hand. “Look through it yourself. We haven’t had any contact since the breakup.” I didn’t take the phone. I only let out a cold laugh. “Does an empty chat history mean she isn’t in your heart?” Owen didn’t answer. He gripped his phone so tightly that his knuckles turned white. After a long silence, his face darkened as he opened his messaging app and searched for Avril’s name. The most recent interaction was in a group chat with their old college friends. Owen had posted: I’m getting married. His classmates, knowing their history, immediately asked: Why didn’t Avril mention anything? Owen replied: It’s not her. The group chat had fallen dead silent. A few minutes later, Avril tagged him: Congratulations! I wouldn’t miss your wedding for the world. He hadn’t declined. He had simply replied: Okay. On our wedding day, Avril had indeed shown up, sitting in the audience in a white gown that looked exactly like a wedding dress. During our vows, Owen’s voice had cracked with emotion. At the time, Becca had nudged me in envy. Nora, you really found a good one. Owen actually cried during his vows. He’s so deeply in love with you. Thinking back on it now, I wanted to laugh. Owen’s acting was flawless. Everyone assumed he was crying because he was thinking of our three years of beautiful memories. But he was actually staring past me, devastated by the sight of Avril weeping in the crowd. “Are you satisfied now? I told you, Avril and I are completely innocent,” Owen’s voice pulled me back to reality. I closed my eyes, about to tell him to get out, when his phone rang. It was Luke. Luke’s voice sounded panicked through the speaker. “Owen, Avril was just rushed to the hospital.” Owen stiffened, his eyes darting to me with a complex mix of guilt and urgency. “I need to go out for a bit.” We weren’t even divorced yet. How could he brazenly run to another woman right in front of me? I grabbed his arm, my grip frantic and desperate. “Owen, I am forbidding you from going.” Owen pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, his voice laced with annoyance. “Can’t you be sensible like you used to be? Why are you being so unreasonable?” I let go of his arm, walked over, and flung the bedroom door open. “Get out.”

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While fixing my bowtie before the engagement banquet, Michelle led in a broke junior. “Martin spilled something. Let him borrow your custom tux,” she said flatly. “You’re the star anyway; it doesn’t matter what you wear.” Beside the nervous boy in faded sneakers, my best friend James blocked them. “Are you kidding? Declan went to thirty tailors for that!” Michelle shot me the look. For five years, I caved every time. I pushed James aside, setting down my cufflinks. “Let him wear it.” She smiled, caressing my cheek. “I knew you were the bigger person. For our wedding, I’ll buy you the most expensive suit in the world.” Martin changed into my tux. Michelle smoothed his lapel, whispering, “You look so handsome, Ro.” I recognized the gesture. During our photoshoot, she’d refused to do the same for me, calling it cheesy. I slid the platinum engagement ring off my finger. This time, I was done being the bigger person. … “Who is this handsome young man? Look at how sharp he is dressed!” Michelle’s aunt was standing by the adjacent table, grabbing Martin’s hands and looking him up and down with obvious approval. Martin kept his head bowed, but a small, satisfied smile crept onto his lips. Before he could even respond, Michelle seamlessly jumped into the conversation. “He is a junior from my university. His family’s financial situation isn’t great, and his clothes got ruined. Declan felt so bad for him that he offered his own custom tux.” Her aunt nodded approvingly, then shot a highly critical glance in my direction. “Then why is Declan dressed like that? It is his engagement party. He looks incredibly plain.” “Oh, he doesn’t care about these superficial things.” Michelle answered for me without missing a beat, naturally reaching out to link her arm through mine. “Our Declan is incredibly generous.” As her hand reached out, I casually took a half-step to the side. Her hand grabbed empty air. “What is wrong?” she asked, her brow furrowing. I looked down at the carpet. “Nothing.” James grabbed me by the forearm and physically dragged me away, pulling me around the corner into a quiet hallway. “Are you seriously just going to let this happen?!” “What else am I supposed to do?” “You walk right back out there and announce to the entire room that he is wearing your clothes, and that kid is not her fiancé. You are!” I looked at his bloodshot, furious eyes. “James. You are angrier than I am.” “Of course I am angry!” James’s voice cracked. “Do you have any idea what the people at her table are whispering about?” He pulled out his phone and opened a video. It was filmed by one of Michelle’s college friends. In the frame, Martin was wearing my custom tuxedo, standing proudly on Michelle’s right side. Her hand was resting affectionately on his shoulder. Someone off-camera cheered, “The fiancé looks amazing!” Martin looked down, his cheeks flushing deep red. He didn’t deny it. Michelle didn’t deny it either. She just laughed brightly and waved her hand dismissively. There was a top comment under the video: Michelle’s fiancé is so sweet and innocent. It had over thirty likes. Not a single person corrected them. I swallowed the bitter taste in the back of my throat, closed the video, and handed the phone back to James. A fresh wave of loud laughter erupted from the banquet hall. People were dragging Martin around to toast the tables. He handled it perfectly, holding his champagne glass low and leaning in respectfully. I taught him that posture. Last month, he told me he was terrified of attending his first formal networking event. He asked me how to properly toast executives. I spent an entire afternoon practicing with him. “Call me an Uber, James.” “You are not going back in?” “There is nothing left to go back to.” I walked over to the welcome table near the entrance. I placed the platinum engagement ring right next to the leather guestbook. There was a thin layer of dust on the table. The heavy ring landed with a soft, hollow clink. My phone lit up. It was an Instagram post from Michelle. Thank you everyone for coming tonight. She attached three photos. One wide shot of the grand ballroom, one of her clinking glasses with her girlfriends, and the last one… Martin, wearing my tailored tuxedo, smiling radiantly at the camera. She tagged Martin. The caption read: Thank you, Ro, for helping me entertain the guests. You worked so hard tonight. There was not a single mention of me in the entire post. Not even my name. I locked my screen. When I crossed the street, the massive chandeliers in the banquet hall were still glowing brightly. Even from this far away, I could still hear the faint bass of the music and the muffled laughter. Right before I got into the Uber, I looked back one last time. Michelle was standing on the grand marble steps of the hotel, looking down at her phone. Martin walked up behind her and gently draped a suit jacket over her bare shoulders. She reached up and naturally pulled the collar tighter around herself. It looked completely effortless. “Declan, you left your ring on the welcome table.” At two in the morning, Michelle finally called. Her voice was totally relaxed, completely unbothered. “I know.” “Well, I put it in my purse for safekeeping. I will put it back on you tomorrow.” She paused, intentionally softening her tone. “I know you felt a little slighted today. But Martin ruining his clothes was a total accident. Everyone saw how generous you were to lend him your suit.” “Michelle. Let’s break up.” The line went completely dead for three full seconds. Then, she actually laughed. “Declan, I know you were annoyed today, but throwing a tantrum and bringing up a breakup? Really?” “I am completely serious.” “You do this every single time you throw a fit.” She lowered her voice, using the practiced, patient tone of someone talking to a toddler. “Alright, fine. When you are done pouting, call me, and I will come see you.” “Michelle…” “Declan, behave. Tomorrow I will take you to that omakase place you have been wanting to try.” I didn’t say anything else. After a few seconds of silence, her tone dropped, turning cold. “Declan, it has been five years. When have you ever actually had the guts to leave me?” She said it so quietly, but I didn’t have an answer. She genuinely did not believe it. She did not believe I could ever walk away. I hung up. James walked out of the kitchen with a glass of water and sat heavily across from me. “What did she say?” “She said she will come see me.” “Are you going to see her?” “No.” He looked like he wanted to scream at me, but checking my expression, he swallowed his words. I stared at the black screen of my phone. Her name was at the very top of my call log. The contact name was still the one I saved five years ago: “Michelle” with a little sun emoji next to it. We had just started dating. She waited for me outside my dorm building, clutching a warm water bottle against her chest. The November wind was brutal, and her cheeks were flushed a deep, beautiful pink. She told me my roommate mentioned my hands always cracked and bled in the winter, and that I just powered through it while drawing architectural drafts late at night. I told her not to bother, that guys didn’t use cute little water bottles. It was embarrassing. She just laughed, shoved the warm bottle into my hands, and wrapped her fingers over my freezing ones. When you are with me, you do not have to pretend to be tough. If you are cold or exhausted, you tell me. Her eyes were so bright back then. Just looking at her made me feel incredibly safe. James suddenly broke the silence. “Do you even remember when she started changing?” I thought about it for a long time. “I don’t remember.” Maybe it was the first time Martin showed up, crying that he couldn’t afford his tuition. Maybe it was the very first time she told me to “just be the bigger person.” The change was a slow poison. She took away just a tiny fraction of her love every single day. By the time I finally turned around to look, there was absolutely nothing left. James pulled a blanket off the couch and tossed it over me. “Do not go back to that apartment. Just crash here.” “Yeah.” At 3:00 AM, my phone lit up with another call from her. The screen glowed for three seconds before going dark. She didn’t try calling back. Because in her reality, my tantrums only lasted one night. Once the sun came up, I would quietly pack my pride and go back home. Just like I had every single time before. I manually swiped away the missed call notification. For the first time in five years. “James, get out of the way and let me in.” Late the next afternoon, Michelle was standing outside James’s front door, holding a white bakery bag. James stood dead center in the doorway, blocking her path. “He does not want to see you.” “I know he is throwing a fit.” She offered a casual, dismissive smile. “Just let me in so I can say two sentences to him, and then I will leave.” “Say what? Explain why you couldn’t even bother to put his name in your Instagram post?” Michelle’s smile vanished instantly. “James, this is between Declan and me.” “Don’t call him Declan like you own him. He is Mr. Wright to you.” I walked up to the door and put a hand on James’s arm, pressing it down. “James, let her in. I will talk to her face to face.” James stepped aside, glaring daggers at her, looking her up and down with absolute disgust. She slipped off her shoes, walked inside, and placed the white paper bag on the coffee table. It was a slice of cake. “Your favorite tiramisu. I didn’t get a chance to give it to you yesterday.” I didn’t even touch the box. She sat down on the armchair across from me. “Declan, what exactly do you want me to do?” “I already told you. We are done.” Her eyebrows pulled together in deep frustration. “You are breaking off an engagement over a rented tuxedo?” “It is not about the tuxedo.” “Then what is it about?” She crossed her legs and leaned forward, clasping her hands together. It was the exact same posture she took every time we argued. She was treating me like a patient, tolerating my outburst until I ran out of breath. “Last year on my birthday, I booked a reservation at a Michelin-star restaurant two months in advance. Right as we were leaving, Martin called. He said his stomach hurt. You drove straight to his apartment.” “He was completely alone. What if it was appendicitis?” “When you got there, you realized he just ate too much takeout. And then you sat on his couch and watched movies with him until midnight. I sat alone in that restaurant until they turned the lights off.” She hesitated for a split second. “Didn’t I apologize for that? I even bought you that designer watch to make up for it.” “You bought him the exact same watch, didn’t you?” “He was going through a really depressive episode at the time…” “He is always going through a depressive episode.” My voice dropped lower, steady and completely hollow. “When is he ever actually happy?” Michelle fell completely silent. “Last month, I had a massive business trip. You told me to take an Uber to the airport because you had to drive Martin to his campus orientation.” She opened her mouth defensively. “He had four massive suitcases…” “You gave him our winter quilt. The one my mother shipped to us from our hometown.” “That old thing was practically falling apart. I told you I would buy you a brand new silk one.” “That was mine! My mother wore her reading glasses and hand-stitched that quilt for an entire week. When she mailed it, she wrapped it in three layers of industrial plastic so the post office wouldn’t damage the threading!” The living room went dead silent. James was standing by the kitchen island, his knuckles completely white from gripping the marble counter. I didn’t say another word. In the past, I would have chased her with questions. I would have cried and asked her why she was doing this to me. And the second she said, “I am sorry,” I would have forgiven her instantly. But this time, I was just completely and utterly exhausted. “Declan,” Michelle said, her voice dropping into a tone of profound, subtle disappointment. “I always thought you were different from the rest of them.” “Them?” “People who hold grudges over petty, meaningless things.” She frowned, looking at me with dead seriousness. “I thought you understood me. Martin has absolutely no one in this world to rely on. You have me. You have a loving family. You have money. You don’t lack anything… So I took care of him a little bit. Is that really a crime?” She spoke with absolute sincerity. She genuinely believed every single word coming out of her mouth. “You have everything in the world. Can you not just show a little grace to someone who has absolutely nothing?” I stared at her. I stared at her for a very long time. There was actual anticipation in her eyes. She was waiting for me to nod and say, “You are right,” just like I always did. But of all the things I supposedly had in this world, one of them was supposed to be Michelle. She was systematically packing up every piece of her love and moving it into another man’s life, and then she had the nerve to ask me why I felt empty. “You are right, Michelle. I have everything.” She let out a visible sigh of relief. “Which means I do not need you either.” The relief vanished from her face instantly. “Declan.” “You never used to be this cruel.” I didn’t answer. She stood up abruptly, grabbed her purse, pulled the front door open, and marched out. My eyes drifted down to the white bakery box on the table. Tiramisu. She had already forgotten. I stopped eating tiramisu a year ago. [Billing Point] The tailored suit in the mirror looked flawless. My mother stood behind me, gently adjusting the bowtie. The wrinkles around her eyes deepened as she smiled warmly. “When is Michelle getting here? I haven’t seen that girl in half a year.” I glanced down at my phone screen. Michelle had texted me ten minutes ago. Martin lost the data for his graduation thesis. He is having a panic attack in his professor’s office. I have to go handle it. Just try the suit on yourself. Explain the situation to your mom. She always loved me; I know she will understand. I booked a reservation at her favorite seafood place tonight to make it up to her. My mother just had minimally invasive heart surgery last month. I hadn’t told her anything about what was happening with Michelle. I locked my screen and turned around, forcing a bright smile. “Mom, her firm called an emergency board meeting. She can’t make it.” My mother paused for a second, then patted my hand affectionately. “Her career comes first! It is a good thing for a young woman to be ambitious. You look incredibly handsome anyway. Come on, let Mom take a few pictures.” Click. In the photo, I was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, smiling for the camera, but there was absolutely no light left in my eyes. After I put my mother on the high-speed train back to our hometown, I drove straight to James’s apartment. Sitting on his couch, I dialed the wedding planner. “Hello. The reservation I made for the Crystal Lake Chapel. Cancel it.” The line went quiet for a moment. “Mr. Wright, that venue has an eight-month waiting list. The thirty-thousand-dollar deposit is strictly non-refundable. Are you absolutely certain?” “I am certain.” “But you drove out there over a dozen times. You checked every single detail. Our lead designer said she had never seen a groom put so much heart into…” “Just cancel it. Thank you.” I hung up the phone. James was sitting on the other end of the couch. “You are really doing this?” “Yeah.” That chapel was thirty miles outside the city limits. There was no subway access. You had to take two separate buses and hike for twenty minutes to get there. I chose it because it was built right on the edge of a massive, pristine lake. Five years ago, on our very first road trip, we found that lake. I spent an entire afternoon taking photos of her by the water. That day, she was the happiest I had ever seen her. She threw her arms around my neck and whispered that this lake was our secret sanctuary. I spent months fighting with the designers over the venue blueprints. I chose white magnolias for the centerpieces because her mother loved elegant, minimalist flowers. The string quartet was instructed to play the exact instrumental track that was playing in the coffee shop on our first date. I hand-drew the seating chart. I color-coded it. Pink ink for her guests, blue ink for mine. I purposefully placed her college roommate, who had a severe phobia of heights, at a window seat on the ground floor. Michelle never asked about a single one of these details. Not once. “Declan, if you need to cry, just cry. I am not going to judge you,” James said quietly. I shook my head. I ran out of tears a long time ago. … When Michelle finally called James, he was at his office grinding through architectural drafts. “Declan’s phone is turned off. Pass a message to him for me.” James slowly put his pen down. “What is it?” “Martin is taking his graduation photos next month. He wants a unique backdrop.” Her tone was incredibly casual, like she was asking him to pick up milk from the grocery store. “I suddenly remembered the chapel Declan booked. The lake view is gorgeous. Tell him to call the venue and let Martin borrow the grounds for the afternoon.” James gripped his phone, his knuckles turning stark white. “Michelle.” “That venue is already canceled.”

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1 The project in my hands wrapped up flawlessly. The General Manager handed me a $300,000 bonus check right there on the spot, the entire floor erupting into applause. Before the paper even had time to warm up in my hands, Valerie from my team sidled over. Her lips were stretched into a sickeningly sweet smile. “Congratulations, Aria!” She leaned in, her voice dripping with fake camaraderie. “But let’s be real, this project wouldn’t have crossed the finish line without everyone’s support. Remember when you were drowning in work last month? I was the one who pulled those data summaries together for you.” Her so-called ‘help’ consisted of dumping a spreadsheet riddled with errors onto my desk, forcing me to burn half a day redoing it all myself. I swallowed the urge to roll my eyes and forced a tight, polite smile. “Right. Thanks for that, Valerie.” I thought that would be the end of it. I was dead wrong. First thing the next morning, my phone started buzzing off the hook. The department Slack channel was blowing up. The message at the very top was from Valerie. “To celebrate our massive project success and to thank the team for all our hard work, Aria is treating us to dinner tonight at six! Let’s all go soak up some of that good luck!” I stared at the screen, letting out a dry, incredulous laugh. When did I ever agree to pay for a department dinner? Below her announcement, a cascade of kiss-ass replies had already piled up. “Thanks for organizing, Val! You’re the best!” “Valerie always takes care of us!” “I’ll be there! Aria is so generous! Sticking with Val always pays off!” Reading row after row of people thanking Valerie and praising my non-existent generosity, a hot knot of anger tightened in my chest. While I was sitting there in pure disbelief, another notification popped up. It was Marcus, one of the senior engineers who practically lived in Valerie’s shadow. “You seeing this, Aria? That’s what we call big picture thinking from Valerie. When you’re young and just making a name for yourself, you need to show some gratitude. You’ve got a lot to learn from her about office politics and networking. Don’t just bury your head in your screen.” His message acted like blood in the water, drawing out more sycophants. “Marcus hit the nail on the head! Valerie is a real role model.” “Aria, you should really ask Val to mentor you!” I slammed my phone face-down on the desk. Learn from her? Learn what? How to have the sheer audacity to spend someone else’s money and take all the credit for it? Unbelievable. Seeing that I hadn’t replied in the channel, Valerie sashayed over to my cubicle, her hips swaying with unearned confidence. “Aria, honey, I handled all the reservations for you. Booked the VIP room, the biggest one they have!” She leaned down, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Look, you just bagged a massive payout. If you don’t bleed a little cash to show your appreciation, the people under you are going to get bitter. I’m doing this for your own good. It builds team cohesion.” Looking at her smug, self-satisfied face, a wave of nausea washed over me. I opened my mouth to shut it down immediately. “Valerie, I…” “Oh, stop! Don’t be shy!” She cut me off instantly, her voice rising so the whole floor could hear. “Look at our Aria, guys! So modest, she’s actually blushing! It’s settled then!” That evening, we sat in the largest private dining room of a high-end seafood restaurant. After three rounds of drinks, the room was buzzing with a tipsy, loud energy. Valerie clearly felt the mood was ripe. She tapped her fork against her wine glass and stood up. The room gradually quieted down. “Aria definitely spearheaded this project, and corporate rewarding her with $300,000 is well deserved. We are all thrilled for her!” She offered a token compliment before seamlessly pivoting to her real agenda. “However, no project succeeds in a vacuum. It takes a village, and it takes the silent, grinding effort of every single person sitting at this table!” She paused for dramatic effect, her eyes locking onto mine with the practiced weight of a disappointed parent. “So, I have a proposal. How about you take a slice of that bonus and share it with your work family?” She didn’t even give me a second to process before laying out the math she had obviously been calculating all day. “Nothing crazy. Just carve out $200,000. There are fifteen of us in the department including you. That’s a clean $13,000 per person. You’re young, Aria. You have to look at the long game. There’s always more money to be made, but if a team loses its spirit, you can never get it back.” Her little clique of yes-men immediately started nodding and chiming in. “Valerie is so right! Wealth is better shared, Aria!” “Exactly! Do this, and we’ll bust our asses for you on the next one!” “Thirteen grand isn’t even that much to you now. Just treat it like you’re buying us a vacation!” I had never in my life witnessed a group of people dress up blatant extortion with such righteous vocabulary. Every eye in the room was fixed on me. Some looked greedy, some jealous, and a few held a trace of pity. I calmly set my fork down and picked up a linen napkin, dabbing the corners of my mouth. “Valerie, you make a fascinating point.” A triumphant, greedy light ignited in Valerie’s eyes, as if the cash was already resting in her bank account. “But tell me,” I kept my voice perfectly level. “What exactly did any of you do to help me on this project?” Her smile froze instantly. The temperature in the private room plummeted. I maintained my polite, even tone. “Valerie, during the initial phase, I needed raw market data. You told me you would coordinate with the vendors. I waited three days, only for you to tell me they ‘wouldn’t give you the time of day.’ I had to pull an all-nighter to scrape and rebuild that research from scratch.” She opened her mouth to argue, but I didn’t give her an inch. I shifted my gaze straight to Marcus. “Marcus. I hit a technical wall and came to you for advice. You patted my shoulder, said it was an easy fix, and promised to look at it later. That ‘later’ miraculously arrived the day after the deadline.” Marcus’s face turned a mottled red, his eyes darting away to stare at the tablecloth. I let my voice rise just a fraction, lacing it with ice and absolute disdain. “I carried this entire project on my back from day one. Where do you all find the nerve to stand here and demand an equal cut of my payout?” “Is it because you’re older? Because you have zero shame?” “Or is it just because you’re completely delusional?” 2 A sudden snort broke the silence. An intern sitting in the corner, who usually caught the worst of Valerie’s bullying, couldn’t hold back a laugh. Valerie’s hand shook violently as she pointed a manicured finger at me. It took her a full ten seconds to squeeze out a pathetic defense through gritted teeth. “Aria Kensington! How dare you slander me! When have I ever refused to help you!” “Whether it’s slander or the truth, you know exactly what you did.” I had zero interest in debating a liar. I grabbed my purse, stood up, and walked out the door. I assumed the storm had passed. But the next morning, the second I sat down at my cubicle, Valerie marched over and slammed a ridiculously long receipt down on my keyboard. “What the hell is your problem, Aria!” She planted her hands on her hips, her voice a screeching siren designed to turn every head in the office. “Fine, you’re too greedy to share the bonus! But you promised to pay for dinner, and you sneaked out like a rat! You humiliated all of us, and we had to split the check! Your character is absolute garbage!” I glanced down at the crumpled receipt. Unbelievable. Fifteen people managed to rack up an $8,000 bill. They had deliberately ordered the most expensive bottles of wine and premium seafood, fully intending to bleed me dry. I looked up at her, my expression blank. “When exactly did I ever say I was paying for that dinner?” Valerie blinked, clearly not expecting me to challenge the premise. She immediately doubled down on her twisted logic. “I posted it in the Slack channel! Everyone saw it! You didn’t object!” “So, you unilaterally make an announcement in a group chat, I ignore it, and that constitutes my legal consent?” I let out a short, mocking laugh. “By your flawless logic, if I post in the channel right now that Valerie is voluntarily donating her entire salary next year to the company retreat fund, you’ll just hand it over?” A few people in the neighboring cubicles let out muffled snickers. Valerie’s face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. She was losing her grip and she knew it. “You! Everyone went because we thought you were paying! You owe us this money! Who is ever going to trust you in this industry again if you don’t pay up!” I leaned back in my ergonomic chair, crossing my arms, completely unbothered. “Valerie, I didn’t take a single bite of food or sip of water the entire time I was there. Why on earth would I pay your tab?” I picked up my phone and unlocked the screen. “Do you want me to call the restaurant manager right now and pull the security footage? From the second I walked in to the second I left, I didn’t touch a single plate.” Her face went completely slack. She hadn’t anticipated I would go straight for the security cameras. “You… you’re talking crazy! How do we know you didn’t bribe the restaurant staff!” She was grasping at straws, her overbearing aura rapidly deflating. I looked at her like she was an absolute clown. “Bribe a high-end restaurant over an eight grand bill? You really think way too highly of yourself, and way too little of me.” “Whoever ordered the lobster, pays for the lobster.” I flicked the receipt right back at her chest. In the end, Valerie and her little clique of scavengers had to swallow that massive credit card charge themselves. During my lunch break, a friend from marketing sent me a direct message with a link. “Aria, your team is actually unhinged. Look at this.” I clicked the link. It took me straight to the company’s anonymous Blind forum. Sitting pretty at the top of the trending page was a thread titled: [EXPOSED: The New Girl in Operations Agreed to Treat the Team, Pulled a Runner, and Left Senior Staff with an $8,000 Bill!] The post was vicious. “A certain new hire named Aria got incredibly lucky and scored a massive project bonus. She offered to take the whole department out to celebrate. And what does she do? She sneaks out the back door when no one is looking!” “She left her mentors with an eight grand tab! The senior staff just had to bite the bullet and split it. Are all Gen Z hires this arrogant and selfish now? Does a toxic, anti-team player like this really belong in our corporate culture?” 3 Pinned right below the post was a cropped screenshot of the Slack chat. It showed Valerie’s message announcing I was paying, but conveniently cropped out the timestamp and the lack of my reply, making it look like an agreed-upon plan. The comment section was an absolute dumpster fire. “I know exactly who this is. Trash behavior!” “Lol, gets a little cash and thinks she’s better than the rest of us corporate slaves.” “HR needs to step in. People like this are a liability.” “Sending prayers to her team. Imagine dealing with a psycho like that daily.” The vitriol was pouring in by the second. I stared at the monitor, my face devoid of emotion, but a cold, sharp laugh echoed in my head. Valerie was hellbent on destroying my reputation. I placed my fingers on the keyboard, ready to nuke the thread with the truth, when a notification popped up. Greg, the department supervisor, wanted me in his office immediately. The second I closed the door, Greg frowned, skipping the pleasantries. “I saw the thread on Blind, Aria. I have to say, Valerie has been with this company for years. How could you humiliate her like that?” When I didn’t immediately apologize, he assumed I was intimidated. “Look, her execution might have been a bit flawed, but her intentions were good. She just wanted team harmony! You blowing it up like this and embarrassing everyone… how do you think that helps your career trajectory here?” I shot him a sideways glance, thoroughly unimpressed. “Greg, are you defending her so fiercely because she’s a valued senior employee? Or is it because… she’s your long-time mistress?” Greg’s face went deathly pale, then violently red. He slammed his hands on the desk and shot up from his chair, pointing a trembling finger at me. “Aria Kensington! What the hell is wrong with you! Watch your damn mouth!” “We both know I’m not lying.” If he wanted to play dirty, I was perfectly happy to rip off the bandaids. “If she wasn’t sleeping with you, do you really think someone with her abysmal metrics and zero talent would still be walking around this office acting like she owns the place?” “You… you lying bitch! I will fire you right now! Try me!” His chest was heaving. I had struck the exact nerve I aimed for. “Fire me?” I casually tapped my phone against the palm of my hand. “If corporate finds out about the little financial discrepancies you two have been cooking up, let’s see which one of us gets escorted out by security.” “You… you…” He choked on his words, completely paralyzed. He didn’t dare make a move. After all, I was the one who just secured a massive account for the company. Valerie watched me stroll out of the supervisor’s office completely unscathed. She practically ground her teeth into dust, glaring at me with pure, unfiltered venom. I ignored her and went straight back to my desk to finalize the project handover. The only thing left was to import the market data Valerie was responsible for, generate the final deck, and submit it to the client. I took a slow breath and walked over to her desk. “I need the market data for the final report. Send it over now. It has to be in the client’s inbox by six PM.” Valerie was leisurely applying luxury hand cream, not even bothering to look at me. “What’s the rush? This data is sensitive. I need to run it through another audit. If there’s a mistake, who’s going to take the fall?” I knew for a fact the data had been ready for days. She was just sitting on it. “How long is this audit going to take?” I asked, keeping my voice clipped. “Hard to say,” she purred, blowing softly on her manicured nails before flashing me a venomous fake smile. “Data is delicate work. You can’t rush perfection.” Looking at her smug, punchable face, I knew her game. She was going to drag this out to the absolute last second to make me sweat. I walked back to my desk and set a timer, asking her every single hour. “Still checking.” “Stop rushing me, it makes me prone to errors.” Right up until five PM, when people were already grabbing their coats to leave. I stood over her desk one last time. She looked up, feigning surprise. “Oh, look at my memory! Just finished it!” I forced down the urge to scream, grabbed the file, generated the report at lightning speed, and sprinted out the door to hand-deliver it to the client’s office. Despite practically flying through traffic, I was five minutes late. But, thankfully, it was done. Sitting in the back of my car on the way home, I dialed a private number straight to Corporate HQ. “Add Greg Dawson and Valerie to the termination list.” “Understood, Miss Kensington.” My father had warned me the culture at this branch was rotting from the inside out, which is why he sent me here undercover. Looks like I had just found the maggots. 4 The next morning, my driver, Cole, dropped me off in front of the office building. The moment my heels hit the pavement, Valerie and her little flock of followers swarmed out of nowhere, blocking the entrance. Valerie’s eyes were glued to the sleek black luxury sedan behind me, pure, unadulterated envy swimming in her gaze. She stepped aggressively into Cole’s line of sight, pointing a finger at me. “Hey, handsome! Don’t let this girl play you! She acts all innocent, but she is absolute poison!” Cole’s expression hardened into granite. I reached out and rested a hand on his forearm to keep him grounded. “Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. “Do tell. How exactly am I poison?” My calm reaction only fueled her manic energy. She practically vibrated with malicious glee. “I saw it with my own two eyes yesterday! You screwed up your timeline and missed the deadline for the client. You were running around the lobby of their building looking like a panicked rat. But suddenly, your project gets approved anyway! You suck at your job, but you sure know how to use your other assets!” She paused, making sure a crowd of morning commuters had stopped to listen, before turning the volume up to ten. “She was out on the sidewalk, practically grinding up against some old suit who looked old enough to be her father! They were so close it was disgusting! Next thing you know, the old guy takes her file and struts right into the executive elevator! Tell me, unless she’s selling herself, why would a senior executive at the client’s firm bail her out?!” Her sycophants swarmed in, feeding off the drama like parasites. “No wonder she got that massive bonus. She was putting in overtime on her knees!” “She dresses like a professional, but she’s just a cheap escort behind closed doors. You really can’t judge a book by its cover!” “Dude, seriously,” one of the guys sneered at Cole. “Watch your back. Don’t let her use you as a stepping stone. You’re probably just one of her many sugar daddies.” It was the peak of the morning rush. Dozens of coworkers from different departments had stopped to stare, whispering and pointing at me. If I were just a regular new hire, this kind of aggressive, public character assassination would have shattered my mental health. Instead, I looked at her with mild amusement. “Is that right? Do you have a single shred of proof?” Seeing that Cole hadn’t flinched or stepped away from me, Valerie’s voice hit a shrill, hysterical pitch. “Of course I do! I’ve got the smoking gun right here!” She triumphantly shoved her phone into the air. On the screen was a crisp, zoomed-in photo of me and my father standing outside the client’s building. I had been stressed out of my mind about the five-minute delay, and he had coincidentally been arriving for a meeting with their CEO. I never imagined this psycho had actually followed me and photographed us. “Look at this! The old creep has his hand right on her shoulder! Look at how she’s smiling at him! She looks ready to drop to her knees right there on the sidewalk!” Hearing her spew such vile filth about my father, my hands curled into tight fists. My voice cracked like a whip. “You have absolutely no idea who that man is, and you stand here spewing garbage out of your mouth!” Being shouted down in front of a crowd sent Valerie over the edge. Her face twisted into a mask of pure hatred. “I don’t need to know who he is! I know exactly what you are! You’re a manipulative, social-climbing little slut who used her body to steal my bonus!” Before I could blink, she violently swung her arm forward, hurling the contents of her travel mug straight at my face. A splash of scalding liquid hit my chest. Cole gasped sharply. The entire courtyard went dead silent. Cole reacted instantly, pulling a pristine handkerchief from his inside pocket and frantically dabbing at the dark coffee stains ruining my silk blouse. Looking down at the ruined fabric, a slow, freezing smile spread across my face. Without breaking eye contact with Valerie, I pulled out my phone and hit a speed dial number. I put it on speaker for the entire crowd to hear. “Get the legal team down to the branch lobby right now. I need immediate evidence collection for public defamation, harassment, and physical assault.” I paused, letting my words hang in the crisp morning air. “And call the regional director. Tell him if he can’t manage the animals in his building, I’ll dissolve his entire branch by noon.” Valerie’s hand remained frozen in mid-air, the empty travel mug slipping from her grip and clattering onto the concrete. The absolute certainty in my voice sent a violent shockwave through the crowd. The coworkers who were just laughing and pointing at me were now choking on their own breath. A terrifying thought crashed into Valerie’s mind: What if she really is… someone from Corporate? A suffocating wave of panic seized her chest. Just then, the sound of frantic, heavy footsteps echoed across the pavement. Everyone turned to see Greg, the department supervisor, sprinting toward us. His face was a ghastly shade of gray. Valerie’s eyes lit up with desperate hope. Surely Greg was coming to back her up. But Greg didn’t even notice the bizarre, frozen tableau in the courtyard. He locked eyes with me and immediately started screaming at the top of his lungs. “Aria! What the hell was in that final data report you sent to Carmichael yesterday?! It’s completely corrupted! Mr. Carmichael just called me personally and ripped my head off! Do you have any idea how many millions we are going to lose because of this?! How could you be so utterly incompetent?!” My eyes widened in genuine shock. That was the data file Valerie had hoarded until the final five minutes! I never had time to audit her numbers! Before I could even formulate a defense, the terror vanished from Valerie’s face. Greg’s screaming was a shot of pure adrenaline straight to her heart. Her spine snapped straight, her arrogant smirk returning in full force. “Ha!” she sneered, her voice dripping with venom. “And here I thought you were some big shot undercover! Turns out you’re just a useless piece of trash who can’t even handle basic spreadsheet entry!” She spun around, playing to the crowd of nervous onlookers. “Look at her, everyone! This is the girl who just tried to threaten us with lawyers! She talks a big game, but her actual work is so garbage she just pissed off our biggest client! She almost tanked our entire department! Corporate needs to fire this liability immediately!” She masterfully redirected all the heat right back onto me. Greg was completely blinded by his own panic. He didn’t even register Cole standing next to me like a bodyguard. He only cared about finding a scapegoat to survive Carmichael’s wrath. “Aria, what the hell do you have to say for yourself?!” Greg roared, his eyes bulging with rage. I looked at the two of them—the corrupt manager and his malicious mistress—and whatever shred of professional courtesy I had left evaporated into thin air. “You didn’t even trace the source data, but you instantly blame me?” I asked, my voice deadly calm. “Valerie intentionally withheld that file until five minutes before the deadline, knowing I wouldn’t have time to verify her numbers. A mid-level associate doesn’t have the guts to pull a stunt like that alone. Tell me, Greg, did you two plan this together? Sabotage the account just to frame me?” Greg’s face twitched violently. “You paranoid bitch! Don’t drag us into your mess just because you’re incompetent!” Valerie didn’t give anyone time to process my accusation. She immediately lunged for the kill, her eyes burning with greed. “Stop wasting breath on her, Greg! The client is furious, we might lose the contract entirely! Someone who ruins an account doesn’t deserve a three-hundred-thousand-dollar bonus! That money needs to be seized and returned to the company to cover the damages!” It always came back to the money. To satisfy their own petty, pathetic greed, they were willing to nuke a multi-million dollar account and destroy months of work from the entire department. A white-hot rage ignited in my chest. I opened my mouth, ready to strip away the facade and annihilate them both with my real title. But suddenly, Valerie gasped dramatically. Her eyes bulged as she pointed a trembling finger at my chest. “Oh my god! Everyone, look! Look at her neck!” Instantly, fifty pairs of eyes snapped to my collarbone. Resting against my skin, partially hidden by the coffee-stained silk, was a delicate, blindingly brilliant diamond necklace. The morning sun caught the central stone, scattering fractures of intense light. “That… that’s a limited-edition piece from House of V! I saw it in Vogue last month!” a girl from marketing gasped, her voice thick with jealousy. “It’s a global exclusive! It costs at least three hundred thousand dollars!” That number hit the crowd like a bomb. “She has the audacity to wear a piece like that?!” “She just cost the company millions, and she’s parading around in a necklace worth a house?!” “Holy hell, where did she get the money? Don’t tell me she blew the entire project bonus on jewelry?!”

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My roommate was a preachy bleeding-heart. On our very first day of college, she snatched my electric bug zapper right out of my hand. “Mosquitoes are living creatures too. How can you be so cruel as to kill them?” That night, she threw all our dorm windows wide open, claiming she wanted to leave a door open for the lost little souls outside. I was bitten so badly that I developed a high fever from the allergic reaction. My eyelids swelled so much I could barely open them. But when I tried to hang a protective mosquito net over my bed, she tore it down, sobbing hysterically. “How can you be so selfish? You protect yourself in a little bubble, but what about them?” In my past life, that single sentence was the catalyst. It triggered a wave of public shaming on our campus forum, pulling my roommates, my classmates, and strangers alike into a self-righteous mob. They called me cold-blooded. They said she was just too pure and kind, and that I couldn’t even tolerate a few tiny insects. Ultimately, the severe allergic reaction sent me into anaphylactic shock, landing me in the ICU. Even as I fought for my life, she cried in front of her livestream camera, claiming my hostile attitude had simply provoked the poor mosquitoes. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on that very first day of college. She was holding down my bug zapper, her eyes rimmed with red. “You won’t hurt them, right?” Instead of arguing, I pulled out my phone, grabbed my documents, and walked straight to the housing director’s office. “Professor, I’m applying to live off-campus.” If anyone wanted to turn their dorm room into a wildlife sanctuary, they could do it without me. 1 Advisor Beth looked up from her desk, the orientation roster only half-turned. “Phoebe? You just checked in. Why are you already asking to commute?” I placed my admission letter, ID copy, hospital allergy certification, and off-campus housing application on her desk. “Professor, I have a medical history of severe, life-threatening allergic reactions to insect bites. Right now, my roommate, Lisa, is refusing to let us use any bug spray or zappers, and she won’t even let me hang a net.” The office fell dead silent. A student assistant sorting files in the corner couldn’t help but snort. “She won’t let you kill mosquitoes?” Beth frowned. “Phoebe, roommate conflicts should be resolved through communication first. Off-campus approval isn’t something we can process in a single day.” Just then, a soft, trembling voice echoed from the doorway. “That isn’t a conflict.” Lisa stood by the door, clutching my electric bug zapper to her chest like a shield. She was wearing a simple white cotton dress, her eyes swollen and red, looking as though she were the one who had been deeply wronged. “Professor, she wants to commit murder.” The smirk on the student assistant’s face instantly froze. Beth stared at the object in Lisa’s arms. “Why do you have her property?” Lisa held the zapper even tighter. “This thing is terrifying. I only took it to keep her from doing something awful. Every living thing has a soul, and they feel pain too.” Tears began to roll down her cheeks. “I know everyone thinks I’m strange, but I just wish this world wasn’t so cruel.” A few freshmen had gathered in the hallway, peeking through the open door. “She’s so sweet and empathetic,” one whispered. Others began to cast judgmental looks in my direction. The familiar, suffocating pressure returned to my chest. In my past life, it had played out exactly like this. The moment Lisa shed a tear, everyone automatically assumed she was the victim. When I said I had an allergy, they accused me of exaggerating. When I said she refused to let me close the window, they claimed it was normal to want fresh summer air. When I said she destroyed my net, they defended her, saying she was just acting out of pure, passionate emotion. And while I lay mute on an ICU bed, they were busy debating whether I was too cold-hearted. This time, I didn’t bother explaining. I simply looked at Beth. “Professor, I’m not here to judge her personal beliefs. I am simply requesting to be separated from her.” Lisa’s sobbing paused. She looked up, tears clinging to her eyelashes. “Do you really hate me that much?” “I am allergic to mosquitoes,” I replied flatly. As if deeply wounded by my coldness, she took a half-step back. “But they are only trying to survive.” I pulled up my sleeve, exposing my forearm. Several large, angry red welts had already blossomed across my skin, their edges inflamed and hot. “So am I.” The office fell silent. Beth looked over my medical document, her brow furrowing deeper. “An off-campus application requires parental consent, department approval, and a housing manager’s signature.” Lisa sniffled, wiping her nose. “Professor, there’s no need to make such a big deal out of this. I’ll work hard to help Phoebe understand how beautiful and precious all life is.” I looked at her. “I don’t need to understand mosquitoes. And I certainly don’t need your effort.” 3 The off-campus application couldn’t be approved on the spot. Beth explained that she needed to contact my parents and the housing department to verify the procedure. Hearing the words “contact parents,” Lisa wept even harder. “Please don’t call my mother. She’ll think I’m causing trouble for others again.” Some of the onlookers at the door softened. “Professor, maybe let them go back to the dorm and talk it out?” “Moving out on the very first day doesn’t look good for the department.” “They’re just girls, a quick chat will clear everything up.” Beth looked at me. Her expression wasn’t one of favoritism, but of sheer exhaustion. University bureaucracy moved slowly, but emotional drama escalated in seconds. Lisa knew exactly how to play the crowd. She clutched the bug zapper, her voice barely a whisper, yet loud enough for everyone in the hallway to hear. “Phoebe, I just want you to carry less hostility in your heart. Mosquitoes are so tiny, they can’t even fight back. If we don’t protect them, who will?” In my past life, this was the point where I had backed down. I had worried about ruining roommate relationships on day one, so I followed her back to the room. That night, she kept the windows wide open and turned off the fan, claiming the breeze would disorient the poor insects. I was bitten repeatedly until four in the morning, my throat swelling and closing. When I reached for my medicine, she cried that the chemical smell would harm them. Later, I was on my knees, clawing at the bed frame as my vision went black. This time, I placed my phone on the desk and pressed record. “Professor, I am happy to cooperate with the official process,” I said. “But until the off-campus approval is finalized, I will not sleep in that dorm. If the university cannot temporarily assign me another bed, I require a written statement from the office.” “A statement?” Beth asked. “Yes. Stating that I have submitted medical proof of a severe allergy, and that the university is aware a student in my assigned dorm is actively preventing basic health and safety measures.” Silence blanketed the office once more. Lisa’s tears dried up instantly. She stared at me, her eyes suddenly cold and unfamiliar. Beth remained quiet for a few seconds before picking up her desk phone and dialing the housing office. “We have an issue in Dorm Building Two, Room 503. Please send a supervisor up there immediately. A student is reporting that she cannot use preventative measures or nets due to a roommate’s interference.” After listening to the reply, Beth’s expression grew incredibly complicated. “Yes, I am serious. It’s not a joke.” Lisa suddenly lunged toward me. “Why do you have to blow everything out of proportion?” Her voice was sharp, yet she quickly softened it for the crowd outside. “We could have easily learned to understand each other.” Nearby, someone raised a phone to record us. I stepped back. “Don’t touch me.” Lisa bit her lip, fresh tears spilling over. “I didn’t touch you! Why are you acting like I’m a monster?” Suddenly, the bug zapper in her arms let out a loud zap. She must have accidentally pressed the power button. A bright flash of blue-purple electricity crackled in the air. With a shriek, she threw the zapper away. It flew across the room and slammed into a girl’s suitcase near the door, leaving a nasty white crack in the plastic shell. The girl’s face went white. “That’s my new suitcase!” Lisa scrambled to her feet, panicked. “I’m sorry! It was an accident!” The girl shook with anger. “Does an accident mean you don’t have to pay for it?” Lisa turned her watery eyes back to me. “Phoebe, you scared me. That’s why I dropped it.” Once again, all eyes turned to me. Looking at the cracked suitcase, I wanted to laugh. In my past life, it had been the exact same pattern. When she dumped my repellent down the drain, it was my fault for bringing “toxic weapons” into the room. When she tore my net, it was my fault for provoking her. When I collapsed from a fever, it was my own fragile health at fault, not her gentle heart. Beth spoke up, her voice tight. “Lisa, please write down your details for property damage compensation.” Lisa’s crying halted. “But Professor, I really didn’t mean to.” The girl with the ruined suitcase snapped. “I don’t care what you meant! Are you going to pay for it or not?” Beth closed her eyes. “Let’s go to the dorm.” 4 A small crowd had already gathered outside Dorm Building Two. The building supervisor, the security guard, and the maintenance staff were standing in a line, their faces incredibly grim. The moment the door to Room 503 was unlocked, a damp, sour odor wafted into the corridor. The windows were thrown wide open. On the sill sat a half-filled cup of honey-water, several pieces of rotting peaches, and an open trash bag. In the corner of the balcony, a basin of stagnant water sat undisturbed. Mosquitoes swarmed around the ceiling light, their collective buzzing creating a sickening hum in the small space. The supervisor’s face turned a violent shade of green. “Who did this?” Lisa stood in the center of the room, looking like a martyr. “They get hungry too. The fruit might be ruined for us, but those little lives can still eat it.” The maintenance worker took a deep breath to control his temper. “Miss, this is a student dormitory, not an insect breeding ground. Stagnant water breeds pests, and rotting fruit attracts roaches.” Lisa puckered her lips. “Sir, you’re being so mean. They’ll get scared if they hear you shouting.” A few students in the hallway snickered, while others defended her. “Maybe she’s just incredibly sensitive? We shouldn’t trigger her.” “Honestly, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to protect life.” A large mosquito landed on the supervisor’s arm. She slapped it instantly, leaving a smear of blood. Lisa let out a piercing shriek. “You killed it!” The entire floor fell silent. The supervisor stared at the blood on her palm, her face darkening. “You need to worry about yourself first.” Just then, our other two roommates, Tess and Hazel, walked up the stairs. Tess’s arms were covered in red welts, and she was carrying the torn remains of her mosquito net. “This was mine,” Tess said, her voice shaking. Hazel carried her washbasin, her expression sour. “She wouldn’t let us dump the stagnant water on the balcony. She claimed there might be precious eggs inside.” Seeing them, Lisa acted as if she had found her saviors. “Tess, Hazel, please tell them. You know I didn’t mean any harm.” Tess hesitated, looking away. Hazel glanced at me before lowering her voice. “Actually, Lisa is quite pitiful. She’s just too kind.” There it was again. She’s just too kind. Every single disaster in my past life had started with that exact phrase. Lisa choked up. “Phoebe, I really didn’t know your allergy was this bad.” I pulled up my sleeve, exposing my arm. The rash had spread from my wrist to my elbow, forming a dense, angry patch of red. Tess gasped. “You’re actually having a reaction?” Lisa sniffled. “I thought you were just being dramatic because you thought they were dirty.” The tension in the room thickened. I stared at her. “An allergy is not a matter of being dramatic.” She shrank back, tears pooling in her eyes. “I said the wrong thing. Please don’t raise your voice at me.” Hazel sighed. “Phoebe, she already apologized.” Before I could speak, a mosquito drifted down from the ceiling light, landing on Lisa’s neck. A security guard instinctively raised his hand to swat it, but Lisa bolted backward. “Don’t touch it!” She crashed straight into the shoe rack behind the door. Dozens of shoes clattered to the floor, and a pristine white sneaker landed face-down in the basin of stagnant water. The owner of the shoe let out a scream of pure frustration. “Lisa!” 5 In the end, the room couldn’t be cleared immediately. The maintenance staff insisted on chemical fumigation, but Lisa blocked the doorway, weeping and claiming that fumigation was nothing short of a mass genocide. The supervisor ordered her to throw away the rotting fruit and drain the basin. Lisa clung to the bag of rotting peaches as if she were protecting the last scrap of decency in the world. “But they’re still eating!” Some students offered her tissues, some recorded videos, and others posted updates to the campus forum. Soon, a thread began to trend. Compassionate freshman tries to protect innocent lives, driven to tears by cold-hearted roommate. In the attached photo, Lisa was weeping over her bag of peaches while I stood nearby, my rolled-up sleeve making it look as though I were pointing a finger at her in anger. The comment section exploded. “That roommate looks incredibly aggressive.” “Forbidding bug zappers is a bit much, but her heart is in the right place.” “Just because you have an allergy doesn’t mean you can lack basic empathy.” “It’s just a few mosquitoes. Why can’t she be more accommodating?” Tess handed me her phone, looking incredibly awkward. “Phoebe, do you want to post a statement to clarify?” Looking at the photo, my chest tightened. In my past life, I had tried to clarify. I had posted photos of my severe hives, my hospital records, and the stagnant water she kept on the balcony. But no one cared. They only remembered how beautifully Lisa wept. Beth arranged for me to spend the night in the department conference room. “It’s a temporary solution for tonight. I’ll push your off-campus application through first thing in the morning.” The conference room had no bed. I had to push two chairs together, the hard wood aching against my back. Outside the window, Lisa was still crying down by the dorm entrance. Hazel was wrapping a jacket around her shoulders, and Tess was holding a bottle of warm water for her. Before long, a voice shouted from below. “Phoebe!” I walked to the window. Lisa was looking up, her tears glistening under the streetlamp. “I’m willing to help you take care of them! Please don’t be mad at me anymore, okay?” The crowd below began to egg her on. “She’s offering peace, just accept it!” “She’s doing all this, and you’re still acting proud?” “Don’t be so heartless to your classmate!” I slammed the window shut. My phone buzzed continuously. In our class group chat, someone had shared a screenshot of the forum post. Beth posted a message asking everyone to stop sharing it, but a few sarcastic comments immediately followed. “Some people really know how to run to the advisor the second they get to campus.” “We have to see each other every day for the next four years.” “Is it a crime to respect life now?” I took screenshots of all the messages. At one in the morning, a soft knock sounded on the conference room door. Tess stood outside, her face pale. “Phoebe, Lisa says she can’t sleep because the mosquitoes are still buzzing around the room.” I stared at her. “And?” Tess bit her lip. “She says if you come back, we can all have a proper chat. Otherwise, she won’t be able to rest tonight.” “Whether she rests or not has absolutely nothing to do with me.” Tess stammered, “She… she just wants to make peace with you.” “I don’t accept.” Suddenly, Lisa came running down the hallway. In her hands, she held a glass jar filled with a pale yellow liquid. “Phoebe, please, just smell this.” The sticky, cloying scent of honey blasted me in the face. I instantly backed away. Lisa held up the jar, tears streaming down her face. “This is the food I prepared for them! If you would just smell it, you’d know how much they need us!” My throat began to itch and tighten. Tess panicked. “Lisa, get away from her!” But Lisa acted as if she were deaf, taking another step forward. The mouth of the jar was practically shoved against my chest. I violently slapped her hand away. The glass jar shattered on the floor. Sweet honey-water splashed all over the corridor. Lisa collapsed to the ground, her piercing scream echoing through the entire building. “She destroyed their food! She’s trying to kill me! Help! Murder!”

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My father accidentally added me to a group chat called “One Big Happy Family.” There were only three people in it: my father, my mother, and a stranger saved under the nickname “Princess.” They were in the middle of a flurry of messages, eagerly planning a lavish birthday party for her. Tomorrow was her birthday. And tomorrow was also my birthday, which they had consistently forgotten for ten consecutive years. My mother wrote: The venue has to be absolutely magical. We want her to feel like a real princess. My father sent a massive digital cash transfer: Money is no object. Just don’t let your sister find out. I don’t want her making a fuss and ruining the mood. I silently took screenshots of the chat, preparing to wait for the perfect moment to tear their happy little facade to pieces. Just then, my younger brother, Gary, a straight-A student and the pride of our family, sent me a private message. It was a screenshot of his own chat with our father. Dad, is Gilly’s surprise party all set up? You promised me, this is the last time we lie to her. 1 Staring at the screenshot Gary sent, a cold dread seeped into my bones. A surprise? The last time they would lie to me? Every single year on my birthday, they brushed me off with the exact same tired excuses. “Gilly, something urgent came up at the office.” “Gilly, your mother booked a spa day with her friends. Just order yourself some takeout, okay?” This year, they didn’t even bother with the excuses. They had simply replaced me with a brand-new daughter. I tossed my phone onto the bed, a suffocating weight pressing down on my chest. Gary’s name popped up on my screen again: Gilly, don’t overthink it. Mom and Dad… I cut him off with two words: I get it. Overthink? How could I possibly misinterpret this? The proof was laid out right in front of me. This lavish birthday party for “Princess” was the very “surprise” they were using to justify their lies. I, their flesh-and-blood daughter, was nothing more than a background prop, a shadow meant to highlight the dazzling happiness of another girl. From the living room, I heard my mother’s hushed, excited voice on the phone. “Yes, we want the pink balloons. The largest, glossiest ones you have.” “Stella loves pink. We must make sure everything is perfect for her.” Stella. So that was her name: Stella. I opened my social media app and searched for the name. It didn’t take long to find her. Her profile picture was a polished, professional portrait, and her feed was filled with glamorous photos of her travels all over the world. Her most recent post was a picture of her standing between two middle-aged people. The background was our living room. The two people were my parents. In the photo, they smiled with a warmth and tenderness I had never once seen on their faces. My mother was affectionately linking arms with Stella, while my father stood beside them, his eyes full of pure adoration. The caption read: Thank you to my wonderful Aunt and Uncle! I can’t wait for the party tomorrow! My mother had commented below: Silly girl, there’s no need to be formal with us. My father had left a heart emoji. What a beautiful “happy family.” I saved the photo to my private, encrypted vault alongside the group chat screenshots. These would be the “surprises” I presented to them tomorrow. At dinner, my mother ladled a bowl of hot chicken soup, setting it down in front of me with an eager smile. “Gilly, drink up. I simmered this soup for hours just for you.” Staring at the greasy broth, a wave of intense nausea hit the back of my throat. “Is this to build up my energy for Stella’s birthday party tomorrow?” I asked, my voice light and conversational. My mother’s smile instantly froze on her face. She darted a panicked look at my father, whose expression darkened immediately. “What nonsense are you talking about? Who on earth is Stella?” “Oh? Has your memory started to fail you, Dad?” I pulled out my phone and tapped open the saved photo. “This girl right here. Isn’t she your precious princess?” My father’s face turned a violent shade of grey. My mother scrambled to smooth things over. “Gilly, you’ve got it all wrong. She’s the daughter of an incredibly important client of your father’s. We’re just helping them organize her celebration.” “An important client’s daughter?” I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “So important that you needed to create a private group chat, save her as ‘Princess,’ and send her massive cash transfers?” “So important that you can completely ignore your own daughter’s birthday?” In an instant, the dining room fell so quiet that only our breathing could be heard. Gary rushed out of his room, grabbing my arm. “Gilly, please, just stop talking!” I shook his hand off. “Why? Are you going to help them keep up the lie, too?” Gary’s face drained of color, his lips parting, but he couldn’t find a single word to say. 2 The next day, on my birthday, the house was entirely empty. On the kitchen counter lay a hundred-dollar bill and a scrap of paper in my mother’s elegant handwriting: Gilly, left some money for you on the counter. Buy yourself something nice to eat. Ten years of the exact same neglect, down to the very last dollar. I crumpled the bill into a tight ball and threw it into the trash can. After our argument last night, they didn’t even bother pretending anymore. Before they left, I had heard my mother gushing on the phone. “The venue is fully set up! It looks like an absolute fairytale!” My father was busy barking instructions on the balcony. “Make sure you pack that bottle of ’82 Lafite. We want to make sure Stella has the time of her life today.” And I was left behind, wandering through my own home like a ghost. Gary had left early as well. Before he walked out the door, he had looked at me with a complicated, aching expression. “Gilly, no matter what you see today, please trust me.” Trust him? Trust that he was simply a co-conspirator in this cruel game? I offered a cold, silent smirk, turning away. Around noon, a moving truck pulled up outside. Two delivery workers carried a massive, velvet-lined box up the steps, decorated with an obnoxious pink bow. Standing by the window, I realized that in their eyes, I was worth less than a parcel. My mother ran down the steps to sign for it, her face glowing with excitement. She directed the workers with frantic hand gestures, terrified they might scratch the contents. I recognized the gold emblem on the box. It was a limited-edition grand piano released just last month, carrying a price tag of six figures. Meanwhile, my own piano sat in the corner of my room, its keys yellowed with ten years of use, its tuning long gone. I had tried to gently drop hints to my mother about it before, but she had always brushed me off. It still plays fine, Gilly. We have too many expenses to worry about right now. It wasn’t that the expenses were too high. It was just that I wasn’t worth the cost. The very last ember of hope in my heart died. In the afternoon, I changed into a sharp, tailored black dress. I applied my makeup meticulously, concealing the exhaustion under my eyes. I refused to let them see me break down. I would draw the line between us with absolute pride. I had overheard the venue’s address during my mother’s phone call yesterday. They had rented out the most exclusive grand ballroom in the city. I called a cab. Along the way, the driver kept glancing at the road ahead, whistling. “Big day today, huh, kid? The entire avenue ahead is blocked off. Apparently, some wealthy family is throwing a massive birthday party for their daughter. The scale is incredible.” I curved my lips slightly, remaining silent. Yes, the scale was incredible. So grand that it required ten years of my quiet misery to serve as its prelude. A plush red carpet stretched out from the ballroom entrance, lined on both sides with towering arrangements of pink roses. The welcome sign at the entrance read: Happy Birthday to our precious Princess. And the signature at the bottom: With all our love, Mom and Dad. The words burned my eyes. I pulled out my phone and sent Gary a text: I’ve arrived to claim your surprise. Taking a deep breath, I adjusted my shoulders, stepped onto my heels, and walked into the ballroom. The room was filled with the clinking of crystal glasses and soft laughter. My parents were standing in the center of the crowd, looking radiant as they greeted their high-society guests. And right beside them stood a girl in a stunning, custom-made pink gown. Stella. She looked like a proud peacock, basking in the adoration and blessings of everyone in the room. My mother stepped forward, gently placing a delicate diamond tiara onto Stella’s head. “Our Stella is the most beautiful princess in the world today.” My father handed her a velvet jewelry box, revealing a sparkling diamond necklace. “Do you like it? I had it custom-designed just for you.” Stella smiled sweetly, her eyes shining. “Thank you, Uncle, Auntie. You treat me so wonderfully.” A chorus of admiring murmurs rippled through the guests. “Gavin, she might be your goddaughter, but you treat her better than a biological child!” “Honestly, we’re all put to shame by this level of generosity.” “If you treat your goddaughter this well, Gavin, your own daughter’s birthday party must be legendary. You’d probably pluck the stars from the sky for her!” My parents laughed warmly, waving their hands in polite dismissal. “Of course, of course, she deserves nothing less.” No one noticed me standing in the shadowed corner of the room. I raised my phone, recording every single second of their happy display. Then, I smoothed down the fabric of my black dress, picked up a glass of champagne, and walked slowly toward them. 3 The laughter and music around me seemed to fade into a dull hum. In my vision, there was only that picture-perfect family of three. My father raised his glass, projecting his voice over the microphone. “Thank you all for joining us today to celebrate our princess…” “Our princess?” I repeated, my voice cutting through the air like a knife. The smiles on my parents’ faces instantly froze. My mother reacted first, stepping forward to grab my hand, but I cleanly stepped out of her reach. “Gilly? What are you doing here?” Her voice carried a sharp tremor. “Come, let me introduce you. This is…” “This is Stella, your precious princess, correct?” I interrupted, my gaze locking onto the girl in the pink gown. The smile vanished from Stella’s face. She looked at me, bewildered, a flash of distress crossing her features as she turned to my parents for help. “Who is this?” a guest whispered in confusion. My father’s face turned a violent shade of red. He stepped forward, his voice a low, warning hiss. “Gillian! Stop making a scene! Go home immediately!” “Making a scene?” I let out a cold laugh. “Dad, have you forgotten what day it is?” “Today is also the birthday of your actual, biological daughter. My birthday.” I pronounced each word with absolute, freezing clarity. The room erupted into a flurry of whispers. The guests’ eyes darted back and forth between my parents and me, their expressions alive with shock. “So she’s the real daughter… then why is…” “Unbelievable. Ignoring your own daughter’s birthday to throw a massive party for an outsider?” “What is Gavin thinking? I don’t understand this at all.” The murmurs drifted into my parents’ ears, and their expressions grew frantic. My mother’s lips trembled violently. My father’s panic quickly twisted into sheer, defensive rage. “Enough!” He slammed his hand down on a nearby table, rattling the glasses. “Did you show up today just to ruin this?” “Ruin this?” I raised my phone, playing the video I had just recorded. “Dad, who is the one ruining things here? Who is the one pretending to prepare a surprise for me, while placing a tiara on another girl’s head?” On the screen, my mother’s gentle voice echoed clearly through the silent ballroom. Our Stella is the most beautiful princess in the world today. The words repeated over the speaker, sounding incredibly mocking in the dead silence. My mother’s face went completely pale. “And what about this?” I swiped to the family photo I had saved. “The daughter of an ‘important client’ who somehow became your precious princess?” I turned the screen toward the guests, letting everyone see the photo and my mother’s affectionate comments. The expressions in the crowd grew increasingly colorful. My father was shaking with rage, pointing a finger at me as he struggled to speak. “Gillian… you…” “What about me?” I met his gaze, my eyes burning with hot tears, though my voice remained steady and cold. “I just wanted to ask you face-to-face: does raising a brand-new daughter feel much better than raising your old one?” “I just want to know what I did so wrong that you had to humiliate and abandon me like this!” My voice rose, carrying the weight of ten years of neglected birthdays and silent tears. Stella’s face went completely pale. She clutched my mother’s sleeve, whispering, “Auntie, this…” My mother shook her off, staring at me, her eyes brimming with a sudden, desperate regret. “Gilly, it’s not what you think. It’s really not what you think!” “Then what is it?” I demanded, stepping closer. “Tell me!” Just then, the grand doors of the ballroom were flung open. Gary rushed in, his face ghostly pale as he took in the chaotic, screaming scene. He ran to me and grabbed my arms, his voice shaking violently. “Gilly, please, let me explain!” “Enough! I don’t want to hear another single lie from any of you!” I tried to wrench myself free. I had achieved my goal. I wanted everyone to see the true face of my perfect parents. I raised my phone, ready to project the screenshots onto the giant screen behind them. “Dad, Mom, it’s time for this play to end!” Just as my finger hovered over the button. Gary lunged forward, ripping the phone from my hand and clutching it tightly to his chest. “Gilly! I beg you! Just give me five minutes! Only five minutes!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “462261”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

“Ethan! You married such an ugly woman, made our entire family a laughingstock, and now you’re throwing your life away for her! How long are you going to keep this up?” The hospital room door wasn’t fully closed. My mother-in-law’s voice was sharp and piercing. My hand froze on the door handle. I heard a few seconds of silence inside, then his calm, emotionless voice. “Mom, you know what I want.” “I knew it. You’re still doing all this for Serena.” My mother-in-law’s voice trembled with rage. “No matter how much you love her, it’s useless. Using Elara Winters to provoke us won’t work either.” My whole body went cold. Three years. I thought he was the only one who didn’t find me ugly when everyone else did. I thought his life-risking rescue was love. Turns out I was just a pawn he used to defy his family. Turns out every time he looked at me, he was looking through me at another woman. I steadied myself against the wall and slowly backed away to my own hospital room. If that’s how it is, this marriage isn’t worth keeping.

Elara’s POV I’m known as the ugly woman in our circle. Thick bangs covering half my face. Black-framed glasses thicker than bottle bottoms. Face always caked with dark foundation. Lips blurred with deep-colored lipstick. Walking down the street, no one gives me a second glance. But no one knows I make myself ugly on purpose. All because of my mother. My mother was famously beautiful back in the day. My father pursued her for years before she finally married him. But less than three years into their marriage, he started cheating constantly. My mother went from heartbroken to desperate, eventually dying of depression. Before she died, my mother grabbed my ten-year-old hand and looked at my face, though young, already showing signs of stunning beauty. With her last bit of strength, she said, “Elara, remember what Mom tells you. Being too beautiful, men will deceive you. Nothing good comes of it. You must protect yourself. Hide that face.” I remembered. From then on, I started making myself ugly. My bangs got thicker, my glasses heavier, my clothes always the most unremarkable colors. My father arranged countless blind dates for me. Every single man ran away because of my ugliness. On my hundredth blind date, I sat in a café across from a man in a suit. The moment he saw me, his brow furrowed. “Miss Winters,” he began, voice dripping with undisguised disgust. “The matchmaker didn’t tell me… you looked like this.” I kept my head down, saying nothing. “Honestly, looking like that… how do you even dare go on blind dates?” The man sneered. “Who would want to marry you?” I gripped my coffee cup tighter. The man picked up his own cup and suddenly splashed it in my face. “Your makeup’s ruined. Suits you better.” The cold liquid ran down my cheeks, washing away the foundation and revealing the fair skin underneath. I looked up, about to stand. “Bang!” A long, slender hand reached over from the side and grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting hard. “Ah!” The man screamed. “Apologize.” A deep, cold voice spoke. I turned to see a man in a custom-tailored suit. He was tall with an upright posture, deep-set eyes, a high nose bridge, and thin lips pressed together. His whole presence radiated an air of cool elegance and nobility. Right now he was gripping that man’s wrist, his eyes cold as ice. “Who the hell are you?!” the man struggled. “Apologize.” He repeated, his voice not loud but carrying undeniable authority. The man was intimidated by his presence and stammered out “I’m sorry” to me before scrambling away. The man let go and pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket, handing it to me. “Here.” I stared, taking the handkerchief in a daze. “Women shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of treatment.” He looked at me, his gaze calm. “Next time something like this happens, call the police.” With that, he turned and left. I stood there watching his tall figure disappear through the café door, my heart pounding. I remembered him. After returning home, I started investigating. His name was Ethan Sterling, the youngest heir to Sterling Enterprises. Twenty-six years old, he’d been running the family business for three years with decisive methods and outstanding ability. He was recognized in our circle as the perfect man. Even more rare, his private life was clean. No scandals whatsoever. I fell for him. But before I could figure out how to approach him, Ethan Sterling came to me first. “Miss Winters,” he sat in my family’s living room and got straight to the point. “I want to propose a marriage alliance with you.” I was stunned. “Why me?” I asked. “I’m not good-looking.” Ethan looked at me, his expression very calm. “Appearance doesn’t matter. I think you’re very suitable.” His words weren’t romantic, but coming from him, they made my heart race. Mom said being too beautiful meant getting deceived by men. But I made myself ugly, and he still wanted to marry me. I thought I’d met the right person. For three years of marriage, Ethan treated me well. He never minded my ugliness. In fact, when others gossiped about my appearance, he would gently take my hand and say, “Elara, you’re wonderful.” I loved design, so he invested in opening a studio for me. I had a sensitive stomach, so he remembered which foods I couldn’t eat. Whenever he came back from business dinners, he’d bring me oat milk. On my birthday, no matter how busy, he’d cancel work and spend the whole day with me. Once, I was in a car accident. The car flipped into a ditch and could explode any moment. Ethan rushed over without hesitation, pried open the deformed car door with his bare hands, and dragged me out. Not ten meters away, the car exploded. He shielded me with his body. The flames licked his back, leaving severe burns. When I woke up in the hospital, the first thing I asked the nurse was, “Where’s my husband?! How is he?” “Mr. Sterling’s back burns are serious, but he’s not in life-threatening danger,” the nurse said. “He’s in the room next door.” I immediately pulled out my IV and stumbled over to the next room. Just as I was about to push the door open, I heard Ethan’s mother’s voice inside. “Ethan! You married such an ugly woman, made our entire family a laughingstock, and now you’re throwing your life away for her! How long are you going to keep this up?!” My hand stopped on the door handle. A few seconds of silence inside, then Ethan’s calm, emotionless voice without any feeling. “Mom, you know what I want.” “I knew it! You’re still doing all this for Serena!” His mother’s voice shook with anger. “I’m telling you, you’re the best heir in our family. Serena can never enter our household! No matter how much you love her, it’s useless! Using Elara Winters to provoke us won’t work either!” I stood frozen, my whole body turning cold. What were they just saying? For Serena? Who’s Serena? Overwhelming panic and an ominous premonition swept over me like an icy tide, drowning me instantly. I steadied myself against the wall and slowly backed away, retreating to my hospital room. After several seconds, I pulled out my phone with trembling hands and sent a message to a private investigator. “Look into every connection between Ethan Sterling and Serena. The more detailed, the better.”

Elara’s POV Every minute, every second waiting for the reply felt like torture. My head was buzzing. His mother’s shrill voice and Ethan’s calm response echoed repeatedly in my mind like poisoned knives, cutting my barely warmed heart to bloody shreds. Finally, the information came through. I opened it with trembling hands. Inside was a thick stack of documents with many photos attached. Serena Hayes, heir to the Hayes family, Ethan Sterling’s first love. The two were perfectly matched, recognized in their circle as the ideal couple. Three years ago, they were preparing to marry, but during premarital health checks, they discovered Serena couldn’t have children. For a top-tier elite family like the Sterlings, heirs were of utmost importance, so the Sterling family firmly opposed the marriage. But Ethan loved Serena deeply and insisted on marrying her. The Sterling family began aggressively targeting the Hayes family business. Eventually, unable to withstand the pressure, Serena tearfully broke up with Ethan. After the breakup, Ethan started going on frequent blind dates, but he didn’t like any of the women. Until he met me, the famously ugly woman in the circle. From then on, everything connected. He didn’t marry me because I was special, much less because he saw my inner beauty. It was simply because among all the blind date candidates, I was the most unacceptable. The most embarrassing. The most shameful. The best tool to humiliate the Sterling family and force his parents to compromise. He deliberately married an ugly woman to defy his family, to make them give in and agree to let Serena marry him. I stared at the information on my phone and suddenly laughed. As I laughed, tears fell. Pain wrapped around me like a huge net, tightening and tightening until it nearly strangled me. Mom said being too beautiful would get me deceived, but even making myself ugly, I was still deceived. Deceived more thoroughly, more ridiculously, more pathetically! These three years, what I thought was happiness was just an elaborate performance. I was just a tool Ethan Sterling used to defy his family. Just a pawn to express his love for Serena. I thought I’d found light, not knowing that light was just someone else’s mirror reflecting somewhere else! I sat in the room and cried for a long time. Then I wiped my tears, took out my phone, and called Ethan’s mother. My voice was calm. “I want to divorce Ethan Sterling.” A few seconds of silence on the other end. “What did you say?!” She raised her voice in disbelief, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d heard. “Elara Winters, looking the way you do, you dare ask for a divorce? Do you know how many women in our circle are desperate to marry Ethan?” “How I look is none of your business,” I said. “I must divorce him. If you don’t agree, I’ll get a lawyer and go through legal channels. Making a scene won’t be good for anyone.” She was furious on the other end, but I could hear a hint of relief and eagerness in her tone. Of course. She had long been disgusted by me, this “ugly woman,” and wanted me gone to make room for a beautiful, suitable socialite. In her mind, Serena wasn’t good enough for Ethan, and I was even less worthy. “Fine!” She finally agreed. “I’ll handle the divorce. Wait a few days.” After hanging up, I took a deep breath, checked myself out of the hospital, and went home. The first thing I did when I got home was throw things away. I took out everything Ethan had given me over the years, necklaces, bracelets, rings, handbags, and threw them all in the trash. Just like throwing away three years of foolishness. A few days later, Ethan came home. His back burns hadn’t fully healed, slowing his movements, but he still wore an impeccable suit, his posture upright, his features handsome. “Why are you sitting here?” he asked, his tone habitually gentle. “The servants said you’ve barely eaten these past few days.” I looked up at him. Before, every time I saw this face, my heart would race and my face would flush. But now, looking at him, I only felt strange and cold. Ethan didn’t seem to notice the change in my expression. Or rather, he’d never truly paid attention to my expressions. He glanced at the calendar on the wall and casually took my hand. “Are you upset I haven’t been back to keep you company? Today’s your birthday. I had them prepare a party at the most luxurious Hilton hotel downtown. It’s still early. Let me take you to pick out a dress first, okay?” Before, hearing him remember my birthday and specially prepare a party would have made me ecstatic. But now, my heart felt only barren indifference. Still, I didn’t expose him. “Okay,” I said softly. Ethan drove me to a high-end boutique. As soon as we entered, his phone rang. “You pick first. I need to take this call,” he said, walking aside. I paid no attention and went upstairs to look at dresses. I liked a champagne-colored gown, simple and elegant. “This one. Wrap it up for me,” I told the saleswoman. “I want this dress.” A soft female voice suddenly spoke from behind me. I turned and saw the woman speaking. My blood instantly ran cold. Serena Hayes. The bright, radiant face from the photos, nestled beside Ethan, that face was now right in front of me. She wore a cream-colored suit with slightly curled long hair and exquisite makeup. Her eyes carried an innate sense of superiority as she stared at the champagne dress in my hands with a half-smile.

Elara’s POV “Sorry,” Serena walked forward, her voice soft but her tone anything but polite. “I also like this dress. Even though you were here first, but…” She looked me up and down, taking in my thick bangs and black-framed glasses. The corners of her mouth curved into a perfectly measured smile. “I think it suits me better. Why don’t you just let me have it?” I gripped the dress tighter. The fabric was soft, but right now it felt like thorns. “No.” I turned to the saleswoman. “Ring it up.” Serena’s smile faded a bit. She reached out and grabbed the other corner of the dress. “I really love it. Miss, looking the way you do… you’d look about the same in anything. Why not do me a favor? Just let me have it, can’t you?” We stood there in a standoff, the air thick with silent tension. “What’s going on?” Ethan’s deep voice came from the stairway. Having finished his call, he came up and saw this scene. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. Serena saw him and her eyes lit up instantly, though her hand didn’t release the dress. “Ethan? You’re here too?” Her gaze moved between me and Ethan, then showed a look of realization. “I see, this must be your wife? If I’d known she was Mrs. Sterling, I wouldn’t have fought for it. This dress can go to Mrs. Sterling.” She let go as if her earlier insistence had been just a joke. But the next second, Ethan reached out and took the champagne dress directly from my hands, handing it to Serena. “No need to give it up.” He looked at Serena, his voice gentler than before. “This suits you. Go try it on.” A flash of triumph crossed Serena’s eyes. She took the dress, smiled at me, and walked into the fitting room. My hand froze in mid-air, my fingertips still holding the sensation of the fabric being taken away. I slowly lowered my hand, clenching it into a fist, nails digging into my palm. The slight pain couldn’t suppress the dull ache in my chest, like a knife slowly cutting through flesh. Only then did Ethan turn to me, as if he’d just finished handling some trivial matter. “Elara, that was Serena, a friend of mine. She’s rather straightforward, but she means no harm. It’s just a dress. We can pick another one.” I looked up at him through my thick lenses. “Why don’t you just tell the truth? You’re saying she suits it better because you think my face doesn’t deserve this dress, doesn’t deserve anything beautiful, right?” Ethan was clearly taken aback. He seemed surprised I would ask this, even more surprised I would directly pierce through this veneer of decency that no one had called out before. “That’s not what I meant.” He quickly adjusted his expression, his tone taking on a hint of helplessness. “If I thought you weren’t good enough, why would I have married you in the first place?” Why marry me? Those words were like a poisoned blade stabbing straight into my heart, the pain making my vision go dark. Yes, why? Because I was ugly in just the right way, the perfect tool, the ideal pawn to infuriate the Sterlings and force them to compromise! Growing up, hiding my appearance, I’d heard countless mockeries. Classmates’ whispers, blind dates’ cruel words, my father’s sighs. Those words were like needles. After being pricked long enough, I had grown numb. But Ethan was different. These three years, his gentle consolations, his casual protections, even his life-risking rescue, like warm water, they slowly softened my frozen heart, making me develop impossible fantasies and dependence. Then, he personally, in the calmest, most casual way, completely shattered that false warmth. This hurt worse than direct cruelty! I suppressed the sob in my throat and the surging pain, said nothing, and turned to another rack, randomly grabbing a plain black dress. Just then, the fitting room curtain opened. Serena walked out. The champagne dress perfectly outlined her figure, making her skin look like snow and her presence dazzling. She twirled, the hem creating an elegant arc. “Miss Hayes, this dress is perfect for you!” the saleswomen gushed. “It’s like it was custom-made for you!” Ethan’s gaze also fell on Serena. His eyes were deep, clearly reflecting Serena’s image. In those usually cold eyes, I now saw a tenderness I’d never seen directed at me. Though it was just a fleeting moment, I caught it. My heart felt like an invisible hand was squeezing it tight, the pain making it hard to breathe. “Ethan, does it look good?” Serena asked with a smile, her gaze casually sweeping over me nearby. “Yes, very good.” Ethan nodded, his tone affirmative. Serena’s smile grew brighter. She walked to Ethan’s side and naturally tucked her hair behind her ear. “By the way, I heard tonight is Mrs. Sterling’s birthday party? At the Hilton?” “Yes.” Ethan nodded. “I happen to be free tonight.” Serena looked at me with a proper smile. “Mrs. Sterling, you don’t mind if I come celebrate your birthday too, do you?” Before I could answer, Ethan already replied, “Of course not. You’re welcome to come.”

Elara’s POV The Hilton hotel’s top-floor ballroom was brilliantly lit. The birthday party Ethan prepared for me was massive, inviting nearly half of New York’s elite. I wore that unremarkable black dress, my thick bangs and glasses obscuring my face as always, standing beside Ethan like a mismatched shadow. I could feel gazes from all directions, curious, probing, and mostly undisguised contempt and snickering. “What was Mr. Sterling thinking, marrying someone like…” “She really is so ugly. Mr. Sterling is so outstanding. Why would he marry her?” “Who knows? Maybe… unique taste?” The scattered comments buzzed like mosquitoes, drilling into my ears. I kept my back straight, my expression blank, as if I heard nothing. Soon after the party began, Ethan publicly gave me a gift, an expensive diamond necklace. When the velvet box opened, gasps and envious sounds rippled through the crowd. “Thank you,” I accepted it, my voice flat. Serena arrived a bit later. The moment she appeared, she drew everyone’s attention. In her champagne dress with exquisite makeup and an elegant smile, she seemed like tonight’s true protagonist. “Sorry I’m late.” Serena walked up to me, her tone sincere. “I didn’t have time to prepare a gift. Don’t be upset, Mrs. Sterling. Let me play a piece to wish you happy birthday.” Then she smiled at Ethan. “Ethan, I remember you play piano beautifully too. How about we play a duet? Consider it entertainment for Mrs. Sterling’s birthday. What do you say?” The guests started cheering. “Yes!” “Miss Hayes and Mr. Sterling are such a perfect match!” “Exactly, they look like a real couple.” Ethan looked at Serena’s expectant eyes, glanced at silent me beside him, hesitated briefly, then actually walked over. A harmonious duet began, a four-hands version of “Für Elise.” The man cool and noble, the woman bright and moving, sitting together like a perfect painting. The surrounding comments grew louder, this time with less pretense of discretion. “Now that’s a perfect match…” “If only Mr. Sterling had married Miss Hayes.” “Such a shame…” “That Elara Winters is really… taking up space. Someone so ugly actually married New York’s most outstanding heir. What a waste.” Each comment was like a poisoned needle, densely piercing my heart. I stood there, feeling the air around me growing thinner, those gazes and words nearly drowning me. I turned and went to the balcony. The night breeze was cool, dispersing the suffocating warmth and noise from the ballroom. I leaned against the balcony railing, took a deep breath, then slowly released it. Light footsteps sounded behind me. Then a warm body pressed close, arms wrapping around my waist from behind. My body stiffened. “Why did you come out here alone?” Ethan’s deep voice spoke near my ear. “Don’t take those people’s words to heart. They’re just boring gossip.” I didn’t move or speak. Ethan seemed to think I was still upset. His chin gently rubbed the top of my head, his tone softening further with a coaxing quality. “Elara, I’ve told you, you’re wonderful. You don’t need to care what others think of you. As long as I like you, that’s enough.” Like? I almost laughed coldly. What did he like about me? Did he like using me as a tool to defy his family? Or like using me as a foil for his devotion to Serena? Ethan probably felt verbal comfort wasn’t enough. Seeing my continued silence, he suddenly turned his head and unexpectedly kissed my neck. The warm, soft sensation came. My whole body trembled, instinctively about to push him away. Just then. “Bang!” The glass balcony door was suddenly pushed open. Serena stood in the doorway, her face still wearing a smile she hadn’t had time to hide. Seeing us embracing, especially Ethan’s kiss on my neck, her smile instantly froze. Her face paled slightly, her eyes quickly misting over. “Sorry, I’m interrupting.” Her voice was somewhat choked. After speaking, she turned and ran off, her retreating figure looking somewhat disheveled. Ethan immediately let go of me, his expression clearly changing, his eyes following Serena’s disappearing direction with obvious worry and a hint of struggle.

Elara’s POV He quickly withdrew his gaze and looked at me, his tone returning to calm. “Don’t take what happened earlier to heart. As long as I like you, that’s what matters. I’m going to make a call.” He hurried after her. I stood there, looking at the empty doorway, tried to twist my lips into a self-mocking smile, but couldn’t even manage that. I couldn’t stay at this birthday party another moment. I turned to leave. Just as I reached the curb by the hotel entrance, a figure blocked my path. It was Serena. Her eyes were still a bit red, but her expression had already been adjusted, carrying a condescending scrutiny. “Mrs. Sterling, leaving already?” Serena looked at me, her tone soft but her words barbed. “The birthday girl leaving early isn’t very appropriate, is it? Or are you upset seeing Ethan chase after me?” I didn’t want to entangle with her and moved to walk around her. “Don’t go.” Serena reached out to stop me. “Let’s chat. About Ethan, about your ridiculous marriage. I think you need to know some things…” “Move.” My voice was cold. “What, feeling guilty? Knowing you’re occupying a position you shouldn’t?” Serena didn’t shut up. She even stepped forward and grabbed my wrist. “Let me tell you, Ethan doesn’t even…” “Let go!” I tried hard to shake her off. We struggled on the curb. Serena was wearing heels. Her foot seemed to slip. She screamed, her whole body falling backward, and she gripped my arm tightly. She pulled me off balance too. “Ah!” The sharp sound of brakes and impact came almost simultaneously! In the chaos, I only felt a huge force strike me. I was thrown, my forehead and cheek experiencing unbearable pain. Warm liquid instantly blurred my vision. Serena’s scream was right in my ear. Intense pain and dizziness consumed me. My consciousness blurred. I felt people gathering around, chaotic voices, the ambulance siren… In my haze, I seemed to see Ethan’s hurried figure. That usually calm, cool face showed clear panic for the first time. Then I heard fragments of conversation, as if from far away. “Mr. Sterling, both patients are severely injured and need surgery urgently, but there’s only one operating room available. Mrs. Sterling’s face is injured with a deep wound. Without immediate treatment, she may be disfigured. Miss Hayes injured her hand. Without immediate treatment, it may affect her piano playing.” Then I heard Ethan’s voice. “Save Serena first. She still needs to play piano.” “But Mrs. Sterling…” “Don’t worry about her. Appearance doesn’t matter to her anyway!” Doesn’t matter. Those words were like a knife, stabbing through my heart. Yes, because I’m ugly, it doesn’t matter… My vision went black. I completely passed out. When I woke up, I was in a hospital room. No one was beside me. I touched my face, wrapped in thick bandages. The door opened. Serena walked in with a group of friends. Her hand was also bandaged, but she wore a smile. “Elara Winters,” she walked to the bed, looking at me with contempt. “I heard you were badly hurt, your face all torn up. I thought you would definitely be disfigured this time. I didn’t expect the doctors the Sterling family found would be good enough to fix you.” “Though even fixed, it can’t hide your original ugliness. Those thick bandages match your bangs and glasses nicely, equally hideous.” The men and women behind her let out low laughs. I closed my eyes, not even bothering to look at them. “Get out.” Before Serena could speak, a girl next to her in a pink suit with curled hair shrieked first. “What’s your attitude? Serena came to visit you out of kindness, and you dare tell her to get out? Being ugly is bad enough, but your manners are terrible too. So disgusting.” I opened my eyes, my gaze coldly sweeping over that girl, then looking at Serena. “Take your dog and get out. You’re not welcome here.” “Who are you calling a dog?” The pink-dressed girl’s face flushed with anger. She rushed forward to hit me, raising her hand to slap my face. My face was injured and my movements hindered. Just as that slap was about to land. “Hey, Emma, it’s not good to hit a patient.” A man in a floral shirt stopped the pink-dressed girl. He looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with lecherous eyes. He looked me up and down on the hospital bed, a malicious smile on his lips. “So you’re Mrs. Sterling? Quite the temper. But I have a method that cures all kinds of disobedience.” He took two steps forward, approaching the bed, his gaze sticky and presumptuous. “I’ve seen plenty like you, not much to look at but full of attitude. Women like you just need to be put in their place by a man. No matter how proud you are, you’ll behave after being with enough men.” As he spoke, he actually reached out to pull back my blanket.

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Mom called me at my classified government position and asked me to come home. She said she’d arranged a marriage for me. The woman was supposedly perfect in every way. Not only beautiful, but also the CEO of one of New York’s most prominent corporations. Because of my special security clearance, I couldn’t fly commercial. My boss even lent me his personal vehicle to make a good impression. I arrived at my fiancée’s company right on schedule and was about to back into a parking spot when a red Ferrari came speeding toward me. I couldn’t brake in time and crashed right into it. The driver arrogantly rolled down his window and started cursing at me. “Are you fucking blind? Do you even know how to drive?” I suppressed my anger and shot back, “You’re the one who stole my parking spot. How is this my fault?” He looked at me with complete disdain. “Your parking spot?” “Listen up, you hick. I might as well tell you—in New York, there’s nothing the Johnson family can’t handle. Got it?” I froze for a few seconds, then pulled out my phone and called my fiancée. “I’m hearing from your company’s people that the Johnson family runs New York. Is that true?”

If it weren’t for my mom, I wouldn’t have even bothered making this call. Hitting my boss’s car wasn’t something money alone could fix. If my future girlfriend showed some remorse, I might be able to sweep this under the rug. “I’m busy. Make it quick.” Her voice on the phone was impatient. “Miss Molina, I think you should come down here yourself, or else—” Before I could finish, I heard the dial tone. She’d hung up on me. I stood there stunned. Were all rich people this rude? Seeing this, the guy who’d stolen my parking spot practically burst out laughing. “And here I thought you were somebody. Turns out you’re just full of shit.” “If I were you, I’d pay up now. Once Miss Molina finds out her car’s been hit, you probably won’t make it out of New York alive.” The guy saw I was barely in my twenties and driving an out-of-state plate. He didn’t take me seriously at all. “Sir, are you going to be reasonable about this or not?” “You’re the one who cut me off and stole my spot. I haven’t even gone after you yet, and now you’re trying to scam me?” I pointed at the security camera overhead. “There’s footage right there. If you keep lying, I’ll call the cops right now!” When I mentioned the police, he only got more aggressive. “Go ahead and call them, you hick. Even if the cops show up, you’ll just end up paying more.” The more he talked, the more excited he got. The air reeked of alcohol. I clenched my fists, my eyes narrowing. “You don’t want me calling the cops because you’ve been drinking, right?” As soon as the words left my mouth, he shoved me hard. “Whether I’ve been drinking is none of your damn business. Pay up!” “If you try to weasel out of this, I’ll make sure you never leave New York!” I’d spent years at my unit with almost no contact with civilians. I had no idea how to deal with thugs like this. Seeing his arrogance, my anger kept rising. “You’re the one who hit my car, and now you’re trying to pin it on me. What’s wrong with you?” The crowd around us gasped. “Holy shit, this Anthony guy’s got balls. Talking to Jacobs like that? Does he have a death wish?”

“Most people would run from Miss Molina’s car, and this guy actually crashed into it. He’s got guts, I’ll give him that.” “Just his bad luck. Of all people to piss off, it had to be Jacobs—Miss Molina’s right-hand man!” As the murmuring grew louder, Jacobs got even more smug. “You hick, you actually dared to curse at me? You must be tired of living!” His threats didn’t faze me. In fact, I almost wanted to laugh. “So you’re Jacobs, the assistant. I suggest you watch your mouth.” “If you really piss me off, even your boss won’t be able to handle the consequences.” “Fuck you!” After cursing at me a few more times and still not feeling satisfied, he rolled up his sleeves and charged at me. “What, New Yorkers throw punches when they can’t win an argument?” Jacobs swung at me several times but couldn’t even touch my sleeve. “Try dodging one more time, hick!” “You think I won’t call Miss Molina right now?” Despite Jacobs’s repeated provocations, I didn’t fight back. I just kept evading. Not because I was afraid of him, but because before I left my unit, my boss had warned me repeatedly: “Everything you do represents our organization. Don’t get into conflicts with civilians.” Besides, I don’t really “fight.” When I strike, it’s to kill. Seeing my silence, Jacobs thought I was scared and threw another punch at me. At that critical moment, a voice roared from behind. “Stop!” “Jacobs, you’re my personal assistant. How can you just brawl with people in the street?” Molina, surrounded by bodyguards, walked quickly up to me. “You’re Anthony?” I looked the woman over carefully. I had to admit, my mom had decent taste. A crimson dress hugged her perfect figure. If I had to find a flaw, it was that her eyes were ice-cold when she looked at me. “Miss Molina, nice to meet you. Allow me to introduce myself.” “My name is Anthony. I’m from—” “No need!” Before I could finish, Molina impatiently cut me off with a wave of her hand. “We’re not compatible. Go back where you came from.” For a moment, I thought I’d heard wrong. I’d driven from my unit to New York—over ten hours straight—without even stopping for water. And the first thing she says to me is to leave? Was she playing me for a fool? At that thought, my temper flared. “You must be the girlfriend my mom found for me. Molina, right?” “You won’t even let me finish talking before telling me to leave. That’s pretty rude, don’t you think?” After hearing me out, Molina’s expression changed immediately. “Rude?” “Anthony, why don’t you turn around and look at that building behind you. Do you really think you’re worthy of me?” She glanced at me from head to toe. “I don’t know what my father was thinking, trying to marry me off to a loser like you.” As soon as she said that, the crowd erupted again. “What? This Anthony guy is Miss Molina’s fiancé? That’s unbelievable!” “A clueless hick like him should take a good look in the mirror and see if he’s worthy.” “Miss Molina is every man’s dream in New York. I’m the first to object to this marriage.”

As the chatter grew louder, I was completely baffled. When did I ever say I wanted to marry her? Even if I did want to, I’d need approval from my superiors first. “Fine, fine, I’m a loser. Happy now?” “Since Miss Molina isn’t interested, can I at least get the dowry back?” “My mom specifically told me on the phone—if this doesn’t work out, make sure to get the gift money back.” Actually, my mom never said that. I just couldn’t stand Molina’s attitude. The moment I finished speaking, Jacobs jumped in. “You hick, who the hell do you think you’re looking down on?” “Miss Molina is New York’s youngest billionaire. You think she needs your pocket change?” Watching this scene unfold, I finally understood what a real lapdog looked like. “Jacobs, I just want my stuff back. What does that have to do with whether she’s a billionaire?” Molina’s face flushed red with anger. “It’s just eighty thousand dollars. Here, I’ll give it back.” She pulled out her phone and transferred the money on the spot. “I’m sending you a hundred thousand. Keep the extra for gas money.” I smirked and gave her a slight smile. “Well, thank you so much, Miss Molina.” Just as I turned to leave, Jacobs suddenly shouted. “Hey, hick! Stop right there!” I paused and slowly turned around. “What? Does Jacobs want to invite me to dinner?” Jacobs gave me a sinister smile, then whispered something in Molina’s ear. The next second, New York’s so-called youngest billionaire exploded in anger. “Anthony! You dared to crash my car?” From Jacobs’s expression, I could tell he’d been badmouthing me to Molina. He really had the art of manipulation down to a science. Based on how Molina had treated me earlier, I knew explaining wouldn’t help. I didn’t bother wasting my breath. “Just tell me how much you want. I’ll pay you.” Molina seemed surprised that I’d admit it so readily. Her eyes flickered with confusion. “Pay? Can you even afford it?” “This Ferrari was my eighteenth birthday present from my father. Only three exist in the world, and this is the only one in the country.” “A single scratch is worth more than your life. What are you going to pay with?” I raised an eyebrow, my lips curving into a faint smile. “Miss Molina, just name your price. Whether I can afford it is my problem.” “Ten million!” Before I could respond, Jacobs jumped in again. “The entire front end is caved in. We can’t fix it here—it’ll have to go back to Italy to the original factory.” The onlookers gasped. Even the car’s owner, Molina, looked surprised. “Jacobs, this car only cost just over ten million when I got it. Fixing a bumper doesn’t cost that much, does it?” Jacobs immediately waved his hand dismissively. “No, no, Miss Molina. You’re not seeing the full picture.” “This car was a birthday gift from your father. Its sentimental value is priceless, wouldn’t you say?” “Making him pay only ten million is us being generous.” After hearing Jacobs’s reasoning, Molina thought it made sense and lowered her head to consider. “Fine! Ten million it is. No problem!” I didn’t give her time to think. I agreed on the spot.

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