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

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Ten years had vanished like smoke. It wasn’t until I found the diary hidden in the back of Damian’s desk that I finally saw the truth: the ink-stained, jagged obsession of a man I had spent my first life ignoring. Damian Cross. He was my ex-husband’s most hated rival, a brooding shadow in the corporate world of San Francisco, a man I’d never given a second thought to—until I died. With that diary clutched to my chest, the universe fractured. I woke up ten years in the past, during the darkest, most desperate summer of Damian’s life. Back then, he wasn’t the titan of tech. He was a feral creature, curled up in the grime of a rain-slicked alleyway behind a dive bar. When he looked up at me, his eyes were shards of ice, cold and defensive, like a beast waiting for the final blow. I didn’t flinch. Instead, I leaned in, a playful, dangerous smile tugging at my lips. I hooked a finger under his chin and whispered, “Give me a smile, Damian. Otherwise, I’ll keep kissing you until you beg for mercy.” The mask of frozen indifference he wore didn’t just crack. It shattered. In my previous life, my three-year marriage to Pierce Montgomery had been nothing but a grotesque farce. He had used me as a ladder, a golden ticket into my father’s fortune, while every ounce of his tenderness was reserved for a woman named Lacey. I remembered the day it ended. Lacey had shown up at my door, her hand resting on a pregnant belly, sliding an ultrasound photo across the marble counter with a tearful, faux-apology. “Margot, I’m so sorry. I’m carrying Pierce’s baby. Don’t blame him—it’s all my fault.” And Pierce? He had stepped in behind her, shielding her, his voice like a whip. “Lacey is fragile, Margot. She can’t handle stress. Don’t be petty.” The rage had been so intense it felt physical. My vision had blurred, my chest tightened, and I’d collapsed. I took my last breath in the back of an ambulance, the siren a lonely eulogy for a life wasted on a man who never loved me. 1 Damian went rigid. My reflection was caught in the widening circles of his pupils. For a heartbeat, the ice in his expression thawed into pure shock. Then, a voice I hated down to my marrow cut through the humid night air. “Margot? What the hell are you doing here? In a literal dumpster fire of a place like this?” It was Pierce. And, of course, Lacey was clinging to his arm like a delicate vine. “Margot?” Lacey chirped, her voice thin and performatively timid as she tugged on Pierce’s sleeve. “Is that really you? Oh, I almost didn’t recognize you… and is this… your friend?” She shrank back into Pierce’s chest, the picture of a frightened bird. “Margot, honey, I didn’t mean anything by it… but why are you hanging out with people like this? I haven’t seen you in so long, I almost mistook you for a homeless woman.” A few loitering thugs nearby burst into laughter. “Hey Montgomery, is this your ex’s new type? Picking up strays from the gutter?” “She’s dressed like a million bucks, but she’s playing in the trash.” Pierce’s face darkened instantly. He wasn’t worried about me; he was humiliated that I was tarnishing his social standing by proximity. “Margot, haven’t you had enough of this tantrum?” He reached out to grab my arm, his voice a low growl. “Get up. We’re going. Stop acting like a lunatic.” I ignored him. I took a half-step closer to Damian. He was coiled like a spring, his gaze sharp enough to draw blood. I reached out, my fingertips grazing his cheek, brushing away a smudge of dirt. “Don’t be afraid,” I whispered, loud enough only for him to hear. Then, I turned around. My smile remained, but the warmth was gone. “Acting like a lunatic? Pierce, which eye are you using to see that?” I tilted my head, gesturing over my shoulder toward Damian. “Meet my boyfriend, Damian Cross.” Pierce looked like he’d just swallowed a fly. Lacey’s jaw dropped so far I thought it might hit the pavement. “Margot… you’re joking, right? Him?” She pointed a manicured finger at Damian. “He looks like he hasn’t eaten in a week. Are you really so desperate to spite Pierce that you’re picking up literal garbage?” She turned to Pierce, the tears welling up on command. “Pierce, look at her! She’s humiliating herself just to hurt us! Does she hate me that much?” That was all the fuel Pierce needed. He stepped forward, his hand snapping toward my wrist. “Margot! If you hadn’t been such a cold, demanding wife, I never would have looked at Lacey! And now you’re using a beggar to get back at me? Have you no dignity?” Before his hand could touch me, another hand—strong, scarred, and immovable—clamped onto his wrist. It was Damian. He had stood up, towering half a head over Pierce. Even in his tattered clothes, he radiated a raw, predatory energy that made the air feel heavy. He stared Pierce down, his voice like gravel. “Get lost.” Pierce blinked, stunned. Then he let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “You think you’re someone? You think you can put your hands on me? I’ll make sure you never work a day in this city again.” I popped my head out from behind Damian’s shoulder, laughing. “Oh, Pierce. Threatening my boyfriend right in front of me?” I stepped up and wound my arm through Damian’s, pressing myself against his side. “I’m telling you right now, I’ve decided I like this ‘beggar’ quite a lot. As for you…” I locked eyes with Pierce. “As of this second, you’re dumped. Take your little wilted flower and get out of my sight.” I didn’t wait for a response. I pulled Damian along with me. Pierce’s roar followed us down the street. “Margot! You’ll regret this!” I didn’t look back. In my palm, the rough, calloused hand I was holding went from stiff and trembling to a crushing, desperate grip. He wasn’t letting go. 2 I pulled Damian into the nearest boutique hotel. The receptionist gave us a wary look as she handed over the key card, but one look at my designer bag and my icy stare silenced any questions. Damian kept his head down the entire time. Once we were inside the room, I pressed his shoulders until he sat on the edge of the bed. “Stay here. I’m going to go get you some food and a change of clothes.” His throat moved as he swallowed. His voice was sandpaper-dry. “Why?” “Why what?” “Why help me? Why tell them I’m your boyfriend?” Every word sounded like a struggle. I crouched down so I was at eye level with him. “Maybe I just like what I see.” I ran a thumb along his jawline. “You’ve got a face I could get used to.” His brow furrowed. “You know Pierce Montgomery.” “He’s my newly minted ex-boyfriend,” I said with a shrug. “You saw the show. He’s a parasite.” “So you’re using me to make him jealous?” “Partially.” I tapped a finger against the center of his chest, right over his heart. “But mostly, I’m here because of you. Got it?” His heart was thudding against my fingertip, a frantic, wild rhythm. His ears turned a deep crimson, and he jerked his gaze away to the wall. He was so… innocent. In my past life, Damian Cross was a man the entire business world feared—a silent executioner in the boardroom. But right now, he was a blank page. He was nothing like the dark, possessive, borderline-mad man who had filled those diary pages with longing. My mind drifted back to the marriage that killed me. Three years of giving Pierce everything—my father’s connections, my trust, my soul. I thought it was love. I was wrong. The day he made his first billion, he brought Lacey home. He told me, “Margot, I love Lacey. I only married you for the Wilder family name and the capital.” I had died of a broken heart and a literal brain hemorrhage in that ambulance. As a spirit, I had watched my own funeral. Pierce didn’t show up. Lacey did, wearing a red silk dress and a triumphant smirk. But there was one man in the far corner of the cemetery, weeping in the rain. It was Damian. Later, I had followed his soul and found the diary he’d kept for years. She wore a white dress and smiled at someone else today. I bought that dress for her anonymously. Why did she wear it for him? That smile was supposed to be mine. She’s getting married today. I want to burst in and take her. I want to tie her wrists with my necktie and lock her away in a place where only I exist. She’s dead. My world is over. “Hey.” Damian’s voice snapped me back to the present. I realized I was crying. The tears were silent, hot against my cheeks. He reached out to wipe them away, then hesitated, his fingers curling back into a fist. “Don’t cry,” he said, his voice awkward as he tugged at the hem of his shirt. I let out a watery laugh. “It’s just some dust in my eye.” “There isn’t any dust in here,” he pointed out bluntly. “I say there is!” His mouth twitched, and his eyes softened. I tossed a plush hotel bathrobe into his lap. “Go take a shower.” I walked to the door, but paused to look back. He was still sitting there, frozen, looking like a discarded, beautiful stray dog. “Damian,” I said softly. “From now on, as long as I’m eating, you’ll never go hungry again.” I shut the door before he could see my eyes well up again. The moment I stepped out of the hotel, a black sedan swerved into my path. The window rolled down to reveal Pierce’s livid face. “Get in the car, Margot.” 3 I crossed my arms and looked down at Pierce through the window. “Mr. Montgomery? I’m on a tight schedule. I don’t have time for your alpha-male roleplay.” Pierce’s face turned a shade of bruised purple. Beside him, Lacey grabbed his sleeve, her voice trembling with crocodile tears. “Margot, please… Pierce is just worried about you.” She glanced toward the hotel. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been so honest. I didn’t mean to drive you into the arms of… a person like that.” Pierce slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “Margot! You’re seriously checking into a hotel with a random loser? We were supposed to finalize our engagement party next month!” “I’ll let you come home now,” he continued, his tone shifting to a patronizing calm. “I can pretend today never happened. As for that guy, I’ll cut him a check to disappear. He’s probably just a junkie looking for a payday anyway.” I laughed until I thought I might choke. “Pierce, do you really think the sun rises and sets on you? Who told you I was doing any of this for your benefit?” I leaned down, my face inches from the window. “I’ll say it one more time: I’m done with you. You and Lacey combined aren’t worth a single hair on Damian’s head.” “You—!” Pierce’s veins were bulging in his neck. Lacey looked ghostly pale. “But Pierce loves you so much…” “Love?” I scoffed. “He loves my father’s portfolio. If that’s the ‘blessing’ you want, Lacey, you can have it. Good luck with the crumbs.” I turned on my heel and walked away. “Margot! Get back here!” Pierce screamed. Lacey was still putting on a show behind him. “Pierce, don’t be mad at her! It’s all my fault! Hit me if you have to, just don’t blame Margot…” She deserved an Oscar for that “Green Tea” performance. I didn’t look back. I went straight to the luxury department store nearby and bought a full wardrobe for Damian—from silk boxers to a bespoke wool overcoat. I also picked up a hot, high-end meal. When I got back to the room, Damian had just stepped out of the shower. The bathrobe was loosely tied, droplets of water clinging to his collarbones. When he saw me, he looked away so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. “Eat,” I said, setting the bags on the bed. His fingers brushed mine as he took the bags, and he flinched as if he’d been burned. When he finally changed and stepped out, the transformation was staggering. The clothes merely highlighted the raw, powerful frame that had been hidden under rags. “You look incredible,” I said, and I meant it. His ears turned that adorable red again. “Eat,” I repeated. I handed him the utensils, intentionally letting our fingers linger. He sat down and began to eat. He ate quickly, but with a strange sort of ingrained discipline. Watching him—seeing how hungry he actually was—made my heart ache. I placed a piece of steak on his plate. “Eat more. You’re too thin.” He paused, looked at the food, and then ate it in silence. As I was clearing the containers, he spoke up. “Pierce came to see you, didn’t he?” “How did you know?” “I heard him from the window.” I sat down beside him. “And what do you think about that?” He was silent for a long time. Then he turned to look me straight in the eyes. “He doesn’t deserve you.” “Oh?” I teased. “Then who does?” “Someone who puts you at the center of their universe.” I leaned in closer. “Is that an application?” His entire face flushed. He jerked his head away. “I… I didn’t say that!” I was about to tease him further when my phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. When I answered, a cold, distorted voice came through: “Ms. Wilder? We have your boyfriend’s grandmother. If you ever want to see her again, you’ll follow our instructions.” 4 My heart skipped. I looked at Damian. “Who is this?” I kept my voice low. The man on the other end chuckled. “Our boss wants to see you. South Side, the abandoned shipyard. Come alone. If you call the cops or bring help…” He paused. “The old lady won’t see tomorrow’s sunrise.” A chill washed over me. This was Pierce’s move. It had to be. He knew Damian was my weak spot, and he knew that grandmother was the only family Damian had left. Through the phone, I heard a faint, long blast of a foghorn. It was deep and mournful. A memory from my past life clicked into place. Pierce had once taken me to a private, shady celebration near the San Francisco docks—a warehouse he’d converted into a “private lounge” for his less-than-legal dealings. He’d boasted back then that the area was perfect for “taking out the trash.” That foghorn. It was the South Harbor, Pier 3. “Fine,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m coming.” The moment I hung up, Damian’s hand clamped onto mine. His grip was ice cold. “Who was that? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” “Just a business thing. An emergency,” I lied, forcing a smile as I patted his shoulder. “Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.” “I’m going with you.” He stood up, his expression more stubborn than I’d ever seen it. “No.” I stood on my tiptoes and pressed a quick, firm kiss to his lips. “You’re my secret treasure. I need you safe.” While he was still stunned by the kiss, I slipped out the door. “Wait for me.” I didn’t call the police immediately. I knew a cornered rat like Pierce might kill the hostage if he saw a siren. But I wasn’t going in unprotected. I got into my car and called my father’s head of security, Brooks. “Brooks, I need a favor. South Harbor, Warehouse 3. Pierce Montgomery has kidnapped an elderly woman. Bring our best men. Surround the place silently. Do not move until I give the word. Priority one is the hostage’s safety.” “Understood, Miss Wilder,” Brooks’s voice was like iron. With that settled, I started the car—but I didn’t drive to the harbor. I knew Pierce. He was a coward who liked to watch from a distance. He wouldn’t be at a dusty warehouse. He’d be at the apartment I’d let him stay in, waiting for his “victory” to be reported. I was going for blood. I drove to the penthouse in the city. My parents had given it to me as a graduation gift, but Pierce had “borrowed” it for work. It had become his nest for Lacey. I turned the key. The door swung open. The place was a wreck. Women’s lingerie and men’s shirts were strewn from the foyer to the bedroom. The air smelled of cheap perfume and sweat. Lacey was sprawled on the bed, scrolling through her phone. She screamed when she saw me, clutching the duvet to her chest. “Margot! How did you get in here?” “Where’s Pierce?” I tossed the property deed onto the bed. “Look closely, Lacey. Whose name is on this title?” She started wailing. “You’re bullying me! I’m telling Pierce! You hit me!” I didn’t bother arguing. I went to the walk-in closet and started recording a video. The walls were lined with Birkin bags and couture gowns—not a single one of which she could afford on her own. “Lacey, does it feel good? Living in my house, spending my money, sleeping with my husband-to-be?” I pointed the camera at her panicked face. She lunged for the phone. “Pierce bought these because he loves me!” I stepped aside, and she tumbled onto the floor. Just then, the front door was kicked open. Pierce charged in with two hired goons. Seeing Lacey on the floor, his eyes turned murderous. “Margot! You dared to touch her!” He swung a hand toward my face. I didn’t flinch. Because a much stronger hand reached out from behind me and caught Pierce’s wrist in a grip that sounded like snapping wood. Damian. I don’t know how he followed me, but he was there, radiating a darkness so thick it felt like the temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees. “You want to die?” Damian asked, his voice a low, terrifying vibration. “How did you find me?” I asked, breathless. “I didn’t trust you to go alone,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving Pierce. “Are you hurt?” I shook my head. Pierce recovered from his shock and started laughing like a maniac. “Perfect! I was wondering how to make sure you witnessed the finale!” He pulled out his phone and hit play on a video. It showed Damian’s grandmother tied to a chair, gagged and sobbing. “Damian Cross, you’re a tough guy, right?” Pierce’s smile was demonic. “Kneel. Give me three head-butts to the floor and tell me you’re a dog. Or I’ll watch the livestream as they take her fingers off, one by one.”

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The highlight of our engagement gala—the exchange of the family heirlooms—was supposed to be my moment. I was supposed to receive the Ashford signet ring, a platinum piece that had represented the head of the family for three generations. Instead, Marina Ashford walked right past me. She stepped toward the shadows of the corner where her junior assistant, Cody West, stood waiting. With a smile I hadn’t seen in months, she slid the ring onto a chain around his neck. A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom. Hundreds of sympathetic, mocking eyes suddenly felt like needles pressing into my skin. Marina reached out, playfully pinching the assistant’s cheek. Her explanation to the room was breezy, almost flippant. “Look at him. Poor Cody couldn’t even afford a decent suit for tonight, let alone a gift. I thought we’d just skip the formalities for now.” She smoothed the lapel of his jacket. “Besides, Cody’s been having trouble sleeping lately. This ring is supposed to have ‘grounding energy,’ right? It’ll do him more good than it will you.” Then she turned to me, her eyes hardening with an impatient, charitable coldness. “We’re literally getting engaged tonight, Des. Don’t give me that look. Try not to be so damn entitled.” Cody leaned into her, the sweetness of his smirk sharp enough to draw blood. Everyone in our circle knew the Ashford rings came in a pair. Now, standing there under the Swarovski chandeliers with nothing but a bare throat and a suit I’d tailored for a woman who didn’t respect me, I felt like I’d been slapped in the face in front of the entire East Coast elite. Suddenly, I started to laugh. It was a dry, hollow sound. I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out the thick envelope I’d been carrying—the stock transfer documents I’d spent months preparing. I flicked my lighter and held the flame to the corner of the paper. “You’re right, Marina,” I said as the fire began to eat through the legal headers. “I shouldn’t be greedy.” “If the ring belongs to him, then this ‘fiancé’ title belongs to him, too. Consider it a gift.” … 1. The ballroom fell into a suffocating silence, broken only by the hungry crackle of the burning documents. Marina’s brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing her face. “Desmond, it’s a piece of jewelry. Do you really have to be this petty?” “Stop acting out,” she continued, her voice dripping with the condescension of a queen pardoning a peasant. “Finish the ceremony, and I’ll pretend this little tantrum never happened. I’ll forgive you.” Looking at her—at that high-and-mighty gaze, that look of someone who thought she was the sun I orbited—I felt a wave of pure, unfiltered revulsion. I wrenched my hand away when she tried to grab my arm. “Is the CEO of Ashford Media having trouble with basic English?” I asked. “Let me be clearer: The engagement is off. We’re done. Don’t call me.” The air in the room turned brittle. Cody, ever the “peace-maker,” stepped forward with a practiced, plastic smile. “Des, man, Marina was just worried about my health. Don’t take it out on her.” He stepped close and forced something into my palm. “Here,” he whispered, loud enough for the front row to hear. “As a consolation prize. I had a replica made just for you.” He leaned in closer, his voice a venomous hiss. “But I’m not like you, Des. I don’t just live off a woman’s bank account. High-end platinum was a bit out of my budget, so I used a Heineken bottle for the ‘gem.’ Matches your vibe, don’t you think?” For the engagement, I had gone out of my way to find a bespoke charcoal suit to match Marina’s gown. The joke was on me; Cody was wearing the exact same suit. Only Marina and I had been there for the fitting. She hadn’t just told him what I was wearing; she’d bought him the same damn outfit. There they stood: wearing matching couture, draped in the Ashford family legacy, looking for all the world like the real couple of the evening. I was just the unwanted extra in my own life story. I lunged forward, grabbing the cord around Cody’s neck and yanking him toward me. He stumbled, his eyes wide. “I’ve never been fond of hand-me-downs,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “If you want my trash, Cody, you’re welcome to it. But if you’re going to provoke me, you’d better be ready for the consequences.” “Maybe I should use this ‘replica’ of yours to see how deep your skin actually is?” The shards of green glass at the end of the fake pendant were jagged, poorly sanded. A cheap, spiteful little thing. Cody turned pale, immediately turning his tear-filled eyes toward Marina. “Marina, look at him… he’s scaring me…” A sharp pain shot through my wrist as Marina grabbed me, forcing me to let go. She shoved me back, shielding Cody behind her like a mother hen protecting a chick. “Cody didn’t say anything wrong!” she snapped. “Who do you think you are, putting your hands on him? I cancelled the exchange to save your dignity, Desmond!” “The Ashford ring is worth seven figures. You’re a literal nobody—a parasite who hasn’t worked a day in four years. What could you possibly have brought to the table that was of equal value? Learn your place!” She gestured to the blackened ash on the floor. “And don’t think I don’t know what those papers were. Another ‘wish list’ for your dowry? Another yacht? Another condo in the city? You burned them because even you realized how pathetic your greed looked, didn’t you?” Even though I had already checked out of this relationship, hearing those words felt like a physical weight in my chest. It was hard to breathe. 2. Marina never wanted me to work. She hated the idea of me “cluttering my schedule” with a career, and she hated the taste of restaurant food. So, I became the man behind the woman. I kept the house, managed her life, and cooked every meal. I thought I was building a sanctuary for us. I didn’t realize that in her eyes, four years of devotion had merely branded me a gold-digger. She had no idea that those “petty papers” weren’t a gift list. They were a deed of gift for a ten percent stake in the Montgomery Group—a holding worth hundreds of millions. I looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time in years. “Marina, you knew what that ring meant. It wasn’t just jewelry. It was a statement about who stands beside you as an equal. You gave it to your assistant. What am I to you?” Marina scoffed, her lip curling. “Cody is an asset. He’s my right hand at the office. He deserves recognition. You? You’re a house husband I’ve kept in silk shirts. The fact that I even agreed to marry you was a charity case.” She took a sip of her champagne. “Quit while you’re ahead, Desmond. Go back to the house, calm down, and finish the party. If you really want a ring so bad, I’ll buy you some vintage piece at an auction next month. But if you keep acting like a child, I will walk away from you for good.” She didn’t get it. She never would. It wasn’t about the object; it was about the soul behind it. But in her world, souls were just things you traded for leverage. “Fine,” I said, my voice calm, almost eerie. “I’d like nothing more.” I turned to walk out, but three of her security guards moved with practiced synchronization, blocking the exit like a wall of muscle. Marina drained her glass, her posture relaxed and mocking. “Desmond, if you’re so hell-bent on a breakup, you should probably return what belongs to me first.” She looked me up and down with ice-cold eyes. “That suit. I bought it. So, take it off.” I froze. I had come straight to the gala in this suit. I had nothing else with me. Marina knew that. Looking at her familiar face, I felt a sudden, sharp pang of laughter. How had I been so blind? How had I fallen for someone so hollow? A few guests looked uncomfortable. A family friend tried to interject. “Marina, come on. He’s a young man. Don’t humiliate him like this in front of everyone.” Marina crossed her legs, unmoved. “I gave him too much respect in the past. That’s why he’s so spoiled now. He needs to learn how to be obedient.” “Desmond, you don’t have to do it. Just apologize. Say you were wrong, promise to stop bullying Cody, and we can go on with the night.” Cody leaned his head on her shoulder, smirking. “Come on, Des. Marina’s giving you an out. Don’t be stubborn. We won’t laugh too hard when you take back everything you said. We’re used to seeing ‘climbers’ like you lose their footing.” Marina gave Cody’s waist a squeeze, clearly pleased with his performance. The weight of the room’s gaze was like a physical heat, scorching my skin. This was her goal: to break me. To remind me that I was a toy she could play with or discard at will. 3. She wanted me to understand that I was nothing without her. She could give me a face, or she could grind it into the dirt. While the crowd waited for me to crumble and beg, I did the opposite. With a face like stone, I unbuttoned the jacket and shrugged it off. Then the vest. Then the shirt. I threw the expensive fabric into the nearest trash bin without a word. I ignored the flash of shock in Marina’s eyes as I walked out of the hotel in nothing but my undershirt and slacks, never looking back. Outside, the New York sky had opened up. A cold, biting rain was falling. I tried to hail a cab, only to realize my phone was dead—I’d spent the whole day coordinating her event and hadn’t had a chance to charge it. All my ID, my keys, my life was back at the estate. I had no choice but to walk. The thin cotton of my shirt was soaked through within minutes, clinging to my skin. I must have looked like a wreck, earning stares from the few people out on the streets. It was near midnight by the time I reached the gates of the Ashford estate. The neighborhood was silent, eerie. I noticed three men in hoodies following me. They’d been behind me for several blocks, matching my pace, drifting closer every time I looked back. My skin crawled. I sprinted to the front door, heart hammering against my ribs, and punched in the security code. Access Denied. She had changed the locks. The three men stopped under a tree just a few yards away, their silhouettes dark against the streetlights. They were laughing—a low, predatory sound. They were watching me like a trapped animal, waiting for the right moment to strike. Panic flared in my chest. I hammered on the door, ringing the bell over and over. No one answered. Suddenly, a second-story window slid open. Marina appeared, her hair damp, wearing a silk robe. She didn’t look worried; she looked bored. She picked up a suitcase and tossed it out the window. It hit the wet pavement with a heavy thud, bursting open and spilling my clothes into the puddles. The light from the room behind her caught the dark bruises—hickeys—on her neck. “You wanted to be independent, Desmond? Then take your trash and get off my property.” “I’ve frozen your cards. I doubt the change in your Venmo is enough to cover a week at a motel.” I didn’t care about her insults. I looked at the tree where the men were standing. “Marina, listen to me. There are men following me. They’re right there. Please, just let me in for five minutes to call a ride.” Marina hesitated, glancing toward the shadows. “What? Des, if this is another lie—” A pair of pale hands reached out from behind her, pulling her back. Cody appeared in the window, wearing my favorite pajamas. He gave me a mocking wave. “Des, man, this is a gated community. Security doesn’t let ‘thugs’ in without a pass. You’re really going to lie to her after embarrassing her tonight? That’s low, even for a gold-digger.” He looked at Marina. “Marina, if you keep letting him play you, people are going to think you’re weak. He needs to learn his lesson.” Marina’s face hardened into a mask of disgust. “You’re pathetic, Desmond. You want to play the victim? Fine. Stay out there in the rain. Maybe it’ll wash the delusions out of your head.” “I want a public apology on your socials by tomorrow morning. If you don’t beg for my forgiveness, don’t ever show your face again. Without me, you’re nothing. You’re used goods, Des. Nobody else is going to want you.” She slammed the window shut. Through the sheer curtains, I saw their silhouettes merge, swaying in a slow, cruel dance. The world went cold. The three men stepped out from the shadows, grinning. “Hey, kid. That bag looks like it’s got some nice stuff in it. Why don’t you let us take care of that for you?” “Don’t worry,” one laughed, pulling a knife. “We’re just ‘borrowing’ it. We don’t do refunds.” They lunged, covering my mouth and dragging me toward the dark corner of the driveway. I fought, kicking wildly, until the sound of a car door slamming echoed through the night. It wasn’t Marina. It was a middle-aged couple from the house across the street. They’d just pulled in and seen the struggle. The thugs, seeing witnesses, dropped my bag and bolted into the night. The husband helped me up, offering me a place to stay, but I couldn’t bear to be a burden. He gave me a dry sweatshirt and a pair of old track pants, then drove me to a nearby hotel. Marina had been thorough. She’d kept the car she “gave” me and the watches she’d bought. But she didn’t realize that I never needed her things. I had my own. I borrowed a charger from the front desk. Tomorrow, I was going home. But as my Uber pulled away the next morning, the driver took a sharp, unexpected turn onto the highway. A massive man sitting in the passenger seat turned around, staring at me with a cold, professional intensity. I reached for my phone, but the driver spoke first. “Mr. Sterling, today is Mr. West’s birthday. Ms. Ashford is throwing a garden party at her estate.” “And you,” he said, pointing a finger at me, “are the surprise guest.” The man in the passenger seat cracked his knuckles. “Ms. Ashford said if you’re a good boy and make Mr. West happy, she might reconsider the engagement.” He pointed to the window. “We’re on the I-95. If you try to jump, you’ll be red mist before you hit the asphalt. Keep your hands where I can see them. You’re just a charity case, kid. Don’t start thinking you’re the master of the house.” I realized then that Marina wasn’t just done with me. She wanted to own me. I sat back, silently putting my phone away. The Ashford estate was transformed. It was even more lavish than the gala—a sea of white roses and expensive champagne. Marina stood in the center of the lawn, her arm around Cody’s waist, laughing with the city’s power brokers. They both wore their matching rings. To anyone else, it looked like a wedding. When she saw me, she walked over, her eyes scanning me like I was a piece of meat. “I heard you were trying to catch a flight. Where to? Back to whatever hole you crawled out of?” My voice was flat. “Home. Is that a problem?” She smirked, a flicker of triumph in her eyes. “So you finally realized that without me, you’re just a nobody from the Midwest who’ll end up working in a diner. I’m not heartless, Des. If you put this on and act as Cody’s ‘pet’ for the day, I’ll forget about last night. We can even get married next week.” She held up a wooden board, the size of a laptop. Carved into it were four words: CODY WEST’S DOG. I stared at her, disbelief warring with a rising tide of fury. “You want me to be his dog? In your dreams, Marina. He isn’t fit to shine my shoes.” Marina’s expression turned to ice. “It’s Cody’s birthday. This is what he wants. I promised him he could have whatever he asked for today.” “Besides, you almost hurt him last night. You owe him.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small resin pendant. My heart stopped. Inside that resin were several strands of hair. My mother’s hair. She had died in a fire years ago. There was no grave, no body. Those strands of hair, which I’d collected from her hairbrush after the accident, were the only physical piece of her I had left. Marina held the pendant over a nearby charcoal grill. “You’re big on ‘meaning,’ aren’t you? If you don’t do this, I’ll drop this in the coals. You’ll have nothing left of her.” I gritted my teeth so hard I thought they might shatter. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll do it.” The crowd cheered and laughed as I slipped the board over my neck. Phones came out, recording the humiliation. Marina beamed. “Good boy. Remember, whatever Cody wants, you do. If he’s happy at the end of the night, you get your locket back. And your future.” I looked up, my face a mask of nothingness. “Can I use the restroom?” Marina nodded but took my phone first. She signaled two guards to follow me. She thought she had me trapped. But she didn’t know that I had stopped running. Inside the stall, I pressed a hidden button on the side of my watch. After a second of static, a woman’s voice—sharp and playful—filled the air. “Big brother? I thought you were coming back to Chicago today. I brought a whole fleet to the airport to pick you up. Where are you?” I took a deep breath. “I’m being held. She betrayed me. She’s trying to turn me into a pet for her latest fling.” “The Montgomery code: A debt is always paid, and a grudge is never forgotten. You know what to do.” The line went silent for a heartbeat. When Cassandra spoke again, the playfulness was gone. It was replaced by a cold, murderous edge. “Give me the GPS. I’m coming. I’m going to bury that bitch.” 4. Marina’s guards led me back to the center of the lawn. “Cody,” Marina said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Desmond is your personal pet for the day. He’s all yours.” “Oh, Marina! You really are the best!” Cody chirped. He leaned in and kissed her cheek before turning to me. He laughed at the sign around my neck. “I guess you didn’t like the glass ring because you preferred this look instead. Suits your soul, Des.” “But I’ve never seen a dog stand while his master is talking. Let’s teach you some manners.” Marina gave a small nod to the guards. Before I could react, they kicked the back of my knees. I hit the grass with a heavy thud. The crowd roared with laughter. I tried to stand, but a heavy hand slammed onto my shoulder, pinning me down. Cody sauntered over and slapped my face—not hard, but humiliatingly, like he was checking the quality of leather. “There we go. Good dog. Are you hungry? Master made you something special.” He signaled a waiter, who brought over a trash bin from the buffet. Inside were half-eaten chicken wings and the sour-smelling vomit of a guest who’d had too much to drink. Cody leaned down, whispering in my ear. “You called me trash last night, Des. Now, you’re the one eating it.” I looked past him, straight at Marina. “Is this what you want?” She hesitated for a fraction of a second, her lips parting. But then Cody pouted. “Marina, I’m just trying to help him learn his place. If he doesn’t learn now, he’ll just keep threatening you with breakups every time he gets jealous. You said you’d help me get even. Was that a lie?” “If it was, I’ll just leave now. I’ll give back the ring and quit. I don’t want to be in the way of your ‘true love.’” Marina’s eyes softened as she pulled him into a hug. She looked at me with cold command. “Desmond, you made a deal. Do you want the locket or not? Cody is doing this for your own good. Every successful woman has a man on the side—it’s just how the world works. If you want to be my husband, you have to learn to be ‘flexible.’ This is your test.” “Don’t ruin his birthday. Eat, and I promise I won’t hold it against you later. Tomorrow, everything changes.” My fists clenched. I stared at this woman I had once loved with everything I had. The Montgomery family had a legend about our signet rings. They said the rings would protect you in good times, and in bad times, they were the capital you used to rebuild an empire. For generations, no matter how hard things got, no Montgomery ever sold their ring. Marina had been so ambitious, so desperate to build her media empire without selling her family’s legacy. I had loved that about her. I didn’t want to hurt her pride, so I hid who I was. I used my family’s shadow funds to secretly invest in her. I steered multi-million dollar contracts her way through “anonymous” consultants. For four years, I built her throne. And before she even reached the top, she had already learned how to spit on the man who put her there. I was done being kind. I didn’t eat. Instead, I lunged forward and bit Cody’s wrist as hard as I could. He screamed, a high-pitched, girlish sound, trying to shake me off. By the time the guards pulled me away, the bite mark was deep and bleeding. “Marina! He’s trying to kill me! He’s just jealous you gave me the ring! Do something!” Marina was livid. She stepped forward and kicked me hard in the stomach. I doubled over, the air leaving my lungs in a painful wheeze. “You are a lost cause, Desmond!” she hissed. “Fine. If you can’t be a husband, I’ll marry Cody. He’s ten times the man you are.” “You like biting? Dogs that bite don’t need teeth. Guards! Pull them out. Every single one.” “No anesthesia. Let him feel it. Maybe then he’ll remember his place when he’s my secret little side-piece.” The guards grabbed my hair, forcing my head back. My scalp screamed in pain. Cody stood over me, mouthing the words: You lost. A guard forced my jaw open, the cold steel of pliers clicking against my front tooth. But before he could pull, the sky began to throb. A thunderous roar drowned out the party music. Ten black helicopters appeared over the tree line, hovering low, their downdraft whipping the white roses into a frenzy. Ropes dropped. A hundred men in black-and-gold tactical gear rappelled down with terrifying precision. They moved like a single machine, surrounding the party. In the center of the formation stood a woman in a tailored suit, her face a mask of icy fury. Cody stared, his mouth hanging open. “Marina… is this a surprise for me? A stripper troupe? This is so cool!” I felt the corner of my mouth twitch into a smile. I hoped they’d still be laughing when I finished with them.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “422552”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At the orchestra’s open auditions, I was the unintended center of gravity. The air in the room felt thick, heavy with the redirected stares of my colleagues. Some offered the sharp sting of pity; others, a voyeuristic curiosity that felt like needles under my skin. They all knew the score. I was Bennett, the man who had stood by Adrienne Montgomery for seven years, the “almost-fiancé” waiting for a wedding invite that never seemed to get printed. For seven years, I’d been her shadow. I’d walked beside her through the lean years of obscurity to the sun-drenched heights of her current fame. But even for me, there was a sanctuary I was never allowed to enter: her father’s Steinway. It was a relic, a piece of her soul left behind by the man who taught her to play, kept under a metaphorical glass case. Until today. Toby, a soft-featured boy barely out of conservatory and the newest hire, pointed to the piano beside Adrienne. “I heard only your husband is allowed to touch that,” he said, his voice trailing off with a playful, dangerous tilt. “Is there any room for an exception?” Adrienne didn’t even pause. She didn’t look at me. She didn’t blink. “Yes,” she said. One word. One syllable that effectively erased seven years of devotion. In that moment, the symphony of our life together hit a dissonant, final chord. I knew then: it was time to close the book. 1 After the auditions, the orchestra manager caught me in the hallway. “Bennett, about that four-hands piece you were supposed to perform with Adrienne… you can take it off your schedule.” I looked at him, already knowing the answer. “And?” “Adrienne wants the new kid, Toby, to play it with her instead.” Even though I’d felt the blow coming, the actual impact left a bitter taste in my mouth, like copper. I didn’t argue. I simply nodded. That night, I retreated to the guest room and dialed a number I hadn’t touched in years. “Mandy?” I said when the line connected. “You once told me you wanted to get married at the Musikverein in Vienna, and you wanted me there. Does that offer still stand?” There was a long silence on the other end, muffled by the sound of someone waking up. Her voice was thick with sleep, a soft rasp. “Am I dreaming?” “You can say no,” I began, my heart hammering against my ribs. I didn’t get to finish. I heard a loud thud—the sound of someone literally falling out of bed—followed by a frantic, breathless scramble. “It stands! Bennett, it stands today, tomorrow, and every day after. Yes. God, yes.” I let out a breath, a small, tired smile flickering across my face. The day’s wreckage felt a little less heavy. When Adrienne finally came home, I was in the middle of packing. She didn’t notice the suitcase at first. She was busy tugging at her silk tie, her movements sharp and distracted. “Make me some ginger tea,” she tossed over her shoulder. “The welcome party for the new hires got a little rowdy. The boys kept buying me rounds. I’m seeing double.” I looked at her. I looked at the faint, unmistakable bloom of a hickey near the collar of her shirt. I didn’t move. “Adrienne,” I said, my voice steady. “We’re done. I’m leaving.” She froze. Only then did her eyes drop to the suitcase by my feet. She rubbed her temples, her dark eyes—usually so captivating—now clouded with irritation. “Is this about the piano?” she snapped. “Bennett, don’t be so small-minded. He’s a talent. I’m doing what’s best for the orchestra’s future.” A talent. The boy had botched a dozen transitions during his audition. She turned toward the master bath, her tone dismissive. “Go fix the tea. Stop overthinking things. You’re being dramatic.” “Adrienne.” My voice was a wall she couldn’t walk through. “I told you years ago. My life plan was to be married by thirty. I turn thirty this week.” She stopped. The thin veneer of her patience finally shattered. “Bennett, do you have any idea how cheap this makes you look? Begging for a ring, over and over? It’s exhausting. You’re making yourself look pathetic.” She stepped closer, her words like scalpels. “I’ve told you: the orchestra is in a growth phase. I don’t have the energy to waste on something as trivial as a wedding right now.” Trivial. For seven years, I had built that orchestra from a dream into a powerhouse. Every tour, every donor gala, every glowing review—I had traded my own health for those things. I had the blood-red marks on my medical charts to prove it. And in return, she called me “cheap.” Her energy was apparently very expensive—far too expensive for me. But she had plenty of it for the new boy. Plenty of energy to make sure his seat cushion was soft enough, to ask if he was having fun at the party, to laugh at his jokes. But for the man who had carried her for nearly a decade? I was just a waste of time. I sighed, meeting her gaze with a clarity I hadn’t felt in years. “I’m tired, Adrienne. So, it’s a wedding or a breakup. You choose.” Adrienne’s eyes flashed with pure, cold venom. “Fine. Break up. Leave. See if I care.” As the sound of the shower started up, a wave of hollow grief washed over me. I’d always known I wasn’t her “first choice.” Adrienne was a sun that everyone wanted to orbit. I just had more endurance than the others. I had stayed when she had nothing, and because of that, she felt a moral obligation to keep me around. But love? Love is unmistakable. If I asked for a birthday cake, she’d buy one—but it was never the flavor I liked. If I was sick and asked for medicine, she’d get it—but only after I was already recovered, a sudden afterthought. I looked at the “Groom’s Guide to the Perfect Wedding” and “Three Months to Your Best Self” brochures I’d tucked away in the nightstand. I’d bought them with such hope, only to hide them whenever she gave me that look of profound disgust. I was done being an afterthought. 2 My phone buzzed repeatedly in my pocket. It was the orchestra’s group chat. Toby had posted a video of him and Adrienne performing at the after-party. They were playing on her father’s piano. Toby had even set a wine glass carelessly on the mahogany finish—something I would have been crucified for. In the video, their eyes locked, the air between them thick with a calculated, youthful flirtation. As the song ended, their faces brushed so close it looked like a kiss. Toby’s caption was a masterpiece of faux-humility: “Just a newbie trying to keep up. I can’t believe I’m getting more love than the veterans who’ve been here for seven years. So touched. Thanks for the favoritism, Adrienne! ” Adrienne, who was still in the shower, somehow found the time to reply instantly: “You’ve earned it. ” They went back and forth, Adrienne even using the kind of cutesy emojis she used to tell me were “beneath a serious professional.” I remembered three years ago, when I’d secured a major national award for the orchestra—a feat that was nearly impossible. I’d posted in the chat, half-joking, half-seeking a crumb of affection: “Chief, did I do good? Do I get a gold star?” That message had hung there, unanswered, for twenty-four hours. When I finally confronted her about it, she’d sneered. “Bennett, you’re a grown man. Acting like a needy teenager is embarrassing. I’m not going to humiliate myself by entertaining that.” I was twenty-nine then. And I had spent the next week apologizing, wondering if I really was the problem. But seeing her now, playing along with Toby… I realized she wasn’t an ice queen. She was just a woman who didn’t love me. I hauled my suitcase out the door that night and never looked back. The next few days were a blur of wrapping up my resignation and handing off my responsibilities. I stopped killing myself for the orchestra. I stopped making Adrienne’s life easy. She and Toby grew bolder, and I simply looked the other way. Until the morning my mother called, her voice trembling. “Bennett… your father found out about the breakup. He got so upset, he collapsed. He’s in the ICU.” My heart dropped. “Mom, did you use the insurance card?” “That’s the problem,” she sobbed. “Adrienne still has it. Remember? You gave it to her months ago when she promised to get him in to see that heart specialist. We can’t afford the deposit for the surgery without it.” Panic flared in my chest. I’d asked Adrienne about that specialist a dozen times, and she’d always waved me off, saying she was “working on it.” I called her. No answer. I called again. Straight to voicemail. I drove to the villa—the house I’d helped her pay for—and tried the door. The code had been changed. Desperate, I grabbed a stone, smashed a side window, and climbed inside. The interior stopped me cold. The minimalist, pristine aesthetic Adrienne insisted on—the one she used to tell me my “cheap taste” would ruin—was gone. The living room was littered with plastic action figures and designer hoodies. It looked like a college dorm. I remembered wanting to put a single, artistic lamp in our bedroom once. Adrienne had looked at it like it was radioactive. “Bennett, don’t pollute my space with your low-rent sensibilities.” Apparently, Toby’s mess was “art.” I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I began tearing through the drawers, looking for my father’s medical ID. Suddenly, a heavy boot slammed into my side. I was thrown to the floor, my breath hitching in a painful gasp. Two police officers swarmed me, pinning my arms behind my back. “Someone reported a break-in,” one of them barked. “Don’t move.” In the interrogation room, the lead officer glared at me. “You claim you’re her boyfriend, but there isn’t a single item of yours in that house. No clothes, no photos, nothing.” “I moved out three days ago,” I croaked. “You say you’re the manager of the orchestra, but the owner—Ms. Montgomery—says the manager is a man named Toby. Bennett, why can’t you tell us a single truth?” I was shaking. I looked at my phone on the table. My mother’s name kept flashing. Missed call. Missed call. Every second I sat there, my father was slipping away. “Fine,” I whispered, the fight leaving me. “I’ll confess to the trespass. Just let me go to the hospital. My father is dying.” The officer scoffed. “Oh, now it’s a dying father? You think we’re idiots? Ms. Montgomery and her boyfriend specifically requested we hold you until they can finish an inventory of the ‘stolen’ items.” I was held for forty-eight hours. On the third day, Adrienne finally showed up. 3 She wasn’t alone. Toby was trailing behind her like a pampered lapdog, followed by a handful of my former colleagues from the orchestra. Toby stepped forward, his face a mask of fake concern. “Oh, Bennett. I’m so, so sorry. I had no idea it was you in the house. I just saw someone through the security feed and panicked.” He leaned in, his voice loud enough for the others to hear. “I’m the new Director of Operations now, and I wanted to take the team on a celebratory retreat. I didn’t mean for you to spend two nights in a cell. My bad, man. Truly.” Adrienne grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “Don’t apologize, Toby. He broke in. We’re over, and he’s trespassing. It’s his own fault.” I looked at her, my eyes burning. “Adrienne. My father’s insurance card. Where is it? He needs the surgery.” Adrienne blinked, clearly caught off guard. She began rummaging through her designer bag, her movements frantic but hollow. It was obvious she hadn’t thought about my father once in the last six months. She couldn’t find it. Of course she couldn’t. Just then, my phone chimed with a text from my mother. I didn’t even have to open it. I felt the soul-crushing weight of the news before I read the words. Bennett, he’s gone. My hands fell limp at my sides. I looked at Adrienne, who was still digging through her purse. “Stop,” I said. My voice was a hollow shell. “Don’t bother. I don’t need it anymore.” Adrienne looked up, her expression flickering with something like guilt, but I was already turning away. I started for the door, my legs feeling like lead. “Wait!” Toby called out. “I’m sorry you were stuck in here, but you did break in. We have to make sure you didn’t take anything. Security protocol, you know?” Before I could react, Toby grabbed my messenger bag and flipped it over. The contents spilled across the precinct floor. Among my notebooks and keys were dozens of high-end wedding invitations—the ones Mandy had sent over for me to look at. Toby gasped, covering his mouth. “Oh… Bennett. You were still planning a wedding with Adrienne? The medical card thing… was that just a drama you staged to get her attention?” I didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. “Are you satisfied?” I asked, looking at the pile on the floor. “Is any of that yours?” Toby had what he wanted—a way to humiliate me in front of Adrienne. He stepped back. I gathered my things and walked out. I was halfway to the parking lot when Adrienne caught up to me, grabbing my arm. “Where are you staying?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “None of your business. Go back to Toby. You two deserve each other.” She let out a sharp, cold laugh. “You’re jealous. I knew it.” “Believe whatever helps you sleep at night.” “Bennett, enough!” she snapped, her patience evaporating again. “You’ve made your point. You’ve sulked for three days. It’s time to stop this. Just wait a few more years for the wedding, okay? Why do you have to push me like this?” I shook her hand off. I felt a strange sense of peace—the kind that only comes after everything has already been destroyed. “I am getting married, Adrienne. But the bride isn’t you. And I will never, ever push you again. Do you understand?” Adrienne’s face turned ashen, then she smirked. “Bennett, you’re thirty. Let’s stop with the childish games. Look at you—you’re a mess. Who else would have you?” “That’s not your concern.” I turned to leave, but she softened her voice again, a tactic she used whenever she realized she was losing control. “Look, Saturday is your birthday. You’ve always wanted to meet my mother properly. I’m hosting a dinner at the Montgomery estate. We’ll celebrate you there. Does that make it better?” I stared at her. For years, I was the only one who remembered her birthday. She had never once acknowledged mine. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll be there.” 4 I didn’t go to that dinner because I wanted a birthday cake from Adrienne Montgomery. I went because the guest list was a Who’s Who of the industry. With my father gone and my career at the orchestra over, I needed to build a bridge to my future. I needed a new life. But when I arrived at the estate, I realized I’d been played. The evening wasn’t a birthday party for me. It was the night Adrienne was introducing Toby to her mother. It turned out Adrienne wasn’t “not ready” for a husband. She just didn’t want me to be the one. I turned to leave, but the family butler intercepted me. “Ah, you must be the help Miss Montgomery hired for the evening. You’re late. The gala is starting.” He looked at my suit—a nice one, but not a tuxedo. “And what are you wearing? You look like you think you’re a guest of honor.” Before I could argue, the music swelled. Adrienne and her mother entered the ballroom with Toby on Adrienne’s arm. I was shoved into a corner by the staff. Adrienne took the microphone on the small stage. “Tonight, I am proud to introduce my most brilliant protege and partner: Toby.” I watched the crowd—men and women who controlled the fate of every musician in the country—applaud. My chest ached. I remembered a few years back, when I’d made the finals of a national concerto competition. My parents had been so proud, waiting to see me on TV. But the day before the finals, I was bumped for a donor’s son. I’d asked Adrienne to use her influence to fight for me. She’d told me: “Bennett, the world isn’t fair. Normal people don’t get ‘shortcuts’ just because they know me. You need to learn to adapt, not rely on me for handouts.” And yet, here she was, throwing a literal gala to give Toby a shortcut. “And now,” Adrienne announced, her voice radiating pride, “Toby will perform an original composition of his own.” Toby flashed a charming smile at the crowd and took his seat at the piano. The first few bars echoed through the hall. My heart stopped. I knew that melody. It wasn’t Toby’s. It was the song my father and I had written together when I was seven years old. Back then, we were poor. We couldn’t afford a piano, so my father had drawn the keys on the kitchen table with a marker, teaching me the notes one by one. One evening, as he watched the sunset from his sickbed, he hummed a tune. “This is for you, Bennett,” he had whispered. “Our song. ‘The Sunset Promise.’” When I finally got to music school, the first thing I did was transcribe it. It was my most sacred possession. And now, it was Toby’s “original composition.” There was only one way he could have it. Adrienne had given it to him. I looked at her. She caught my eye and immediately looked away. My phone buzzed. “Don’t cause a scene,” her text read. “Toby is performing with me at the Musikverein next week. People are questioning his depth. I did this for the good of the orchestra.” The song ended. The room erupted in applause. Adrienne’s mother stood up, beaming. “Toby is a rare talent. Adrienne is lucky to have such a partner. In fact, the Montgomery family would be lucky to have such a son-in-law.” Adrienne laughed, offering no correction. “Wait,” I said. My voice was raspy, but in the sudden silence of the room, it carried like a gunshot. “That song… that isn’t his. My father and I wrote that twenty-three years ago.” The room went cold. Adrienne’s brow furrowed. Toby’s face paled for a fraction of a second before he settled into a look of wounded innocence. “Bennett,” Toby said, his voice trembling perfectly. “I know you wanted to marry Adrienne, but you can’t just make up lies because you’re jealous of my work.” Adrienne’s mother stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “So you’re the man who’s been hounding my daughter for seven years? No wonder she never brought you home. You have no class.” Adrienne didn’t defend me. She just looked exhausted. “Bennett, stop. This desperate attempt to trap me into a marriage is suffocating. Just go.” The guests began to whisper. “That’s him? The one who follows her around like a lost dog?” “He’s delusional. She’s clearly with the new guy.” Toby smirked, a cruel glint in his eyes. “Bennett, if I stole your song, surely you have the original files on your phone? Show everyone. If you have proof, I’ll apologize.” I froze. I knew what was on my phone. A few months ago, in a moment of pathetic longing, I had photoshopped a picture of myself and Adrienne in wedding attire. I’d never shown it to anyone, but I hadn’t deleted it yet. Adrienne’s mother signaled the security guards to take my phone. I struggled, trying to keep it, but I was shoved to the ground. Toby snatched the device. “If you won’t show us, I will.” He hooked my phone up to the ballroom’s large projector screen. “Let’s see the ‘evidence’ of your genius, Bennett.” He swiped through my gallery. He found the “Wedding” folder. The crowd began to titter, anticipating my humiliation. “Oh my god,” someone laughed. “He actually photoshopped himself into a tuxedo next to a bride. This is beyond sad.” The mockery was deafening. I sat on the floor, humiliated, defeated. Adrienne looked like she was about to call for security to throw me out. But then, a voice rose from the back of the room. A voice that was sharp, clear, and carried the weight of a billion dollars. “Wait a minute. That bride in the photo… that isn’t Adrienne Montgomery.”

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My life had been hollowed out by my father’s drinking long ago. Every time he stumbled home, reeking of cheap bourbon and resentment, the walls of our house would shudder under the weight of his rage. My mother was the first to break; she fled into the night years ago, leaving nothing but a cold trail and a shattered silence. My little sister, Hallie, didn’t have the strength to run. The years of witnessing his violence had turned her into a ghost—a hollow-eyed girl who drifted through the house, her mind stalled in a permanent state of shock. Now, I was the only one left standing. The only one sane enough to bear the brunt of his fists and the only one standing between Hallie and the abyss. I endured it, gritting my teeth and tallying the bruises like a countdown. I had a plan: get through graduation, take my saved tuition money, and disappear with Hallie in the middle of the night. But then, he found the money. That afternoon, he cornered me, his breath a foul cloud of malt and rot, demanding I hand over my future. I looked at his distorted face, the features bloated by years of malice, and I felt something snap. Not a break, but a hardening. My eyes drifted to the heavy lead pipe leaning in the corner. I walked toward it, my movements slow and deliberate, and wrapped my fingers around the cold metal. He used to roar that “a belt teaches a boy to be a man.” Well, I was starting to think that maybe a pipe could teach a monster how to be a father. Maybe, if I swung hard enough, I could finally wake him up from the nightmare he’d built for us. … When he saw the pipe in my hand, he let out a jagged, mocking laugh and spat on the floor. “What? You think you’re tough enough to take a swing at your old man?” He slammed his bottle onto the kitchen table with a bone-jarring thud, thrusting his chin forward. He tapped his forehead with a nicotine-stained finger. “Go ahead! Right here! Do it! Kill me!” My Uncle Silas, his favorite drinking buddy, scrambled out of his chair, grabbing my father’s arm. “Frank, knock it off! Take it easy!” Then Silas turned his glare on me, his eyes narrowing with a self-righteous fire. “Put that thing down, Casey! Don’t push him. Your dad’s had a hard enough life as it is!” A laugh bubbled up in my throat—sharp and bitter. “Hard? He spends his days doing nothing and his nights beating his kids. Tell me, Silas, which part of that is the ‘hard’ part?” “A father has a right to discipline his own!” Silas barked. “And who says he doesn’t work? He put in two days at the construction site this month, didn’t he? He even bought gifts for you and the kid!” I let out a cold snort. I reached into the junk drawer, pulled out a crumpled bag, and threw it onto the table. It slid across the wood and hit my father’s chest. “You mean this?” It was a bag of generic saltwater taffy. The plastic was coated in a layer of grime, the candy inside melted into a single, neon-colored lump of sugar and dust. It was years past its expiration date. Silas blinked, looking at the bag, then at my father. He cleared his throat, doubling down on the lie. “So what? It’s the thought that counts. Children are supposed to show gratitude. Don’t be like that mother of yours—no heart, no loyalty. Just a runner.” “Loyalty?” I stared them down, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You know exactly why she ran. If she’d stayed another week, you’d have been burying her in the backyard.” My father slammed his fist onto the table, his face turning a bruised purple. “She got what she deserved! Women like her… they need to be kept in line! They’re built for it!” He pointed a trembling finger at my nose, spraying spit as he screamed. “You and that idiot sister of yours, you’re just dead weight. I’m doing you a favor by raising you. Spare the rod, spoil the child. You should be thanking me for the education!” I gripped the pipe until my knuckles turned white. A fire was roaring in my chest, a heat so intense it made my fingertips go numb. “Oh, I’m feeling very educated right now.” He huffed, thrusting his palm toward me. “Enough talk. Where’s the cash? The money you hid from that summer job. Hand it over.” I didn’t move. He took a step into my space, looming over me. “Are you deaf? Give it here! You’re not going to college. I found you a spot at the poultry plant down in the valley. Room and board included. Twelve-hour shifts, six days a week. You’ll send the checks home to me.” Silas nodded in approval. “He’s right. What’s a girl need with a degree? You’re just going to get married and pop out kids anyway. Might as well make yourself useful to your father while you’re young.” I took a deep, steadying breath, looking my father directly in the eye. “You aren’t getting a dime. And I am going to school.” My voice was terrifyingly calm. “If you try to stop me, I will end you.” The room went silent. My father’s face went from purple to a deep, angry crimson. “You little bitch! I’ll kill you first!” He reached down, ripping off his heavy leather belt, ready to lunge. I raised the pipe, holding it level between us. Silas jumped between us, his voice cracking. “Casey, stop! You really want to hit your own father? You want God to strike you down for being an ungrateful brat?” “Drop the pipe! Get on your knees and apologize!” Silas screamed. Behind him, my father was bouncing on the balls of his feet, emboldened. “Let her try! She doesn’t have the guts!” “Look at her! Hands shaking like a leaf. You’re a coward, Casey! Just like your mother! You were born to be under someone’s boot!” The insults became a blur—filthy, degrading, a lifetime of venom poured into a few seconds. I closed my eyes for a fraction of a heartbeat. Then, I swung. The pipe connected with his temple with a sickening, wet thud. Warm blood sprayed across my cheek. A guttural scream tore from his throat as he collapsed, clutching his head, blood seeping through his fingers like oil. Silas stood there, frozen, his mouth hanging open like a landed fish. I wiped the blood from my face with the back of my hand. I took one step forward and raised the pipe again. That broke Silas’s trance. He lunged at me, wrestling the pipe away and tossing it against the far wall. “Are you insane? You’re going to murder your own father?” He pointed toward the hallway. “Your sister is watching!” I turned. Hallie was standing in the shadows of the doorframe. Her small frame was trembling, her eyes wide and red-rimmed. She looked so fragile, like a bird made of glass. “Casey…” she whispered. My heart twisted. I walked over and scooped her up. Her hands were ice-cold as she reached up to touch the blood on my face, her eyes filled with a terrifyingly adult kind of worry. “Casey… blood. I’m scared… I don’t want you hurt.” My throat tightened. I kissed the top of her head. “It’s not my blood, honey. I’m okay. I promise.” In the kitchen, Silas was frantically pressing a dirty kitchen towel against my father’s head. My father was moaning on the linoleum, his eyes rolling back, his body jerking in small, pathetic spasms. Silas fumbled with his phone, his hands shaking so hard he almost dropped it as he dialed 911. The sirens arrived ten minutes later. As the paramedics loaded my father onto the gurney, Silas leaned in close, his voice a low hiss. “You’re done, Casey. When he gets out, he’s going to break you. And I’m going to let him.” The news spread through our small town’s gossip vine like a brushfire. Within hours, my phone was blowing up with messages from aunts and cousins I hadn’t seen in years. “He’s still your father. He only hits you because he loves you.” “Even if he’s wrong, you don’t raise a hand to a parent. It’s a sin.” “Your mother already destroyed this family. Don’t finish the job. Go apologize.” “All that book-learning has rotted your brain. Honor thy father.” I remembered the nights I had carried a bruised and crying Hallie to their doorsteps, begging for a place to sleep. They had kept their doors locked then. Not a single one of them had spoken up for us. Now, they were all experts on “family values.” My father ended up with seventeen stitches and a Grade 2 concussion. He sent me dozens of voice memos from his hospital bed—poisonous rants, promises to kill me, threats to “sell” Hallie to the highest bidder just to spite me. The “family elders” issued an ultimatum: Come to the hospital, get on my knees, beg for forgiveness, and hand over the tuition money. Or else. I tucked a brand-new collapsible baton into my sleeve—one I’d bought with the last of my grocery money. I typed a single word back into the family group thread: Fine. When I pushed open the door to the hospital room, the smell of antiseptic hit me like a wall. A handful of relatives were huddled in the corner. Their expressions shifted from anger to smug satisfaction the moment they saw me. My father bolted upright in bed, tossing the sheets aside to get at me, but the others held him back. “You little bitch! You actually showed up!” His eyes were bloodshot and feral. “Get out of my way! I’m going to teach her what happens to traitors!” Uncle Silas stepped forward, his voice booming with false authority. “Look how upset you’ve made him! Now, get down on your knees. Maybe if your attitude is right, he’ll still let you live under his roof.” The chorus began behind him. “He raised you for eighteen years, and this is how you repay him?” “If you can hit your own father, what else are you capable of? You’re a danger!” I didn’t say a word. I walked to the edge of the bed. My wrist flicked. Snap. The baton extended with a sharp, metallic ring. Before anyone could draw a breath, I put my entire weight into a swing, aimed directly at my father’s head.

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The day of the school field trip, I was burning up. My skin felt like it was on fire, and the thermometer had climbed to a terrifying 104 degrees. My mother didn’t care. She was too busy getting my younger brother, Toby, ready for the outing. To her, my illness was just an inconvenience, a smudge on her perfect day. “Keep an eye on her, Ma,” my mother said to my grandmother as she headed for the door. “Don’t let her cause any trouble.” When the front door clicked shut, my grandmother stepped into my room. She looked at me lying there, my sheets drenched in sweat, and a look of pure disgust twisted her features. “Wretched girl,” she spat, her voice thick with irritation. “Always looking for drama. It’s just a little fever. You’re not dying, so stop acting like a martyr.” Before I could breathe a word of protest, she ripped the duvet off my shaking body. Her hand clamped onto my arm like a vice, and she hauled me out of bed. I was so weak I couldn’t even find my feet; I collapsed, my knees hitting the cold hardwood floor with a dull thud. “If you’re so hot, we’ll cool you down,” she muttered. “Medicine is a waste of money for a girl who’s just faking it for attention.” I realized then where she was taking me. Panic flared through the haze of my fever. I started sobbing, my forehead hitting the floor as I begged her, “Grandma, please! I’m sorry! Don’t put me in the chest freezer. Please, I’ll freeze to death!” She didn’t listen. She never did. She heaved the heavy lid of the deep freezer in the utility room, grabbed me by the scruff of my neck, and shoved me inside. “You’ll be fine,” she said, her voice chillingly casual. “Sleep it off. Sweat the fever out. I’ll let you out when I get back from my bridge game.” Bang. The lid slammed shut. A second later, I heard the metallic click of the padlock. I screamed. I thrashed. I clawed at the plastic interior walls until my fingernails bled, but my voice was swallowed by the relentless, mechanical hum of the compressor. I don’t know how long I was in there. Ice crystals began to form on my eyelashes. My lips felt stiff, crusted with frost. The world started to tilt and fade, my eyelids becoming heavy as lead. Just before the darkness took me completely, a single, silent thought flickered in the back of my mind. Grandma. June is sorry. If there’s a next life, I promise… I’ll never get sick again. … I thought that was the end of my story. Then, the sound of a key turning in the front door echoed through the house. “Toby? Diane? Mom? I’m home!” The voice was a spark in the dark. It was my father. He was back. For a heartbeat, hope flared. But it died just as quickly. It’s a hallucination, I told myself. My father was supposed to be on a business trip across the state. He couldn’t be here. Mom and Toby were at the park; Grandma was at her game. The house was empty. I slipped back into the fog of despair. But then, I heard footsteps. Real, heavy footsteps approaching the utility room. I forced my eyes open. Rrrrrip. The sound of my eyelids tearing away from the frost was sharp and sickening. My body was a block of ice; I couldn’t move a finger. But a desperate, frantic thought took hold of me. One more time. Just one sound. If my father heard something, he’d look. He’d save me. I gathered every ounce of my soul and slammed my head against the side of the freezer. Thump. The sound was muffled, but clear. At that exact moment, his phone started ringing. “Hey, honey! You guys at the fair? Great. Yeah, call me when you’re headed back, I’ll pick you up. How’s June? Is she still throwing her little tantrum?” It was my mother’s voice on the other end. For a second, I felt a pang of warmth. She was asking about me. She cared. “Haven’t seen her,” my father replied, his voice cooling. “Mom probably took her out to run errands.” “That girl is so spoiled,” my mother sighed through the speaker. “She was so mad I didn’t take her to the fair that she started faking a fever just to get my attention. She’s learned how to manipulate us to get what she wants.” My father sighed, a sound of profound disappointment. “I don’t know where she gets it from. She’s become so needy lately.” The tiny flame of hope inside me didn’t just flicker out; it was crushed. Mom, I wasn’t lying. I really was sick. Why won’t you believe me? Then, the back door opened, and I heard my grandmother’s voice. “Robert? When did you get back?” “A little while ago. Ma, where’s June? Wasn’t she with you?” Finally. He was asking for me. I waited for the sound of the key, for the lid to lift, for the nightmare to end. I waited and waited. “She’s not with me,” Grandma said. There was a brief, calculated pause. Then, a sharp gasp. “Oh dear. That girl is so headstrong… you don’t think she ran away, do you? She was throwing such a fit before I left.” I stopped listening to the lies she told him. Something inside my mind just… snapped. She had forgotten me. In the silence of the freezer, memories began to swirl like a blizzard. I saw my mother’s face, contorted with resentment. “If you hadn’t been a girl, my life wouldn’t be this hard. Why were you even born? You’re just a weight around my neck.” I saw my father, his eyes red with rage, blaming my mother for his own failures. “Another mouth to feed and she can’t even carry on the family name. What good are you to me?” And finally, my grandmother at the dinner table, rapping my knuckles with a wooden spoon. “Useless girl. All you do is eat and take up space. We should have left you at the hospital.” In the chorus of their cruelty, I suddenly felt a strange, chilling peace. I couldn’t feel the cold anymore. The pain was fading into a dull, distant throb. I was slipping away, and for the first time in my life, I felt light. Mom, Dad, Grandma… are you going to be happy now? Now that I’m finally out of your way? I found myself sitting on the lid of the freezer, looking down. I could see through the white plastic. There was a tiny, frozen statue inside. That was me. No weight. No temperature. So this was what it felt like to be dead. My father and grandmother were chatting in the living room, their voices light. Robert checked his watch and stood up. “Ma, start dinner. I’m going to go pick up Diane and Toby.” “Sure thing,” she said. “I’ll get the ribs started. My grandson needs his strength.” I watched her bustle about the kitchen. She walked past the utility room a dozen times. Not once did she look at the padlock. Not once did she remember the girl she’d put on ice. An hour later, the front door burst open. Toby came running in, his new sneakers flashing with every step. “Grandma! Look at my cool shoes! They light up!” “Oh, they’re beautiful, sweetheart. Anything looks good on my favorite boy.” I remembered asking for those shoes. My mother had slapped me so hard my ear rang for an hour. “Unless you’re getting a scholarship, don’t ask me for a cent. I give you an education, and you repay me by being a greedy brat.” I never asked again. But Toby? Toby only had to whisper a wish, and it became reality. He was the “bloodline.” I was just a “disappointment” that would eventually be married off to someone else. “Mom, where’s June?” Toby asked, looking around. “Who cares?” my mother snapped, slamming her keys on the counter. “She’s probably off sulking somewhere. She’s lucky she’s not here; I’d give her something to really cry about.” Grandma set the table, placing a steaming bowl of soup in front of Toby. “That girl is a lost cause. If she’s run away, good riddance. She’s nothing like our Toby. He’s the only one with any sense in this house.” My father sighed, his gaze hardening. “She’s gone too far this time. When she crawls back tonight, I’m locking her in her room for a month.” Dad… I’m never coming back. Over dinner, Toby saw a commercial for a traveling carnival in the town square. He pointed at the screen, eyes wide. “Mom! I want to go!” “Of course, honey,” she said, not even hesitating. Toby glanced at my empty chair. “Is June coming?” My mother peeled a shrimp and dropped it into Toby’s bowl. “She’s off being dramatic. Forget about her. You’re the only one who doesn’t make our lives a living hell.” My heart—or whatever was left of it—ached. Even in death, they only saw my absence as a provocation. After dinner, the house felt festive. They were all going to the carnival. “Grandma, you have to come!” Toby pleaded. Grandma looked touched. “Oh, you go on. I’m tired.” “No! If you don’t go, I’m not going!” Toby pouted. My parents laughed. “Alright, alright. We’re all going.” It was seamless. No one mentioned searching for me. No one wondered if I was cold or hungry or safe. I was a ghost before I even died. They piled into the car, and I sat in the backseat next to Toby. I watched Grandma play with him, her eyes crinkling with a genuine love I had never seen directed at me. The carnival was a cacophony of lights and sugar. Toby ran straight for the snack stands. My mother didn’t scold him for his impulsiveness; she just smiled. I remembered being eight, at a similar fair. I’d asked for a candied apple. My mother had screamed at me in front of everyone. “Are you ever not hungry? We just ate! Look at your brother, he’s not complaining!” Toby had made a face at me and ran toward the bounce house. The carnival music was blaring when a woman suddenly shrieked. She tore through the crowd, frantic. “Has anyone seen my daughter? She’s in a white dress! She was right here!” People shook their heads. The woman began sobbing, slapping her own face in a fit of grief. “It’s my fault! I shouldn’t have left her to go to the bathroom! My baby!” A hush fell over the crowd. Someone suggested calling the police. The woman ran off toward the security station, her face a mask of agony. Toby watched her go, then looked up at Mom. “Is June lost too? She’s been gone a long time.” My mother froze for a second, then her face softened into that condescending look she always used for me. “No, sweetie. June is too smart for her own good. She’s just hiding to make us worry.” “She’s just being stubborn,” my father added, handing Toby a stuffed animal he’d just won. “She’ll be home when she gets hungry.” Suddenly, sirens cut through the air. Word spread through the crowd—security footage showed a man leading the girl in the white dress away. The exits were being blocked. Panic rippled through the carnival. My mother grabbed Toby, her face pale. “We need to go. Now.” As they were stopped at the exit by police for questioning, my father suddenly looked uneasy. “Maybe we should go home and check on June,” he muttered. “With everything going on… what if something happened?” Grandma rolled her eyes. “Robert, don’t be so sensitive. She’s a teenager, not a toddler. The house is locked. Unless a kidnapper has a key, she’s fine.” She was so indignant, so sure. But Grandma… you knew where I was. You told me you’d let me out. You lied to them. My father’s patience snapped. “I don’t care, Ma. She’s my daughter. She’s annoying and she’s a brat, but she’s been gone eight hours. If she’s not there when we get back, I’m calling the cops.” My mother scoffed. “Fine. Go ahead and indulge her. This is exactly what she wanted—everyone frantically looking for her.” When they got home, the house was silent. My father ran to my room. He saw the messy bed, the cold air. “She’s not here,” he shouted. My mother slumped onto the sofa, and Grandma emerged from her room, both shaking their heads. Then, a knock at the door. My mother grabbed a broom from the corner, her face hardening. “That little bitch. I’m going to—” She opened the door, broom raised, but it was our neighbor, Mrs. Gable. “What on earth are you doing?” Mrs. Gable asked, staring at the broom. My mother forced a laugh. “June’s been out all day. I thought she was finally sneaking in.” Mrs. Gable frowned. “Out? What are you talking about? You told me this morning she had a 104-degree fever. How could she be out?” The broom clattered to the floor. “If she’s missing,” Mrs. Gable said, sensing the shift in the room, “you need to check the security cameras at the gate.” My father didn’t wait. He and Mom ran to the neighborhood security office. I followed them, a silent shadow. They watched the footage from the moment Grandma left. I never walked out that gate. The ride back was tense. “She’s in the house,” my mother insisted, her voice trembling now. “She’s hiding in a closet or under a crawlspace. She’s just trying to scare us.” My father’s face was a mask of fury. “If she is, I swear to God, I’m done with her. She can stay in the street for all I care.” They burst back into the house. “Found her?” Grandma asked. “No. She never left the neighborhood.” My mother’s eyes suddenly darted to the utility room. She frowned. “Ma… why is there a padlock on the deep freezer?” My father stepped closer, his brow furrowed. “What’s in here that needs a lock?” Grandma’s face went bone-white. She started to tremble. “Nothing… just… I didn’t want the girl stealing the good meat.” “Where’s the key?” my father asked, his voice low and dangerous. “I… I don’t know. I misplaced it.” Her voice was a fragile thread. My mother realized something was horribly wrong. She guided Grandma to the sofa. “Ma, sit down. I’ll find the key. It’s summer, we need to clean that freezer out anyway before the food spoils.” “No!” Grandma shrieked, standing up. “I’ll do it tomorrow! Just go to bed!” The more she resisted, the more my father’s suspicion grew. “I found it,” my mother called out, holding up the spare key from the junk drawer. Grandma threw herself in front of the freezer. “Don’t! I’m telling you, it’s fine! Go to sleep!” “Get out of the way, Mom,” my father roared. “I want to see what’s in this damn box!”

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My life didn’t just change that day; it fractured. It was the day the world stopped being a series of sounds and started being a symphony of secrets. I suddenly, inexplicably, possessed the ability to hear what people were thinking—the unfiltered, ugly truths they kept locked behind polite smiles. The first voice to pierce my consciousness belonged to my “younger sister,” Melody. We were standing in the hallway of our family home when her mental sneer hit me like a physical blow: Does this charity case really think she can compete with me for the inheritance? God, she’s pathetic. I stared at her, the girl I’d shared bedtime stories and secrets with for nineteen years. Her face was a mask of wide-eyed innocence, but her mind was a pit of venom. Then came my mother’s voice—warm and maternal on the outside, but ice-cold within: Melody is my only real daughter. This girl is just a stray I picked up. Of course I’m going to protect my own flesh and blood. Nineteen years of “I love you, honey” and “You’re my world” evaporated. It wasn’t just a secret; it was a masterpiece of deception. And finally, Tyler. My childhood sweetheart. The boy I’d loved since I was twelve. His mental voice was a jagged blade of contempt: Jade is a nobody. A squatter in a palace she doesn’t belong in. She’s nothing compared to Melody. I took a sharp breath, the air burning in my lungs. I looked up at the man standing before me, the man who was currently pretending to care about my day. I felt a strange, cold clarity settle over me. If the world I knew was a lie, then I was done playing by its rules. I felt a sudden, reckless impulse. I turned my gaze toward a stranger across the quad—a man who radiated a different kind of energy. I let a playful, dangerous smile touch my lips. “Hey, stranger,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Are you looking for a girlfriend, or just a new perspective?” 1 It was the first day of my sophomore year at St. Jude’s. I’d hauled my luggage up to the dorms early, desperate to make a good impression on my new roommates. I was unpacking my sweaters when the first “glitch” happened. I should wear the white dress today… it makes me look soft, approachable… I froze. The voice was clear as a bell, but the girl in the next room was huming to herself, her lips nowhere near moving. I shook my head, rubbing my temples. Lack of sleep, I told myself. Auditory hallucinations brought on by caffeine and nerves. I finished organizing my desk and dialed my mother to let her know I’d moved in. “Mom, I’m all set. The room is great, and the campus is beautiful,” I said, trying to sound like the dutiful daughter she expected. “That’s wonderful, Jade,” her voice flowed through the receiver, honey-sweet. “Focus on your studies, sweetheart. Call us if you need anything at all.” Then, the static in my head cleared, and I heard the second layer of her voice. Melody is my daughter. She’s the only one who matters. As for Jade… she’s not mine. I just have to play the part a little longer. Don’t let her suspect a thing. The phone felt like a piece of dry ice in my hand. My fingers went numb. “Mom?” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Yes, honey? Is something wrong?” Why won’t she just hang up? I need to call Melody. I actually want to hear her voice. My pulse was a frantic drumbeat in my ears. It wasn’t a hallucination. I was hearing the thoughts behind the words. And the words were devastating. Not mine. Not my daughter. “Nothing,” I forced out, my voice cracking. “I have to go. Talk later.” I hung up and slumped onto the edge of my bed. My phone nearly slipped from my trembling grip. Nineteen years. Every birthday, every scraped knee, every “proud of you” moment—was it all a scripted performance? I took a ragged breath, trying to claw back some semblance of sanity. Maybe I was having a breakdown. Maybe the stress of the new semester had finally snapped something in my brain. The door creaked open. Melody swept in, her designer suitcase trailing behind her. She saw me and her face lit up with a choreographed glow. “Jade! Oh my god, we’re in the same dorm? This is amazing!” She lunged for a hug. I instinctively recoiled, stepping back toward the window. Melody was six months younger than me. She was the “golden child”—delicate, beautiful, and perpetually “needing” things. I was the “responsible” one. The one who smoothed the path for her. “Jade? Is something wrong?” She tilted her head, her eyes brimming with fake concern. You idiot. You really think I’d let you walk away with the family estate? You’re a fake, Jade. A counterfeit. I’ve been waiting for this. Once you’re married off to some nobody, everything our parents built will finally be mine. Just where it belongs. The words felt like lightning strikes. I stared at her, at the perfect curve of her smile and the practiced light in her eyes, and I realized I didn’t know her at all. “Jade? You’re acting weird,” she said, reaching for my hand. “Did you not sleep? Maybe you should lie down for a bit.” God, look at her. Pathetic. She probably didn’t even turn on the AC to save money. Cheapskate. I wrenched my hand away. “I’m fine. Just… unpack your stuff. I need some air.” I bolted out of the room before the scream building in my throat could escape. I needed to think. I needed to understand if I was crazy or if my entire existence was a fraud. I wandered the campus aimlessly, my mind a chaotic storm. If I wasn’t their daughter, who was I? Had there been a switch at the hospital? Did the “golden child” and the “responsible one” actually belong in different lives? My phone buzzed. A text from Tyler. Tyler: Hey Jade, you moved in yet? Thinking about you. A week ago, that message would have made my day. We’d been together for two years, and I’d loved him for eight. He was my anchor. I started to type a reply, but then the air around me seemed to ripple again. Jade is such a drag. How did I end up stuck with the fake heiress? Does she really think I love her? Please. Melody is the real prize. Once she officially inherits, I’m making my move. She’s the one with the real pedigree. But I have to keep Jade on the hook for now. I still need her to ghostwrite my senior thesis. I stared at the screen, at the little blue bubble of his “care.” It felt like a sick joke. Everyone knew. My mother, my sister, my boyfriend. They were all in on the secret, watching me play the role of the fool while they waited for the curtain to fall. I sat on a park bench, the sun hot on my neck, and felt a single, hot tear track down my cheek. I wiped it away savagely. Nineteen years of a mother who never loved me. Nineteen years of a sister who plotted my downfall. Two years of a boyfriend who saw me as a tool. I started to laugh. It was a sharp, brittle sound that drew looks from passing students. My life was a tragedy, sure, but I wasn’t going to let it be a comedy for their amusement. If they thought I was a “fake,” I was going to show them exactly what a counterfeit was capable of when she stopped playing nice. 2 When I finally dragged myself back to the dorm, the other two roommates had arrived. There was Piper—small, bubbly, with a voice like a Disney princess. And then there was Jordan—tall, sharp-edged, dripping in labels that cost more than my tuition. “Hi, I’m Jade,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “Oh, hi!” Piper chirped. “I’m Piper. So excited to meet you!” Jordan just gave a curt nod, her eyes scanning my outfit with the clinical precision of a seasoned socialite. Melody immediately chimed in, “And I’m Melody! Jade is my big sister.” Disgusting. I have to play the ‘doting sister’ act again. Whatever. If people think we’re close, I can make her do my laundry and take my notes. I didn’t look at her. I just started organizing my bookshelf. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension until Piper tried to break the ice. “Wait, you guys are sisters? That’s so sweet! You must be so close.” Melody beamed. “The closest! Jade is basically my best friend.” I turned my back on them, my jaw tight. Later that afternoon, Jordan’s phone rang. “Hey, Hailey… what? You need money? Right now?” Here we go again. She knows I’m a soft touch for a ‘family emergency.’ If I send her the five grand, I’ll never see it again, but I can’t just say no, can I? I looked over at Jordan. She looked genuinely distressed, clutching her phone. “Hailey, what happened? Is your dad okay? How much do you need?” Come on, Jordan, just say yes. I need that deposit for the new car. You’re so easy. I felt a surge of cold anger—not at Jordan, but at the person on the other end of the line. I’d had enough of people being used. I walked over and put a firm hand on Jordan’s shoulder. “Don’t do it.” Jordan looked up, startled. “What?” “Your ‘friend’ is lying to you,” I said, my voice low and steady. “She has no intention of paying you back because there is no emergency.” Jordan’s eyes widened. “How could you possibly know that?” “Call it a gut feeling,” I lied. “I’ve seen this script before. Don’t be her ATM.” Jordan hesitated, then spoke into the phone. “Hailey, look, I’m actually a bit short myself right now…” “Jordan! We’ve been friends for ten years! How can you be so selfish?” The voice on the other end was hysterical. Jordan looked at me. I shook my head once. She took a breath. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do it this time.” She hung up. Two minutes later, Jordan’s phone chimed with a series of texts. Her face went pale, then flushed a deep, angry red. “Wow. She just called me a ‘stingy bitch’ and blocked me. You were right. She wasn’t even asking—she was demanding.” She actually saved me five thousand dollars. I was going to be such an idiot. I owe her. Jordan looked at me, her guard dropping significantly. “Thanks, Jade. How did you catch that? The tone?” “People who really need help don’t start with a guilt trip,” I said with a shrug. Jordan reached into her Prada bag and pulled out a slim leather wallet. She pulled out five hundred dollars in crisp bills and pressed them into my hand. “I don’t need a reward,” I said. “Take it,” Jordan insisted. “You saved me five grand and a lot of heartache. Consider it a finder’s fee for my missing common sense.” She looks like she could use it. Those shoes are three seasons old. I suppressed a smirk. If she wanted to think of me as a “charity case” while paying me for my services, fine. I’d need a war chest for what was coming. “Thanks,” I said, tucking the money away. That night, Melody’s voice drifted over from the other bed. “Jade? You awake? I want to go hit the shops tomorrow, come with me?” “I’m busy.” “Oh, come on! It’ll be fun.” Please. She’s probably just embarrassed because she can’t afford anything at the galleria. So pathetic, living on a budget. I stared at the ceiling, the darkness of the room reflecting the coldness in my heart. Nineteen years of lies. The reckoning was coming.

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When the judge’s gavel finally struck the wood, the sound echoed through the courtroom like a gunshot. I sat there, my fingers white-knuckled around the court order, my nails digging so deep into my palms I thought I might draw blood. The verdict was in. I was ordered to record and post a public apology video every day for the next ten days. The recipient? The man currently preening at the plaintiff’s table—my husband, Justin Whitmore. It had started three months ago. In a moment of raw, uncensored fury, I’d taken the sordid details of his affair and posted them on a local community forum. I didn’t expect it to go viral. I didn’t expect it to become the scandal of the year in Chicago’s social circles. Justin hadn’t just gotten angry; he’d gotten litigious. He hired the most expensive legal team in the city to sue me for defamation. People online had been worried for me. They’d told me to crowd-fund a high-powered attorney of my own. Instead, I’d walked quietly into a legal aid office. “Can’t even afford a real lawyer, Natalie? And you thought you could take me down?” Justin had hissed when we crossed paths in the hallway earlier. The contempt in his voice was thick enough to choke on. Beside him, Amber, his little “associate,” clung to his arm. She looked at me with a look of staged pity. “You should just admit you were wrong, Natalie. Justin is a good man. If you ask nicely, maybe he’ll let you keep some of your dignity.” I didn’t give them the satisfaction of a response. I just walked into the courtroom. Now, as the court adjourned, Justin was busy adjusting his silk cufflinks, looking like a man who had already won the war. He was waiting for it—waiting for me to break, to beg, to crawl. I looked up at him and forced a bright, sharp smile. My voice was clear, carrying across the thinning crowd. “Don’t you worry, Justin. I’ll make sure those ten days of apologies are… memorable. I guarantee they’ll be full of ‘sincerity.’” I tilted my head, my eyes locking onto his. “After all, there are some things I’ve been dying to talk to you about for a long, long time.” 01 Outside the courthouse, Justin and Amber were waiting for me like a pair of vultures. “See that, Natalie? Your little stunts don’t work in the real world,” Justin snapped. He looked down at me, the man I’d spent a decade of my life with, and I saw nothing but a stranger. “If you ever try to drag my name through the mud again, I’ll make sure you realize exactly what my legal team is capable of.” He took his copy of the judgment and flicked it at me. It hit my shoulder before fluttering to the pavement. Amber covered her mouth, her eyes wide with fake sympathy. “Natalie, if you were that desperate for cash, you could have just asked. I would have lent you enough for a decent lawyer so you didn’t have to lose so embarrassingly today.” I looked at them both—the polished executive and the girl who thought she’d won a prize. I leaned down, picked up the paper, and straightened my coat. “Lend me money, Amber? That’s generous,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “But considering we aren’t divorced yet, every cent Justin has spent on you—the jewelry, the rent for that condo, the ‘business’ trips—is legally marital property. I’d suggest you start tallying it up. I’ll be expecting a full refund.” “You—” Amber’s face went from pale to a blotchy, ugly red in seconds. The people lingering on the courthouse steps started to slow down, their ears perking up. I could hear the whispers starting. “Is that the guy from Midwest Steel? He’s cheating on her?” “Ugh, look at them ganging up on the wife. How pathetic.” Justin’s smugness evaporated instantly. He stepped toward me, pointing a finger. “Don’t listen to her! She’s unstable. She’s been making up lies for months because she can’t handle the fact that our marriage is over!” The crowd wavered, looking between his expensive suit and my quiet composure. Amber seized the moment, grabbing the judgment from my hand and holding it up like a trophy. “Look! The court literally ruled that she lied! She’s been ordered to apologize publicly because she’s a slanderer!” The tide of public opinion shifted back. I felt the weight of their judgmental stares—the “crazy ex-wife” narrative was a powerful one. “Natalie,” Justin warned, his voice low and dangerous. “Post those videos. Ten days. If you miss even one, or if you don’t sound sorry enough, I’m coming for everything you have left.” He turned, leading Amber away with his head held high. I didn’t care about the whispers. I didn’t care about the looks. I just looked down at the court order in my hand. Publicly apologize for ten days. Justin, if you wanted a spotlight, you should have been careful what you wished for. 02 The next day, I didn’t hide. I sat in front of my ring light, took a deep breath, and hit ‘record’ on the first of my court-mandated videos. “Hello, everyone. My name is Natalie Rossi, and I’m making this video as a formal apology to my husband, Justin Whitmore. I am here to apologize for the ‘fact’ that I publicly exposed his affair with his subordinate, Amber Montgomery, on a public forum…” By that afternoon, the video was everywhere. It hit the local trending page within hours. The comments were a battlefield. Some people pointed out that my apology felt… specific. Others, clearly legal-savvy, warned me that I hadn’t specified which Justin Whitmore or Midwest Steel I was talking about, suggesting I wasn’t being “sincere” enough. “Make sure you pin the video for at least ten days,” one helpful commenter wrote, “otherwise he can claim you didn’t fulfill the court’s requirements for visibility.” Noted. On the second day, I didn’t just apologize. I leaned in. I made sure to mention his full title: General Manager of Midwest Steel’s Chicago branch. I mentioned Amber’s role in the HR department. I spoke about the “alleged” misuse of company travel vouchers that happened to coincide with their weekends in Cabo. Justin called me within twenty minutes of the upload. “Natalie! You bitch! What the hell are you doing? Delete it! Delete it now!” He was screaming so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. I felt a cold, sharp spark of satisfaction. “I’m just following the judge’s orders, Justin. I’m apologizing publicly. Isn’t that what you wanted?” “You’re making it worse! You’re naming the company! You’re naming Amber!” “Well, the internet said my first apology was too vague. I’m just trying to be thorough. And don’t worry—this is only Day Two. We have eight more days of ‘sincerity’ to go. I won’t miss a single one.” “Natalie, you’re destroying my reputation! You’re going to ruin my career! How can you be this malicious?” Malicious. The word tasted like ash in my mouth. This was the man who had cheated for years while I stayed home raising our daughter. This was the man who had hidden our savings and tried to gaslight me into thinking I was losing my mind when I first found the receipts. “Am I?” I laughed, and the sound surprised even me. “Remind Amber to start saving her pennies, Justin. Every dime you spent on her is coming back to me. It’s marital property. My lawyer—the ‘bad’ one, remember?—is very clear on that.” I went to hang up, but his tone shifted. The rage vanished, replaced by a low, manipulative honey. “Nat, come on. We’ve been together since college. Remember when we were at U of C? Everyone thought we were the ‘it’ couple. We’ve built a life together. We have a daughter. Do you really want to burn it all down?” My hand trembled. For a second, I saw him—the boy who had chased me for three years, the man who had cried when Zoe was born. But then I remembered the texts I’d found. I remembered the coldness in his eyes when he’d served me with the defamation suit. “You’re really going to bring up Zoe?” I asked, my voice trembling with suppressed disgust. “You’re going to talk about her ‘delicate heart’ when you’re the one who broke our home? You make me sick, Justin.” “Natalie—” I hung up. That evening, when Zoe came home from school, I made her favorite dinner—creamy mac and cheese with the good breadcrumbs. I watched her eat, her small face so full of innocence, and my heart ached. “Zoe,” I whispered, “are you… are you mad at Mommy for being mean to Daddy?” She put her fork down and climbed off her chair. She walked over to me and wiped a tear away from my cheek that I hadn’t even realized had fallen. “Don’t cry, Mommy,” she said, her voice small but firm. “I know Daddy was being mean to you first with that other lady. I’m on your side. Always.” I pulled her into my lap and held her so tight it was like she was the only thing keeping me on this earth. Her strength gave me exactly what I needed. I wasn’t just fighting for my pride anymore. I was fighting for her future. I pulled out my phone and sent a message to the contact I’d been working with in secret. We’re ready for the next phase. 03 The reply came back instantly: Locked and loaded. The third day began like the others. I dropped Zoe at school, but as I drove away, a cold knot of dread began to tighten in my stomach. Justin was a cornered animal, and cornered animals lashing out. By noon, the internet was a wildfire. My “apology” series had become a true-crime soap opera for half of Chicago. People were digging into Midwest Steel’s glassdoor reviews; they were finding Amber’s old social media posts. The pressure was mounting. Then, my phone buzzed. A text from Justin: “You think you’re so smart, Nat. You’re going to regret this. I’m taking what matters most.” My heart stopped. Zoe. I told myself I was being paranoid. He was her father. He was a monster, but surely he wasn’t that kind of monster. But the panic wouldn’t subside. I left my office, ignoring my boss’s confused looks, and raced to Zoe’s elementary school. When I got there, the receptionist looked at me with a confused frown. “Oh, Mrs. Whitmore? Zoe’s already gone. Her father picked her up twenty minutes ago.” The blood drained from my face. “I gave specific instructions,” I said, my voice cracking. “I told the office that only I was allowed to pick her up until the custody hearing.” The woman looked sympathetic but helpless. “He’s her father, Natalie. He’s a legal guardian. We can’t legally stop him from taking his own child unless there’s a court order on file. He said there was a family emergency.” I stumbled out to the parking pool, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I dialed Justin’s number, my hand shaking so hard I nearly dropped the phone. “Where is she, Justin? Where is my daughter?” “She’s with me,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “As for where… that’s not your concern right now. If you want to see her again, you know what you have to do.” “Bring her back now, or I’m calling the police!” I screamed. He chuckled. “Go ahead. Call them. Tell them a father is spending time with his daughter. See how fast they rush to help you with a ‘domestic matter.’ But if you want this to go away quietly, here’s the deal.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. “What?” “Delete the videos. All of them. Then, you’re going to go live. Right now. You’re going to tell everyone that you were the one who had an affair. You’re going to say you made up the stuff about me and Amber because you were jealous and mentally unstable. You’re going to clear my name, Natalie. Or you’ll never see Zoe again.” From the background of the call, I heard a sharp, piercing cry. It was Zoe. Then, Amber’s voice, cold and sharp: “Shut up, you brat! Stop crying!” “Justin, she’s your daughter!” I shrieked. “She’s a bargaining chip,” he snapped. “And Amber is pregnant with my son. I don’t need a daughter who’s been brainwashed by a crazy woman. Do the livestream, Nat. Now.” He hung up. I stood in the school parking lot, the world spinning around me. He had no soul. He was willing to use our child as a shield for his own crimes. Then, my phone buzzed again. A different caller. “We found the files,” a deep, masculine voice said. “They’re in your inbox. We can move whenever you’re ready.” “He took Zoe,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Please, Dan. I need you to find her. I can’t do this if she’s in danger.” There was a pause. Dan Kessler—my “legal aid” lawyer, who was actually a high-stakes corporate litigator I’d known since our undergrad days at U of C—softened his tone. “I’ll get her, Natalie. I promise. Stick to the plan. He thinks he’s won. Let him keep thinking that for ten more minutes.” I took a shaky breath. I checked my messages. A new one from Dan: “Got her location. We’re five minutes out. Go live.” I opened the app. I hit the ‘Go Live’ button. Within seconds, ten thousand people joined. Then twenty thousand. Justin and Amber joined the split-screen almost immediately. They were sitting in what looked like a home office, looking smug. “Go ahead, Natalie,” Justin said, leaning into the camera. He held up a stuffed rabbit—Zoe’s favorite, the one she slept with every night. “Tell everyone the truth.” I gripped my phone, my eyes burning. Then, a text popped up at the top of my screen. “She’s safe. I have her. Finish it.” The weight lifted. The fear died. In its place, a cold, crystalline rage took over. I cleared my throat and looked directly into the camera, my voice echoing to nearly a hundred thousand viewers. “Everyone, Justin is right. I’m here to tell the truth. But it’s not the truth he wants.”

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When the judge’s gavel finally struck wood, my fingernails were biting so deeply into my palms I was surprised I didn’t draw blood. I sat there, clutching the ruling that declared I had lost the case. The judge ordered me to record and post a public apology video for ten consecutive days. The recipient of this apology was the man currently glowing with arrogant victory at the plaintiff’s table—my husband, Toby Crawford. It all started three months ago when I found out about his filthy, cliché affair. In a moment of sheer, blinding rage, I wrote an anonymous post about it on a local community forum. I didn’t expect the algorithm to pick it up, turning my heartbreak into a viral sensation. Toby was livid. He immediately hired the most ruthless, egregiously expensive legal team in Chicago and sued me for defamation and emotional distress. The internet commentators, who had been following the drama, held their breath for me. They told me to set up a GoFundMe, to hire a shark of a lawyer to fight back. Instead, I quietly turned around and walked into a free legal aid clinic. “You can’t even afford a decent attorney, and you still have the nerve to go to war with me?” Toby had cornered me in the courthouse corridor earlier that morning. The disdain in his voice was so thick you could choke on it. The other woman, clinging to his arm like a designer accessory, pouted her glossed lips. She looked at me with faux, sugary pity. “You should just admit you were wrong, Gemma. Toby has a good heart. If you beg a little, he might just leave you enough to survive.” I hadn’t given their little theatrical performance the time of day. I just walked straight into the courtroom. But now, with the verdict handed down, Toby was standing up, leisurely adjusting his custom French cuffs, looking at me as if he were already watching me drop to my knees. I slowly lifted my head. I looked right into his eyes and flashed him a bright, blinding smile. My voice was crystal clear. “Don’t you worry, Toby. For the next ten days, you have my word—every single apology video will be packed with absolute sincerity.” “After all,” I added softly, “there are a few things I’ve been meaning to really talk to you about.” 01 The moment I stepped out of the heavy courthouse doors, Toby and his mistress, Madison, blocked my path. The damp city wind whipped around us, but they stood there like they owned the pavement. “See that, Gemma?” Toby sneered, tossing his copy of the court order so it hit my chest and fluttered to the ground. “Your pathetic little stunts mean nothing to me. If you ever dare to spew garbage on the internet again, I’ll let my legal team ruin whatever is left of your miserable life.” Beside him, Madison gasped, covering her mouth in a perfectly choreographed display of sympathy. “Oh, Gemma,” she cooed, her eyes wide. “If you had just told us you were broke and couldn’t afford a real lawyer, I could have loaned you some money. It breaks my heart to see you embarrass yourself like this today.” I looked at the two of them—the man I had built a life with, and the girl who was currently wearing a necklace bought with my daughter’s college fund. I slowly bent down and picked up the paper from the concrete. When I straightened up, my voice was dead calm. “Loan me money, Madison? That’s actually perfect timing,” I said, smoothing out the paper. “Because until Toby and I are legally divorced, every single dollar he transferred to your accounts, every gift he bought you, is classified as joint marital property. I’ll be expecting you to return my half of it as soon as possible.” “You—!” Madison choked, her carefully cultivated sweet-girl persona cracking. Her face went from flushed pink to a sickly, pale green. A few bystanders lingering on the courthouse steps had caught the exchange. I could feel the weight of their stares shifting heavily onto Toby and Madison. “Wow, the cheating husband and the mistress bullying the wife? That’s vile,” a woman muttered loudly. “Have they no shame?” another whispered. Hearing the crowd turn, the smugness evaporated from Toby’s face. He stepped toward me, his jaw tight. He pointed a finger at my face, shouting to the onlookers, “Don’t listen to a word she says! She’s mentally unstable! She makes things up because she’s delusional!” The crowd exchanged hesitant glances, the seed of doubt planted. Seizing the moment, Madison snatched the court ruling from my hand and waved it like a white flag of vindication. “Look!” she cried out. “The judge just ruled that she was lying! The court is forcing her to apologize publicly!” Seeing the official seal on the document, the murmurs in the crowd shifted. The sympathetic looks they had given me curdled into disgust. “Who would have thought? She looks so normal, but she’s actually psycho,” someone scoffed. “You really can’t judge a book by its cover.” Toby puffed his chest out, his ego instantly inflating on the validation of strangers. “Gemma,” he warned, his voice dripping with malice. “You better follow this court order to the letter. Ten days of public apologies. Do not test me, or you will regret it.” Without waiting for my response, he grabbed Madison’s hand and pulled her away, his chin held high, walking down the steps like a conquering king. I didn’t care about the whispering crowd. I just stood there, looking at the empty space they left behind. I reached down and picked up the court ruling one more time. I looked at the black ink mandating a ten-day public apology. A slow, quiet smile crept onto my lips. You want a public apology, Toby? Careful what you wish for. 02 The very next day, I followed the judge’s orders. I set up my phone on a ring light in my living room, hit record, and posted my first public apology to every major social media platform. “Hello, Toby Crawford. I am your wife, Gemma. I am here to publicly apologize to you. I am sorry for exposing the fact that you have been having an affair with a married woman named Madison to the internet…” The video caught the algorithm like a house on fire. Within hours, it was trending locally, then nationally. The comment section was a war zone. People began picking apart my statement, complaining that it wasn’t specific enough. Which Toby? Which Madison? There are thousands of them! This apology feels like a passive-aggressive joke. Some helpful armchair lawyers even tagged me, warning that I needed to pin the video to the top of my profile for the full ten days, otherwise Toby’s lawyers could file a motion for contempt of court. I took their advice to heart. On day two, I pinned the video. But I also uploaded a new one. This time, I looked directly into the lens and clarified, with absolute enunciation, that I was apologizing to Toby Crawford, Managing Director of Vanguard Development in Chicago, and his direct subordinate, a married woman named Madison. The moment it went live, it dominated the trending pages. Less than an hour later, my phone vibrated furiously across the kitchen counter. Toby’s name flashed on the screen. “Gemma! You crazy bitch!” he roared the second I answered, his voice cracking with panic. “Who told you to post my company information? Take it down! Delete it right now!” Listening to his hyperventilating rage, I leaned back against the counter, tracing the marble with my index finger. A cold, hollow laugh escaped my throat. “Toby, I’m just following the law. The judge ordered a public apology. I’m making sure it’s public.” “You take it down,” he hissed. “Now.” “That’s impossible. And honestly, it’s only day two. Don’t worry, honey. I’ll be here every single day for the next eight days, apologizing just like the judge asked. I won’t miss a single one.” The silence on the line was heavy, suffocating. When he spoke again, his voice was a low, trembling snarl. “Gemma, you are going to destroy my reputation. You’ll ruin my career! How can you be this vicious?” Vicious. The word hung in the air, absurd and suffocating. He was the one who had spent years sleeping in my bed while stripping off my clothes and slipping into someone else’s. He was the one I caught secretly draining our joint savings accounts, funneling away the foundation of our family. And I was the vicious one? Exhaustion washed over me. I didn’t have the energy to play his twisted games anymore. “Call it what you want,” I said, my tone flat. “I’m hanging up. Oh, and remind Madison to wire me back every dime you spent on her during your little romance. Joint marital property, Toby. I have every legal right to claw it back.” I pulled the phone from my ear, ready to end the call, when his tone suddenly shifted. The aggression vanished, replaced by a soft, mournful sigh that made my stomach churn. “Gemma… please. We’re husband and wife. Why does it have to come to this?” His voice was a masterclass in manipulation. “We were college sweethearts. Do you remember how jealous everyone was of us on campus? We’ve been through so much together. Why do you have to be so ruthless?” I froze. My breath caught in my throat. We had met freshman year. He chased me for three years, wearing me down with late-night coffees, endless patience, and promises of a beautiful, simple life. When we graduated, I defied my parents—who thought he lacked ambition—and married him when he had absolutely nothing. We built our life from the ground up. The late nights, the stress, the eventual promotions. We had finally made it. We had our beautiful daughter, Mia. I had genuinely believed I was the luckiest woman in the world. Until three months ago, when a glowing notification on his locked screen shattered the glass house I was living in. When I didn’t respond, Toby took my silence as a victory. His voice dropped lower, thick with feigned heartache. “Gemma, even if you hate me, think about Mia. She’s just a little girl. You’re blasting our dirty laundry for the whole world to see. Have you even stopped to think about the psychological trauma you’re inflicting on her?” A wave of pure, unadulterated nausea hit me. I gripped the edge of the counter until my knuckles turned white. “Don’t you dare bring Mia into this,” I whispered, the ice in my voice cutting through the phone. “Did you think about her trauma when you were unbuttoning another woman’s blouse? Drop the caring father act, Toby. It makes me want to vomit.” “You—!” I could hear him gasping for air, choking on his own fury. It took him several seconds to compose himself. Realizing his guilt trip had failed, the mask slipped entirely. “Gemma, I am warning you. Delete the videos and post a retraction clearing my name immediately.” “Or what?” “Or you’ll find out exactly what I’m capable of.” The line went dead. I scoffed, tossing my phone onto the sofa. But as the afternoon wore on, his threat echoed in the quiet corners of the house. It left a dark, lingering stain on my peace of mind. That evening, after I picked Mia up from school, I made her favorite mac and cheese. I sat across from her at the dining table, watching the way her little feet kicked under the chair, the way she carefully picked the peas out of her bowl. A sharp ache seized my chest. My eyes blurred. “Mia,” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “Are you… are you mad at Mommy? For what I’m doing to Daddy?” Mia stopped eating. She looked at me with her big, solemn brown eyes. Then, she slid out of her chair, padded around the table, and wrapped her little arms around my neck. Her small thumb brushed against my cheek, wiping away tears I didn’t even realize were falling. “Don’t cry, Mommy,” she said softly. “I know Daddy hurt you first. I know he loves that other lady now.” She pressed her forehead against mine. “Don’t be scared. No matter what happens, I’m always going to hold your hand. I’m on your side.” My breath hitched into a sob, and I pulled her into my lap, burying my face in her soft hair. The purity of her love, her heartbreaking understanding of a situation she never should have had to witness, broke me open. But it also fused my spine with steel. If Mia was with me, I had nothing left to fear. The internet was already a powder keg. It was time to strike the match. I reached for my phone, opened my encrypted messages, and sent a single text to my contact. 03 When the reply came through, I let out a long exhale. The next morning, after dropping Mia safely at the elementary school gates, I went home and uploaded the third apology video. Fueled by the algorithm’s love for drama, the scandal of the Vanguard Development VP forcing his scorned wife to publicly apologize while keeping his married subordinate as a mistress had hit critical mass. The internet was out for blood. The comments under Vanguard’s corporate pages were devastating. My phone buzzed. A text from Toby. You’ve really crossed the line, Gemma. You’re going to regret this. My heart gave a violent, sickening lurch. An icy dread washed over me. Mia! My mind immediately flashed to my daughter sitting in her classroom. A brief moment of rationalization tried to soothe me—he’s her father, even a monster wouldn’t hurt his own child—but the suffocating tightness in my chest wouldn’t dissipate. I couldn’t sit still. I grabbed my keys, abandoned my half-finished coffee, and drove straight to her elementary school. When I rushed into the front office, the receptionist’s words made the ground drop out from beneath me. Mia was gone. Toby had picked her up an hour ago. I felt the blood drain from my face as I stared at her homeroom teacher. “I told you,” I said, my voice shaking with restrained hysteria. “I told you specifically that no one is allowed to take her except me.” The teacher looked sympathetic but defensive. “Mrs. Crawford, I’m so sorry, but Mr. Crawford is her biological father. He’s on the authorized list, and he has joint legal custody. We have no legal grounds to stop him from signing her out.” My fingernails dug into my palms, reopening the half-healed crescents from the courtroom. I forced myself to take a shallow, trembling breath. “I… I understand. I’m sorry for raising my voice.” The moment the teacher walked away, I stumbled out to the parking lot. My hands shook so violently I could barely unlock my phone. I dialed Toby’s number. He picked up on the second ring. “Where is she?” I demanded, my voice raw. “Where did you take my daughter?” Toby chuckled, a low, relaxed sound that made me want to scream. “She’s with me. As for where we are, you don’t need to worry your pretty little head about that.” “Toby,” I growled, “bring her back to school right now. If you don’t, I swear to God I will call the police.” “Oh, call them!” he mocked, utterly unfazed. “Go ahead, Gemma. Call 911. Tell them a loving father picked his daughter up from school early for a dentist appointment. Let me know how fast they rush over to arrest me for exercising my parental rights.” I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted copper. “What do you want?” I rasped. “What do you want me to do to get her back?” “Simple,” he said smoothly. “Delete the apology videos. All of them. Then, record a new one. A retraction. You will tell the world that you were the one who had an affair, that I caught you, and that you made up these vicious lies about me and Madison because you were bitter and wanted to ruin me.” “You’re out of your mind,” I spat. “I will never do that.” The next sound I heard through the speaker wasn’t Toby. It was the sharp, terrified sound of Mia crying, followed instantly by Madison’s cold, irritated voice snapping, “Stop whining, you’re giving me a headache!” “Toby, she’s your daughter!” I screamed into the phone, tears finally spilling over. “She’s just a girl,” he said dismissively. “Besides, Madison is pregnant. We’re having a boy. Now, be a good girl and do what you’re told, Gemma. Because if you don’t, I will drag this custody battle out for years, and I’ll make sure you never see Mia again.” The line clicked dead. I stood paralyzed in the empty parking lot, a heavy, suffocating weight crushing my chest. Toby had lost whatever shred of humanity he had left. The thought of Mia trapped in a room with him and Madison made me feel physically ill. Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my hand. I answered it immediately. A deep, steady male voice came through the speaker. “The files you requested are secured and in your inbox. We are ready to execute the plan whenever you give the word.” I didn’t acknowledge the files. I just gripped the phone and whispered, “Toby took Mia. He took her from school. Please. Please find her. Bring her back to me.” There was a brief pause on the other end. “Don’t panic,” Colby said quietly. “I’ll get her. I promise.” With Colby’s promise holding me together, I drove home. When Toby texted me again, sending a picture of Mia looking terrified on a strange sofa as a reminder of his leverage, I set up my ring light. I went live. Because of the massive internet frenzy, my live stream pulled in tens of thousands of viewers within minutes. And just as I anticipated, Toby and Madison, feeling invincible with Mia as their hostage, confidently requested to join the stream as co-hosts. I accepted the request. The screen split. Toby and Madison sat side-by-side, exchanging a smug, victorious look that they didn’t bother hiding from the camera. “Go ahead, Gemma,” Toby said, playing the magnanimous victim for the audience. “Tell everyone the truth. Tell them how you got caught cheating, and how you tried to drag my name through the mud to cover up your own sins.” I opened my mouth to speak, but my eyes caught a movement on his side of the screen. Toby’s hand was subtly squeezing a plush bunny—Mia’s favorite toy, the one she carried in her backpack every single day. It was a silent, violent threat. My heart hammered against my ribs. Just as the silence stretched too thin, my computer chimed with an encrypted message notification. We have her. She’s safe. A rush of adrenaline hit my bloodstream, flushing out the terror. The heavy stone on my chest shattered into dust. I looked straight into the camera, at the viewer count climbing past a hundred thousand, and cleared my throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, my voice steady and resonant. “Toby is right. I did come here today to tell you the truth. But it is not a retraction.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “422546”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My stepbrother, Stephen, and I somehow managed to get ourselves sucked into an NC-17 romance novel. In the real world, Stephen was the kind of man whose shirts were always buttoned to the collar, whose academic records were flawless, and whose investment instincts were terrifyingly sharp. Ever since we were kids, he looked at me the way one might look at an empty chair. The novel’s synopsis, however, was explicit and unhinged: A personal assistant suffering from severe touch starvation relentlessly seeks unspeakable pleasures from his boss, day and night. When we first woke up in this bizarre reality, I had actually joked that he was about to get lucky. But with a face like carved stone, he informed me that I was the “lucky” boss. I stared at him, bewildered. “Then what’s your role?” His voice was ice. “Your personal assistant. And apparently, a very personal one.” At the time, I thought, how bad could it really be? Until the day I came back from a date and found him curled up in my bed. His clothes were a crumpled mess, and he was clutching my worn pajama shirt to his chest, utterly wrecked by the agonizing withdrawal of his fictional disease. He lifted his head. His voice was a raw, low rasp, breaking as he begged, “Naomi… please. Just… touch me.” 1 “Naomi Stanford, if you touch me one more time, I swear to God.” Those were the last words Stephen said to me before we fell into the book. I had slipped on the staircase at home, pitching forward and grabbing blindly. My fingers caught the sleeve of his dress shirt, popping two buttons in the process. Stephen stared down at his exposed wrist, the revulsion on his face so thick you could choke on it. I sheepishly let go. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled a sanitized wet wipe from his pocket and methodically scrubbed the exact spot my skin had grazed. My mother hovered nearby, trying to smooth the tension. “Stephen, Naomi didn’t mean to.” He fastened his spare cufflink, his tone as indifferent as an automated weather report. “It’s fine. I just don’t like being touched.” Doesn’t like being touched. Right. He didn’t like being touched by me. Just last month, at his stepfather’s corporate gala, a female partner had a few too many drinks and slumped heavily against his shoulder. Stephen hadn’t even blinked. I had lived in the Pierce household for six years, and Stephen’s attitude toward me could be summed up in a single phrase: willful blindness. No, it was worse than that. Willful blindness implies he didn’t see me. He saw me, and then he deliberately looked away. So, when I woke up sitting behind a massive, unfamiliar mahogany desk, wearing a sharply tailored pencil skirt with a gold nameplate reading Naomi Stanford, CEO staring back at me—my first reaction wasn’t panic. It was the door swinging open. Stephen stood in the doorway. He wore a slate-gray shirt, the top two buttons undone, a cup of coffee in his hand. His entire aura was fundamentally different from the man I knew at home. His striking features were exactly the same. The coldness was the same. But beneath it all, there was an indescribable… fragility. He set the coffee on my desk, his voice a low hum. “Ms. Stanford, the files for your nine o’clock meeting are organized.” Ms. Stanford. He called me Ms. Stanford. I stared at him for five long seconds, confirming that the face belonged to my stepbrother. Then, my gaze dropped to a book splayed open on my desk. The cover read: The Boss’s Ruin. The pages fluttered open to the table of contents on their own accord, the chapter titles glowing with an unnatural light. Chapter 1: The Assistant’s Secret. Chapter 3: A Younger Man’s Obsession. Chapter 5: The Hacker’s Gift. Chapter 7: The Rival’s Bargain. I flipped further. The deeper I went, the more absurd it got. My face burned hot. “Done reading?” Stephen’s voice drifted from above. I slammed the book shut. He looked down at me, his expression wearing its usual impenetrable armor, but the corners of his mouth were pulled tight. “There are four romantic targets in this universe,” he said flatly. “And they are all coming for you.” I swallowed hard. “…And?” Stephen snatched the book from my hands, flipped to the character glossary, and pointed a long, elegant finger at a specific paragraph. “Personal Assistant: Stephen Pierce. Afflicted with extreme touch starvation. Harbors a pathological physical dependency on his boss, Naomi Stanford. If deprived of her scent or physical contact for more than twenty-four hours, he will spiral into severe withdrawal: high fever, violent tremors, and delirium.” He finished reading, then dropped the book onto the desk with a heavy thud. “Did you hear that, Naomi?” Oh, I heard it. My stepbrother—the clinically precise germaphobe who used wet wipes to erase my touch—was written into this world as a man who would literally die without my physical affection. I held it in for three seconds. Then, I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. Stephen’s face went absolutely black. 2 My amusement didn’t last long. A translucent, holographic panel suddenly materialized, hovering in the air between us. [Welcome to the world of The Boss’s Ruin. Please complete the main storyline within the allotted time, or remain permanently trapped in this dimension. Main Quest: Complete all intimate storylines with the Personal Assistant. Current Progress: 0%.] I stared at that 0%, my throat suddenly dry. Stephen saw it too. His interface was clearly synced with mine. He stood across from me, his face blank, but his knuckles were bone-white where they gripped the coffee cup. “Is there another way around this?” I asked the ceiling. A cold line of text materialized: [Negative.] “What happens if we refuse?” [The Personal Assistant will suffer catastrophic organ failure due to Touch Starvation withdrawal within 48 hours. Character death will result in the immediate and permanent deletion of the bound host.] My head snapped up to look at Stephen. He set the coffee cup down. His voice was terrifyingly calm for a man discussing his own impending death. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m finding this out at the exact same time you are.” “How do you feel right now?” “I feel nothing.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked out. Just as the door clicked shut, I noticed his hand resting against the doorframe. It was shaking. I sank back into my leather chair, pulled the book toward me, and started reading from page one. In the original novel, Naomi Stanford was a ruthless corporate prodigy who tripled her father’s company’s profits, but suffered from profound emotional obliviousness. Four dangerously attractive men orbited her, and she was blind to all of them. The personal assistant was the first to appear, and his emotional arc carried the heaviest weight. The book detailed how his symptoms flared up on his very first day. Whenever the boss accidentally brushed his hand, he had to lock himself in the breakroom for twenty minutes just to breathe. Not out of disgust. But because he craved it so fiercely, he was terrified he would lose control. I closed the book and pressed the heels of my hands into my temples. If this were any other man, I would be eating up the angst. But placing this trope on Stephen Pierce? All I could see in my mind’s eye was him aggressively scrubbing his wrist with a sanitized wipe. At exactly 2:00 PM, Stephen appeared at my door. He had changed into a crisp white shirt, buttoned to the very top—a carbon copy of his real-world uniform. “A client is arriving at three. These are their corporate background checks.” He placed the file on the desk and immediately turned to leave. “Wait.” He froze. I hesitated for a beat. “Are you… feeling it yet?” Stephen didn’t look back. “That’s none of your concern.” “The System said forty-eight hours—” “I said, it is none of your concern.” He walked out. I watched him go. His gait was off. Usually, Stephen walked like he owned the floorboards, every step measured and precise. Now, his right shoulder slumped slightly, as if he were carrying an invisible, crushing weight. At 5:00 PM, I went to the breakroom for water and ran straight into Target Number Two. He looked to be in his early twenties, wearing an intern badge and a grin so bright it could blind you. “Ms. Stanford, let me get that for you!” He reached for my glass, his fingertips very deliberately grazing the back of my hand. I glanced at his badge: Dylan, Marketing Intern. The holographic panel chimed softly: [Target 2: Dylan. Archetype: The fiercely devoted, relentlessly obsessed younger man. Status: Activated.] I snatched my glass back. “I’ve got it. Thanks.” Dylan tilted his head, his golden-retriever smile unwavering. “You know, Ms. Stanford, you look incredibly beautiful in that dress today.” I grabbed my water, fled back to my office, slammed the door, and took three deep breaths. This book was going to kill me. 3 By 8:00 PM, I was still at the office. It wasn’t that I loved working late. It was because the System informed me that Stephen and I shared the same upscale penthouse apartment in this universe. Two bedrooms, one shared living space. I stalled until the cleaning staff essentially kicked me out. The penthouse was just a few floors above the corporate offices, accessible via a private elevator. When I swiped my keycard and stepped inside, the living room was pitch black. I ran a hand along the wall, found the switch, and flicked it on. That was when I saw him. Stephen was sitting on the sofa in an unnatural, rigid posture—arms crossed tightly over his chest, his entire body curled inward. Sweat beaded heavily on his forehead, catching the overhead light. A glass of water sat on the coffee table. Untouched. “Stephen?” No answer. I took two steps closer and realized he was trembling. It wasn’t a subtle shiver. His entire frame was vibrating, his teeth chattering audibly in the quiet room. “Stephen!” I dropped to my knees in front of him and reached out to check his forehead. He violently jerked his head away. “Don’t. Touch. Me.” His voice was a shredded, ragged whisper, yet the hostility was still there. “You’re burning up.” “I know.” “The System said you would—” “I know,” he cut me off, finally raising his head. His face was flushed a dangerous crimson, his lips cracked and dry, but his eyes were still glacial. “Naomi, I don’t need your pity. Go to your room.” I stood slowly, stared at him for three seconds, then turned and walked into my bedroom. I shut the door and leaned against the heavy wood. The countdown timer on the holographic panel pulsed in the corner of my vision: 39 Hours, 16 Minutes. I opened the closet. It was filled to the brim with designer clothes perfectly tailored to my measurements. There was a drawer for sleepwear. Three sets of silk pajamas sat perfectly folded on the top shelf. I changed into one, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling. The apartment was dead silent. I couldn’t tell if he had passed out or finally fallen asleep. At 2:00 AM, a sound woke me. It was faint. A dull, heavy scraping, like something being dragged across the hardwood floor. I slipped out of bed, padded barefoot to the door, and opened it just a crack. The living room was still dark, but the motion-sensor light in the hallway had flickered on. Stephen was on his knees outside my door. One hand was planted flat against the floor holding his weight, the other was curled into a fist, knuckles resting lightly against the wood of my door. He looked like he was trying to knock, but couldn’t summon the strength. Over and over. His dress shirt was completely soaked through, clinging to his back so tightly I could count the vertebrae. I threw the door open. Without the wood to support him, he pitched forward. I caught him by the shoulders. He was radiating heat like a furnace. “Naomi…” His voice was barely a breath of air. “Your pajamas… the shirt you wore yesterday… can I… can I just borrow it…?” I froze. “The one I was wearing?” He didn’t answer, but his trembling fingers blindly reached out and curled into the hem of the silk shirt I currently had on. The movement was agonizingly slow, as if he were terrified I would strike him for it. “Get inside,” I said. 4 I hauled him up from the floor, slinging his heavy arm over my shoulder, and practically dragged him into my bedroom. Stephen was six-foot-two. With his dead weight fully pressing down on me, my knees buckled, and we almost went down together. Even delirious with fever, he tried to pull away. “I just… wanted the shirt… you don’t have to…” “You can’t even stand up. A piece of fabric isn’t going to save your life.” That shut him up. I maneuvered him to the edge of the mattress. The moment his legs hit the bed, he collapsed backward. By the time I rushed to the en-suite bathroom, soaked a hand towel in cold water, and came back, he had buried his face entirely into my pillow. He was curled into the fetal position, his arms wrapped around the pillow like a drowning man clinging to debris. His breathing was harsh and erratic, his broad shoulders shaking uncontrollably. I draped the cold towel over the back of his neck. He flinched violently. “Cold…” “Your fever is spiking. I have to bring your temperature down.” “Not… that kind of cold,” he mumbled into the pillow, his voice muffled. “It’s cold inside. In my bones.” The holographic panel sprang to life: [Touch Starvation Withdrawal: Mid-Stage. Symptoms: High external fever, internal chills, cognitive blurring. Recommended Treatment: Continuous skin-to-skin contact with the bound host. Minimum duration: 30 minutes.] Continuous skin-to-skin contact. I looked at the text. I looked at Stephen. Thirty minutes. I took a deep breath, climbed onto the mattress, and lay down beside him. I reached out and wrapped my hand firmly around his wrist. His reaction was a hundred times more violent than I expected. He shot backward as if my fingertips carried a live current, throwing the pillow aside. His fever-bright, bloodshot eyes locked onto mine. For a split second, there was total confusion in his gaze. Then, sheer disbelief. Finally, it warped into a look of absolute, unadulterated agony. “What are you doing?” he choked out. “Saving your life.” “I don’t need—” “Stephen Pierce, if you give me one more snarky comment, I swear to God I will let go. Test me.” His jaw snapped shut. I kept my grip on his wrist. His pulse was hammering against my palm, erratic and dangerously fast. But then, inch by inch, his own hand began to move. Almost involuntarily, his fingers curled inward. From the wrist, to the thumb, to the palm, until his large hand completely enveloped mine, interlocking our fingers. His grip was crushing. It felt like my bones were going to snap. “A little lighter,” I winced. He didn’t let go, but the crushing pressure eased slightly. Beneath my skin, I felt his temperature slowly begin to drop. The terrifying, unnatural heat faded into a normal, comforting warmth. The ragged edge of his breathing smoothed out. But he didn’t let go. Ten minutes passed. The color returned to his face, and the delirious fog cleared from his eyes. He stared down at our intertwined hands, his expression a chaotic mess of emotions I couldn’t decipher. “Is that enough?” I asked quietly. The System updated: [Touch Starvation temporarily alleviated. Next withdrawal countdown: 18 hours.] “It’s enough,” he said softly. He still didn’t let go. It took another five seconds before he suddenly yanked his hand back as if my skin had burned him, scrambling off the bed. “…Thank you.” He tossed the words over his shoulder and walked out without looking back. When the door clicked shut, I opened my hand and looked at my palm. There were four deep, red crescent moons dug into my skin from his fingernails. I stared at the marks, a sudden realization washing over me. In the real world, after Stephen touched me, he immediately scrubbed his hands with a wet wipe. In the book, after Stephen touched me, he dug his own nails into his palms until they bruised. It wasn’t disgust. He was holding himself back. 5 The next morning at the office, Stephen’s impenetrable armor was fully restored. His shirt was buttoned to the collar. His documents were impeccably aligned. When he poured my coffee, his hands were as steady as a surgeon’s. The only difference was the perimeter. The standard three-foot professional distance had expanded to six feet. When he handed me a folder, he slid it across the furthest edge of the desk, withdrawing his hand with lightning speed. I pretended not to notice. At 10:00 AM, a new System prompt pinged: [Main Quest Update: Target 2, Dylan, has triggered a critical plot event. Please proceed to the Marketing Department immediately.] I didn’t want to go. But the System provided a thirty-minute countdown timer. [Failure to attend will result in a 10% penalty to Main Quest Progress.] Cursing under my breath, I took the elevator down. The Marketing Department was on the twelfth floor. As soon as the doors parted, I saw Dylan waiting for me in the hallway. He wore a crisp white t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms. When he saw me, his face lit up. It was a completely different kind of smile than Stephen’s. Getting a fractional upward curve of the lips from Stephen felt like an act of God. When Dylan smiled, his whole body seemed to radiate warmth. “Ms. Stanford! You’re here.” “What’s the emergency?” “There’s an inconsistency in the Q3 projections. The Director asked if you could take a look.” I followed him into the glass-walled conference room. There were indeed files scattered across the table. But the room was completely empty. “Where is the Director?” “Stepped out for a call.” Dylan pulled out a chair for me. “Have a seat. I’ll walk you through it.” I sat. He leaned over me to flip through the pages, his shoulder practically brushing mine. “The metrics here don’t line up, see—” He tapped the spreadsheet with one hand. His other hand casually came to rest on the back of my chair. I looked at him. He was still smiling, but the look in his eyes had absolutely nothing to do with Q3 projections. “Dylan.” “Yeah?” “Your hand.” He glanced down at his hand gripping the back of my chair. He didn’t pull it away. Instead, he shifted his grip an inch closer, his fingertips grazing the fabric at my shoulder. “Ms. Stanford, I just wanted to be a little closer to you.” His voice dropped an octave, dripping with that reckless, unabashed intensity specific to men his age. “Ever since my very first day, when I saw you standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows taking a call, I just—” The conference room door swung open. Stephen stood in the doorway, holding a fresh cup of coffee. His icy gaze locked onto Dylan’s hand resting against my shoulder. Then, it slowly moved up to Dylan’s face. His expression was a locked vault. But the temperature in the room plummeted by ten degrees. “Ms. Stanford, you have a conference call at eleven.” He set the coffee down on the nearest edge of the table and turned on his heel. Dylan retracted his hand and let out a low whistle. “Your assistant has quite the temper, doesn’t he?” I picked up the coffee and took a sip. The temperature was perfect. One and a half sugars. Exactly how I took it in the real world. Stephen had never once asked me how I took my coffee. But it was perfect every single time. I set the cup down, stood up, and walked out of the conference room. Back in my office, Stephen was meticulously reorganizing a bookshelf. I closed the door behind me. He didn’t turn around. “Next time someone puts their hands on you, handle it yourself.” His voice was dead flat, like he was discussing printer toner. “Are you jealous?” A hardcover book slipped from his hands and crashed to the floor. Stephen bent down to retrieve it. For a fraction of a second, the tips of his ears flushed dark red, but his tone remained entirely devoid of inflection. “I am merely reminding you that every man in this universe is a threat. Including me.” He shoved the book into its slot and walked past me toward the door. I watched him leave, suddenly realizing that when he said including me, his voice had faltered. Just a little.

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