They took my uterus. Seven months pregnant. My husband kicked me so hard the placenta detached. I hemorrhaged on the ice. His reason? Someone told him I slapped his first love across the face. My brother Marcus—the one person I had left in this world—found out and just stared at me with pure disgust. “You deserved it. If you ever lay a hand on Olivia again, I’ll make you regret it.” The hedge fund they ran together collapsed. They hung the CEO title on me and shoved me into federal prison. Three years. Three years of hell inside those walls. When I got out, I was done. No more hope. No more clinging to the shredded remains of love and family that had bled me dry. But they had regrets. Oh, they had plenty of those. *** Joseph Cross kicked me. Hard. My body hit the frozen driveway and I went down. Wind carved into my face like a blade. My abdomen clenched—a deep, ripping contraction that stole my breath. Something hot gushed between my legs. I couldn’t tell if it was blood or amniotic fluid. “Joseph—my stomach—something’s wrong—I think I’m bleeding!” I reached for him. He stood right there beside me. He looked down at me from above. His mouth curled into a cold smile, like I was putting on some pathetic show. “Oh, now you know what pain feels like? Did Olivia feel pain last year? When you made her miscarry—did she feel pain?” “She never said a word against you. That’s because she’s a good person. But you?” “It’s her birthday. You threw that bastard child in her face, and then you had the audacity to hit her.” His eyes were ice. No mercy. None. “I didn’t—just let me explain!” I scrambled to stand. The ice was too slick. I slammed back down. I crawled forward on the frozen ground, desperate, reaching for the hem of his coat. “Joseph, I’m not faking—my stomach really hurts—” My fingers never touched him. Olivia, silent until now, stumbled back half a step. She pressed a hand to her temple and let out a delicate gasp. “Joseph… I feel so dizzy…” His face changed instantly. He stared at my outstretched hand, smeared with dirty slush, like it was something foul. He didn’t pull me up. He kicked me away. The sole of his shoe met my body with disgust. “Get away from her. Don’t touch her with your filthy hands.” On that frozen driveway, the kick became a death sentence. My body slid backward. A dull, sickening crack. My lower back and belly slammed into the concrete snow barrier at the edge of the drive. Something tore deep inside me. A ripping, obliterating pain that didn’t stop. I couldn’t breathe. The heat between my legs spread faster, staining the snow beneath me red. I clawed at the ice. My blood-smeared hand reached for him. “Joseph—please—the baby—get me to a hospital—save the baby—” He stood there, Olivia cradled in his arms, staring down at me curled on the ground. No pity in his eyes. Just revulsion. “Vanessa. Save the theatrics. You think a little fake blood and a sob story will make me forget what you did to Olivia?” He snorted. “Women like you—raised in trailer parks—you’ll use any trick to get sympathy.” “I’m not faking—it’s real—” My body shook uncontrollably. My vision blurred. Through the haze, Olivia nestled against Joseph’s chest. Her voice was soft, sweet. “Joseph, forget about her. I really do think I have a concussion…” He didn’t hesitate. He stripped off his coat and wrapped it around her. Scooped her into his arms. His final words landed on me like a door slamming shut. “Lie there and think about what you’ve done. Don’t expect me to fall for this.” He strode toward the parking lot. He didn’t look back. Not once. Snow drifted into my eyes. The cold seeped into my chest, reached my heart. I couldn’t hold on anymore. Everything went black.

I woke up in a hospital room. Dim light. Dead quiet. No one there. My head was thick, slow. It took a long time to piece together what happened. My hand moved to my stomach. Trembling. Seven months. Round and full. Flat. Completely flat. The baby was gone. A white noise filled my skull. Blank. Empty. My chest caved in. Like a sledgehammer had crushed it. Yesterday, the baby had been kicking. Rolling around inside me, full of life. I’d been imagining his face. And now— Seven months. That was all we got. Hatred surged up from my chest—wild, boundless. I wanted to kill Joseph. I wanted to do it right then. I dragged myself off the bed. Before I could stand, I crashed to the floor. The thud echoed through the room. The bathroom door banged open. An orderly rushed out. “Mrs. Anderson! Are you okay? I’m so sorry—I was just in the restroom.” “You just had a hysterectomy. You cannot be out of bed.” Everything stopped. “What did you say?” She helped me back onto the mattress. “You came in with a placental abruption. Massive hemorrhage. They couldn’t save the uterus. You absolutely cannot get up for the next two days. Let me handle everything—your husband already prepaid all the expenses.” Like being held underwater in freezing darkness. My blood turned to ice. I came back to myself and tore free of the orderly’s grip. I was going to find Joseph. I was going to end him. She hit the emergency call button. Shouted for doctors. A crowd rushed in. A moment later, sedatives slid into my veins. I sank into unconsciousness. The dreams coiled around me, suffocating. Memories. Marcus and me when we were kids, just the two of us against the world. Him carrying me on his back, our small lonely shadows moving through trailer parks and cheap rentals. The sweet moments after I married Joseph. The way he used to take care of me. And then Olivia appeared. Everything shattered. When I woke again, it was the next morning. I opened my eyes. Marcus was there. Sitting motionless beside my bed. His expression was flat. Distant.

Marcus is three years older than me. We’re orphans. The real kind. Our father died of a fentanyl overdose in a truck stop restroom when I was five. Our mother vanished. Never saw her again. We survived on foster homes and state checks. The kind of hardship only we understood. Dumpster diving behind convenience stores for just-expired food was normal. Begging quarters for wiping windshields at gas stations was normal. Eventually we clawed our way into college on scholarships and loans. Started working. I thought we’d finally made it. Then his senior year—end-stage renal disease. He needed a transplant. He wanted to give up. Couldn’t afford it. I got tested in secret. A perfect match. I emptied the last twelve thousand dollars from the trust our grandmother left us. Donated my kidney. I made sure the hospital signed strict privacy agreements. The social workers, the surgeons—nobody told him. Same recovery wing. He never knew. I didn’t want him carrying that weight. He’d suffered enough his whole life. I wasn’t going to let him spend the rest of it drowning in guilt toward me. He got angry later—furious I’d touched the trust money. Disappointed I’d vanished for over ten days during his surgery. I just smiled and brushed it off. Now, seeing him healthy, almost like any normal person—I was genuinely happy for him. To me, Marcus was my only family. The one who raised me. My only blood in this world. When I saw him, my nose stung. Every buried hurt surged up my throat. “Marcus—” My voice broke. He slapped me. Hard. Across the face. The blow choked every word of grief right out of me. I stared at him. Too shocked to see his expression clearly anymore. “Vanessa. I am so goddamn disappointed in you. How dare you?” “Last year you pushed Olivia down the stairs. Deliberately. She lost the baby. She didn’t press charges because of me.” “But you just keep going. You crashed her birthday party. Made a scene. Gave her a concussion. When did you become this vicious?” “She forgave you. Again. But after you’re discharged, you will get on your knees and apologize to her.” I kept staring, silent. He screamed: “I’m talking to you! Do you hear me?!” “I spoiled you. That’s the problem. I made you forget your place.” I looked at this man—face red, features twisted, unrecognizable. Was this really Marcus? Over twenty years of memories flooded through me. When we were kids, he did spoil me. Protected me. But after he fell for Olivia—got tangled up in her emotional games with Joseph—he became volatile. Erratic. He was jealous of Olivia’s boarding school history with Joseph. But he couldn’t let go of the scraps of warmth and flirtation she threw his way. I knew him. A childhood starved of love made him desperate and insecure. The missing kidney carved a deep hollow of shame inside him. And Olivia? Upper East Side heiress. Trust fund. European degree. Beautiful. He looked at her with awe. He’d comply with anything she asked, even if it targeted me. And he wouldn’t care. Back then it was all small stuff. At first I tried to talk to him. Eventually I understood. He was a grown man. He knew right from wrong. The way he acted was a choice. His choice. It hurt. But I genuinely hoped he’d find his happiness. Now here he was. Storming into an ICU room, basing everything on one unsupported accusation, demanding answers from me—me, who had just lost her baby and her uterus. I didn’t know this man. He wasn’t the Marcus who once stayed up all night, terrified, because my fever hit 104. Something thick and metallic rose in my throat. I gagged. Blood spilled past my lips. Marcus froze. A flicker of pain crossed his eyes. But he gritted his teeth. He didn’t come to me. He turned to leave. At the door, he stopped. His back to me. His voice was ice. “Vanessa. Everything happening to you—you brought it on yourself. And if you ever go after Olivia again, I won’t forgive you either.” The door slammed. I stared at it for a long time. Wiped the corner of my mouth with my hand. Blood smeared my fingertips. Tears blurred it, spreading the red in circles. Tilting my head back, I tried to force the tears down. It didn’t work. I really regretted it. Regretted scheming my way into marrying Joseph. Regretted stepping into this chaos. Olivia wavered between my husband and my brother. Stringing along Marcus—sweet, obedient Marcus who gave her everything—while refusing to let go of her first love, Joseph. So why? Why were my baby and I the casualties of their game?

The moment I saw Joseph, I knew I was finished. Completely, utterly lost. Fall of senior year. Sunlight streaming through gothic stained glass at an Ivy League alumni mixer. I spotted him beside the lectern. Chiseled profile. A tiny beauty mark at the corner of his eye. It hit me like a freight train. He was aloof. Privileged. Gorgeous. Gliding through campus on family trust money and elite venture capital internships. To catch up to him, I pulled all-nighters on full scholarship, shadowed professors shamelessly for recommendation letters. I followed him to the Ivy League. Followed him to Wall Street. His shadow. Always hovering just inside his sightline. I loved him like a secret I was terrified to speak aloud, afraid my love would inconvenience him. And then one night—after a failed acquisition, drunk—he finally looked down. He saw me. The shadow. After that day, I had a second person in this world I’d gladly die for. I knew someone else occupied his heart. I walked into the fire anyway, fully aware I’d burn alive. From dating to a Hamptons wedding—one year. After marriage, he was tender. Attentive. No matter how busy, he never neglected me. When I got sick, he stayed by my side. Every trip to Silicon Valley or London, he brought back carefully chosen gifts. We were happy then. No question. But all of it ended the moment Olivia came back from Paris. The first time he abandoned me at a highway rest stop in Jersey was to pick Olivia up at JFK. The first time he called me trailer trash with no breeding was for Olivia. Later, he, Olivia, and Marcus launched a hedge fund. I was the CEO on paper. I held zero equity. I had my suspicions. But I didn’t want to believe people could be that ugly. Of the three of them, one was my husband. The other was my own brother. When I got pregnant, I ran to Joseph with the blood test, trembling with excitement. There was no joy in his face. Just a tight frown. Disgust. He never once came to a prenatal appointment. Back then I didn’t understand why pregnancy made everything worse. I should have known. If I had understood sooner— If I had walked away then— My baby might have made it into this world alive. But “if” doesn’t exist. Joseph arrived. Olivia beside him, dressed like a magazine spread. I was pale, lips gray, the stark contrast laid bare. I saw them enter, one after the other, and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to deal with this. “You’re awake.” Joseph’s voice. Flat. No warmth. His expression was open contempt. “Good timing. Olivia came to see you. Apologize to her. Now.” “She’s a kind person. You’ve hurt her again and again, and instead of blaming you, she offered to visit. But I won’t let this keep going. You will apologize today.” I almost laughed through the tears gathering in my eyes. I’m vicious? I’m cruel? This time last year. Olivia’s birthday party. Joseph and Marcus had planned it for her at the Hamptons estate. Midway through, I went upstairs to the bathroom. She cornered me on the staircase. I hadn’t even figured out what was happening before she cried out and tumbled down. She wailed about stomach pain. Blood seeped between her legs. She passed out. On the drive to the hospital, Marcus was shaking. Joseph held her in the back seat, calling her name, urgent, desperate. Then came the story. Two months pregnant. Miscarriage. Whose child was it? Marcus’s? Joseph’s? I didn’t know. I never understood the tangled mess between them. Afterward, they dumped the entire blame for Olivia’s miscarriage on me. I spent a full year living like a convicted sinner in front of them. No matter what I said, they believed I was lying. And then—just days ago, at her most recent birthday party—she pulled the same stunt. Accused me of slapping her. They believed her. Again. Without hesitation.

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A new intern invited me to her wedding, but the groom’s name was my husband’s, Christian. I tell myself it was probably just a coincidence. At the moment, My colleague Sarah laughed and teased. “Chloe Evans landed herself a real catch—a self-made millionaire, even though he’s like fifteen years older than her.” “But he’s so hot. Honestly, he doesn’t look a day over thirty.” As she spoke, Sarah pulled up a photo of Christian to show everyone. The entire office gasped in envy. I saw the photo too. It was my husband’s face. Identical. My heart turned to ice. On their wedding day, I arrived early. Chloe wore a custom haute couture gown, beaming as she grabbed my hand. “Thank you so much, Ms. Vance, for taking time out of your busy schedule to witness my special day.” … A cold, bitter smile tugged at my lips. To be precise, I was here to witness their affair. At the entrance of the hotel stood two massive wedding photo standees. In the photos, Christian had his arm wrapped around Chloe’s slender waist. Both of them looked radiant, blissfully happy. Staring at those images, I felt something rip my heart apart. Chloe’s smile was as bright as sunshine as she pulled me toward the guest lounge. “Ms. Vance—” She paused, her smile turning tentative. “Since today’s such a special occasion, I hope you don’t mind if I drop the formalities and call you Eleanor instead?” She had just graduated from college this year. Only twenty-two years old. Her eyes sparkled with youth, her skin smooth and flawless like porcelain. At that age, even without makeup, she was devastatingly beautiful. Seeing her smile so joyfully made my heart ache. Still, I forced a smile. “Sure.” I sat down in the lounge while she fussed over me—offering tea, fresh fruit. That love-drunk expression on her face was exactly how I had looked when I married Christian fifteen years ago. My chest felt like it was stuffed with a heavy stone. This morning, before coming to the wedding, I had called Christian. He told me he was still on a business trip out of state. Over video call, he looked like a homesick puppy, his eyes full of longing for me. He even showed me a necklace he’d bought for me. “I won’t be back for another three days. I miss you so much, babe. I can’t stand being away from you.” I had nearly broken down right then. But I held it in. For the past fifteen years of our marriage. In everyone’s eyes, Christian was the perfect husband. The perfect father. Even the perfect son-in-law. Before all of this came to light, I truly believed he was the best man in the world. The happier I had once been, the more unbearable the pain was now. My coworker Sarah came over, grinning as she grabbed Chloe’s hand. “You look absolutely stunning. So gorgeous!” Chloe blushed modestly and glanced at me. “It’s just the makeup doing all the work. Eleanor is the truly beautiful one here.” At the office, I was known for my looks. Back in school, I was voted the campus queen. Even though I was fifteen years older than Chloe, I still looked better than her. But marriage was never won on looks alone. I showed no emotion. Just a faint smile. Sarah leaned in, curiosity brimming. “Chloe, I heard you and your fiancé have been together for four years. How did you even meet a self-made millionaire like him?” Sarah playfully nudged her with an elbow. “Are there more guys like him? Hook me up and I’ll file for divorce tomorrow.” Hearing the words “four years,” my insides shattered into ice. Four years. He had been lying to me for four years. And I hadn’t noticed a single trace of his infidelity. I sat there, pretending to be calm, as Chloe spoke with shy sweetness. “He’s the best gift fate ever gave me.”

As she spoke, Chloe pulled Sarah to sit beside me. She continued, “My freshman year of college, both my parents died in an accident.” “I nearly had to drop out. But it turned out my fiancé’s alma mater was the same university I attended.” “He endowed a million-dollar scholarship to the school every year. I was one of the students who received his funding.” “That winter was brutally cold. To thank him, I hand-knitted him a sweater.” “And that sweater… that’s what started our love story.” I remembered Christian did have a hand-knitted sweater. He treasured it like gold. But he told me it was a keepsake from his late mother. Once, our son accidentally dropped the sweater on the floor. Christian flew into a rage and beat him black and blue. So that sweater was hand-knitted by Chloe Evans. What broke my heart even more—he’d been donating a million dollars to that university every year, and I had no idea. Two years ago, he told me the company was facing a cash flow crisis. We mortgaged our house, his father’s house, even my parents’ house. That’s how we supposedly saved the company from collapse. Even now, he claimed the business was barely breaking even—limping along, half-dead. Yet this shrewd, calculating man had been throwing away fortunes on charity—all to win the heart of a young girl. Sarah’s envy was written all over her face. She pressed on, “I heard your husband’s loaded, and he gives you all his money too. So why are you still working at our company, grinding away like the rest of us?” I perked up, hanging on Chloe’s every word. Smile never left her face. “Even though he gives me everything—more money than I could spend in a dozen lifetimes—I still want to have a career I love. I don’t want to just be some trophy wife he keeps at home.” “I need to feel like I have value, you know?” More money than she could spend in a dozen lifetimes? My chest felt like it was caving in. Just last month, our son couldn’t afford the $50,000 tuition for his elite private school. He had to transfer to a public school. The humiliation triggered anxiety and depression in my ten-year-old boy. I kept my voice steady as I asked, “What kind of business is your husband in? How does he make so much money?” “His main company is overseas. The domestic branch doesn’t make much profit.” My mind reeled. I had no idea Christian had a company overseas. For the past four years, he’d been telling me the business wasn’t doing well. He stopped contributing to household expenses entirely. My annual salary after taxes was $80,000—just enough to cover our family’s needs. So I never pressured him. Even when his mother passed away a few years back and her medical bills ran close to $200,000 over the course of a year. I paid for everything. I borrowed $100,000 of it. To pay back that debt as quickly as possible, I had to keep up appearances that we weren’t struggling—while secretly cutting every corner I could. Christian witnessed so many sleepless nights I spent drowning in worry. He watched my hair turn gray at barely thirty. But he never once offered to help. Not a single dollar. Sarah kept prying, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I heard your fiancé is divorced. This is his second marriage, right? Can he handle things well with his ex-wife?” A bitter laugh rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down. Chloe looked completely unbothered, her face still glowing with happiness. “His ex-wife and son are both dead.” My heart stopped. A gaping wound tore open in my chest, choking me. I couldn’t believe it. Christian had told her our son and I were dead.

A flicker of regret crossed Chloe’s face. “It was an accident. Such a tragedy. That poor woman never got to enjoy the life he could have given her.” A few more colleagues arrived. Chloe’s face lit up with that same radiant smile as she greeted them. She didn’t notice the storm raging across my expression. The women crowded around her, gushing with envy. Everyone marveled at how lucky she was—landing a rich, devoted husband who adored her. Just then, Chloe’s phone buzzed with a video call. It was Christian. Everyone urged her to pick up. Chloe blushed and giggled, declining the call. “I want to wait until the ceremony—when he puts the ring on my finger. I want that to be the first moment he sees me like this.” The women squealed in delight. “Chloe’s saving the big reveal for the ceremony! She wants to surprise him!” Chloe bit her lip, smiling shyly. “I’ll let you in on a secret. Christian’s first marriage didn’t have a wedding.” “No wedding photos. He never even got to see the woman he married in a wedding dress.” “So today, I want to make this unforgettable for him. I want him to be happy.” She wasn’t wrong. Fifteen years ago, when Christian and I got married, he was broke. We had nothing. It was the definition of a no-frills wedding. He proposed with a ring from a 25-cent gumball machine. I used every cent I had to support his startup. Three months ago, our son suggested that Christian and I get wedding photos taken as a keepsake. Christian just laughed it off casually. “We’re an old married couple. What’s the point?” Then he added, “Maybe we should just take a family portrait instead.” I felt a small pang of disappointment back then, but I didn’t make a big deal out of it. I’d always believed that as long as our family was safe, happy, and together, nothing else mattered. He had completely forgotten the promise he made on our wedding day, when we were living in that cramped, $200-a-month basement apartment. He had tears in his eyes when he swore to me: “Babe, when I make it big, I’m going to give you everything. A real wedding.An engagement ring. Everything you deserve.” But when he finally had everything, what he gave me instead was soul-crushing betrayal. Someone gasped in shock. “Wait—he didn’t even have a wedding with his dead wife?” “He said he never loved her. He didn’t want to marry her in the first place. His parents forced him into it.” Chloe said this as casually as if she were talking about the weather. “He told me that when she died, he finally felt free. Like a weight had been lifted.” “He said the sky finally felt bright again.” My heart was being shredded, piece by piece. I never imagined Christian would humiliate and degrade our love like this in front of his mistress. He was the one who proposed to me twenty times before I finally said yes. I kept my face neutral. Emotionless. Chloe kept talking, then suddenly covered her mouth and gagged. It looked exactly like morning sickness. I asked, “Are you pregnant?” Her eyes sparkled with joy as she nodded. “Yes. You have such a sharp eye, Eleanor. I just found out. I’m two months along.” The women swarmed her again, showering her with congratulations. They cooed about how her baby would be the heir to a fortune. Chloe didn’t shy away from the topic. “Christian already transferred all his assets into my name and the baby’s.” “I just started this job, and then I found out I was pregnant. He told me to quit immediately.” “He wants me and the baby to move overseas. He says he wants to give us the best life possible.” More envious squeals erupted. Meanwhile, my spine turned to ice. Her child was the heir? Then what the hell was my son? My ten-year-old boy—who risked his life at age eight to save Christian from a fire.

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I’d been in a secret relationship with my childhood best friend Ethan for six years when he dumped me without warning. A month later, my mom brought up gossip about him while taking jabs at me as usual. “Ethan’s about to be a father, and you still haven’t even held a guy’s hand.” “If I’d made you smarter or prettier, maybe he would’ve actually wanted you.” I scrolled through my work messages, barely paying attention. “He’s way out of my league anyway.” I remembered that day. Lying in a hospital bed with my leg in a cast, angry enough to end things. He didn’t try to stop me. Just let out a cold laugh. “Whatever. I’ve got plenty of girls throwing themselves at me who are better than you anyway.” “Besides, who else are you gonna find without me?” …… Hearing my self-deprecating comment, Ethan’s mom Mrs. Harrison immediately brightened up. “Don’t say that! If you two could make it work, I’d be thrilled!” “Ethan’s always been so withdrawn. I’ve never heard him mention a girlfriend once.” Mrs. Harrison sat down next to me, carefully fishing for information. “Maya, you two are close—has he ever talked to you about his girlfriend?” I shook my head. “We don’t really keep in touch much.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie. After all, Ethan hadn’t contacted me once in the month since we broke up. Mrs. Harrison turned to my mom with a sigh. “Daughters are so much easier. Sons are nothing but headaches.” “If I hadn’t been looking through his phone photos the other day and accidentally seen that ultrasound picture, I wouldn’t even know I’m about to be a grandmother.” My mom brought out a plate of strawberries and set them in front of Mrs. Harrison. “Ethan’s always been smart and capable. He knows what he’s doing. Don’t worry.” Mrs. Harrison’s face lit up. “Just the other day someone tried to set him up—apparently the girl’s father is a state senator. Thank god I turned it down, or this would be awkward as hell.” I stared at my phone for a long moment, completely forgetting who I’d been about to message. My mom suddenly kicked my foot. “The doorbell’s been ringing forever. Can’t you get the door?” I shuffled over in a daze. Ethan stood outside, looking down at his phone, a slight smile on his lips. Right before his screen went dark, I caught a glimpse of the pinned chat at the top—a pink profile picture. “Here to pick up my mom.” Not that he needed to explain. I already knew he wasn’t here for me. I looked down, fumbling for slippers for him. “I’m not coming in. Leaving in a second.” I looked up and met his cold stare. For a moment, I felt completely lost. The same person who’d whispered sweet things to me a month ago could barely look at me now without ice in his eyes. I turned to go back inside. He suddenly grabbed my hand. Shoved a paper bag at me. “These absorb better. Take them with vitamin D.” Mrs. Harrison’s voice drifted over. I yanked my hand back. “Don’t you have a flight assignment today? How do you have time to pick me up?” He smoothly tucked the paper bag behind his back. “Got canceled. Had nothing else to do, so I came to get you.” My mom came over too, chatting away as she walked Mrs. Harrison to the door. Ethan stood to the side, quietly waiting for them to put on their shoes. Mrs. Harrison suddenly noticed a pin on his bag. She asked casually, “That’s a unique pin.” “Old classmate gave it to me.” “A girl?” “Yeah. She’s a flight attendant for a private airline. Ran into her at the airport yesterday when we landed.” It clicked. That pinned chat with the pink profile picture—Michelle Shaw, our high school’s queen bee. Over the past six years, I’d given Ethan watches, wallets, ties. He never used any of them. Every time I asked, he’d say he couldn’t bear to use them, wanted to save them. But I knew the truth. He just didn’t want anyone knowing he had a girlfriend. Yet Michelle gave him a pin, and the very next day he’d clipped it to his bag. How desperate was he to show off his new relationship? Mrs. Harrison and my mom exchanged a meaningful look. “It’s good to stay in touch with old classmates! Tell her to come over for tea sometime!” Ethan looked at me, something challenging in his eyes. “What do you think?” I crossed my arms, forcing my lips into something resembling a smile. “I think it’s great. She’s gorgeous. You two look perfect together.” He froze. Something dark flickered across his face.

I started to head back to my room, but my mom called after me. “Maya, grab that bottle of wine for Mrs. Harrison. Take it down to the car so Mr. Harrison can try it too.” By the time I found the wine gift box, my mom and Mrs. Harrison were already at the elevator. Ethan let out a sigh and walked over. He knelt down, gently taking my ankle in his hands. Rested my foot on his knee. His hands were warm. The touch sent an unwanted shiver up my leg. “When did you get the cast off?” “Is it healing okay?” He examined my ankle with this serious, concerned look. The wrong ankle. He was holding the foot that was never injured. I could tell he was trying to make things right between us, patch things up. But what was there left to patch up at this point? He was about to be a father. The front door was wide open. My mom and Mrs. Harrison were right outside chatting. One glance back and they’d see us. I jerked my foot away, panic rising as I turned to put on my shoes. “Don’t worry about it.” He gripped both my shoulders, forcing me to turn and face him. “I had back-to-back flights that week. The next day I flew to Brussels—” I shoved his hands off. “Don’t. If someone saw us, they might get the wrong idea about our relationship.” He lowered his voice. “Maya, what the hell is that supposed to mean?” I finished putting on my shoes quickly. “We already broke up. No point letting people get the wrong idea.” “Especially now that you’ve got a new role to play.” Irritation crept into his voice. “What role?” I watched him play dumb, the words on the tip of my tongue. I swallowed them back. The whole thing was pathetic, really. Ethan didn’t have a single photo of us together on his phone. Not a trace of me anywhere on his social media. When we traveled together, he never let me post anything. Before, he always said our families were too close, that we’d go public when the timing was right. It wasn’t until we broke up and I heard what he really thought that I understood—he’d always been too embarrassed to be seen with me. Ethan frowned, forcing patience into his voice. “Maya, I just got back from an international flight yesterday. First thing this morning I went to buy you calcium supplements.” “You’re at a stage where you’re prone to calcium deficiency—” His phone cut him off mid-sentence. He pulled it out. Michelle’s name flashed across the screen. My voice came out flat, emotionless. “Better answer that. Don’t keep her waiting.” He stared at me, then deliberately hit speaker phone. A woman’s laugh came through first. “Ethan!” “Why’d you leave in such a rush yesterday?” “Your co-pilot got my number and texted me all night.” “He asked me to go to this bar tonight. You should come with me!” Ethan didn’t respond. Just watched me with an amused look, waiting. “Why are you looking at me? What does this have to do with me?” A soft laugh escaped his lips. “You’re the one who said it had nothing to do with you. Don’t regret it later.”

After they left, I grabbed the watering can and started watering the plants on the balcony. My mom chopped vegetables in the kitchen, calling out to me. “That Michelle girl—she’s a classmate of yours?” I answered without much interest. “Yeah.” “How come you’ve never mentioned her? Is she pretty?” “Gorgeous. Drop-dead gorgeous.” The chopping stopped abruptly. “Figures. Handsome pilots always end up with beautiful flight attendants.” “If they have kids, can you imagine how good-looking they’d be?” I zoned out for a second. Ethan probably thought the same thing. Last month at the high school reunion. Ethan deliberately sat half the table away from me to avoid looking suspicious. The moment Michelle walked in, she swapped seats with whoever was next to him. “I heard you made captain?” “Let me get a good look at you. Eye candy for the day.” “All the captains at my airline are ancient.” They had so much in common. Air traffic control, hotels, restaurants—they could talk for hours. Someone at the table teased Ethan. “I heard pilots always marry flight attendants. Is that true?” He answered completely seriously. “Yeah, there’s definitely some internal matchmaking that happens.” I shot him a glare and texted him under the table. **[Matchmaking my ass.]** **[angry emoji]** When everyone started leaving, my best friend Sarah and I walked ahead. Ethan and Michelle followed behind. Michelle was laughing about something, nearly doubled over. I glanced back without thinking and missed a step. Went tumbling down the stairs. “Maya! Are you okay?!” Sarah rushed over. My ankle swelled up almost immediately. A sharp, drilling pain shot through my leg. “Ethan…” His name left my lips on instinct. He started toward me, then stopped several steps away. I looked at him, silently begging. Even then, he chose to keep his distance. Sarah was freaking out. She had her husband carry me to the car and rushed me to the hospital. I gripped Sarah’s hand, my whole body shaking. “Sarah, I’m scared…” She held me tight, trying to soothe me. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the bone’s fine.” I clutched my stomach, tears streaming down my face. “I’m… I’m pregnant.” I’d just gotten the ultrasound confirmation a few days ago. Hadn’t had the chance to tell Ethan yet. But now this. My leg in a cast, a cold probe moving across my stomach. I silently prayed nothing was wrong. Then I heard the doctor’s verdict. “I’m sorry. There’s no heartbeat.” Lying in the hospital bed, I couldn’t sleep. Just stared at the ceiling, tears running silently down my face. Late that night, I saw Michelle post on Instagram. **[It’s been forever since a hot guy drove me home~ happy]** The next day, while Sarah was handling my discharge paperwork, Ethan finally showed up. I lay there numb, refusing to look at him. “Leave.” He didn’t say anything. Just moved to lift me into the wheelchair. I kicked him hard, voice rising. “Where were you when I actually needed you? What’s the point of showing up now?” He frowned. “Everyone from school was there yesterday. I didn’t want them to suspect anything if I acted too close to you.” “Besides, Sarah was with you the whole time. I didn’t think I should get in the way.” I stared at him as tears slid down my cheeks. “Ethan, how worthless am I to you? You’d rather leave me there bleeding on the ground than let anyone know I existed.” He took a deep breath. “It just happened so suddenly. I wasn’t prepared.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Don’t worry about being prepared. We’re done anyway.” I shoved him aside and threw myself clumsily into the wheelchair. He stood there and let out a cold laugh. “Whatever. I’ve got plenty of girls throwing themselves at me who are better than you anyway.” “Besides, who else are you gonna find without me?” Then he turned and walked out. Disappeared from my life completely.

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On the day we were supposed to register our marriage, Ryan Thorne’s men blocked me outside City Hall. Then he walked up to me, hand in hand with his first love, Camilla Reign. “Camilla’s child needs a legal identity. I’m marrying her first. Give it a month—once the divorce is finalized, I’ll come back for you.” Everyone who knew me was certain: Elina Morandi would wait. After all, I’d already waited seven years for him. But that night, I accepted the arranged marriage my family had brokered and boarded a flight to Geneva. Three years passed before I accompanied my godfather husband, Gregor Volkov, back to the States to handle family business. But something urgent came up at the last minute, and he sent the New York branch to pick me up from the airport instead. The person they sent was Ryan—whom I hadn’t seen in three years. He tilted his head, sizing me up, that familiar arrogance curling at the corner of his mouth—the same look I’d once grown so tired of. “Three years gone. Had enough of your little tantrum yet? Perfect timing—Camilla’s kid starts school soon. You’ll handle drop-off and pick-up.” … … In the arrivals hall, I spotted someone in the distance holding a sign with my code name on it. As I got closer, I realized the person holding the sign was Ryan Thorne—my ex-boyfriend of three years ago. Beside him stood Camilla and a few of his lackeys I vaguely recognized. The whole group was craning their necks toward the exit, scanning the crowd. One of them—a gaunt-faced man—spotted me first. “Hey—isn’t that the little leech who used to follow Ryan around? Elina?” Ryan turned at the sound, his gaze sliding from my face down to my clothes before one corner of his mouth hitched upward. “See? What did I tell you—she was always going to come crawling back.” Laughter erupted from every direction. “Vanishes for three years, and now that Ryan’s made it big, she’s kicking herself.” “If you’re going to stage a coincidental run-in, at least clean yourself up first. What are you even wearing?” “Don’t tell me you can’t even afford a decent outfit without Ryan. How far have you fallen?” The old me would have presented nothing less than perfection whenever I went to see Ryan. But now, there was absolutely no need for that. Since the pregnancy, Gregor wouldn’t let me touch cosmetics—only let me wear whatever felt comfortable. This loungewear was something he’d had custom-made for me; the fabric alone cost a fortune. But hearing their comments, I understood immediately—they only knew the code name on that sign. They had no idea the person they were here to collect was me. I was about to set the record straight when Camilla beat me to it. “Elina, don’t blame Ryan. He arranged things this way for your own good. After all, you disappeared for three years—God knows what you’ve been up to out there.” She swept her eyes over me, a thread of pity leaking from the corner of her lips. “Looking at the state of you… honestly, even if Ryan gave you my position as his personal assistant, you wouldn’t be able to handle it.” “Just help me look after the child.” Three years, and Camilla still had that same insufferable, holier-than-thou expression. Still just as capable of making my stomach turn. Ryan, meanwhile, misread my grimace as jealousy over him. A flicker of satisfaction passed through his eyes. “Come on. You couldn’t even hack it out there on your own, and you’re still putting on airs?” “Just be a good girl, take care of the kid, stop making a scene. Know your place.” “Don’t worry—I’ll set aside a servant’s room for you.” The crowd erupted into shameless laughter again. “Elina, look at that—Ryan’s being more than generous. He’s giving you room and board; all that’s missing is a paycheck.” “It’s just picking up Camilla’s kid. That’s better than roughing it out on the streets, isn’t it? Hurry up and thank the man.” Camilla flicked her earring, adopting a magnanimous pose. “Don’t worry. If my son misbehaves, I’ll discipline him myself. I’d never put you in an awkward position.” Ryan shot me a derisive glance. “What’s she got to feel wronged about? She vanished over some trivial nonsense, and now she’s back because she can’t survive on her own. If she suffers a little, she brought it on herself.” Hearing that, every inch of my body recoiled. Even now—he still thought marrying Camilla that day was just “some trivial nonsense”? The Ryan Thorne who once loved me was truly gone. He was no longer the boy who, battered and bleeding, had carried injured-me across half the city. No longer the young man who had nothing but swore he’d give me the best of everything. And certainly not the man who, even after making his fortune, still cooked for me with his own hands. But maybe that was fine. It was all in the past now. After all, I was about to give birth to my second child.

I pressed my emotions back down and looked at Ryan, my voice flat. “Aren’t you here to pick me up? Let’s go.” A beat of silence. A few of them exchanged glances, then burst into raucous laughter. Camilla scoffed, her voice ice-cold. “Wait for you? You think you’re worth waiting for?” She jabbed a finger at the code name on the sign. “Read it clearly. We’re waiting for the Godfather’s wife—the Donna of the Volkov family.” That was my code name. I was perfectly aware. “The Godfather rules the underworld with an iron fist—ruthless, untouchable—but for his wife alone, he’s utterly devoted. They say he refused to marry for years, just to wait for her.” “Everyone in the circle knows: if you want to win the Godfather’s favor, you’re better off winning over the Godmother first. She’s the one he cares about most.” Listening to them chatter, the corners of my mouth lifted involuntarily. Three years of marriage, and Gregor’s influence had only grown. His reputation as a man obsessively devoted to his wife had spread through every corner of the underworld. And Camilla would never pass up an opportunity to show off in front of me. “To win the Donna’s heart, the Godfather bid on a ‘Heart of the Ocean’ necklace at a world auction. Thirty million dollars.” She paused, and her gaze suddenly locked onto my neck. Her voice shot up an octave. “That’s the exact same one!” The room went silent. Every pair of eyes dropped in unison to the deep blue stone resting against my collarbone. Ryan seized my shoulder, glanced down at the necklace, then let out a derisive laugh. “Decent knock-off, I’ll give it that. Which broke loser bought you this flea-market junk? Gifting a fake—how embarrassing.” “Let go.” I shook off his hand, my fingertips lightly tracing the pendant. Remembering the night Gregor gave it to me as his proposal gift—the reverence and adoration in his eyes—I still felt a rush of sweetness. Seeing the happy smile spread across my face, Ryan’s pupils contracted sharply. “Smiling over garbage. How cheap can you get?” Before I could react, he reached up, clamped his fingers around the chain, and ripped the necklace off me. I hadn’t expected him to do that. I didn’t have time to stop it. Camilla was already striding forward, taking the necklace from his hand, turning it over and over beneath the light. “Even more convincing than my replica. Though I’d never actually wear mine out—too humiliating.” Then she laughed, fixing me with a look full of insinuation. “Unless—Elina, are you the legendary Volkov Donna?” The moment those words landed, the group around her howled with laughter. “Are you joking? The Godfather’s woman? Her? Three years ago Ryan kicked her out of their own wedding.” To them, the idea was utterly absurd. Gregor Volkov was an underground emperor whose reach spanned continents, feared by both sides of the law. And three years ago, I’d still been part of their circle—publicly discarded by Ryan. There was no conceivable way I could be connected to Gregor. Camilla dangled the chain. “Elina, let me have this necklace. I’ll pay you double.” Terrified she’d let it slip and shatter, I reached out instinctively. “Give it back. Gregor gave me that—” Before I could finish, a slap cracked across my face with enough force to snap my head sideways. Blood seeped from the corner of my mouth. “Shut up!”

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A package arrived. VIP contract from the city’s most exclusive Elite Postpartum Retreat. Patient name: Elena Morrison. I stared at it, confused. Then I called Leon. “Babe, why are you booking this so early? I’m only three months along!” Silence on the other end. A few beats too long. Then his gentle voice came through. “Sweetheart, I’m new at this whole dad thing. I want everything perfect for you. Don’t worry about it—I’ll handle it when I get home.” My chest warmed. I teased him for being ridiculous. “You’re not clueless. You’ve been amazing.” Leon was everyone’s golden boy—the perfect husband who anticipated my every need through this pregnancy. Attentive. Thoughtful. Loving. But when I pulled out the contract, my fingers froze. Estimated delivery date: next month. My baby was only three months along. The realization hit like ice water. His “first time being a father” wasn’t about my child. His experience came from another woman. *** It’s a printing error. Had to be. That’s what I told myself, even as my fingers betrayed me and pulled up the retreat’s website. I dialed. My voice stayed steady. “Hi, I need to verify an order. Last four digits 8867. Patient name Elena Morrison.” “One moment, please.” The receptionist’s voice dripped with professional warmth. “Ms. Morrison, your reservation is confirmed. Estimated delivery date is the 15th of next month. You’ve booked our premier suite. Mr. Morrison paid in full. The contract has been mailed!” My hand trembled around the phone. “You’re certain it’s… Elena Morrison? My ID number is—” “Confirmed, Ms. Morrison.” She cut me off. “Mr. Morrison specifically noted that you’re carrying twins and will need special care. Rest assured, we have state-of-the-art facilities and a 24-hour medical team. You and your babies will be in excellent hands.” Twins? I ended the call. Sat on the couch. My hands and feet went numb. The name was right. ID number matched. But I was carrying one baby. Only three months along. This retreat was expensive—the kind of place that could handle a walk-in delivery the day before labor and still provide white-glove service. So why book months in advance? Whose babies were being born next month? *** Leon came home after midnight. I sat in the dark, the contract spread on the coffee table. I’d read that line so many times I could recite it from memory. “Elena?” He flipped on the light. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” I didn’t answer. Just looked at him. He walked over, eyes soft, leaning down to kiss me. I turned my head away. “Elena?” Confusion crept into his voice. “Leon.” My voice came out calmer than I expected. “I got the contract today.” “Why does it say the delivery date is next month? And twins?” He paused mid-motion. Then he laughed. Crouched in front of me and took my hands. “I was going to tell you—their system made an error. I already contacted them to fix it.” He looked up at me, eyes filled with that familiar tenderness. “Babe, you’re pregnant. You can’t stress yourself out like this. It’s not good for the baby.” If this were before, I would’ve believed him. But this time, I didn’t miss the flash of panic in his eyes.

“System error?” I slowly pulled my hand away. “Then how did they get my pregnancy timeline wrong too?” Three months ago, when I found out I was pregnant, he cried. Said he’d never forget that day. But now this contract had two dates—and neither one matched my pregnancy. I looked at him, hoping he’d give me a reason I could believe. He said nothing. I felt my throat tighten. “It’s because their premier suites are so limited, isn’t it? That’s why you rushed to book it.” “Elena—” Leon stood, turning his back to me. His shoulders were rigid. Finally, he spoke. “Her name is Liana. She’s an intern at our company.” The name hit me like a gunshot. His voice dropped. “Last year at the holiday party, I had too much to drink… She’s young. She’s under a lot of pressure right now…” Too much to drink? I almost laughed. Didn’t anyone tell him that when he’s drunk, he can’t even get it up? “After that night, she got pregnant. Turned out to be twins.” His voice got quieter. “She wanted to terminate, but I said no. They’re two lives…” I finished for him: “So she’s giving birth at the retreat under my name?” “That way you get to keep your ‘perfect husband’ image.” “After all, your wife—Elena Morrison—is pregnant.” “Everyone will assume I gave birth to them. And your bastards become legitimate heirs.” Leon’s eyes stayed down. “You even made yourself a cover story,” I said, smiling through tears. “How thoughtful.” “Elena, I love you. I’ve only ever loved you.” He crouched down again, gripping my hands. “She was an accident. I have no feelings for her. I just…” “I just couldn’t let a young girl go through an abortion. It would damage her body. Once the babies are born, she’ll leave. I promise.” I looked at this man—the one I’d married three years ago, the one I thought I’d grow old with. My heart turned to ash. “You couldn’t bear to make her terminate… So I should?” Pain flickered across Leon’s face. Then he went silent. No more explanations. No more protests. No more declarations of love. That silence cut deeper than any words. He was waiting for me to say it. He didn’t want my baby. The thought struck like lightning. My entire body went cold. “Elena.” He looked up, pain still in his eyes—but what came out of his mouth was colder than anything before. “That girl has been… unstable lately. Threatening to hurt herself because the babies won’t have legal status.” He paused, the sympathy in his eyes undisguised. “Two days ago, she slit her wrists with a fruit knife. We caught her just in time.” He lowered his gaze to the floor. “Your body is strong. You recover fast. And you’ve had a miscarriage before, so one more time won’t matter.” My blood turned to ice. “What did you just say?” He didn’t look at me. Kept staring at the floor. “She’s different,” he said. “She’s only twenty-three. First pregnancy… She’s alone in this city, no family, no support.” I opened my mouth. No sound came out. “I know this hurts you.” His grip on my hand tightened. “But we can try again later. Your body is resilient—you got pregnant again after the last miscarriage. This time will be fine too.” He looked up, actual tears in his eyes. “Just… do this for me. Please?” I stared into those eyes. Heard every word. And I laughed. “Leon.” My voice came out soft. “Do you remember why I miscarried last time?”

He froze. “Because your mother thought I wasn’t good enough for you. We argued. She pushed me down the stairs.” His face went pale. “I was twenty-three then too. First pregnancy. All alone—I’d left my city, my parents, everything to be with you.” My tone stayed flat. “You don’t remember, do you?” “Elena, my mom didn’t mean to—” “I know.” I cut him off. “That’s why I forgave her.” “I believe she didn’t mean it. She looked terrified afterward.” “She just didn’t expect that you were standing right behind me… and you didn’t catch me.” Leon’s face drained of color. “Elena, how can you think that?” His voice rose. “That was my first child too. How could I deliberately not catch you?” I looked down at his hand gripping mine. That hand hadn’t caught me three years ago. And now, three years later, it was asking me to terminate again. “So.” I pulled my hand away. “Your mom pushed me, you failed to catch me, we lost that baby—all just accidents?” “Yes! Accidents. Nobody wanted that to happen.” “Then tell me.” I locked eyes with him. “Is this time an accident too?” He went silent. “Her pregnancy was an accident? You demanding I abort is an accident?” Each word landed like a hammer. “Leon, how is it that all your family’s ‘accidents’ happen to me?” His face flushed red. The room stayed quiet for a long time. So long I thought he wouldn’t speak again. Then he did. “Elena, what do you want me to do?” He looked up, eyes bloodshot. “It’s you on one side, her and two babies on the other—what the fuck am I supposed to do?” I stared at him. “What am I supposed to do? That’s what I should be asking you.” My voice cracked into a scream: “She’s young, first pregnancy, abortion would hurt her body—so she can’t be harmed, but I deserve it?” “That’s not what I meant—” “Then what DID you mean?” He said nothing. I looked at this face I’d known for three years. Suddenly it seemed like a stranger’s. So unfamiliar I didn’t even recognize who he was anymore. “Leon.” My voice steadied. “You’re asking me to kill my own child to make room for someone else’s. Do you know what that’s called?” His lips moved. “It’s called murder.” Each syllable deliberate. “You want me to murder my baby so I can raise your bastards.” “Elena—” I slapped him. The crack echoed through the room. His face whipped to the side. He stood frozen. My palm stung, but my chest hurt worse. “That slap was for my baby.” My voice didn’t shake. “Remember—you’re the one who didn’t want him.” “We’re getting divorced.”

He clutched his cheek, and there was even grievance in his eyes. “You can hit me. But don’t you dare say divorce.” “I told you—I never wanted to cheat. Our marriage is fine—” His phone rang. He hesitated for a few seconds, then walked away to answer. When he came back, his eyes held conflict. “Emergency at the office. I need to go.” I didn’t respond. “Just… cool down. We’ll talk when I get back.” He took a step toward the door, then turned back. “Given her condition, I have a responsibility to look after her right now.” “She’s about to give birth. I won’t have time for you these next few weeks. You’d be miserable anyway, heavily pregnant with nobody around.” “Better to do it while it’s early… You’ll suffer less.” “Once her babies are born and registered under your name, you’ll still be Mrs. Morrison. The children will be legitimate. Between us, nothing will change.” He looked at me, waiting for me to nod. But I had no energy left to deal with him. He sighed and left. The door closed. I stared at it and laughed. He made such perfect sense. She was giving birth. He had no time for me. I’d be alone, pregnant, with nobody. So better to terminate first? The night outside was deep. I sat motionless until dawn. The doorbell rang. I finally moved to answer it. Leon’s mother stood there with my sister-in-law Olivia, who’d just married into the family. “Elena, sweetie.” Olivia grabbed my hand immediately. “Mom got the call last night and couldn’t sleep. We came at first light to check on you.” The old Mrs. Morrison pulled me to sit on the couch. “I know you’re hurt. I’ll talk to Leon. But Elena, you need to understand his position too.” “That girl is carrying twins. Two lives.” I looked at her kind face, listening to her talk about “understanding” and “compassion.” “Mom.” My voice came out hoarse. “So you agree with Leon? I should abort my baby?” Her expression didn’t change. “They’re all my grandchildren. Of course I’d rather not lose any. But that girl threatened suicide. One wrong move and it’s three deaths.” She patted my hand. “The Morrison family can’t do something so immoral.” Immoral? Making me kill my own child wasn’t immoral? I yanked my hand back and stood. “I can’t do it.” My voice was firm. “This is my baby. Three months along. He has a heartbeat. I won’t abort him.”

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My name is Penny Wilson. A decade into my marriage, the house itself began to reject me. When I came home from work, the smart lock refused to open, no matter what. Yet my husband, Rod Becher, opened it with a single touch. The stove wouldn’t light when I turned the knob, but ignited instantly for him. Every light I switched on flickered and died within seconds. My side of the bed grew colder with each passing night. Our clothes in the wardrobe twisted themselves into impossible knots. When I reached for ice water, the dispenser shot out boiling liquid instead, blistering my hand in an instant. Even the sofa, perfectly sturdy moments before, collapsed beneath my weight, shattering my shin. In desperation, I wanted to replace everything. But Rod ran his hands through his hair, distressed. “We’ve already replaced half this house once, Penny. Doing it again will bankrupt us.” My mother-in-law, Jennifer Becher, rapped her knuckles against the table. “There’s nothing wrong with any of it. Stop taking your stress out on the furniture.” Even our son, Devin Becher, pointed an accusing finger at me. “Mom, you make such a racket every single day. Please just be quiet and let me finish my homework.” With no other choice, I endured it. But day by day, my nerves frayed, until one missed step on the stairs sent me crashing down. My head struck the floor with a sickening crack. Before my last breath, desperation washed over me. Why was my life such a misery? Did our house have a mind of its own? But why? What had I done to deserve this? When I opened my eyes again, I found myself transported back to the very day of our tenth wedding anniversary. After work, I stood before the door, punching in the code over a dozen times with no success. When Rod arrived with Devin, he pressed the buttons once. The lock clicked open immediately. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it? You must have entered the wrong code.” I couldn’t believe it, so I shut the door and tried again. The lock remained sealed. “Never mind, honey. Just get inside. It’s freezing out here.” As he reached for the handle, I caught his wrist. “Wait. Devin, you try.” Devin rolled his eyes, pouting with impatience. His fingers moved lazily across the keypad. “See? Can I do my homework now?” Something cold settled in my stomach. I turned away, heading straight for the kitchen, and twisted the stove knob. Not even a spark. After several frustrated minutes, Rod walked in to start dinner. The flame roared to life the moment he touched it. “I’ll cook tonight. You need some rest.” Fine. I retreated to the bedroom and threw open the wardrobe. Our clothes hung in perfect, pristine rows. It was all happening exactly as before. In my previous life, the problems had only multiplied after I’d replaced the lock and stove. So, should I replace them now? I didn’t think so. Rod could handle the door and the cooking anyway. This time, I would find out why this house hated me, and I would live. “Dad, your cooking is way worse than Mom’s.” Devin made a face at dinner, spitting out a barely-chewed bite onto his plate. Rod tapped his head lightly. “Hey, kiddo, I didn’t raise you to be such a picky eater.” But the next moment, Rod’s expression soured. He spat something onto his plate, half a small green worm. Calmly, I fished two jagged pieces of eggshell from the scrambled eggs. “Honey… I guess I’ll have to leave our meals to you after all.” Rod poked suspiciously at his plate before taking a cautious bite. “You know, we’ve had that stove for years now. It’s old. And the lock, too. Let’s just replace them both.” “But they work perfectly fine for you and Devin. It’s only me they don’t work for.” I didn’t agree readily. Last time, I had been the one to insist on replacements, unable to stand another day of his terrible cooking. But this time, I’d said nothing. Yet here he was, suggesting it first. Was he behind this? Still, I agreed in the end. The technician was scheduled for a time I’d normally be at work, so I requested leave. “You need time off to wait for an appliance repair? Do you think this is a daycare center?” My supervisor, Colin Buck, slammed his coffee mug down. He refused outright. Yet when I finally got home, the technician had just arrived. “You wanted to oversee it yourself, so I had him reschedule for later,” Rod explained. His eyes held that patient warmth I’d fallen in love with years ago. For a moment, I felt a pang of guilt for suspecting him. Ten years of marriage. He’d been a perfect husband. Given my difficult background, he had always been patient with me, and we rarely fought. He’d been the primary caregiver after Devin was born. And seeing how difficult my delivery had been, he’d even convinced his parents to drop their relentless pressure for a second child. By the time the technician finished his work, darkness had fallen outside. I suggested we eat out. After a warm meal, we walked home carrying drinks, and for the first time in what felt like ages, something like peace settled over me. I hadn’t felt this relaxed in what seemed like a lifetime. In my previous life, I’d been perpetually on edge, waiting for the next disaster. At least tonight, I could shower and sleep in peace, I told myself. Tomorrow’s trouble was for tomorrow. But when I opened the wardrobe, my breath caught in my throat. The clothes were tangled into a snarled mess, exactly like before. Panic rising, I rushed to the kitchen and twisted the gas stove knob with trembling fingers. It sputtered weakly, but refused to ignite. Rod had opened the door when we’d arrived home earlier. Recalling that, I ran outside and slammed the door shut behind me. With deliberate care, I entered the code. The lock refused to open. The nightmare was back.

“Penny, the supervisor is expecting you.” As I walked into Colin’s office on unsteady legs, I flinched at the sharp rap of his knuckles on the desk. “What did you do last night, rob banks? I reviewed an hour of security footage. You were asleep for fifty minutes of it!” I kept my head down, swallowing the shame and frustration that rose in my chest. “It won’t happen again, sir.” He took a slow, deliberate sip of coffee, his heavy-lidded gaze weighing me. “Let’s hope so. Because next time, you’ll be packing your things. This company doesn’t carry dead weight.” Back at my desk, I fought to keep my eyes open and work. The night before, my side of the bed had grown icy cold, so cold that two extra blankets had done nothing against it. I’d dragged them to the sofa instead, but the moment I lay down, the support beneath my waist gave way. Luckily, I was braced for it and grabbed the backrest. Otherwise, I would’ve fallen and broken a bone, just like last time. After a while, feeling better, I’d switched on the light to pour myself some water. Once again, the bulb barely flickered before dying. Under my phone’s flashlight, I got near the water dispenser. I’d filled half a cup with hot water, then pressed the cold tap. But what poured out sent ribbons of steam curling into the air. If I had drunk it without thinking or spilled it, I’d have been scalded all over again. In the end, I’d left the cup on the nightstand to cool and crawled back into bed. My nerves were too frayed for sleep, and the water had sat untouched eventually. No one could understand my situation. My boss was unreasonable, yes, but I was lucky to have such a job at my age. And for that very reason, I didn’t dare talk back at him. The good thing was that it was Friday. After work, I’d finally have time to dig deeper into whatever was happening to me. “Honey, what are you doing?” Rod was confused as he watched me lift the mattress, scissors in hand. I was done living in fear, just waiting to fall to my death. I had to find the cause. The scissors bit into the fabric, and I tore a slit along the edge. Inside, just ordinary latex foam. Disappointment washed over me. Why, then, did it grow colder the longer I lay on it? “Maybe you’re run down. I’ll ask Mom to bring over some soup. You need to rest and eat properly.” I tried to refuse, but Jennifer showed up anyway. She keyed in the code herself, opened the door, and headed straight to the kitchen. Nothing went wrong. “Eat up, Penny. Look at those dark circles under your eyes.” “Thanks, Mom.” In my last life, before I insisted on replacing the furniture for the second time, Jennifer had always treated me like her own daughter. She never held back her thoughts. Now she leaned close, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve checked the house. Everything’s fine. But if you keep feeling something’s wrong, maybe it’s something we can’t explain. Should we have a medium come take a look?” I’d never believed in that kind of thing. Last time, I’d refused outright. But after the miracle happened to me, I nodded. The next day, a medium arrived. He moved slowly through each room, one hand trailing along the walls, the other held open at his side as though feeling for something invisible. After he circled the room, he stopped abruptly and turned to face me. His eyes settled on me and didn’t move. My heart dropped into my stomach. Was he about to blame everything on me? I never should have agreed to this. Jennifer stepped forward, her face pale with worry. “Sir, please — what do you sense?” “Don’t rush. What finds you was drawn by what surrounds you.” He extended one finger, pointing just past my shoulder. “There’s a heavy presence attached to you, ma’am. Something bitter. Unresolved.” A chill crawled down my spine. I grabbed Rod’s arm, my voice shaking. “What is it? Does it mean us harm?” “You were supposed to be abandoned, yet somehow, you managed to become a wife, enjoying ten years of comfort. That’s why this is happening to you.” He shook his head slowly, his expression grave. Then he turned his gaze directly on me. “If you don’t walk away from this marriage within one month, not only you, but your child will suffer the consequences.” After he left, I stared blankly at our wedding photo on the nightstand. These ten years had been happy. And to continue that, I’d endured every hardship of people judging me as an orphan girl who’d married up. Now, however, I was being told to give it all up, even if I’d done nothing wrong. “Don’t think about it. It’s all nonsense.” Rod pulled me into his arms, his voice soft. “You’ll always be my wife. Always.” But from the living room, Jennifer’s voice carried clearly over the phone, and every word hit like a verdict. “Alas, the medium was quite accurate, you know.”

I was raised in an orphanage until I aged out of the system. So that part, at least, was true. I didn’t want to believe the medium. I didn’t want a divorce. But for Devin’s sake, I rented a small apartment near the office. “Do you really have to go this far? Don’t let his words get to you. We’ve made it ten years together…” “That’s enough.” I cut him off. “I’m going in. You should go home.” I got out of the car before he could say another word to shake my resolve. “Just call often, okay? I’ll bring Devin to see you.” Before entering the apartment complex, I couldn’t help myself and glanced back. The rear window was down. Devin sat in the backseat, his eyes red and swollen. When he saw me looking, he turned his face away. I knew my stubborn little boy had a soft heart. I hurried inside the apartment. I actually slept through the night in the rental. My phone rang just after I opened my eyes. Devin called me on Rod’s phone. “Mom, come home!” His voice was bright, hopeful. “I just figured it out. Zoe’s been crawling into your closet! He must’ve tangled all your clothes!” My heart softened despite everything. Zoe was the neighbor’s hairless cat, and Devin adored him, bringing him over from time to time. Maybe the cat really was the culprit. “Okay, sweetie. I’ll be home after work.” “Not bad. Keep it up.” Colin’s voice came from directly behind me. Thank God I’d actually been working this time. At lunch, a coworker leaned across the table. “Everything okay at home, Penny? You looked so down the past few days, but today you’re practically glowing.” “It’s nothing,” I said, but deep inside, I was so relieved. If the cat had caused the mess of the clothes, it wouldn’t be long before I uncovered the root of all that happened to me. After work, I ran into my neighbor, Elvira Yerkes, in the hallway, so I asked casually if Zoe was around. “Oh, he’s been gone for days. My daughter took him to her grandpa’s place in the countryside.” All the strength drained from my body. I couldn’t help but lean against the wall for support. Zoe had been gone for three days. But my clothes had been tangled into a knotted mess in his absence. It wasn’t the right time for me to return home. “Penny! Oh my God, Penny — I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” A woman in her fifties rushed toward me, grabbing my arm. A man about the same age stood behind her. “You’ve got the wrong person.” Not in the mood, I tried to pull free. “No — you’re my daughter!” She yanked my sleeve up past my elbow. “You were born with a small growth right here. Your father fought with the doctors just to get it removed when you were a baby!” Some of the tension left my expression despite myself. “Sweetheart, we searched for so long to find you. Can we go somewhere and talk?” She said it while pressing the back of her hand to her cheek — yet not a single tear glistened there. I brought them back to the apartment and got them some water. “I thought we were close to your house. Why did you bring us here?” I didn’t answer. I just wanted to know why they’d really come. “Listen,” the woman said, setting down her cup with a sharp clink. “We need to be honest with you. Your father’s been sick. The hospital bills have wiped us out completely. We’re in serious debt — close to twenty thousand dollars — and we have no way to cover it.” She leaned forward, her voice softening into something practiced and rehearsed. “You’re family. You’re the only one who can help us right now.” “Get out.” I grabbed a mop from the corner and advanced on them both. I was six or seven when I got lost, old enough to remember what things were really like. One day, Dad came home drunk, same as always. Mom couldn’t take it anymore and dragged me to a grocery store, planning to grab a few things before catching a bus out of town. But the store was packed, and in the chaos, I was separated from her. I wasn’t sure she ever looked for me. I ended up in the foster system and eventually aged out of an orphanage. And now, after all these years, the first thing out of her mouth wasn’t how I’d survived or where I’d been. It was a number — a debt she expected me to pay. No way I’d grant her wish. Rod should have been home by now. I needed to see him, to pour out everything. I reached our doorstep and hesitated. Instinctively, I stood on my toes and peered through the peephole. What I saw made my blood run cold. I covered my mouth to stifle a scream and staggered backward. I saw it. I finally saw it. The real reason the home I’d shared for ten years had turned against me.

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I attended my boyfriend’s company year-end gala as his guest — and it was the last place I expected trouble to find me. His “best buddy,” Stella Vance, leaned into Damian’s side and sneered at me with a smile. “Miss Aria, I’ve heard some interesting things about you.” She tilted her head. “Your mother clawed her way up as a mistress, and after you came of age, you continued the family tradition — bouncing from one sugar daddy’s bed to the next. Only recently did you manage to snag Damian.” She paused, as though savoring the moment, then added sweetly, “Oh, and I’m very close with your plastic surgeon, by the way.” She pressed her fingers to her lips in mock horror, cutting a glance at Damian. “Oops. I forgot — women who claw their way up through surgery and seduction hate having their past dragged out. Damian, don’t be mad at me, I just can’t help being honest.” Damian’s smile froze on his face. A second ago he’d been bragging to his colleagues about my looks and my so-called “good family background.” I looked at Stella Vance more carefully. The longer I stared, the more familiar she seemed. Then it clicked. Wasn’t this the woman who’d simultaneously strung along over a dozen high-ranking Mafia bosses — scheduling conflicts and all — until their wives put out a joint hit on her? She’d shown up on her knees outside my family estate, begging for her life. I’d taken pity on her and had the contract lifted. I wonder, I thought, how thrilled those bosses’ wives would be to know she was here tonight. I quietly reached into my clutch and switched on my voice recorder. As the next head of the Philadelphia Mafia, I had one rule: run things like a legitimate operation. Evidence first. Always. The moment Stella finished her little speech, every admiring glance that had been directed at Damian curdled into something else. A colleague laughed awkwardly to ease the tension. “You must have the wrong person. Miss Aria comes from serious money — she’d never need to be anyone’s mistress.” Stella didn’t deny it. She only sighed, slowly and deeply. “True. Credit where it’s due — her mother was clever. Selling herself to a rich man, becoming his mistress for the money. Not everyone has that kind of forward-thinking.” She smiled. “Though, honestly? I wouldn’t want that kind of ‘old money.’ It’s tainted.” I felt a cold jolt in my chest. She actually dared. If my father — the man who had built an empire just to spoil my mother — ever found out what she’d just said, Stella Vance wouldn’t be safe anywhere in Philadelphia. Noticing my expression shift, Stella curled further into Damian’s side. “Did I say something wrong again?” she murmured up at him, all soft eyes and helpless shrugs. “I’m sorry, I’m just not as calculating as some people. I say what I think.” I bit down on every urge to slap her. I had just issued a directive that the family was not to strike women without cause. While I was distracted, my wine glass tilted. Red wine splashed across Stella’s white dress. She shrieked. Her eyes filled with tears on cue. “Sis-in-law — you’d get violent just because I told the truth?” She shook her head in disbelief. “You should be impressed that you pulled it off, honestly. I’m almost jealous of how convincingly you’ve fooled everyone.” Damian’s face went cold in an instant. He picked up the napkin from the table and began carefully dabbing at Stella’s dress. Then he turned his glare on me. “Stella’s always been blunt — she doesn’t mean any harm. What the hell is wrong with you?” He pointed at me, jaw tight. “Apologize. Now.” I almost laughed. Stella had spent the last ten minutes spreading slander about me, and Damian had stood by without a word. But the second his precious “buddy” got a wine stain, he was ready to go to war. Stella wiped her eyes and pressed her cheek against Damian’s shoulder. “It’s fine. I probably mistook her for someone else. I was just joking around.” I looked at her, my voice flat. “Claims require evidence. I don’t have a sense of humor. I don’t understand jokes.” The words were also for Damian — a quiet reminder. Don’t believe things without proof. Damian blinked. His hand, still holding the napkin to Stella’s dress, slowly stilled. Stella stiffened almost imperceptibly. She was losing her grip on him. But she recovered fast, her eyes going wide with wounded innocence. “I’m sorry. That’s what your surgeon told me. I shouldn’t have repeated it without checking.” I rested my chin on my hand and studied her. “Which clinic? Which surgeon?” If she named one, it was evidence. I expected her to stumble. Instead, she looked at me with sudden, earnest sincerity. “Sis-in-law, even without surgery, you wouldn’t be that bad-looking. There’s really no need to go in for touch-ups a dozen times a month.” The table went quiet. Colleagues exchanged glances, disgust flickering across their faces. A female colleague sitting beside Stella gave a long, knowing smile. “The world really does belong to women like her — get a little work done, spread your legs, and suddenly you’re rich and untouchable.” “Not like Stella and me.” She gestured between them with false modesty. “We’re all natural. We believe in marrying for love.”

Damian cared about his image more than anything else. He’d brought me to this gala specifically to show me off. He hadn’t anticipated being embarrassed. He knocked back an entire glass of whiskey without looking at anyone. I kept my voice level. “My monthly income is two hundred thousand. Damian’s is thirty thousand.” I looked at the colleague. “Tell me again — who’s the one being kept?” The man with glasses across the table snickered. “Two hundred grand a month? That’s quite a ‘specialty,’ sis-in-law.” “Damian’s the real winner here,” someone else chimed in. “Most men burn through cash dating — he found one where a whole rotation of benefactors fund his lifestyle. Ha!” “Enough.” Damian slammed his fist into the glasses-man’s face, shattering his frames. I felt nothing. I knew he wasn’t defending me. His ego had simply taken a hit. The man with broken glasses clenched his fist, ready to retaliate — but at that precise moment, the emcee’s voice boomed from the stage, spotlight swinging to our table. “Next up — table five! We need everyone from table five!” The whole room turned to look. The glasses-man uncurled his fist and swallowed his anger. For now. The game was simple. Each person at the table shared one moment from work that had moved them. The person who told the best story won their choice of a prize. The first few stories were unremarkable. A boss who remembered someone’s coffee order. A client who said “thank you” for once. When it was Stella’s turn, she slid her eyes to me — a quick, deliberate glance — and smiled. “Last month, I drank too much at a client dinner.” Her voice was soft, confessional. “I called Damian at two in the morning.” “He was on a business trip, but he came straight back. Looked after me the whole night…” She paused. “Later, I found out his girlfriend had been trying to reach him that same night.” Murmurs of approval rippled through the tables. “That’s Damian — always puts people first.” “Dependable when it counts.” The applause swallowed me whole. I sat completely still, as though the chair beneath me had turned to ice. That night, I’d been in a car accident. My phone shattered on impact. The only number I had memorized was Damian’s. He answered in one ring, told me he was traveling, and went unreachable. I nearly died that night. After I was discharged, Damian knelt at my hospital bed and beat his own face with his palms, over and over. “Aria, I was only working so hard because I wanted to marry you — I wanted to give you everything. I swear I didn’t know it would be that bad.” I looked at him now. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. His jaw was locked tight. The emcee declared Stella the winner. She was invited to choose a prize. She scanned the table of options and spotted a luxury med-spa VIP card. She gasped in theatrical delight. “Damian ignored his girlfriend for me that night — she’s the one who loves going under the knife. Consider this my apology to her!” She laughed. Then she turned, and her gaze found me in the crowd. Her voice climbed two registers. “Actually — she’s here! She’s at the gala tonight! She’s right there!” The spotlight operator followed her pointing finger and flooded me in white light. Voices erupted. “She’s had work done? She looks so natural.” “That kind of result must cost a fortune.” Stella grabbed the microphone from the emcee. “Don’t worry about the cost, everyone — she pulls in two hundred thousand a month.” She let the smile hang on her face, loaded with implication. A wave of knowing sounds rolled through the room. Men began looking at me the way they’d look at something for sale. I fixed my gaze on Stella, my voice quiet and precise. “Spreading rumors without evidence is dangerous. Some statements carry consequences.” She hummed dismissively and pulled out her phone. She held it up so the whole room could see. “I’m not spreading rumors.” On screen: a before-and-after photo from a plastic surgery clinic. The “after” image — the successful result — was my face.

Laughter and mockery rolled through the room like a tide. “Worth every penny — even a pig can become a beauty queen! Incredible!” “Which surgeon did this? I need a referral!” I stood up, ready to speak. Damian crossed the room in three strides and slapped me across the face. “Aria!” He seized Stella’s phone, his eyes burning with a fury that looked almost like betrayal. “I worked eight years in advertising — I know what an unedited photo looks like! The lighting is consistent. The skin texture matches. You lied to me. This whole time.” I didn’t answer. I straightened slowly. The desire to explain had died somewhere along the way. What I was quietly calculating instead was simpler: that slap was worth five fingers. His. Stella touched Damian’s arm, her voice honeyed. “It’s fine. Girls like pretty things. A little surgery is perfectly normal.” She tilted her head at me. “Not like us — I barely even moisturize.” I looked at Stella’s perfectly blended, meticulously applied “no-makeup makeup” and smiled to myself. When I got around to pouring makeup remover on her face, she’d discover exactly what she actually looked like. The emcee announced the next segment — a duet performance. Stella and Damian. I watched their backs as they walked up to the stage, side by side, and let my mind wander. Damian wasn’t wrong about the photo. It wasn’t retouched. But the “before” and “after” were two different people. What I was truly puzzling over was simpler: how had Stella Vance gotten hold of my university ID photo? I opened a message thread and sent a task to my team. [I want everything on Stella Vance. Thirty minutes.] On stage, Damian dropped to one knee. He sang to Stella, eyes full of something I used to think was reserved for me. “Say you’ll marry me today…” Something hollowed out inside my chest. When had the man who once seemed to blaze with light become so dim? I remembered the first time I’d met Damian. I was abroad, robbed clean, standing on a foreign street wondering whether to call in a family favor. Then he appeared. He’d draped his own coat over my shoulders, walked me to the embassy, stayed while I filed a police report. He had no money to spare, but he pressed every bill in his wallet into my hands. The day they caught the thief, he was more excited than I was. Beneath the Eiffel Tower, he’d confessed his feelings and sworn himself to me — only me, always. Back in Philadelphia, he forgot every word of it. He’d walk out of a movie at the best part because Stella called. He’d murmur her name in his sleep after a few drinks — “I’ll drink her share, don’t give her a hard time.” His family dinners never had a place for me, but Stella was always at the head of the table. I reached for my purse, done with all of it — and felt my phone buzz. My team had responded. [Boss. Stella Vance is a serious problem.] [The case files are ready. Say the word.] I frowned and tapped the link they’d sent. Stella’s influencer profile loaded on my screen. I scrolled for two seconds. Then my breath stopped.

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My mother ran the clinic her whole life, charging forty dollars flat for uninsured patients—consultation and medicine included. When I took over, I followed her example, doing everything I could for our neighbors. But after I charged an influencer forty dollars for a visit, the entire internet called me a scam artist and a predator. The whole town turned on me, demanding refunds for every visit they’d ever made. I gave them what they wanted—transferred every cent the clinic had to the town’s community fund. Then I locked the doors, helped my mother into the truck, and left. “You got what you wanted. The clinic is closed.” “From now on, drive the thirty miles to County General yourselves. Pay their rates. I’m done.” The next day, my phone wouldn’t stop ringing. It was them begging me to come back. …… “Forty dollars? For this?” The young woman speaking was Vivian Blake, an influencer who’d recently moved back to town. She had mild stomach upset from the well water. I’d prescribed a gentle antacid and some probiotics. “Miss, forty dollars is the standard rate. It covers the consultation and the medication. Same price I charge everyone.” “You’re insane!” She held up her phone, screen facing me. “I can buy digestive enzymes on Amazon for ten bucks. TikTok doctors recommend natural remedies that cost even less!” “You’re charging forty dollars for a five-minute talk and some generic pills? This is a scam!” I kept my voice calm. “Those supplements aren’t FDA-regulated. What I prescribed is actual medicine. The forty dollars also covers my medical license, my training, and the liability I assume by treating you.” She scoffed. “Please. You run a cash-only clinic in the middle of nowhere because real hospitals won’t hire you.” “You prey on people here who can’t afford insurance. It’s disgusting.” She raised her voice so everyone in the small waiting room could hear. “Everyone, listen! This doctor is ripping us off! Forty bucks for nothing!” The neighbors waiting—people I’d known for years—shifted uncomfortably. Little Emma jumped up from her seat, face flushed. “That’s not true! Dr. Moore is nice!” “Last month when I had strep, he gave me antibiotics and didn’t even charge my mom because she’d just lost her job!” A small warmth cut through my frustration. I gave Emma a nod. Vivian crouched down, shoving her phone in the girl’s face. “Sweetie, he did that to make himself look good. It’s called manipulation.” “He overcharges everyone else to make up for it. You’re too young to understand how scammers work.” “Don’t talk to her like that,” I said quietly. Vivian straightened, smirking. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it?” She pulled up a TikTok video—some influencer in scrubs claiming “small-town doctors are running insurance scams on the poor.” “See? Experts have already exposed people like you.” I could see it happening—doubt creeping into my neighbors’ eyes. The same people I’d treated for free. The same people whose kids I’d seen at 2 a.m. for emergencies. Now they were looking at me like I was a con artist. “If you don’t trust me, you’re free to go somewhere else,” I said evenly. “I’m not forcing you to be here.” Vivian’s jaw dropped in mock outrage. “So now you’re refusing to treat me? That’s abandonment. That’s illegal.” She dug into her purse, pulled out two twenty-dollar bills, and slammed them on the counter. “Here. Take your dirty money.” I’d given her a diagnosis and treatment; naturally, I deserved to be paid. Without a word, I crouched down and collected the money. Then she raised her phone, recording as I picked up the bills. “Everyone watching—Dr. Moore just took forty dollars from me for his scam clinic.” “Got the proof right here.” I stared at her, realizing too late what she’d done. Before I could say anything, she was already walking toward the door, phone still recording. “Get out,” I said quietly. “Oh, I’m leaving.” She tossed her hair. I thought that would be the end of it.

The next morning, I unlocked the clinic and found about twenty people in the parking lot. People I’d treated dozens of times, all standing there with their phones out. They weren’t blocking the door, but they were filming. Phones out, pointed at me. My phone had been buzzing since dawn. I pulled up the town Facebook group—”Pinewood Community Board.” Vivian’s video was pinned at the top. “EXPOSED: Local ‘Doctor’ Charges $40 for Scam Visits—Here’s Proof” The video had been edited. It showed her handing me the cash. Me taking it with a blank expression. Then me telling her to get out. No context. No explanation. The comments were vicious. “Always knew that clinic was sketchy.” “I paid him $40 last year for bronchitis. I want my money back.” “He’s been scamming us for YEARS.” “Report him to the state medical board.” Tom Harris stepped forward, his face twisted with anger. Tom. My best friend since we were seven years old. The same Tom whose son I’d saved from a severe asthma attack just six months ago, staying up all night in this clinic because the hospital was too far. Now he was looking at me like I was a stranger. Like I was a monster. “Evan, your mother ran this clinic with integrity for forty years, and now you’re running it into the ground.” “How could you dishonor everything she built like this?” I stared at him. “I charge the same rate she did—” “Don’t play dumb.” He turned his phone screen toward me. Vivian’s post had over five thousand shares now. And beneath it, a new comment thread: User @HealthTruthSeeker: “FYI rural doctors often pocket federal grant money meant to lower patient costs. Clinics like Moore’s are legally required to pass those savings on. He’s stealing from this community.” It was a complete lie. I’d never applied for those grants—they required mountains of paperwork and government oversight. I kept costs low by buying generic supplies in bulk and working alone. But nobody cared about facts. Tom Harris pushed to the front, his son on his hip. “Then explain this, Why’d you take her money if you knew she was complaining?” “Yeah!” someone yelled from the back. “Just admit you got caught!” “Give us our money back!” “Refund! Refund!” The crowd got louder. I looked at their faces. Mrs. Patterson—who I’d treated for arthritis for free when her insurance lapsed. Jake—whose hand I’d saved in an emergency surgery at midnight. Tom’s son—who I’d treated for pneumonia and only charged for the antibiotics. All of them staring at me like I was the enemy. My mother appeared behind me in the doorway, pale and thin. “Evan… what’s happening?” Vivian’s voice cut through the noise. She was livestreaming from the edge of the lot, narrating to her phone like a news anchor. “Update, fam: The so-called ‘good doctor’ can’t even defend himself.” “If he was really helping people, why is everyone so angry?” Her chat exploded with comments. “Burn him!” “Make him pay!” “Small towns deserve better!” I felt my mother’s hand on my shoulder. “Evan, don’t. Just close the door—” “No.” I stepped forward. “I want to hear what they actually think I did wrong.” Mrs. Patterson stepped forward like a witness at a trial. She pushed through the crowd, leaning heavily on her cane, her face contorted with anger. “My back has been hurting for months! You’ve been ‘treating’ me all this time, giving me those arthritis pills week after week!” “Mrs. Patterson, I was giving you the safest possible dose to avoid damaging your—” “You were deliberately giving me slow-acting medicine!” she shouted. “So I’d have to keep coming back! So you could keep charging me!” “That’s not true—” “Forty dollars every two weeks! For months! You were milking me dry!” The crowd murmured in agreement, phones still recording. I opened my mouth to explain that I’d been treating her for free half the time, that I’d only charged her for the medication itself, but she’d already turned away. Then, Vivian suddenly moved forward with a camera in hand, her voice sharp and cutting. “And worse,” her voice rising, “we have reports that you’ve made female patients uncomfortable during exams.” My blood went cold. “What?”

Vivian pushed Christine Liu forward. Christine was pale, wouldn’t meet my eyes, her hands trembling as she wrung them together. “Tell him,” Vivian said, her voice gentle but her eyes hard as steel. Christine’s voice shook, barely above a whisper. “Last month… when you treated my back pain…” She paused, taking a shuddering breath. “You made me completely unhook my bra even though I told you the pain was in my lower back.” My stomach dropped. “Christine, that’s not—” “You stood too close,” she continued, her voice getting stronger, like she was reading from a script. “Pressing against me from behind. Your hands didn’t just stay on my back.” She looked up, tears streaming down her face now. “You slipped your hands down under the waistband of my pants, touching my hips, and… and you touched near my chest.” The world tilted. The crowd’s reaction was instantaneous—gasps, curses, someone’s phone clattering to the pavement. “That never happened!” I shouted, my voice cracking with desperation. “I examined your lumbar spine! Standard palpation! You kept your shirt on!” “ALONE!” Vivian’s voice cut through like a whip. “You took her behind that privacy curtain! Alone! No female nurse! No witness!” She wheeled on the crowd, her phone capturing everything. “He runs this entire operation by himself! No oversight! No accountability! Who knows what he does to vulnerable women when that curtain is closed?!” “This is insane—” I started, but my voice was drowned out. “Is it?” Vivian thrust her phone at me. “Christine, did he have a female nurse present during the exam?” “No,” Christine whispered. “Did anyone witness what happened behind that curtain?” “No.” Vivian’s smile was triumphant, vicious. “So it’s your word against hers. And we know predators always claim they’re innocent.” My mouth went dry, my mind racing for any way to prove this didn’t happen. But she was right—I’d been running the clinic alone for years because I couldn’t afford staff, because I was trying to keep costs down for these same people now staring at me with disgust. Every exam behind that curtain, every moment of privacy I’d given patients to preserve their dignity, had just become a weapon. “I have security cameras—” I said desperately. “In the waiting room!” Vivian shot back. “Not behind the exam curtain. Because that would be illegal, wouldn’t it? So convenient for you.” She turned to the crowd. “No cameras. No witnesses. No accountability. Just a predator and his victims.” The faces around me shifted from anger to horror, from suspicion to absolute revulsion. Mrs. Patterson’s hand flew to her mouth. Tom Harris pulled his son behind him, shielding the boy from me like I was radioactive. Even little Emma’s mother had grabbed her daughter and retreated to the back of the crowd. “I would never—” My voice broke. “I’ve treated you people for free! I’ve been here for five years, I’ve saved lives—” “Predators hide in plain sight,” Vivian said, her voice calm and cold as ice. “That’s exactly what they do. They build trust, then they exploit it.” Her livestream chat was a blur of vitriol. DISGUSTING PIG ARREST HIM CASTRATE HIM Then Jake pushed forward, cradling his bandaged hand like it was a war wound. “And he’s not just a pervert—he’s a butcher!” Jake shouted, his voice full of theatrical pain. “Look at this!” He held up his hand, unwrapping the bandages to show the surgical scar. “He did an illegal emergency surgery on me in this sketchy clinic! No proper equipment! No sterile field! My hand is permanently damaged because of him!” “That’s a lie!” I roared. “Your hand was mangled in a machine accident! I saved it! You would have lost the whole hand if I hadn’t—” “You butchered me!” Jake screamed back. “I’m filing a lawsuit! Medical malpractice! This quack nearly killed me!” The crowd erupted. Voices overlapped, accusations flying like knives. “He’s a predator AND a fraud!” “How many people has he hurt?” “My daughter saw him last year—did he touch her too?” I stood there, surrounded by the people I’d bled for, watching everything I’d built disintegrate in real-time. My mother’s voice cut through the chaos, thin and trembling. “Stop this! All of you, stop!” She pushed past me, her frail body shaking with fury and fear. “My son is a good man! Our family has given everything to this town! Everything!” She looked at them with eyes full of tears and betrayal. “When your children were sick, who stayed up all night? When you couldn’t pay, who treated you anyway? We sacrificed everything for you!” For a moment, the crowd wavered. Then Vivian stepped forward, getting right in my mother’s face. “Like mother, like son,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “You ran a scam clinic for forty years, so of course you raised a predator.” My mother’s face went white. “How dare you—” “You taught him how to prey on desperate people!” Vivian continued, louder now, playing to the cameras. “You’re just as guilty as he is!” My mother staggered back like she’d been struck. I saw it happen in slow motion—her hand flying to her chest, her face contorting in pain, her eyes going wide with shock and agony. “Mom!” She collapsed backward, and I lunged to catch her before she hit the pavement. Her weight was nothing in my arms, just skin and bones, her heart hammering erratically against my chest. “Mom, stay with me! Stay with me!” Her lips moved but no sound came out. Heart attack. Maybe stroke. She needed a hospital NOW. I lifted her in my arms and started toward my truck. The crowd shifted, and suddenly Vivian was in front of me, with Tom Harris and Jake and others forming a human wall. “Get out of my way!” I shouted. “Not until you refund our money!” Vivian yelled back. “My mother is DYING!” “Then you better pay up fast!” someone screamed from the mob. They didn’t move. My mother was dying in my arms, her pulse weakening by the second, and they were blocking me over MONEY. I looked at their faces—faces twisted with greed and self-righteousness, not a shred of humanity left. “Please,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Please, she needs help—” “REFUND US FIRST!” Something inside me didn’t break. It calcified into pure, cold hatred.

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At my best friend’s wedding, I caught the bouquet she tossed—only to have my mafia boyfriend hand it to another woman. Every eye in the room turned to Dante, exchanging knowing looks. Dante Romano—my boyfriend of eight years, son of the mob boss who controlled the entire city. The crowd erupted in cheers: “Marry her! Marry her!” “It’s time to propose!” Dante was pushed through the crowd until he stood right in front of me. I blushed, waiting for him to say he’d marry me. The bridesmaid beside him pouted. “But I want it too.” He immediately yanked the bouquet from my hands. Handed it to the bridesmaid. Then patted my shoulder dismissively. “She wants it, so let her have it. Be the bigger person. You’ll get one next time.” My eyes followed the flowers as they left my hands. Watched that girl’s face light up with surprise and shy delight. Forced a smile. Dante had no idea there wouldn’t be a next time. My wedding was next week. … Lana’s face went dark instantly. I grabbed her hand before she could swing it. She whipped around, eyes redder than mine: “That bitch did it on purpose! I told every single bridesmaid the bouquet was meant for you…” “Lana.” I cut her off softly. “The wedding’s not over.” All eyes had already moved on from me and Dante. Following that bouquet to land on the bridesmaid’s face—Vivian Stone. She clutched the flowers, gazing at Dante with adoring eyes. Dante had already stepped back into the crowd, composed as ever. The emcee was a pro. A few jokes and the energy was back up. Lana finally turned away with a huff, continuing the ceremony. The whole reception, I sat at the bride’s family table. Subjected to pitying and curious stares from every direction. Dante was at another table, laughing it up with his soldiers and lieutenants. Vivian sat right next to him, closer than any consigliere’s assistant should ever be. She wasn’t even supposed to be a bridesmaid. Dante brought her everywhere—to territorial meetings, to collections, to sit-downs with the Five Families—called it “grooming her for the organization.” Even to my best friend’s wedding, he brought her along. During the toasts, Lana came to our table with her new husband. She hugged me tight, whispering in my ear through gritted teeth: “That woman’s been scheming for six months, working her way into Dante’s inner circle. I had someone look into her—she’s good. Real good. Dante, he…” “Lana,” I patted her back, cutting her off. “Today you’re the most beautiful bride. Don’t talk about that.” She huffed but dropped it. When the reception finally ended and guests trickled out, Dante strolled over. “Ready to go?” He naturally took my purse, other hand moving to drape around my shoulders out of habit. I shifted slightly, dodging it. “You’ve been drinking. I’ll call a car.” He didn’t seem bothered, just nodded. “Yeah, good call.” The car slid into the night. My face reflected dimly in the window. Makeup flawless, but couldn’t hide the exhaustion underneath. “Today,” he said suddenly, “Vivian really wanted that bouquet. Girl probably just wanted some good luck.” “You gave it to her. Don’t take it personally.” I didn’t answer, just watched the neon lights blur past outside. He waited a moment, then finally looked up from his phone screen. “You mad?” He leaned in closer. “Didn’t we agree? Next time for sure?” His fingers slid through my loose hair, massaging the back of my neck. Like soothing a sulking cat. “Our wedding’s gonna blow Lana’s out of the water. I’ll get you more flowers, better flowers, yeah?” My heart filled with something bitter. Every single time, like this. Soft voice, vague promise about “next time.” Then just assumed the storm would pass. “Dante.” I looked at his reflection in the window. “Mm?” “Lana and I made a promise when we were kids.” My voice was steady. “Whoever gets married first, the other one can’t be more than a week behind.” “We were gonna wear each other’s bridesmaid dresses. Be the first to witness each other’s happiness.” The car went quiet. His hand on my neck stopped. “That was kid stuff. You’re serious about that?” He laughed. The hand started moving again, more dismissive now. “Plans change too fast. Venue, dates, arrangements—all that takes six months minimum, sometimes a year.” “We’ll plan it right, make it perfect for you. What’s the rush?” He didn’t explain why he couldn’t promise to marry me in front of everyone. Just went on and on about how complicated planning a perfect wedding would be. I suddenly remembered a month before Lana’s wedding. She’d dragged me excitedly to try on the bridesmaid dress she designed herself. Champagne-colored tulle with tiny pearls along the waist. When I put it on, Lana’s eyes lit up, then got mysteriously wet. “Elena, you look amazing in this.” “I made it special for you. When you get married, I’m gonna make you an even more beautiful wedding dress!” Dante had been there too. Looking down at his phone, dealing with a shipment issue. Glanced up when he heard, smiled briefly. “Yeah, looks nice.” Then his eyes dropped back to the screen, fingers flying. In that instant, I felt something cold settle in my chest. Eight years, and still no outcome. The car pulled slowly into our building, stopped. Dante unbuckled his seatbelt. Seeming to think his little speech had closed the book on this episode, he leaned in naturally, going for a kiss. I raised my hand, gently pressing against his shoulder. He froze. “I’m tired, Dante.”

He looked at me, silent for a few seconds. Finally just patted my shoulder. “Yeah, being a bridesmaid’s exhausting. Get some rest.” “Vivian said she can’t get a ride. Not safe for a girl alone at night. I’m gonna go pick her up.” “Okay.” My voice was flat. He didn’t move right away. Like he was waiting for me to tell him to be safe like I usually did. Or pout and complain about him going out this late. But I didn’t. I got out of the car without looking back, ignoring the frown on his brow. I collapsed on the couch the moment I got inside. Stayed there a long time before dragging myself toward the bedroom. Passing by that “nursery,” my steps faltered. We’d designed this room four years ago when we bought the place, for our future child. Now it was just filled with junk. I walked in. Pulled a thick stack of stuff from the dusty crib. His handwritten love letters, movie ticket stubs, amusement park passes, Polaroids from trips together… The one at the bottom was from college graduation. He was carrying me on his back under a cherry blossom tree, my arms around his neck. My long hair and the petals flying together. On the back, his messy scrawl: “I’ll carry you for life. That’s a promise.” The dim light from the living room hit those words coldly. Like a silent mockery. Downstairs, the faint sound of a car pulling into the garage. I froze but didn’t move, just listened. Keys turning the lock, footsteps deliberately quiet. After a while, the door cracked open. He stood in the doorway. “Still up?” I didn’t turn around, still crouched by the crib. “Yeah.” “Why’d you dig all this out?” he asked, tone casual. “Feeling nostalgic?” I didn’t answer his question, just asked quietly, “Did you get her home safe?” He paused, then explained, “Yeah. She lives far out. Hard to get a ride there.” “Oh.” I lowered my head, carefully stacking the photos back, putting them away. “It’s late. Let’s sleep.” He said it again, this time reaching out to pull me up. I didn’t take his hand, just pushed myself up with my knee. “Dante.” “Mm?” His steps paused. “Let’s break up.” He stopped, looked at me for two seconds, then laughed. Reached up to loosen his tie. “Still thinking about the bouquet? Don’t be petty.” His tone was like humoring a bratty kid. “Fine, I’ll order you a bigger one tomorrow, alright? Now go wash up and sleep. I’ve got a sit-down with the Colombo crew in the morning.” He turned toward the bathroom. “Within a week,” I said to his back, voice quiet, “I’m getting married.”

His hand froze on the bathroom door handle. A few seconds later, he turned around. That forced patience finally stripped completely away from his face. “Elena, stop this.” He pressed his temples. “Marriage is a blood vow in our world. You don’t just decide to get married because you’re throwing a tantrum.” “October twenty-eighth.” I added the date. “The venue is booked. The dress is picked.” He let out a cold, dismissive laugh. “Did Lana get in your head again today? She rushed into a union, so now she thinks everyone should be as reckless as her?” “Elena, wake up. Don’t let her mess with you. After eight years together…” “Dante,” I cut him off, “the invitations start printing tomorrow.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You think this little bluff is gonna work?” His voice dropped, carrying that dangerous edge. “This just makes you look childish. My father’s handing me half the city, and I’m dealing with a critical transition for the Family. This wedding isn’t my priority.” His words hit like stones. Once, his cold authority would’ve made me panic, made me rush to explain and back down. But now, all I felt was a hollow calm. His attention had always been expensive. Had to split it between the Family’s operations, his soldiers and so on. His attention had always been expensive. Had to stretched thin between the Family’s critical operations and his most trusted lieutenants. Vivian had the privilege of staying by his side through late-night strategy sessions, every territorial meeting, and every high-stakes negotiation. She had all his time. While I sat at home, waiting for him to come back—if he came back at all. I met his dark eyes, and nodded: “Yeah. All my friends are married. I want to get married too.”

After saying that, I turned and walked into the bedroom. On the nightstand sat a bridal magazine from six months ago. I’d bought it so excited, flipped through a few pages, before he’d told me “no rush,” and I never opened it again. In the dark, I stared at the blurry ceiling. My phone vibrated softly. The screen lit up with a message from Lana: Asleep yet? I’m so pissed. Can’t stop thinking about that bitch Vivian. What the hell is wrong with Dante? What’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong. Not everything you wait for blooms. Another message came through: Remember our promise? Wedding max one week apart? Who knew the future Boss of the Romano family could be so blind. Bouquet literally in your hands and he still pulled that stunt. It’s been eight YEARS, Elena! Whatever. This time, I’ll let you break the promise. I just want you safe. My finger paused. I typed slowly: Girl, when have I ever broken a promise to you?

Dante moved to one of the Family’s high-end safe houses downtown. Probably thought my “wedding bluff” was suffocating him and went there for some peace until I “calmed down.” Fine. We both got breathing room. I quietly handled everything. Listed our shared penthouse on a discreet real estate site. The afternoon I handed the keys to the broker, I was home sorting through random stuff. I found a shipment ledger tucked inside an old magazine—one of Dante’s current port operations. After a moment’s hesitation, I decided to bring it to him. When I arrived, the heavy reinforced door of the safe house was shut tight. Faint laughter drifted from inside, clearly more than one person. His inner circle. I raised my hand to knock. A familiar female voice rose, sounding helpless: “Boss, it’s my fault. First time catching a bouquet, I didn’t know better. Now the guys at the club won’t stop whispering, asking me if you and I are…” “You gotta tell them to knock it off, Dante, or I won’t be able to show my face at the warehouse anymore.” My raised hand froze mid-air. Before Dante could respond, one of his capos, Silvio, cut in with a rough, teasing laugh: “Come on, Miss Stone, do you really want the Boss to shut the rumors down, or are you fishing for him to make them true?” A round of knowing, gritty laughter from the men. Vivian pouted playfully, “Stop it,” but there wasn’t a trace of real annoyance in her voice. “Alright, leave her alone.” Dante’s voice came through, casual and indulgent. “Don’t sweat the whispers, Viv. Give it time, they’ll find something else to talk about.” The words hit a switch in my memory. Years ago, I went to the Family’s legitimate front—a high-end restaurant. He had forgotten where we were and casually pulled me onto his lap in front of his soldiers. The next day, rumors spread that the ruthless Dante Romano was going soft for a civilian girl. That same afternoon, he had brutally shut it down. Told everyone in the crew that I was just a girl he kept around, nothing serious enough to make him weak. I’d understood then. To avoid making him look vulnerable, I stopped visiting his operations completely. My fingertips went cold. Turns out what he minded might never have been looking “soft” in front ofof his men. Silvio spoke up again, confused: “Speaking of which, Boss, what’s the deal with this Elena situation? I actually got an invitation delivered to the club this morning. She’s really committing to this bit, huh?” Brief silence. Dante laughed lightly, a cold, arrogant sound. “Let her print them.” “I usually let the small stuff slide. But this time, she needs to learn that bluffing me doesn’t work. When she stands at that altar with no groom, she’ll finally drop this childish act.” “Whoa,” someone egged on, “so you’re seriously gonna call her bluff? Just let her humiliate herself?” Dante didn’t answer, his silence basically confirming it. He was so utterly convinced I was playing a game of chicken. Until Silvio tested the waters again: “Dante, you sure you wanna let it go that far? You and Elena go way back. Unless… you got other plans for the future? Like… a union with Miss Stone’s family?” “Silvio~” Vivian drew out his name with a flirty laugh. “Don’t say things like that. The Boss… he knows what he’s doing.” The last few words came out soft and loaded with meaning. Dante didn’t explain. Just the clinking of whiskey glasses and a round of knowing chuckles. “If you ask me,” another soldier chimed in, “Dante’s already been generous enough. Anyone else would’ve tossed a girl out for throwing tantrums like this. Nothing like our Vivian here—smart, lethal, and actually useful to the Family…” The motion-sensor light in the hallway flickered off. The corridor plunged into heavy darkness. I didn’t knock. I gently set the ledger down on the welcome mat, right beneath the heavy steel door. Then I turned around, and walked away into the shadows.

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On Christmas Eve, right in the middle of our family reunion dinner, my wife suddenly stood up from the table. “The downstairs neighbors are complaining—our place is leaking. I have to go deal with it.” Before I could even say a word, she grabbed her car keys and rushed out the door, leaving my parents—who clearly looked weirded out—and me with our daughter. I’d just managed to calm my parents down when I got a bank notification on my phone. A transfer. Ten million. I called her immediately, “What the hell is going on?” She said the damage downstairs was bad, and the owner was planning to sue. To protect our daughter’s future, we had to pay up—ten million—to settle it. But here was the thing: we own the whole building. Who exactly was she paying off? I called the cops right away. Someone was illegally occupying our property and trying to extort money. Before heading home, I gave my parents a heads-up. “Fire Sadie. Suspend her, kick her out of the company. And get a divorce agreement ready. I don’t want anything to do with a woman who cheats.” On the drive home with our daughter, I was shaking uncontrollably—I was that furious. Velvet Bay was the premium downtown complex my parents developed. They kept an entire building for the family, with only a few relatives living there. Besides, I hated noise, so all the other floors in our building were empty. Who exactly was Sadie paying off? I rushed back, but when I got to our floor, two security guards blocked me at the entrance. “Where do you think you’re going? Miss Ballard from Velvet Bay is hosting a Christmas party inside.” “Only her husband and daughter get in—plus the VIPs. Nobody else.” I was already fuming. I pulled out my key card. “I’m the owner of this apartment. Move.” The guard didn’t even bother looking at it. Just smirked. “You? The owner? Who do you think you’re kidding?” “Everyone in this complex knows this is Miss Ballard’s place. Don’t tell me you’re her husband?” I was losing it. What the hell was Sadie up to? “Yeah, no kidding. Who else would be Sadie’s husband? This is our daughter. Now get out of my way.” The guards actually laughed. They looked at us like we were a complete joke. “You think I haven’t seen Miss Ballard’s husband and daughter? They’re inside right now. Get your story straight before you try pulling something like this.” “Her husband’s name is Ronan Hallowell. The guy wears designer everything—watches, suits, you name it.” “And you show up looking like… this? Trying to pass as Mr. Hallowell?” They raised their batons, ready to force us out. I froze. Ronan Hallowell? That name I knew too well. He was the school bully back in the day—the one who harassed everyone. Then he pushed some kid to the edge, literally. The guy tried to kill himself. It blew up, and Ronan ended up in juvie. Now he was Sadie’s husband? Living in Velvet Bay? One of the guards swung his baton toward my daughter’s face. That was when I lost it. I kicked him hard. “Back off. Touch my kid, and you’re dead.” I shoved past them, grabbed my daughter’s hand, and walked straight in. Inside, the party was in full swing. “Zora, don’t forget to thank Principal Barnett! You’re about to start at Northmere School—just like you wanted!” “And this is Mr. Sutton, your future homeroom teacher. He’ll take good care of you once you’re there.” Sadie’s voice, warm and polished, carried across the room. She was standing next to Ronan. Beside them, a teenage girl beamed, holding up a glass of soda like she was toasting the room. When we walked in, the whole scene froze. Everyone turned to look. I scanned the table. The faces were familiar. They were the principal of Northmere School, the homeroom teacher, and the property manager of Velvet Bay. These were people who couldn’t even get a meeting with my father. Now they were sitting here, letting Sadie flatter them like they were royalty. Then my eyes landed on Ronan. Same old thug. Different suit. Still no class. “Sadie. What are all these people doing in my house?” For a second, she looked rattled. Then she hurried over, lowering her voice. “What are you doing here? Get out—I’m in the middle of damage control.” “And by the way, they weren’t happy with just money. I had to throw in the recommendation spot at Northmere School. For their daughter.”

My stomach dropped. So that was what she meant. My daughter froze too. “Mom… what are you saying?” Northmere School—the most exclusive private high school in the city. Grades, extracurriculars, interviews—that was just the entry ticket. What really secured admission was a recommendation. Every spot had to be backed by someone. A board member, a foundation donor, someone who had been feeding the school connections for years. No recommendation, and your application went straight to the waitlist, no matter how perfect it looked. My daughter Christy’s letter was already locked in. But now? Now it was just handed over like it was nothing as compensation. Christy stared at Sadie, waiting. Sadie just looked annoyed. Then the other girl piped up from behind. “Mom, who are these people? Why are they in our house?” Sadie’s face tightened. She took a breath, like she’d made up her mind. “Get these lunatics out of here. Now. Someone call security.” Christy’s eyes went red. Her voice cracked. “Mom… what’s wrong with you? I’m your daughter!” Christy reached for Sadie’s sleeve. Sadie yanked her arm away. “What are you talking about? I’m not your mother.” “I only have one daughter—Zora Hallowell. I don’t know who you are.” I grabbed Christy before she could fall. “Sadie, have you lost your mind?” The room went quiet. People at the table exchanged glances. “Is that kid for real? Or just some scammer?” The girl—Zora Hallowell—piped up, loud and sharp. “Did you just crawl out of some gutter and decide to call any rich person ‘Mom’?” Before I could respond, the two guards from outside burst in with more men. “Sorry, Miss Ballard. Our bad—they slipped in. We’ll haul them out and hand them over to the police.” They moved toward us. I pulled Christy closer and locked eyes with Sadie. “Explain. Now. Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.” Sadie frowned. “Zora doesn’t have a mother. I’m just helping her out with the school people. Stop making a scene.” Then a louder voice came. “Get out. While you still can.” Ronan strolled over, smirking. “Babe, this is Velvet Bay, our place. We don’t let trash like this walk in.” He turned to the guards. “What are you waiting for? Break their mouths. Teach them a lesson.” “Can’t let our guests think we’re soft on crime.” The guards grinned. They raised their batons and stepped closer. I held Christy tighter. “Sadie. Say something.” For a second, she looked unsure. Then Zora tugged her arm. “Mommy, I’m scared… How did they even get into our house? If you let them go, what if they come back for me?” Sadie patted her head softly. Then she took a breath. “Don’t worry. Mommy won’t let that happen.” “Forget the mouth. Break their legs. So they can’t hurt anyone. Especially not my baby girl.”

At that moment, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Christy’s voice cracked, tears welling up in her eyes. “Mom, please… It’s me, Christy. You really don’t recognize us anymore?” “If you want to give away my spot, fine—take it. Just please don’t let them hurt Dad…” Zora flinched like she’d been scratched. “Shut up! That spot was never yours to give.” At the table, the principal let out a dry laugh. “Kid, you can say whatever you want, but don’t go around making false claims.” “The admissions committee already confirmed it. The recommendation letter has Zora’s name on it.” “As for you? You’re not even on the waitlist.” The others nodded along, murmuring in agreement. Christy’s face went pale. “That’s impossible. That letter was meant for me.” “My grades, my competition records, my interview feedback—everything’s there…” The homeroom teacher smirked, pulled out his phone, and tapped a few times. “The recommendation is crystal clear—Zora Hallowell.” “Wanting to get into Northmere School is one thing, but pulling stunts like this?” Christy shook her head frantically. “No. No way.” Same scores. Same achievements. But her name? Gone. Like it never existed. Sadie wouldn’t even look at her. The principal leaned back, grinning. His eyes crawled over Christy like he was sizing her up. “Tell you what—you seem like a promising kid. Have a drink with me, then come by my room later tonight. I’ll give you some… personal guidance.” “Forget finding a mom.” Something snapped inside me. I grabbed a baton from one of the guards and swung it straight at him. “Say one more disgusting word and I’ll end you.” Sadie’s face went pale. “Britton Jensen, who the hell do you think you are, laying a hand on Principal Barnett?” “Security! What are you waiting for? Take him down!” Within seconds, they tackled me to the floor. Sadie forced a smile, turning to the principal. “Principal Barnett, please don’t let this psycho ruin your evening. I’ll have them removed immediately.” The principal’s face darkened. The buzz from the wine was gone, replaced by something uglier. “Miss Ballard, I’d like to help you out here. But if someone’s questioning Zora’s admission, we need to clear this up properly.” “Send the girl to the hotel. Tonight. I’ll conduct a… thorough investigation.” “Otherwise, Zora’s enrollment might run into some… complications.” Sadie hesitated. Barely two seconds. Then she gave the order. “Take her over. Let her apologize to Principal Barnett properly.” The guards grabbed Christy and dragged her toward him. The principal’s eyes narrowed. He grabbed her hand, squeezing it. “Whatever’s bothering you, sweetheart, you can tell me all about it tonight. But we need to get to know each other first—really get to know each other.” Christy shook violently. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. I thought my heart would stop. Rage—pure, blinding rage—flooded every part of me. “Let her go! Sadie, what the hell is wrong with you? She’s your daughter!” Christy was gasping now, choking on her own breath. “Dad… help…” Then her whole body seized up. She couldn’t breathe. Asthma attack. I threw off the guards—I don’t know how—and lunged toward her, already pulling the inhaler from my pocket.

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