The blue light from the laptop screen was the only thing illuminating the dark bedroom. My fingertips trembled as I typed my husband’s name into the county property records database. When the first result popped up, I managed to keep my breathing steady—it was our current home, the one we’d shared for five years. But the second entry hit me like a physical blow, the red text searing into my retinas. Unit 1103, Building 17, Riverview Estates. Registered date: three years ago. The autumn before our wedding. This wasn’t a mistake. That luxury condo in the city’s top-tier school district—the one I’d practically begged him to look at for years—had been in his name all along. My mind raced back to two hours ago, to the envelope that had slipped out of a pile of junk mail. It was addressed to Mark, and a faint pencil notation of a property address in the corner had made my stomach drop. “We don’t own a place there, do we?” I had asked, handing it to him. I watched his Adam’s apple bob twice as he swallowed hard. His hand shook as he reached for the paper, but his voice was breezy, dismissive. “Just some real estate spam, honey. I’ll toss it.” Now, looking at the screen, I realized how many lies were packed into his frequent sighs about “not having enough for a down payment.” From the very beginning, he never intended for this house—for us—to be his only destination. In the hallway, our daughter, Sophie, whispered, “Mommy, why are you crying?” I bit my lip until I tasted copper, unable to find my voice. This man had taken the future that belonged to us and tucked it away under another name. … I waited until he was dead to the world before I slipped into the home office. The desk drawer was locked. I tried his birthday as the passcode. Click. The envelope was at the very bottom, already torn open. “Notice of Eligibility Verification for 2026 Primary School Enrollment.” I stared at the words until they blurred. Every time he saw me looking wistfully at listings in that neighborhood, what had been going through his head? I picked up his phone. I entered his usual PIN. Incorrect. I tried his thumbprint while he slept? No, he’d wake up. When had he even changed his passcode? I realized with a sickening jolt that I didn’t know the man sleeping thirty feet away. I tried the condo number: 171103. Ding. Unlocked. Mark was meticulous. He had scrubbed his texts and call logs clean. I found nothing until I dug back through years of Venmo transactions. A single payment of $1,314—I love you forever in digital code—sent to an obscure, unlinked account led me to a private Instagram page. April 12, 2020. Barely a month after our wedding. The photo was of a man’s bare back. I’d know that mole on his shoulder blade anywhere. “Been sleeping with Big M for months now. He’s a total beast in bed.” January 2, 2021. The night of my first miscarriage. I had spent the night alone in a hospital bed, weeping until my eyes were swollen shut. Mark told me he had to stay late for a client. The photo was of the nursery we’d just finished, the handmade quilt I’d spent weeks sewing draped over the crib. “The thrill is unbelievable. His wife is at the hospital losing her kid, and we’re doing it in the nursery. We got her precious quilt soaking wet.” August 9, 2022. I was in the throes of postpartum depression, barely hanging on to my sanity. The photo was of our master bedroom. “First time doing it at his place while she’s actually in the house. He’s such a risk-taker. Best high ever.” I gasped for air, my lungs seizing. I clutched my hair, pulling until it hurt, trying to distract myself from the phantom needles stabbing at my heart. I wanted to scream, but I choked it back. Suddenly, a memory surfaced. Our downstairs neighbor had complained once: “Tell your wife to keep it down at night, it’s embarrassing!” I had been confused. Mark and I hadn’t been intimate in months, and I was always asleep by ten. Mark had brushed it off, calling the neighbor a “crazy, low-class prick.” Now, I had my answer. I stood up and looked around the room—this space that felt like a stranger’s house. Details I’d ignored started screaming at me. The smart speaker was always playing lo-fi beats I hated, even after I reset my preferences. The towels in the bathroom were folded into thirds, not halves like I did. The thermostat was always set to 68 degrees, a few degrees colder than I liked. The evidence was everywhere. This woman didn’t just have a secret home with my husband. She had been in my home. Sleeping in my bed. Leaving her scent on my things. It was a performance. A territorial marking. A cheap thrill. And I had been the oblivious fool. I bit my lip so hard the blood finally ran. I sat in that office until the sun came up. That afternoon, a text popped up on my phone. “Dinner at my mom’s tonight. Be there by six.” “Okay,” I replied. I’ve always been a woman of dignity. Even if this was the end, I didn’t want it to be ugly. But when I walked into my mother-in-law’s house, I froze. Mark and his mother both looked like they’d seen a ghost. But the woman on the sofa—a woman Mark was currently hand-feeding a slice of peach—just looked me up and down. She scanned me like I was a piece of trash she’d found on the bottom of her shoe. She wasn’t satisfied with secret trysts anymore. She wanted the main stage. “What are you doing here?” Mark asked, his smile turning into a grimace. “You texted me to come,” I said. Looking at the panic in his eyes, I realized the truth. She had sent that text from his phone without him knowing. She wanted this confrontation. “Oh… right. I… I forgot. Yeah,” Mark stammered, his face turning a blotchy red. There were three place settings on the table. None of them were for me. A lump formed in my throat, bitter and thick. My mother-in-law looked at me with nothing but disdain. “You should have called before dropping in.” “I… I’m sorry,” I managed, though I didn’t know why I was apologizing. “Anyway, this is Melanie,” Mark said, his eyes darting toward the floor. “A friend. She just came by to see Mom.” “Yes, Melanie is such a sweetheart,” his mother added, flashing a smile at the woman on the couch. “She even bought me this gold tennis bracelet.” Melanie didn’t look at me. She didn’t acknowledge my existence. She sat there like she already owned the place. Looking at my mother-in-law, all I could see was the Instagram photo of the nursery. I felt a wave of nausea so strong I had to bolt for the bathroom. I dry-heaved over the toilet, nothing coming up but bile. As I splashed water on my face, I heard their voices through the door. Mark’s tone was playfully scolding. “You little brat, why didn’t you tell me you invited her? You’re trouble.” “I just wanted to see her pathetic face when she realized she wasn’t invited,” Melanie purred. “And remember, you’re not allowed to touch her tonight.” “Please. Touching her is like touching a cold statue. She’s got nothing on you, you little wildcat.” My world fractured. The “late nights” at the office. The “stress” that meant he couldn’t be intimate with me. It wasn’t work. It was a promise to her. I looked at my face in the mirror—the tired eyes, the skin that hadn’t seen a spa in years because we were “saving money.” I felt like a bomb was about to go off in my chest. But I couldn’t lose control. Not yet. Melanie wanted me to go crazy. She wanted the drama, the screaming, the loss of my “class.” That would be her victory lap. I wouldn’t give it to her. I dried my face, took a breath, and walked out. “Something came up. I have to go,” I said. The door slammed behind me—heavy and final. I sat in my car and buried my face in my hands, tears finally leaking through my fingers. All those years. All that sacrifice. For what? Mark announced the next morning that he had another “business trip.” I didn’t help him pack this time. I knew I had to move. I needed leverage before the house of cards collapsed completely. As soon as his car pulled out of the driveway, I drove to his office. He’d always told me it was too far, that he was too busy for “lunch dates,” so I’d never been. “Is Mark in?” I asked the receptionist. “Oh, no, he’s out for the day. He took a personal day to take his son to that regional piano competition,” she said casually. Then, she turned to the girl next to her. “Honestly, Mark is such a girl-dad—wait, no, he has a son, right? Anyway, he’s a total family man. He’s always showing us photos of his ‘wife’ and the boy’s trophies. He’s so attentive when she visits the office.” The blood rushed to my head so fast I felt dizzy. Sophie had begged for piano lessons last week. Mark had snapped at her, telling her it was a “waste of money” and that “girls don’t need to be pampered with expensive hobbies.” And yet, he was at a competition for a son I didn’t know existed. “Are you okay?” the receptionist asked. “Who did you say you were with?” “I’m his wife,” I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from underwater. “We have a daughter. She’s in preschool.” I don’t know what her face looked like as I walked away. I probably looked like a lunatic. I went home in a trance. The smell of Melanie’s perfume seemed to linger on every surface. I went to Mark’s computer again. I found a hidden folder. I scrolled through the photos, and with every click, I felt like I was sinking deeper into a frozen lake. While I was recovering from childbirth alone, she was at a five-star postpartum wellness retreat. My daughter wore hand-me-downs from neighbors; her son was dressed in designer labels. While Sophie was hospitalized with a 104-degree fever, Mark was “at a conference” in Cabo with Melanie and the boy. I checked our joint savings account—the one he managed because he was “the finance guy.” Balance: $0.42. He wasn’t “investing” our future. He was liquidating it to build a life for another woman. I shook so hard I couldn’t stand. The sacrifice had only been mine. The suffering had only been Sophie’s. I looked at our wedding photo on the wall. I smashed it. I looked at the laptop. I smashed it. I went to the closet and took a pair of shears to every single one of his custom-tailored suits. I threw his toothbrush in the trash. I called a locksmith. And then, I went to the one place I knew I could find them. I waited outside the elementary school. When Melanie walked out, holding a young boy’s hand, she spotted me instantly. She tried to turn away, but I blocked her path. She immediately went on the offensive, her voice shrill and loud. “You crazy bitch! Get away from us! Stop stalking my husband!” Parents began to circle. Melanie’s eyes turned red, and she pulled the boy into a protective hug, looking like the victim of a deranged predator. “This woman is obsessed with my husband!” she cried out to the crowd. “She’s been harassing us for weeks! She’s trying to kidnap my son!” I was floored by the sheer audacity. She was spending my money, sleeping with my husband, and calling me the intruder. “You’re a liar!” I shouted back. “You’re the mistress! You’re the one who destroyed my marriage!” Melanie sobbed harder, her whole body shaking. “You’re insane! Everyone here knows Mark. He’s at every PTA meeting. He’s my husband!” A woman from the crowd stepped forward. “She’s right. This boy is in my son’s class. Mark is a great father. We see him here all the time.” The crowd turned on me. The whispers were like venom. “She’s clearly off her meds.” “Look at her, she’s a wreck. No wonder he wouldn’t want her.” “Get out of here before we call the cops, you psycho!” Melanie’s son stepped forward and kicked me hard in the shin. “Leave my daddy alone, you ugly lady!” I stood there, surrounded by people pointing fingers and hurling insults. “She’s the one who’s cheating! That kid is a bastard!” I screamed, but no one was listening. In this world, the most shameless person wins. I was the wife, the one who had played by the rules, and I was being branded a criminal. Then Mark’s car pulled up. He jumped out, and for a split second, a tiny, pathetic part of me hoped he would say something. Anything. “Stop, she’s my wife.” Just a shred of truth to make the last few years feel like they weren’t a total hallucination. But he didn’t. He threw his arms around Melanie, shielding her. “Are you okay? I’m here. Don’t be scared,” he whispered—a tenderness he hadn’t shown me in years. Then he turned to me, his face a mask of pure hatred. He shoved me back. “What is wrong with you? Get the hell out of here! I told you it’s over! I love Melanie! Stop harassing my family!” The way he looked at me… it was like he wanted me dead. He ushered them toward the car. Melanie looked back over her shoulder and gave me a small, victorious smile. The crowd’s jeering continued. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. “I have the marriage certificate,” I muttered. The noise dropped an octave. I reached into my bag and pulled out the legal document. “She really is the wife,” someone whispered. “Wait, so Melanie was lying the whole time?” “God, what a piece of work. Both of them.” Mark’s face turned feral. He lunged forward, snatched the certificate from my hands, and ripped it into confetti. “It’s a fake! She’s a stalker with a printer!” He leaned into my ear, his voice a low, terrifying hiss. “Play nice, and maybe I’ll let you keep the house. If you don’t, remember that my best friend is the head of the psychiatry department at the city hospital. I’ll have you committed so fast your head will spin. And I won’t spend a single dime or a single second on Sophie. I’ll let her rot in foster care.” He shoved me to the ground. He turned around, put his arm around Melanie, and drove away without looking back. My knees were scraped and bleeding, but I didn’t feel it. My heart was already in pieces. The daughter I cherished was nothing more than a bargaining chip to him—a piece of “trash” he was willing to discard. I thought that even if he didn’t love me, he’d love his own blood. I was wrong. He wasn’t a man; he was a predator. I wiped the blood from my knee and pulled out my phone. I dialed a number. “Attorney Paige? I’m sending you the recordings and the documents now. I want to file for bigamy and embezzlement. I want everything.”

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In the five years I’d been with Caroline, she had bailed on me exactly thirty-six times. Twenty of those times, she looked me dead in the eye and swore, “This is the very last time.” On the morning of our wedding, she hung up her phone, her fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her silk robe. “Colin, there’s an emergency at the hospital. I…” She trailed off, the lie catching in her throat. I didn’t let her finish. “Go,” I said, my voice shockingly level. “I get it. They need you.” She blinked, clearly caught off guard by how easy I was making it. “Please don’t be mad. I’ll take care of this and come right back. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” I offered a faint, hollow smile. “I’m not mad. Your work is important.” She hesitated at the door, guilt flickering in her eyes. “I’ll be back the second I’m done! I swear to God, Colin, this is the last time.” I didn’t answer her. As the door clicked shut, I realized she was actually right about one thing. It really was the last time. Because after today, there wouldn’t be a next time. 1 When my best man, Nelson, found out she was gone, he practically vibrated with rage in the groom’s suite. “She stood you up at the rehearsal dinner. She completely ghosted your thirtieth birthday,” he paced, raking a hand through his hair. “And now, on your actual wedding day, she…” “Cancel it,” I said quietly. Nelson stopped dead. His eyes went wide. “Are you serious right now?” I nodded. I spent the next hour standing in front of our friends and family, bowing my head in apology, promising to return every single wedding gift, every check, every registry blender. They murmured polite, sympathetic things, looking at me with the kind of profound pity usually reserved for funerals. When the hall was finally empty, I pulled out my phone and dialed Dr. Evans, the Chief of Surgery at my hospital. “Dr. Evans. I want to take that fellowship in Switzerland.” He sounded thrilled. “Colin, that’s fantastic news. I’ll get the paperwork fast-tracked. You’ll fly out next Monday.” He paused. “But wait, you just got married today. Is Dr. Reid on board with this?” “Yeah,” I said simply, and hung up. Caroline and I worked at the same trauma center. She was the star attending surgeon—brilliant, relentless, always burdened with endless procedures and critical patients. Over the last five years, I had molded myself into a waiting room. I was entirely accustomed to her shifting priorities. But today was our wedding day. She had requested this time off a year in advance. The hospital wouldn’t dare schedule her. Which meant she hadn’t left for work. She had left for him. My phone buzzed. A notification from the one account I had on a secret, muted watch-list. It was a photo: a woman’s slender hand gently pressing against a man’s bare shoulder. The caption read: Dislocated my shoulder on a morning run. Good thing my favorite attending is always here to save my life. I didn’t need to guess whose hand that was. I recognized the diamond engagement ring. I had spent three months’ salary on it. Six months ago, her department got a new surgical intern named Tristan. At first, I didn’t think much of him. Caroline used to complain about how clumsy he was, how he lacked the sharp instincts required for trauma. But slowly, her complaints morphed into compliments. He was earnest. He was eager to learn. He was pure-hearted. I watched the gravitational pull happen in real time. She broke hospital protocol to let him scrub in on complex cases. She covered his charting errors. she rearranged her shifts to align with his. The breaking point was a few months ago. Tristan had twisted his ankle during a hospital charity run. Right there in the crowded medical tent, Caroline dropped to her knees in the dirt, her fingers lightly probing his ankle. I had been standing ten feet away. I saw the way she looked up at him—soft, breathless, completely utterly consumed. My stomach dropped into my shoes. Because five years ago, that was exactly how she used to look at me. That night, I became a man I despised. I lay awake in the dark, scrolling through her phone while she slept. There was nothing explicitly incriminating. The texts were clean. But something visceral told me otherwise, and like a masochist, I turned on post notifications for Tristan’s Instagram. I became a digital voyeur, piecing together the timeline of my own heartbreak through his cryptic, sweet captions. I felt pathetic. Sitting in the empty venue, I finally blocked his account. I turned off my phone. I drove back to the house Caroline and I had just bought together. Pushing the front door open, I was greeted by a sea of white and gold balloons. A velvet “Just Married” banner hung across the mantle. Framed engagement photos lined the hallway, smiling back at me like ghosts. I had spent the last month decorating this place, meticulously planning for the beautiful life we were about to start. I never imagined I’d be crossing the threshold alone. 2 I drew a scalding hot bath, letting the heat seep into my bones, and went to bed early. Sometime in the middle of the night, the faint click of the front door pulled me from sleep. Caroline was home. In the past, I would have been asleep on the living room sofa, waiting up for her. The second she walked in, I would have thrown my arms around her, burying my face in her neck to smell the sterile hospital soap mixed with her perfume. But tonight, I was just so impossibly tired. The bedroom door creaked open, spilling a sliver of hallway light across the duvet. I kept my eyes heavy, squinting as she moved to the edge of the mattress. She leaned down, her lips brushing my forehead. “You didn’t wait up?” she whispered. “Were you that exhausted?” I gave a vague, sleepy nod. I felt her warm breath against my neck. “I really did have a massive emergency today, Colin. A patient was bleeding out. It was critical. I had to be there.” “Mhm,” I murmured. I rolled over, putting my back to her. I didn’t want to hear another syllable. The room went dead silent. The air grew thick. When she finally spoke, her voice was clipped, defensive. “Colin, you shouldn’t be acting like this.” A flare of irritation sparked in my chest. I shouldn’t be acting like this? How was I supposed to act? Like I used to? Was I supposed to sit up, eyes red and stinging, and demand to know why she abandoned me at the altar to hold the hand of an intern? Was I supposed to cry and beg her to tell me if she still loved me? Was I supposed to let her shut me down with her favorite line—Tristan and I are completely platonic—and just swallow the humiliation? Was that the only “normal” reaction? Over the last six months, we had fought until our throats were raw. But tonight? Tonight, the fight was gone. My eyelids felt like lead. I didn’t have the energy to argue, to explain, or to even look at her. I closed my eyes and let the darkness take me. When I woke up the next morning, I realized I had slept deeply for the first time in months. The knot of anxiety that permanently lived beneath my ribs was gone. I got up, went to the kitchen, and out of sheer muscle memory, I started making breakfast for two. Just as I set the plates on the island, the bathroom door opened. Caroline walked out. The dark circles under her eyes were bruised and heavy; she looked awful. She glanced at the eggs and toast. “Don’t bother,” she said tightly. “I really want an almond croissant from that French bakery downtown. I’ll go get it myself.” I looked at her. In five years, she had never once craved almond croissants. I knew exactly who did. She paused, her eyes sweeping over the balloons clustered in the corner of the living room. “You have the day off today. You should take down all this stuff. It’s childish.” I took a slow sip of my coffee. “Okay,” I said evenly. “I’ll clean it up.” Caroline froze. She clearly hadn’t expected me to agree so easily. She stood rooted to the hardwood floor, a slow, hot anger flushing her cheeks. “Are you punishing me with the silent treatment, Colin?” she demanded. “I told you, I had a valid reason yesterday. I—” “I’m not punishing you,” I cut in softly. “I understand.” She stared at me, her mouth parting as if to argue, but the words died in her throat. My absolute lack of resistance had totally disarmed her. She let out a frustrated scoff, grabbed her keys, and slammed the door behind her. 3 After breakfast, my phone rang. It was Dr. Evans. “Colin, I need your physical signature on the fellowship release forms. Can you swing by?” I threw on a jacket and drove to the hospital. As I walked past the surgical department lounge, the sound of bright, familiar laughter drifted through the cracked door. “Dr. Reid, seriously, thank you for bringing me breakfast,” a male voice said. “I owe you a coffee at the very least.” I glanced through the gap in the door. Caroline was sitting at the lounge table, a soft, indulgent smile playing on her lips. One of the nurses walked by and teased her. “Dr. Reid! You just got married yesterday. No wonder you look so exhausted—long night, huh?” Caroline just smiled, letting the implication hang in the air. Tristan’s face suddenly dropped in a theatrical display of guilt. “Oh my god, Dr. Reid, I’m so sorry. Because my shoulder flared up yesterday, I totally ruined your wedding day. Is your husband going to kill me? I swear I didn’t mean to pull you away.” Caroline’s tone was breezy, effortless. “Don’t worry about it. He won’t.” I didn’t linger. I kept walking, straight to the administrative offices. I signed every page, double-checked my flight details, and finalized the exit protocol. I was officially leaving. On my way out, I bumped into Caroline in the main corridor. She stopped, visibly startled. “What are you doing here?” “Just had to sign some paperwork,” I said. She cleared her throat, shifting her weight awkwardly. “Listen, I… I have plans with a friend for lunch today. I won’t be able to eat with you.” I nodded. She hesitated, her brow furrowing at my total lack of pushback. “Let’s do dinner, okay? I’ll make sure to be home early.” I looked at her for a long moment. “Alright. I have something I need to tell you anyway.” She seemed to exhale a breath she’d been holding. “Okay. Go home and rest.” I nodded again, turned, and walked away. Back at the house, I started tearing down the decorations. The foil balloons deflated with sad, wheezing sounds. I scraped the window decals off the glass. Scraps of gold confetti clung to the rug like the remnants of a very bad joke. As I was wiping down the dining table, my elbow clipped a coffee mug. Crack. The ceramic shattered across the floor. It was a custom mug we had painted together at a pottery class three years ago. We had glazed the words Forever and Always onto the side. Now, the piece with Forever lay under the chair, and Always was near the baseboard. She was on the left; I was on the right. It felt poetic. Maybe we were always meant to be broken apart. At five o’clock, I started cooking. Caroline had a notoriously weak stomach, so for years, I had trained myself to cook bland, easily digestible meals—steamed fish, plain rice, bone broths. Tonight, I made a massive spread of my favorite, unapologetically spicy Szechuan dishes. At six o’clock, I texted her: When are you coming home? Her reply was instant. On my way. It was the exact same lie she always told. I sat down, ate my fiery dinner in complete silence, and then scraped every last leftover into the trash can. Just as I finished washing the pan, my phone buzzed. It was Nelson. Dude, did you and Caroline completely break up? I’m over by the harbor, and she’s here watching the firework show with that intern guy. He attached a photo. Against the inky night sky, brilliant bursts of fireworks lit up the water. In the foreground, Caroline and Tristan stood shoulder-to-shoulder. They were looking at each other, smiling like newlyweds. I typed back: Yeah. We’re done. I’m leaving for Switzerland next week. Nelson’s reply came a minute later. Good. Getting out of the country is exactly what you need. You’ve bled yourself dry for her. 4 I dragged my suitcase out of the closet and started packing. Looking at my wardrobe, I realized it was a sea of muted pastels and beige. She had once mentioned that I looked “professional and handsome” in business casual, so for five years, I had dressed like a corporate mannequin. Digging all the way to the back, I found a crisp, unstructured white linen shirt I hadn’t worn since med school. I put it on, staring at myself in the mirror. For a second, the old Colin—the one who was bright and ambitious and alive—looked back at me. The front door unlocked. Caroline walked in, bringing the chill of the night air with her. She stopped in the doorway of the bedroom, her eyes landing on me. For a second, a look of genuine surprise, almost admiration, flashed across her face. Then she looked down at the open suitcase on the bed. “The sun in Fiji is brutal,” she said casually. “Make sure you pack extra SPF.” It took me a second to process what she was talking about. Right. The honeymoon. I had begged her for months to go to Fiji. She kept pushing it back until she finally caved and booked it for next Monday. “Yeah,” I murmured, turning back to my packing. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a velvet box. “For you.” It was an apology gift. Over the last five years, I had amassed a small fortune in apology watches, cufflinks, and fountain pens. It was her preferred method of sweeping our fights under the rug. I took the box and set it on the nightstand without looking at it. She tensed. “You’re not going to open it?” I kept folding my jeans. “I’m in the middle of packing. I’ll look at it later.” The room grew agonizingly quiet. I could feel her staring at the back of my head. “Colin, you’ve been acting so weird lately,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I didn’t come home last night, and you didn’t even call. I blew off our lunch today, and you didn’t ask why.” Her breath hitched. “Do you… do you even love me anymore?” She sounded like she was on the verge of tears. I stopped folding. I turned to look at her, my face perfectly calm. I opened my mouth to speak, but before the words could come out— Her phone rang. She answered it immediately. Tristan’s panicked, weeping voice bled through the receiver. Caroline’s demeanor flipped instantly from vulnerable to commanding. “Hey, breathe. I’m on my way back right now. Don’t touch anything, let me handle it.” She hung up, looking at me with frantic, guilty eyes. “Tristan had a complication on the table. I have to go.” I nodded, picking up another shirt. “Go. Work comes first.” She didn’t move. She stood frozen in the doorway, agonizing over my complete lack of resistance. “Colin, please don’t overthink this. He and I are just—” “I know,” I interrupted softly. “You’re just friends. It’s strictly professional.” Hearing me parrot her own excuses didn’t soothe her; it seemed to terrify her. Her brow furrowed deeply. “Colin, I know you’re furious, but this is a life-or-death situation. I swear to you, I will be back tomorrow.” I had no idea how she was reading fury in my behavior. “I’m not mad.” She let out a shaky breath, stepping forward to wrap her arms around my shoulders. She pressed a desperate kiss to my cheek. “I will be back tomorrow,” she whispered fiercely. “We’ll go to the airport together. Just wait for me. I love you. You’re the only one.” She pulled away, grabbed her coat, and ran out the door. I looked at the empty space she left behind and let out a dry, humorless laugh. I finished packing. Thankfully, since we had just moved into this house, I didn’t have much to take. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I opened my banking app and systematically refunded every single Venmo, Zelle, and wire transfer our friends had sent for the wedding. I texted them individually, apologizing and saying goodbye. No one asked questions. They just told me to take care of myself. We were all adults; the unspoken truth was loud enough. By 6:00 AM the next morning, Caroline still wasn’t home. I ordered an Uber to the airport and boarded a direct flight to Zurich. When I finally opened my eyes, the plane was descending over the snow-capped Swiss Alps. I turned my phone off airplane mode. Instantly, my screen lit up with dozens of missed calls and frantic text messages. Every single one was from Caroline.

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The Sydney sun was a warm, heavy blanket on my shoulders, the kind of heat that seeps into your bones and makes you forget the cold. My phone suddenly erupted on the table, the screen lighting up with a barrage of voicemails. They were all from my ex-wife. When I finally played one, her voice trembled violently against the static. She was frantic, saying she and her perfect first love had run into a wall at the County Clerk’s office while trying to get their marriage license. The clerk had taken one look at the system and informed her that her golden boy was already married in Australia. With two kids. Listening to her panic, I couldn’t help but let out a soft, dark laugh. She had no idea. She had spent all this time worshipping her long-lost love, completely blind to the kind of life he’d actually been living abroad all these years. Just three days ago, when we finalized our divorce, she had signed those papers with dizzying speed. She had sneered at me, calling me a spineless doormat, spitting out that she was suffocating and couldn’t take another second of my mediocrity. I hadn’t said a single word in my defense. I just walked out, went straight to the airport, and boarded a first-class flight to Australia. 01 The phone shattered the quiet of the late night, the screen illuminating the dark room with a name I thought I wouldn’t have to look at for a long time: Bernice. I answered. Instantly, a hysterical shriek tore through the speaker, so sharp I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “Chase! Is this your doing? Why the hell are you Photoshopping garbage to frame Wes?!” Her voice shook with a volatile mix of rage and an undeniable, suppressed sob. I leaned against the floor-to-ceiling windows of my Sydney penthouse, looking down at the glittering, serpentine lights of the city below. My tone was as casual as if we were discussing the weather. “Which photo?” “Don’t play dumb with me! The one you sent! The one of Wes and his so-called family!” she practically roared. “Oh. You mean the family portrait,” I replied, my voice cool and flat. “That’s not Photoshopped, Bernice.” Dead silence fell over the line. I could hear nothing but her ragged, heavy breathing. I could picture her face perfectly in that moment. It would be a fascinating sequence of emotions: absolute denial, twisting into fury, and finally settling into a cold, creeping dread. “You’re lying! Wes already explained it to me! That’s his distant cousin! God, Chase, you are so pathetic. We’re divorced. Why do you have to use these disgusting, underhanded tricks to ruin my life?” Her words were razor-sharp, but the foundation beneath them was crumbling. She didn’t sound nearly as confident as she had a minute ago. I let out a low chuckle. “Three years of marriage, Bernice, and do you really know me at all?” I asked softly. “Did you honestly think I was still that pathetic doormat who was too afraid to raise his voice around you?” “You—” She choked on the word, entirely lost for a rebuttal. I picked up the tumbler of whiskey from the side table and took a slow sip. The ice clinked against the crystal, a sharp, ringing sound over the line. “I’ve known for a long time,” I said. “When you shoved those divorce papers in my face, holding a torch for him, I already knew he was a con artist.” “Bullshit! Wes loves me! He’s not like you. He’s romantic, he actually sees me, he flew all the way back from Australia just for me!” She hissed, defensive and cornered. “Did he?” I asked, letting the silence stretch for a beat. “Did he happen to mention the name of his wife in Sydney?” The breathing on the other end stopped completely. I could visualize the exact moment her pupils dilated in shock. That single sentence was the key, turning the lock on the deepest, darkest box of paranoia she had been trying to keep shut. “Let me do you a favor,” I murmured. “Her name is Emily. She’s an Australian local. And they have a beautiful four-year-old daughter.” Before she could piece together a single word of defense, I pulled the phone away. Click. I hung up. The world rushed back into a beautiful, immaculate silence. Opening my photo gallery, I found the picture I had so carefully sourced. It was a pristine, sun-drenched shot: Wesley holding his little girl, his wife Emily clinging affectionately to his arm. They were standing on a manicured lawn, smiling with the kind of blinding, effortless happiness that makes your stomach turn. It was a sincere, agonizingly real smile. I attached the image to a message and hit send. Watching the “Delivered” receipt pop up beneath it, the corners of my mouth curled into a slow, satisfied smile. This is just the prologue, Bernice. That perfect, fairy-tale romance you thought you had? I am going to tear it apart with my bare hands. You wanted to play games with my life, and now, the bill has come due. The curtain was just rising. 02 A minute later, the voice memos from Bernice started pouring in, a relentless barrage of panicked, furious vitriol. “You are out of your mind, Chase! Are you addicted to ruining things?” “You’re sick! You’re just jealous that I finally found someone who actually knows how to love me!” Beneath her screaming, in the muffled background, I could hear Wesley’s smooth, placating baritone. “Baby, don’t get worked up. Don’t let someone so irrelevant ruin our night.” “You know the photo is fake, right? You trust me, don’t you?” “Come here. I told you, that’s just my cousin’s family. He’s just trying to get inside your head.” It was a performance so amateur and transparent it was almost insulting. I didn’t reply to a single message. I just swiped left, deleting the voice notes one by one like clearing out junk mail. Arguing with a fool drunk on the illusion of love is the most spectacular waste of time. I needed a sharper angle of attack. A wedge that would make her self-deception impossible to maintain. My mind went to Paige. Bernice’s best friend. Paige was grounded, analytical, and notably, the only person who had tried to talk Bernice off the ledge when she impulsively filed for divorce. I walked over to my laptop and let my fingers fly across the keyboard. A few minutes later, a PDF stamped with official government watermarks materialized on my desktop. It was a document from the Australian Department of Home Affairs—a marriage registry record unequivocally confirming the legal union of Wesley and Emily. Date of registration: exactly four years ago. Location: New South Wales, Sydney. It was ironclad. Bulletproof. Instead of using my personal account, I routed the PDF through an encrypted, anonymous email server and sent it straight to Paige’s inbox. The subject line was empty. The body of the email contained a single sentence: For your friend’s own good. Make her wake up. Closing the laptop, I stepped out onto the terrace and lit a cigarette. The cool night air of the harbor washed over me, carrying the smoke out into the dark. I knew how this would play out. The seed was planted. It would take root in the soil of their seemingly unbreakable friendship, growing into something toxic and undeniable. Sure enough, by the following afternoon, my phone vibrated with a text from Paige. Chase. Was this you? I replied with a single question mark. Her response came typing through instantly. Bernice and I just had a screaming match. I showed her the document, and you know what she said? She accused me of being paid off by you. That we were conspiring against her. She’s lost her mind, Chase. Over this guy, she has completely lost her grip on reality. I could read the exhaustion and betrayal in the pixels of her text. A second message popped up. She actually said Wes already ‘explained’ it. That he only had a green-card marriage with a local to secure his business assets in Australia and that they haven’t spoken in years. And she swallowed it! Every word! I stared at the screen, a quiet laugh rumbling in my chest. Wesley’s lies were meticulously tailored to exploit Bernice’s blind spots. And she, terrified of admitting she had thrown her life away for a fraud, chose to close her eyes and swallow the poison. A match made in heaven. I texted Paige back: Let it go. Some people have to touch the fire to believe it burns. Setting the phone face down, I let the silence of the apartment envelop me. I could perfectly envision Bernice right now. Having “uncovered” the betrayal of her closest friend, she would be wrapping herself in the martyr’s cloak, convinced she and Wesley were a tragic, misunderstood couple fighting against a jealous world. That crushing sense of isolation would drive her right into his arms. She would cling to him tighter than ever. And that was exactly the architecture of my plan. Because when a drowning woman puts all her weight onto a single, rotting piece of driftwood, the snap of the wood is what finally pulls her under. The first hairline fracture in her trust had already formed. She would deny it to her dying breath, but the seed of doubt was a parasite. She would start watching him. She would start analyzing his offhand comments, looking for the seams in his story. And a liar juggling that many stories always drops a ball eventually. Tick tock, Wesley. 03 Paige’s interference clearly set off Wesley’s internal alarms. A grifter’s survival instinct is sharp. Feeling the heat, he decided to hit the accelerator. I watched it happen in real-time through the keyloggers and network taps I had quietly installed on his devices. His search history was a chaotic map of desperation: Australian real estate ROI, offshore asset relocation, expedited investor visas. Simultaneously, he was polishing a slick, corporate-looking pitch deck. It highlighted a “luxury oceanfront condo development” supposedly breaking ground on the Gold Coast. He was pushing Bernice relentlessly, urging her to pull $3 million from her father’s corporate accounts to sink into this absurdly high-yield “exclusive” opportunity. He sold it as the bedrock of their glamorous future together. And Bernice was biting. Through her digital footprint, I saw her laying the groundwork with her father, her messages laced with worship for Wesley’s brilliant business acumen and starry-eyed fantasies of generational wealth. It was tragic in its stupidity. The “development firm” was a hollow shell company. Its registered address traced back to a boarded-up coffee shop in Queensland. The moment that $3 million cleared, it would be fragmented into a dozen anonymous offshore accounts within twenty-four hours, vanishing like smoke in a windstorm. And Wesley would be on the first flight out, a ghost with a heavy wallet. But I didn’t pull the fire alarm. Stopping him now would be letting him off too easy. What I needed was for Bernice to climb all the way to the peak of her euphoric delusion, so she could feel every jagged rock on the way down. Digging deeper into the encrypted partitions of Wesley’s hard drive, I stumbled onto something that made my stomach turn. The man wasn’t just working Bernice; he was running a full-scale operation. He was simultaneously maintaining deep, emotionally manipulative cyber-relationships with three other women across the States. The chat logs were nauseating. He recycled the exact same poetry, the same promises of a white-picket-fence future, the same declarations that they were his “one true soulmate.” He even used the exact same Gold Coast real estate deck to try and bleed their savings dry. Scrolling through the explicit flirtations and the predatory lies, a wave of profound, visceral disgust washed over me. He was a monument to human greed, stripping these women of their dignity and their futures without a second thought. I meticulously curated a selection of screenshots from the archives. Conversations where he was sweet-talking the other women, discussing their hypothetical children, and delving into highly specific, intimate details. I scrubbed the images clean. I redacted the women’s avatars, their names, and any identifying markers. They were innocent collateral; I had no desire to drag them into the mud. My crosshairs were locked solely on Bernice. I wanted to introduce her to a new kind of hell: the slow, maddening burn of paranoia. She would see the texts. She would see his words. But she wouldn’t know who the ghosts on the other end of the screen were. She would confront him, screaming, and Wesley would do what he always did—he would weave a new, intricate lie to pacify her. But the ambiguity, the inability to ever truly prove or disprove his fidelity, would act as a serrated blade, sawing away at her sanity day by day. Once again, using the ghost server, I fired the curated package to Bernice’s email. The subject line read: How many women are financing your fairy tale? Message Sent. I leaned back in my ergonomic leather chair and closed my eyes, letting the quiet hum of the servers soothe me. I could feel the shockwave from across the Pacific. The moment she clicked that email, the tectonic plates of her reality would violently shift. Her perfect golden boy, her savior from my ‘mediocrity’, was shedding his skin. Chaos. Agony. Suspicion. Enjoy the feast I prepared for you, Bernice. It’s a dish meant to break the heart.

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Five years. When they finally pulled me out of that nightmarish compound deep in the Montana backcountry, the welcome I received wasn’t the warm, tearful embrace I had hallucinated during all those endless, agonizing nights. Instead, Bennett—my older brother, the untouchable Seattle tech billionaire who raised me—sat across from me in a sterile, modern living room and calmly explained that he had funded my kidnapping. Declan, my husband, the man whose eyes used to soften only for me, stood by the fireplace. With a casual flick of his wrist, he admitted that he was the one who arranged the men who took me. He had even been parked in an alley down the street, watching as I was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the back of an unmarked van. They told me the original plan was just to leave me in the wilderness for three years. A time-out. A lesson. But it was Jude—the street kid I had brought home and practically raised as my own brother—who insisted they leave me there for two more. Jude had been worried I hadn’t “learned my place” yet. He was terrified I might come back and be mean to Camilla. For five years, I rotted in that rural hell. Every night was a symphony of unimaginable degradation. My belly swelled with a forced pregnancy six different times. Six times, through violence or malnutrition, it flattened again. I tried to die more times than I could count, but the universe wouldn’t grant me the mercy. I tried to run, clawing through the dirt and snow, until they shattered both my legs with a steel pipe, leaving me with cheap, agonizingly stiff prosthetics that ground my stumps into bloody pulp. I had fought like a dying animal just to survive, purely on the hope of seeing my family again. I thought they were my salvation. I never dreamed they were the architects of my descent into hell. The blood in my veins felt like freezing sludge. I couldn’t stop shaking. “Why?” I rasped, my vocal cords permanently damaged from years of screaming. “Why would you destroy me like this?” Bennett and Jude exchanged a look, suddenly unable to meet my eyes. It was Declan who broke the silence. He stepped forward, his perfectly tailored suit a stark contrast to my filthy, oversized clothes. He told me it was because I had abused their love. Because I had bullied Camilla. They just wanted me to “grow up a little.” Then, without missing a beat, he added that Camilla was pregnant with his child. If I couldn’t accept that, he said smoothly, we could arrange a quiet divorce. A thick, metallic taste of blood rose in the back of my throat. And right in that moment, a crystalline, mechanical voice chimed in my mind—a sound I hadn’t heard in years. [Host, do you wish to abandon the redemption arc of these three antagonists and detach from this world?] … 1 The Voice. The Guide I had made a pact with so many years ago. Its sudden return sent a dizzying wave of vertigo crashing through me. I stared at Declan’s deadpan, aristocratic face, then shifted my gaze to Bennett and Jude, who were softly instructing a housekeeper to prepare a delicate broth for Camilla. A phantom knife twisted in my chest. Five years ago, they called me in a panic, claiming they had been in a horrible car crash on the way to my birthday dinner. My heart had nearly seized in my chest. I had rushed out in the rain, taking a shortcut through the alley to get to them faster. That was where the van was waiting. That was where my life ended. I had held onto the fairy tale of their rescue for so long. Now, they were telling me my crucifixion was just a favor to Camilla. Leave, I answered The Voice in my mind. [Understood. Eight-hour countdown initiated. Due to the sudden departure, the Host must ensure all three antagonists are present at the moment of detachment.] I let out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. Declan walked over, raising a thumb to wipe a tear from my hollow cheek. His voice took on that soft, coaxing tone I used to melt for. “Josie, you don’t have to divorce me if you don’t want to,” he murmured. “It’s just that Camilla is delicate. We’ve spent years protecting her. You can’t put your hands on her anymore. Since your body is… ruined, and you can’t have kids, Camilla graciously offered to let us put her baby under your name.” I used to have Declan’s baby inside me. I was seven months along. Camilla had smiled, leaned in, and shoved me backward down a sweeping marble staircase. I lost the baby. When I woke up from the surgery, half out of my mind with grief, I hunted Camilla down. I managed to slap her across the face exactly once before Declan tackled me. He locked me in our bedroom for a month. Once my postpartum bleeding stopped, the van came for me. My throat felt tight, lined with shattered glass. “Because I slapped Camilla once. Because of one slap, you did this to me?” “Yes,” Declan said, his face hardening, completely unashamed. “You were careless. You lost our child, and then you had the audacity to blame Camilla. You acted like a hysterical animal, not my wife. As long as you behave from now on, I promise I won’t send you away again.” My face felt numb. The tears on my cheeks turned ice-cold. “If you went through the trouble of lying to me about the car crash,” I whispered, “why tell me the truth now?” Bennett let out a long, disappointed sigh. Jude looked at me with cold righteousness. “Because at the end of the day, you and Camilla are sisters,” Jude said evenly. “We needed you to remember this lesson. So that moving forward, you’ll protect her, just like we do.” Protect her? Something inside me finally snapped. I grabbed the heavy porcelain teapot from the coffee table and hurled it at the hardwood floor. It shattered with a violent, satisfying crash. I shoved the sleeves of my oversized sweater up to my shoulders, exposing the horrific tapestry of cigarette burns, knife marks, and jagged scars that covered my arms. I screamed, my voice breaking into a ragged sob. “I was tortured day and night by the monsters you paid! They took my babies! They took my legs—!” “Enough!” Declan barked, his lip curling in sheer disgust. “The makeup is very realistic, Josie, I’ll give you that. But clearly, you haven’t learned a damn thing.” Bennett and Jude looked at me like I was a piece of trash that had blown onto their pristine lawn. Declan grabbed me roughly by the wounded arm, dragging my frail body across the hall, and shoved me into a dark utility closet. “When Camilla gets back, if you still don’t know how to kneel and apologize, I will drive you back to Montana myself,” he spat. The door slammed shut. The lock clicked. The dark, enclosed space triggered an immediate, suffocating flashback. The phantom weight of a rusty iron chain wrapped around my neck. The smell of stale beer and sweat. I slammed my fists against the door, my voice entirely gone, reduced to a pathetic, guttural wheeze. “I’ll sign the papers! I want a divorce! Please, don’t send me back to the dark!” 2 I don’t know how long I pounded on the wood. I didn’t stop until the old scabs on my palms tore open, smearing blood on the white paint. Finally, the door swung open. I collapsed forward. My hair was matted to my face, my eyes swollen to slits. Bennett looked down at me. For a fraction of a second, something like panic flickered in his eyes, but he quickly forced it away, replacing it with a mask of weary contempt. “You’ve been back for two hours and you’re already throwing a tantrum. Can you just be normal for five minutes?” He shoved my shoulder. At barely eighty pounds, with a center of gravity thrown off by my cheap prosthetics, I crashed hard into the doorframe. Bennett froze, his hand hovering in the air. Then he scoffed, his lips pulling into a cruel smirk. “Still playing the victim? Think that’s going to make me carry you out of here?” Even after seeing the monster he had become, my heart still gave a pathetic little flutter of agony. The old Bennett would never have spoken to me like this. When my soul was first dropped into this universe, I was born as his little sister. Our mother died in childbirth. Bennett raised me single-handedly. He used to lay the world at my feet. When The Guide first told me my mission was to redeem three potential “villains” to keep this universe from collapsing, I poured every ounce of my love into them. I loved Declan until his cold heart melted. I found Jude shivering in an alleyway and brought him home. Bennett never scolded me for bringing them into our lives; he explicitly told them that I was the center of their universe, and they had to protect me. All of Seattle knew you could cross Bennett Mercer, but if you made Josie cry, you were a dead man walking. In my original life, I was a foster kid. I had never been loved. So, once my mission was officially marked complete and their dark fates were averted, I made the choice to stay in this world. I chose them. Then Bennett brought home our late father’s illegitimate daughter. Camilla. He had held me tight and sworn, “Josie, Dad is gone. She’s technically blood, so we can’t let her starve. I promise you, she gets a roof and food, but that’s it. You are my only sister.” I didn’t like it, but I accepted it. But Camilla wasn’t satisfied with a roof. I became the obstacle she needed to obliterate. When Bennett was walking down the stairs, she intentionally poured a bowl of scalding soup over her own chest, then dropped to her knees. “Bennett, help! Josie is trying to burn my face!” When Declan had a fever of 104, I stayed awake for 36 hours pressing cold towels to his skin. The second his eyelids fluttered open, Camilla shoved me out of the way and threw herself over his chest, weeping. “Declan, you’re awake! I’ve been sitting up all night praying for you!” When Jude’s startup was on the verge of bankruptcy, I secretly liquidated my trust fund to save him. Camilla intercepted him in the hallway, slapping her own cheek until it bruised, tears pooling in her eyes. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Jude I was the one who funded him. I’ll let you take the credit, Josie.” Lie by lie, frame by frame, they began to look at me with exhaustion and disappointment. And they looked at Camilla like she was a fragile glass saint. Even on my wedding day, Declan looked at me with an undercurrent of resentment. I begged, I cried, I tried to show them the truth, but it only earned me Declan’s icy ultimatum: “If you’re so miserable, Josie, we can just get a divorce.” I had just found out I was two months pregnant. I wanted my baby to have a father. So, I swallowed my pride. Until she killed my baby. And I slapped her. And they sent me to hell. The glowing holographic countdown in my peripheral vision pulled me out of the memory. Six hours left. I grabbed the doorframe, swaying as I forced myself to stand. I met Bennett’s mocking gaze with dead, hollow eyes. “I’m not playing the victim,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “You hate me. I get it. Print the divorce papers. Print a legal severance of our sibling relationship. I’ll sign them both.” Before I detached from this universe, I wanted every tie severed. I was too tired to scream anymore. There was no point. The moment the words left my mouth, heavy footsteps echoed in the hall. Declan appeared, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. Camilla stood pressed against his side, her eyes rimmed with theatrical red. 3 “Is my sister so furious that I’m carrying your baby that she’s taking it out on Bennett now?” Camilla whimpered, stepping forward and grabbing my arm. “Josie, please,” she sniffled loudly. “Declan and I… it was an accident. But the baby will be yours! We’ll give it to you to raise! Please don’t be angry, and please don’t abandon Bennett. He needs you!” Her voice was syrup-sweet, but her eyes danced with vicious triumph. As her fingers wrapped around my forearm, she found the deepest, most jagged scar under my sleeve and dug her acrylic nails directly into the damaged nerve. A blinding flash of white-hot agony shot through my skull. Purely on instinct, I violently jerked my arm back to get away from her. “Ah!” Camilla shrieked. She threw her arms up and tumbled backward into Declan’s chest, looking up at him with wide, terrified eyes. “Josie… why would you push me?” A split second later, the back of Declan’s hand connected with my cheek. The crack echoed in the hallway. The left side of my face went entirely numb. The metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth. Bennett stepped forward, his face twisted in grief and fury. “You know she’s pregnant, and you push her? You’re even more venomous than you were five years ago.” Declan glared at me, his eyes devoid of anything resembling a soul. “You want the divorce papers? Fine. You’ll get them. But first, you are going to attend Camilla’s design gala downstairs. You will stand in front of everyone, and you will publicly admit that she is a far superior jewelry designer than you ever were.” A sharp, grinding pain shot up from where my amputated legs met the hard plastic of the prosthetics. I opened my mouth to refuse, but Jude marched down the hall, two maids trailing behind him. “What are you waiting for?” he snapped at them. “Take my sister upstairs and dress her. Now.” I had no strength to fight. The maids practically dragged me up the stairs. The moment we were in the bathroom, they shoved me hard against the vanity and slammed the door behind them, not even bothering to help. I gripped the edge of the marble sink, looking into the mirror. The skeletal, hollow-eyed ghost looking back at me made my chest ache. There was a time when I lost two pounds from a stomach bug, and all three of those men had panicked, hiring a private chef to nurse me back to health. Now, I was quite literally starving to death, my bones pushing against my translucent skin, and they didn’t even notice. All they saw was Camilla. The maids came back in, taking one look at the network of scars on my chest with unabashed disgust. They threw a high-necked, long-sleeved evening gown at me. It was three sizes too big. I dragged my heavy, grinding legs down the sweeping staircase. In the grand foyer below, Camilla looked like a modern princess in a glittering, custom gown, clinging to Declan’s arm. Bennett and Jude flanked her, looking at her with overwhelming pride. As I hit the landing, the chatter of Seattle’s elite died. All eyes turned to me. Disgust rippled through the crowd. “Is that Josie Mercer? The jewelry prodigy? God, she looks like a corpse.” “Look at her neck—are those track marks or bruises?” “I heard she ran off with some cartel guys and caught some horrific disease.” The whispers were intentionally loud. The guests physically backed away from the staircase, terrified my proximity might infect them. Every step sent shockwaves of agony through my hips. The three men I once loved watched my painful descent with unmistakable irritation. When I finally reached the bottom, Camilla rushed forward, grabbing both my hands. “Josie! I’m so glad you came to celebrate me!” I just wanted to pull my hands back. As I tugged away, Camilla’s fist suddenly locked onto the high collar of my dress. With a violent, hidden yank, she ripped the fabric down to my breastbone. The horrific, mutilated landscape of my chest and shoulders was instantly exposed to the glittering ballroom. I gasped, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the scars. In the same motion, Camilla let out a theatrical scream and threw herself backward, crashing directly into a towering champagne pyramid. Glass shattered. Champagne rained down like a waterfall. “Camilla!” All three men abandoned their drinks and sprinted to her side, sliding in the alcohol. Camilla sat in the wreckage, sobbing, clutching Declan’s lapel. “Declan, it hurts! My stomach! Why… why does Josie hate my baby so much?” Bennett dropped to his knees, pulling Camilla into his arms. Declan stood up. He closed the distance between us in two strides and wrapped his large hand around my throat, lifting me onto my tiptoes. “You do this in front of the whole city?” he snarled, his eyes burning with a murderous rage. “You really haven’t learned a damn thing. I’ll have the van back here tomorrow morning. You’re going back to the woods.” The word woods triggered a primal, cellular terror inside me. I began to tremble violently. But then my eyes flicked to the glowing numbers hovering in the air. Two hours left. The fear vanished. I let my eyes slide shut. “Do whatever you want,” I choked out. His grip tightened for a second before he violently hurled me backward. “If you won’t learn in here, go kneel on the gravel by the front gates.” When I hit the marble floor, the impact reverberated through my battered skeleton. With a sickening crack, the locking mechanism on my right prosthetic snapped. The leg jutted out at an unnatural, horrific angle. Bennett and Jude’s heads snapped toward the sound. Declan froze, his eyes dropping to my leg. 4 Before Declan could take a step toward me, Camilla let out a blood-curdling wail. “Declan! My stomach is cramping! Am I losing the baby?!” The men instantly snapped out of their confusion. Panic consumed them. Declan scooped Camilla into his arms, his voice shaking. “No, no, baby, hold on. I’m getting you to the hospital right now.” As he sprinted past me, the pressure in my chest finally ruptured. I coughed, and a splatter of dark blood painted the white marble. Jude stopped dead in his tracks. He took a half-step toward me, his brow furrowing. But Bennett grabbed Jude’s shoulder, yanking him toward the door. “Leave her,” Bennett snapped, glaring at me with utter revulsion. “She’s incorrigible. She attacks Camilla and then puts on a pathetic show.” Jude’s expression hardened into ice. “And to think I actually felt sorry for you for a second. You’re pathetic, Josie.” Declan paused at the door, glancing back at me with a sneer. He gestured to his security team. “Throw her in the back of one of the SUVs. Bring her to the hospital.” Less than thirty minutes after Camilla was wheeled into the ER, a doctor rushed out, looking grave. “The patient’s body was already under immense stress,” the doctor lied—or recited whatever script Camilla had paid him to say. “The fall exacerbated her anemia. The fetus is in distress. We need an immediate blood transfusion to stabilize them both.” Bennett grabbed me by the back of my ruined dress and hauled me to my feet. His eyes were vicious. “She finally gets pregnant, and you try to kill it? Are you that twisted? Just because you’re barren, you want everyone else to be?” The broken prosthetic was digging directly into my raw flesh. I was shivering so violently my teeth rattled. I couldn’t even form words to defend myself. Declan stepped between us, but his words offered no salvation. They were colder than the Seattle rain outside. “Take her to the phlebotomy wing. Draw her blood. Once Camilla is safe, we’ll deal with her.” He motioned for the massive bodyguards to drag me down the hall. As I passed him, he scoffed. “Drop the tortured victim act, Josie. If you hadn’t shoved her, she wouldn’t need this. You brought this on yourself. And after she was so generous, offering to let you raise this baby.” He kept saying the word baby. It made the hospital lights blur. When the guards shoved me into the chair and the nurse approached with a thick gauge needle, my mind completely shattered. Every time I had seen a needle in that compound, I woke up without a baby. The last time I saw one, I woke up without legs. The trauma living inside my bone marrow hijacked my brain. I screamed. I thrashed wildly, knocking the tray over, dragging my broken, dangling plastic leg as I tried to crawl toward the door. “My baby… don’t touch my baby… please…” My pleas bounced off the sterile walls. Bennett and Jude caught me. They slammed me back into the chair, pinning my arms down by force. Bennett looked down at me, a twisted kind of pity entering his eyes. “Just bear it, Josie. You and Declan aren’t divorced yet. Camilla’s baby is your baby.” The nurse holding the tourniquet hesitated, looking at my bruised, skeletal arm, then up at Declan. “Sir… this woman is severely malnourished. Are you sure I should draw from her?” Declan flinched, his eyes darting to my face. The doctor from before stepped in smoothly. “The patient has a very rare blood type. If we don’t draw from her relative, we’ll have to wait for the blood bank. We might lose the fetus.” All three men went pale. “Do it,” Declan ordered, his voice suddenly hard again. “Those marks on her arm are makeup anyway. Don’t worry about her.” Jude looked away, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. “Just do it, Josie. We can’t let Camilla die.” Bennett leaned down, looking me dead in the eyes. “If Camilla pulls through this, I’ll forgive you for everything you’ve done.” I looked up at the digital clock on the wall. Ten minutes left. I looked at the three men who had once promised to protect me from the dark. The men I had chosen over a peaceful life in my own world. “Are you satisfied?” I whispered, my voice sounding like it was coming from a ghost. “You turned me into a monster, a freak, a piece of meat. Are you happy now?” Bennett and Jude froze. Declan grabbed my shoulder, his fingers digging into my collarbone. “You almost killed Camilla’s child today! How do you have the audacity to play the victim?!” I stared into his beautiful, hateful eyes. A slow, terrifyingly serene smile spread across my face. “You’re right. It’s my fault. I never should have loved any of you.” None of them responded. The second the blood bag was full, they sprinted back to Camilla’s room, leaving me bleeding in the chair. I pulled the needle out myself. Leaving a trail of blood on the linoleum, dragging my broken leg behind me, I followed them. I stood in the doorway of Camilla’s VIP suite. The three of them were hovering over her bed like anxious guardians. Declan glanced up, annoyed. “Come here,” he commanded like I was a dog. “Apologize to Camilla, and we’ll let tonight go.” I didn’t walk toward the bed. I turned and walked toward the massive, floor-to-ceiling hospital window. I hit the emergency latch, pushed the heavy glass open, and pulled myself up onto the ledge. The cold city wind whipped my hair around my face. Declan’s brow furrowed. “Josie, what the hell are you doing? Stop throwing a tantrum. Faking a suicide attempt isn’t going to make us feel sorry for you.” Jude shifted his weight, his eyes suddenly wide, his mouth opening and closing. Bennett took a step forward, his voice taking on that old, commanding older-brother tone. “Get down from there right now. I told the chef to make your favorite dinner for when we get home.” Ten seconds left. I sat on the ledge, my feet dangling over the seven-story drop. I looked at them one last time. “An apology isn’t enough,” I said, my voice cutting through the wind, crystal clear. “I’ll pay you back with my life. Consider the debt settled.” As the counter hit zero, I leaned forward and let gravity take me. The last thing I saw in this universe was the blood draining entirely from all three of their faces. A split second later, Declan let out a guttural, inhuman roar, sprinting toward the window—

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I’ve always had a God-given talent for reaching into other people’s pockets. When I accidentally became the convenient, purchased stand-in for a female billionaire’s untouchable first love, I played the part so well that in just one year, I managed to siphon off fifty million dollars. That day, I was lounging with my phone, happily counting the commas in my offshore bank account. Then, without warning, the floating text appeared. It overlaid my vision like a glitchy, digital hallucination—a rolling feed of comments and script notes dictating my reality. The text warned me that the “Golden Boy”—the real first love—was coming back. It said guys like me, the cheap knockoffs, never survived the third act. It literally told me I had about three chapters left to live. People in the floating text were begging me to fake my death and run. They said if I didn’t, the CEO would break my legs and lock me away the second her real love asked her to. They talked about it like it was a tragic, inevitable fate. Like I was a fly trapped in amber. Reading those words, the thrill of my fifty million vanished into thin air. Before I could even formulate a plan to ghost my own life, I was dragged to the lavish welcome-back gala for Tristan. The Golden Boy himself. Tristan wore a saccharine, fake smile as he picked up a ridiculously heavy, diamond-encrusted watch and clamped it around my wrist. He leaned in, his cologne suffocatingly sweet, and whispered that he heard I liked money. This watch, he said, was something his dog had gotten bored of playing with. Now, he was tossing it to me as a tip. Right then, the floating text in my vision exploded into a frenzy. They were screaming at me to take the watch off. [Throw it away!] they warned. [It’s laced with radiation! If you wear it, you’ll be dead before the week is out!] They said if I kept it on, the next chapter would be my funeral. Staring at the scrolling warnings, a strange calm washed over me. I finally had a plan. I knew exactly how I was going to fake my death and disappear. 1. The room erupted in polite, mocking laughter. I kept my head down for a second, then looked up, pulling my lips into a slow, deliberate smile. “Mr. Tristan going out of his way to humiliate me like this—” I let the sentence hang, my gaze driving straight through his eyes. “Is it because you still can’t let Debby go?” [LMAO SAVAGE! Hit him right where it hurts!] [Bro knows exactly how to uno reverse!] Tristan’s smug smile froze. The air in the penthouse suddenly shifted. The quiet, contemptuous amusement of the elite crowd morphed into a breathless, eavesdropping silence. I watched the blood drain from Tristan’s face, leaving him pale, before it rushed back in a blotchy, furious red. “What the hell are you talking about?” he spat. I didn’t answer. I just kept smiling, letting my eyes drift past his shoulder to the woman sitting on the velvet sofa behind him. Debby had stopped swirling the amber liquid in her crystal glass. Her eyes, usually so cold and unreadable, held a flicker of something dangerously close to anticipation. The whispers began, swelling like a rising tide. “Is Tristan actually still in love with Debby?” “Why else would he target Cameron so hard? The guy is literally just a hired stand-in.” “He probably wants his old life back but is too proud to say it.” Tristan’s eyes grew red-rimmed and damp. That was all it took for Debby’s heart to ache. Her voice cut through the room, sharp as a whip. “Cameron. Remember your place.” I lowered my eyes, the picture of absolute submission. “Of course, Debby.” Then, I casually unclasped the heavy watch, holding it up by the strap toward Tristan. “Thank you for the thought, Tristan. Even if the motive was a bit pathetic, the diamonds are real. I’ll gladly keep it.” Tristan was shaking with rage. He snapped his head toward Debby. “Keep your dog on a leash, Debby. He’s dragging down the class of the whole room.” Debby frowned, a tiny crease appearing between her perfectly sculpted brows. I looked at her, timing my exit perfectly. “Should I leave?” The room went dead silent again. Everyone was waiting for the billionaire to make her call. She let the silence stretch for two agonizing seconds, then stood up and suddenly grabbed my hand. “If Tristan doesn’t want us here, then we’ll leave.” [WTF? The cold-hearted CEO is protecting the stand-in?] [Something is wrong! Isn’t she obsessed with the first love?] I froze. Tristan looked like he’d been struck by lightning. He opened his mouth, but before he could form a word, Debby was already pulling me toward the grand double doors. Just as we reached the threshold, Tristan’s voice finally cracked through the room. “Debby! Are you really going to ruin my night for him?” Debby didn’t even turn around. Her voice was ice. “He came with me. Insulting him is insulting me.” Tristan choked on his next words. His chest heaved, his face a canvas of pure humiliation. The sycophants in the room immediately swarmed in to do damage control. “Come on, Debby, don’t be rash. Tristan was just joking around.” “Yeah, it’s his welcome-home party. Leaving now ruins the mood.” “Tristan, say something.” But Tristan just stood there, jaw locked. I looked at Debby’s profile. Her lips were pressed in a tight line, her eyes swirling with an emotion I couldn’t quite decipher. But I wasn’t stupid. I knew she wasn’t doing this to protect me. She was playing a game of chicken. She wanted to see if Tristan would beg her to stay. I had no interest in being a prop in their twisted romantic power play. I gently pulled my hand out of her grip. “Debby, please don’t fight with Tristan because of me. I can grab a cab back to the estate.” She didn’t let go immediately. Her grip tightened. But the whispers around her grew louder. “Debby, he just got back to the States. Don’t do this.” “Exactly, just talk it out. Don’t burn bridges.” “Mr. Cameron is offering to leave anyway. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.” Debby stayed silent for a long, heavy moment. Long enough that I actually thought she might hold on. Then, her fingers went slack. She let me go. [Wow. She gave up just like that?] [A simp is always a simp.] I let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh, turned around, and started walking out the door. “Stop.” Tristan’s voice rang out, dripping with renewed confidence. I paused and looked back. He was looking at me, that sickening smile back on his face. “Mr. Cameron ruined my party. Letting you just walk out of here—” He took a slow sip of his champagne. “That would be insulting to me.” I furrowed my brow. “What do you want?” He swirled his glass, his eyes locking onto mine with malicious glee. “I want you—” He paused, letting the cruelty settle over the room. “To crawl out.” 2. I looked at Debby. She was frowning, her eyes darting between Tristan and me, a silent calculation happening behind her beautiful, empty face. “A million dollars,” she said quietly. “Do what he asks.” The tiny, pathetic ember of hope I didn’t even realize I was harboring hissed and died in my chest. I pulled my gaze away from her, the corners of my mouth curling into a bitter smirk. “Sorry. I have no interest in entertaining your sick fetishes.” I turned my back and walked. Just as I reached the elevator, a violent, shattering crash erupted behind me. Crystal glass exploding against marble. Then came Tristan’s voice, trembling with outraged entitlement: “Debby! You’re just going to let him walk away?!” I didn’t turn back to look. But my footsteps did falter, just for a fraction of a second. When I got back to the sprawling glass-and-steel mansion, I stood in the foyer, staring at the place I had lived for over a year. Debby was always working or traveling. Most of the time, it had just been me, wandering alone through rooms filled with silent, expensive things. I went upstairs and packed only the essentials into a single duffel bag. Before I left, I grabbed a sticky note and a pen. I wrote a single line and slapped it onto the cover of the Forbes magazine sitting on her nightstand. Debby: I’m leaving. A stand-in should know when his time is up. Me staying will only cause more misunderstandings between you and Tristan. Take care. — Cameron. I walked out the front door and looked back at the gilded cage one last time. It would be a lie to say there wasn’t a pang of melancholy. But mostly? Mostly, I felt relief. I was so incredibly thankful that I had always known exactly what I was. I had never, not for a single second, given her my real heart. [Bro is way too naive…] [If the plot armor wants you dead, you can’t just walk away.] [I feel so bad for him. He has no idea what’s coming.] I knew the script wouldn’t let me go that easily. I just needed to buy myself a few days while Debby was distracted with her Golden Boy, enough time to execute my “death” perfectly. I rented a dingy, cash-only apartment deep in a gritty borough. It was a chaotic neighborhood with no security cameras. Even with Debby’s resources, it would take her a minute to track me down here. Once the deadbolts were locked, I opened my laptop and started searching. Custom high-end watch replicas. Early stage radiation poisoning symptoms. List of corrupt radiologists in private hospitals. [??? Wait, what is bro cooking?] [Is he making a fake watch? To pretend he got sick?] [Genius! Turn the white moonlight’s gift into a murder weapon! Let’s see him play the victim then!] [But no real doctor is gonna risk their license for that. He needs someone with dirt on them.] I scrolled through the search results, my fingers flying across the keyboard into the early hours of the morning. The next day, wearing a baseball cap and a surgical mask, I walked into a run-down watch repair shop sandwiched between a tire shop and a shuttered laundromat. The neon sign in the window was half-burnt out. The owner was a guy in his fifties, chewing on an unlit cigar, squinting at me with absolute apathy. I slapped a glossy photo of the watch on the glass counter. “I need an exact replica. Real diamonds. The craftsmanship has to be identical down to the microscopic engravings.” The old man picked up the photo, then looked me up and down. “Kid, this isn’t gonna be cheap. Real ice? You’re looking at six figures, minimum.” I reached into my bag and pushed two thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills across the glass. “This is the deposit. Name your final price. I don’t care.” He flicked the cigar to the other side of his mouth and grinned. “You got it. Give me three days.” For the next two days, I ran background checks on every senior radiologist and oncologist in the tri-state area. My target doctor needed to meet three very specific criteria: a. Experience with radiation trauma, so the medical reports would hold up to scrutiny. b. Desperate for money or hiding a massive secret, so they’d be willing to commit fraud. c. A closed mouth. I narrowed it down to three. Dr. Evans, 45, drowning in medical debt from his wife’s terminal illness. Dr. Wallace, 38, private oncology clinic, rumors of taking massive kickbacks from pharmaceutical reps. Dr. Miller, 52, paying off his son’s gambling debts to some very dangerous people. I planned to make contact tomorrow. I was just about to close my laptop and finally sleep when my vision suddenly flared red. The floating text began scrolling at a frantic, terrifying speed. [WARNING! WARNING! ALARM!] [WAKE UP! RUN!] [URGENT UPDATE: Tristan just stabbed himself! Half an hour ago!] [He’s in the ER claiming YOU did it!] [Debby is already on her way to you! She believes him!] [SHE ACTUALLY BELIEVES HIM!!!] [RUN DAMMIT!!!] The blood in my veins turned to ice. I sat frozen in the glow of the screen. Because I knew, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that running was useless. 3. I chose to surrender in the cramped, grimy apartment. Even if this was a scripted reality, it was still a society with laws. The worst that could happen was going to jail for a stabbing I didn’t commit. We could take it to court. The flimsy door was finally kicked open. Debby stood in the hallway, her aura as suffocating and dark as a looming hurricane. In her fist, completely crumpled, was the sticky note I had left on her nightstand. “Cameron.” Her voice was soft. So soft it made the hairs on my arms stand up. “Tristan is lying in a hospital bed. He says you drove a knife into him.” I met her cold stare. “I didn’t do it.” “He has a puncture wound in his abdomen. His blood soaked through the mattress.” She stepped into the room, her designer heels clicking against the cheap linoleum. “And you… you vanished the exact same night, leaving a pathetic little note about knowing your place.” I searched her eyes. I saw pain. I saw fury. I saw crushing disappointment. The only thing I didn’t see was a single ounce of doubt. She really did believe him. A hollow, broken laugh escaped my throat. “Debby. Did you come here to hear my side of the story, or did you already pass the sentence before you got out of the car?” She went dead silent for one second. That one second of silence was all the answer I needed. “Take him,” she ordered. I thought her security detail was going to drag me to a police precinct. I was wrong. The black SUV drove for two hours into the deep, desolate woods upstate, finally stopping in front of a pair of towering, rusted iron gates. Briarwood Psychiatric Facility. “Debby…” My voice finally broke, trembling as I looked at the imposing brick building. “What are you doing?” She looked at me, her eyes as dead and stagnant as stagnant water. “Tristan says your mental state has been erratic. He says you’re showing severe violent tendencies and paranoia. He doesn’t want to press charges and ruin your life. He just wants you to get the help you need.” “I didn’t stab him!” I lunged forward, grabbing the fabric of her coat. “Debby, look at me! Believe me, just this once—” She physically pried my fingers off her coat, stepping back. “Get well soon, Cameron.” The heavy car door slammed shut. [WTF WTF WTF! A PSYCH WARD?!] [This is worse than prison! A sane person will literally go crazy in there!] [Tristan is purely evil. He gets rid of the male lead and plays the forgiving saint at the same time!] [DEBBY YOU ARE SO FUCKING BLIND!!!] Two massive orderlies grabbed me by the armpits and dragged me through those rusted gates. Behind me, the red taillights of Debby’s SUV bled into the darkness and disappeared. The corridors inside were endless. Suffocating. The sickly fluorescent lights hummed overhead, mixing with the sharp, clinical stench of bleach and the distant, muffled sounds of screaming—or maybe it was laughing. I couldn’t tell. I was thrown into a solitary confinement cell. A metal bed bolted to the floor. Barred windows. A heavy steel door. When the deadbolt clicked into place, I squeezed my eyes shut. Was I really going to be tortured to death by the plot? Not long after, I was dragged out and strapped into a chair in a suffocatingly small room. A man in a white coat sat across from me, casually flipping through a fresh chart. Dr. Wallace. My target number two. “Cameron,” Dr. Wallace said, not looking up. “According to the party who committed you, you suffer from severe violent delusions and paranoia.” “I am perfectly sane.” He smiled—a thin, corporate smile—and gave a subtle nod to the orderlies. They slammed me back against the chair. Heavy leather straps were buckled tight over my wrists and ankles. Cold, wet electrode pads were pressed against my temples. The exact moment the current ripped into my skull, my entire universe turned blindingly, agonizingly white. It felt like a thousand burning needles were being hammered directly into my brain. My body seized, violently thrashing against the thick leather restraints, completely out of my control. I don’t know how much time passed. The current stopped. I slumped forward in the chair, my clothes completely soaked in sweat, my chest heaving as I gasped for air. “That was session one,” Dr. Wallace’s voice floated over to me, sounding like it was underwater. “We have nine more scheduled.” I looked at him through eyes blurred with tears of pure agony. “How much… did Tristan pay you?” I choked out. He paused, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he chuckled. He leaned in close to my ear. “Enough to make sure you live in this room for the rest of your natural life.” [ANIMAL!!!] [This is actual murder without leaving a corpse!!!] [Someone spoil this for me, please tell me he gets out! He can’t actually die here!] I was dragged back to my cell and tossed onto the hard mattress. My body was still convulsing with aftershocks. The skin at my temples felt like it was on fire. I curled into a tight, shivering ball, staring blankly at the concrete wall as tears leaked from my eyes. It wasn’t fear. It was pure, unadulterated hatred. Tristan. That name was now permanently burned into the scarred tissue of my brain.

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When I opened my eyes to a second chance at life, I didn’t return alone. I came back tethered to a cosmic anomaly—an otherworldly entity that called itself the Genesis System. The Carmichael family legacy was bound by an archaic, ironclad rule: the sprawling, multi-billion-dollar empire could only be passed down to a male heir. This outdated tradition was exactly why Fallon Carmichael, Conrad’s only daughter, viewed the child growing in my womb during my past life as a lethal threat. She wanted the crown, and she was willing to slaughter to get it. I can still vividly recall the naive joy of my previous life. I had genuinely believed that marrying Conrad Carmichael was the beginning of my happily ever after. I had believed in his love. I was wrong. On the day of our wedding, his daughter, Fallon, had cornered me in the bridal suite. She handed me a flute of vintage champagne with a saccharine smile. “Who gave you the right to play stepmother?” she had whispered, her eyes cold and dead. “The Carmichael throne belongs to me. Only me.” The poison had been fast, but not fast enough to spare me the agony. I died choking on my own blood, my vision swimming in crimson as she watched with detached amusement. But death had only been a revolving door. This time, I was going to become her absolute worst nightmare. Soon enough, Conrad Carmichael would have sons. He’d have enough sons to fill a starting lineup, and I was going to sit back and watch Fallon’s entire universe burn to the ground. 1 It began on the night of Fallon’s extravagant twenty-first birthday gala. I had infiltrated the Carmichael estate as a newly hired maid. That evening, Conrad had consumed a generous amount of bourbon. I found him in the dimly lit study, carrying a tray with a glass of ice water and a steaming cup of black coffee. As I approached his leather armchair, I purposefully caught my heel on the Persian rug, tumbling forward right into his lap. “Oh! I’m so sorry, the coffee—it spilled,” I gasped, pitching my voice into a soft, breathless octave. Instead of pushing me away, the older man’s strong arms encircled my waist. He let out a low, gravelly chuckle, the scent of expensive cologne and aged whiskey wrapping around me. “Well,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips. “Since you’ve ruined my drink, I suppose you’ll just have to compensate me with yourself.” By the time Fallon caught wind of my presence and stormed up from the ballroom, the heavy oak doors of the master bedroom could hardly conceal the thick, undeniable air of intimacy. She threw the doors open, her eyes bloodshot with rage. Stomping toward the bed, she reached out, her manicured claws aiming to rip the silk sheets right off my body. “You shameless, pathetic little whore! How dare you try to seduce my father!” I trembled—a perfect, practiced shudder—and shrank back against Conrad’s broad chest, pulling the duvet up to my chin. “Mr. Carmichael… I’m scared,” I whimpered. That fragile, melodic plea was a masterstroke. It instantly ignited Conrad’s dormant, primal instinct to protect. His brow furrowed into a harsh line as he shifted his weight, shielding me entirely from his daughter’s wrath. “Fallon! What is the meaning of this?!” he roared, his voice rattling the windowpanes. “Watch your filthy mouth! And for the record, she didn’t seduce me. I wanted her.” I let a single, crystalline tear slip down my cheek. “It’s alright, Conrad. If your daughter hates me this much… I should just pack my things and leave.” The sheer vulnerability in my voice struck a direct chord in the man’s chest. “You’ll do no such thing,” Conrad commanded, his tone softening only for me. “You are mine now. You stay right here.” He turned his piercing glare back to Fallon. “From this day forward, she is the mistress of this house.” Fallon’s face twisted into an ugly, unrecognizable mask of fury. She took a half-step forward, but the glacial warning in her father’s eyes forced her to freeze. Spinning on her heel, she fled down the hallway. Seconds later, the muffled sound of shattering porcelain echoed from her bedroom. Once the adrenaline faded, Fallon dialed her mother, Kimberley. “Mom, he slept with a maid! A filthy little nobody! And he’s talking about keeping her here!” “What? He gave her a title?” On the other end of the line, Kimberley froze. She was a former C-list actress who had managed to trap Conrad with a pregnancy decades ago, only to be unceremoniously divorced when her greed became too suffocating. She had walked away with a massive settlement, but her true golden goose was her daughter. As long as Conrad didn’t produce a male heir, the Carmichael empire was destined to fall into Fallon’s lap. Gritting her teeth, Kimberley smoothed her voice into a soothing purr. “Calm down, sweetheart. So what if he makes promises? A promise doesn’t mean she’ll live long enough to see the altar. You are the one who will have the last laugh.” Listening to their intercepted conversation through the System’s interface in my mind, a mocking smile touched the corners of my mouth. In my past life, Conrad had taken an interest in me too. But back then, I had been genuinely terrified. I had fled his bed before he even woke up, entirely avoiding Fallon’s initial wrath. Eventually, he tracked me down, courted me, and asked for my hand. Swept up in his earnest gaze, I had wept tears of joy and said yes. And for that yes, Fallon had murdered me. She had swirled the champagne in her glass, watching me writhe on the floor. “Such a blind, stupid girl. You just had to latch onto my father, didn’t you? Look where it got you.” I had died swallowed by a hatred so profound it transcended the physical realm. In the endless void, the Genesis System had found me. “Host,” the ethereal voice had whispered. “Fallon Carmichael acts with such impunity because she believes the empire is her birthright. Give him a son, and you shatter her reality. Shall we… make a pact?” 2 Of course I took the pact. I wasn’t just going to give him a son. I was going to give him a dynasty. I was going to drown Fallon in a sea of male heirs until she choked on her own despair. Over the following week, Conrad kept me by his side every single night. Under my gentle, meticulous care, he began to peel back his formidable layers. Carmichael Enterprises had been founded by his grandfather a century ago, passed down strictly through the men of the bloodline. But the universe had played a cruel joke on Conrad; he had been unable to sire a son. Crushed beneath the immense pressure of the board and his family’s legacy, he had reluctantly named his eldest daughter, Fallon, as his successor. Listening to his quiet confessions in the dark, my heart turned to ice. Passing the torch to a daughter would have been a beautiful triumph over patriarchal chains—if that daughter wasn’t Fallon. Her? Inherit an empire? She was a sociopath who treated human lives like disposable tissues. I would gladly burn the company to the ground before I let her sit on that throne. Once Conrad fell into a deep, rhythmic sleep, I summoned the System in the quiet theater of my mind. “Host, the embryo has successfully implanted.” A genuine, razor-sharp smile graced my lips in the dark. The countdown to Fallon’s mental collapse had officially begun. Despite being divorced for years, Kimberley still clung to the illusion of being the Carmichael matriarch, occasionally weaponizing Fallon to force family dinners with Conrad. But since my arrival, she had been entirely locked out. Even Fallon, too consumed with plotting my downfall, had grown distant from her mother. Driven mad by the shifting power dynamics, Kimberley finally snapped. After being denied entry by the estate security for the third time, she bypassed the main gates on foot, evading the guards, and burst right into my private sitting room. Smack! Before I could even register her presence, a stinging slap connected with my cheek. “You cheap little slut!” Kimberley shrieked, her chest heaving. “You’re a maid! How dare you think you can play house in my territory! Listen to me—Fallon is his daughter, and Conrad is my man!” I slowly turned my head, tasting the faint metallic tang of copper on my lip. Then, without a word, I planted my foot squarely into her stomach, kicking her so hard she flew backward and crumpled onto the hardwood floor. Spitting out a drop of blood, I tilted my chin down, looking at her as if she were dirt on my shoe. “I am targeting you because you are Fallon’s mother,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “And I’m not just going to take your man. I’m going to swallow the entire Carmichael empire.” Kimberley, accustomed to the untouchable high ground of her Hollywood days, was utterly stunned. No one had ever physically fought back. She sat there on the floor, clutching her ribs, her mouth opening and closing in shock. “You hit me… you’re insane!” she finally gasped. “The only insane one here is you!” Conrad’s booming voice shattered the tension. He strode into the room, bypassing his ex-wife entirely, and immediately cupped my face in his large, warm hands. His thumbs gently brushed the swelling red mark on my cheek. “Brooke, darling, are you hurt?” I forced my eyes to glass over with tears, adopting the posture of a woman trying desperately to be brave. I shook my head slowly. “I’m fine, Conrad. Really.” “You are not fine. You’re bruising,” he growled. He turned slowly, his gaze pinning Kimberley to the floor. The look in his eyes was absolute zero. “You vicious, pathetic woman. You dared to lay a hand on her under my roof?” Kimberley scrambled backward, panic finally breaking through her arrogance. “Conrad, wait! I hit her, yes, but she kicked me! She attacked me first!” 3 The temperature in the room plummeted. “Do you take me for a fool?” Conrad sneered. “I saw exactly what happened. Brooke was defending herself against a trespasser.” He didn’t bother hiding his disgust. “Get out of my house. From this second forward, you have no ties to the Carmichael family. And that limitless black card I let you keep? Consider it canceled.” Despite Kimberley’s hysterical sobbing and begging, Conrad’s security detail dragged her out of the mansion by her arms. When Fallon heard that her mother had been financially excommunicated, she came tearing into my bedroom that night, her face flushed with manic rage. “You! You engineered this! You’re the reason my mother is destitute!” Before she could lunge, Conrad stepped into her path, an immovable wall. “Fallon, enough! This is not Brooke’s fault. Your mother broke into this house and physically assaulted her. If you don’t drop this senseless vendetta and stop acting exactly like her, I will punish you, too.” I shrank behind Conrad’s broad shoulders, a picture of terrified innocence. Seeing that sheer aggression was failing, Fallon gritted her teeth and rapidly shifted gears. She blinked hard, forcing a pool of tears into her eyes. “Dad,” she choked out, her voice cracking. “I know you care about her, but I’m your flesh and blood. You’ve never yelled at me like this. Ever since she got here, you’ve looked at me like you hate me.” She softened her posture, throwing her arms around Conrad’s waist. “Don’t you love me anymore?” Conrad sighed. She was his daughter, the child he had indulged for two decades. The sight of her crying chipped away at his anger. “I have spoiled you rotten,” he murmured, his hand resting stiffly on her hair. “You’re an adult, Fallon. You can’t throw tantrums like a toddler. How am I supposed to hand you the reins of the company if you act like this?” Fallon’s eyes gleamed with a predatory victory. She pressed her advantage immediately. “I know, Dad. I know you love me most. But if I’m really going to take over as CEO, doesn’t my mother deserve some respect? If you don’t restore her status, the board is going to whisper that I’m just the daughter of a discarded mistress.” It was a blatant attempt to force him into remarrying Kimberley. Conrad glanced back at me, his jaw tight. He remained silent, refusing to agree. Right on cue, Beatrice Carmichael—Conrad’s mother and the terrifying matriarch of the family—swept into the room. “What in God’s name is going on in here?” Beatrice demanded, adjusting her silk shawl. “I could hear my precious granddaughter crying from the driveway.” Her sharp, hawkish eyes locked onto me, practically vibrating with disdain. “Conrad, you need to remember your priorities. A passing fling is nothing compared to your blood. And this one? She reeks of a social-climbing homewrecker trying to tear this family apart.” Emboldened by her grandmother’s arrival, Fallon sneered. “Exactly, Grandma! You have no idea how toxic this house has become since she crawled in. She makes me sick!” Conrad lowered his eyes, his voice tight. “Mother, Brooke didn’t do anything wrong.” “Ha! She ruined my mother’s life!” Fallon snapped. Losing her temper all over again, she raised her hand to strike me. I didn’t cower this time. I tracked the trajectory of her hand, and right as she swung, I threw my weight backward, twisting my body to ensure I landed hard on the floor. I hit the ground with a sickening thud, landing squarely on my stomach. A raw, piercing scream ripped from my throat. The room went dead silent. Under their horrified gazes, a dark pool of crimson blood began to seep through the fabric of my dress, staining the pristine carpet between my legs. “My baby!” I gasped, clutching my stomach. “God, it hurts!”

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This time, I kept it a secret. I walked side-by-side with the campus golden boy, hiding our “romance” from everyone—especially her. When she finally found out, she fell right back into her old patterns. It was predictable, really. But what she didn’t know was that this man wasn’t my boyfriend. He was a “gift” I had meticulously gift-wrapped just for her. My roommate, Natalie, always prided herself on her “impeccable taste.” She loved to claim we were kindred spirits, which was her way of saying she felt entitled to admire—and eventually take—every man I ever dated. She played the role of the concerned friend to perfection. She’d tell me I was too naive, too sheltered, and that I’d easily be “tricked by a man’s sweet talk.” Then, she’d offer to “test” them for me, as if she were doing me a grand favor. It was always the same script. She’d use my well-being as an excuse to slide into their DMs, to “accidentally” run into them, to charm them. And once she successfully lured them away, she’d come back to me, radiating a sickening sense of triumph. “See, Maria? I told you that you have terrible judgment,” she’d say, wearing that pitying smirk. “None of these guys are any good. If I hadn’t tested him for you, you’d be crying yourself to sleep right now.” Every time, I’d be paralyzed by a cocktail of rage and humiliation, unable to find the words to tear down her “altruistic” facade. 1 Natalie was currently parading around the dorm, flaunting a photo of herself with my most recent ex, Jackson. “He told you he couldn’t live without you when he was pursuing you, right?” she laughed, tossing her hair back. “But look at him now. I barely had to lift a finger, and he was practically begging for my number.” She leaned in, her eyes glinting with a fake, sugary sweetness. “Honestly, Maria, you should thank me. I saved you from a real jerk.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. A hot surge of anger bubbled in my chest. “You’re literally bragging about being the ‘other woman.’ Do you even have a shred of dignity left?” Natalie blinked, her expression shifting instantly into one of wounded innocence. “Maria, I was just trying to protect you. How can you be so ungrateful?” Our other roommate, Kayla, immediately jumped to her defense. “Maria, don’t be so dramatic. You’re really going to ruin a friendship over some guy? It’s not that deep.” “Exactly,” Madison added, nodding in agreement. “If it wasn’t for Natalie, you’d still be getting played. She’s like a human filter for trash. You should be paying her for the service.” I opened my mouth, but the words died in my throat. My last five boyfriends were indeed trash, but was Natalie any better? Before each breakup, I’d managed to get a glimpse of their phones. Natalie’s messages were a masterclass in manipulation. She’d sent them suggestive photos—satin robes slipping off her shoulders, low-cut necklines—always followed by a “Does this make me look too pale?” or “I feel so lonely tonight.” They were all disgusting. Every single one of them. Natalie sauntered over, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “Maria, you’re not actually mad, are you? I didn’t think it would happen, really. We were just chatting, and then he just… fell for me. I can’t help my charm, can I?” Kayla chimed in, “Of course not. Some people just have ‘it.’ Unlike some girls who think a 4.0 GPA is a substitute for a personality.” She and Madison exchanged a knowing look and giggled. I ignored their little inside joke, turned my back, and stared at my phone. The room went quiet for a few seconds. Suddenly, Kayla let out a sharp gasp. “Oh my god, look! Who is that?” She was practically hanging out the window, her neck strained. “Is that Sebastian? Sebastian Black? What is the campus god doing outside our building?” Madison and Natalie scrambled to the balcony. “Holy crap, it is him! What’s he doing here? Is he waiting for someone? Is he actually dating someone?” “Seriously, who is the lucky girl? He’s the ultimate ‘Untouchable.’ Total ice king.” Kayla turned to Natalie, a thought occurring to her. “Natalie, didn’t you try to get with him last semester? Is he off the market now?” Natalie’s face darkened for a split second. She didn’t answer. I knew why. She had spent six months throwing herself at Sebastian, and he hadn’t even given her his Instagram handle. I stood in front of the mirror, carefully applying a coat of cherry-red lipstick. “Aren’t you supposed to be mourning Jackson?” Natalie asked, blocking my path to the door. “Or are you heading out for a pity-date?” I brushed her hand away. “We broke up three months ago, Natalie. If you want my leftovers, keep them. I’m done with the trash.” My phone rang right then. I answered it immediately. A deep, smooth voice drifted through the line. “Hey, beautiful. I’m downstairs.” “I’ll be right there,” I said, my heart skipping a beat—partly from the plan, partly from the sheer performance of it all. Just as I was about to hang up, Natalie snatched the phone from my hand. “No wonder you don’t care about Jackson anymore,” she sneered. “You found a new toy.” Then, she pressed the phone to her ear, her voice dropping into that nauseating, high-pitched “baby” register she used with men. “Hi! I’m Maria’s roommate, Natalie. Are you Maria’s new boyfriend?” I don’t know what he said, but the smug smile on her face froze. Her eyes widened, and her jaw actually dropped. I grabbed the phone back while she was in shock and ended the call. Natalie stared at me, her eyes burning with a sudden, frantic jealousy. “Your boyfriend… is Sebastian Black?” 2 “There’s no way,” Kayla scoffed, though her voice lacked conviction. “Sebastian has the highest standards on campus. Why would he pick her?” “Exactly,” Madison added. “The girls chasing him literally form a line around the block. Maria? Please.” Natalie didn’t join in the mockery this time. She was quiet, her eyes scanning me from head to toe, re-evaluating everything. “Maria,” she said, her voice regaining its composure. “You didn’t just hire some guy to pretend to be Sebastian to mess with us, did you?” I looked at her—at that face that thought it had the world figured out—and I felt a ripple of genuine amusement. “Think whatever helps you sleep at night, Natalie.” I didn’t waste another second. I turned and walked out. Downstairs, Sebastian was leaning against a sleek, crimson Lamborghini. When he saw me, he offered a small, devastatingly handsome smile and waved. The sunlight caught the sharp angles of his face. He truly was the Golden Boy. No wonder Natalie had been obsessed. And that was exactly why I’d chosen him. “Did I keep you waiting?” I asked as I approached. “Just got here. Get in.” Sebastian stepped around and opened the door for me with a level of chivalry that felt almost performative, yet perfect. As I slid into the leather seat, I glanced up. There they were—three faces pressed against the balcony railing, their expressions a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated envy. I nearly laughed out loud. Sebastian took me to an exclusive private athletic club. We were at the indoor tennis courts, and he was standing behind me, his arms wrapped around mine, adjusting my grip on the racket. It was intimate, calculated, and exactly what I needed. My phone buzzed. Natalie. “Maria, are you at the club?” I felt a prickle of annoyance. She was like a shadow you couldn’t shake. “What do you want, Natalie?” “Don’t be like that,” she said, her voice dripping with fake concern. “I’m just worried about you. I don’t want you getting caught up in something you can’t handle. Sebastian is… complicated.” “Sebastian is fine. And stop calling me,” I said coldly, hanging up. Sebastian handed me a towel and gently wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. “Everything okay? Your roommate again?” I took the towel, meeting his gaze. “Yeah. Just someone who’s a little too interested in my life now that I’m dating someone like you.” He let out a low, melodic chuckle and ruffled my hair. A second later, a tennis ball whizzed through the air, clipping Sebastian squarely in the back. He winced, his brow furrowing as he turned around. Natalie was running toward us, looking breathless and distressed. “Oh my god, I am so sorry! I didn’t see you there! I’m such a klutz!” She bent over to pick up her racket, her button-down shirt purposefully unfastened just enough. Sebastian’s eyes flicked over her with a look of utter indifference. He didn’t even acknowledge her “accidental” display. “It’s fine,” he said shortly. He put his arm around my waist, guiding me away. But Natalie wasn’t giving up. She reached out and grabbed his sleeve. “I feel terrible! Please, let me make it up to you. Can I get your number? I’d love to buy you a new shirt, or at least a drink to apologize.” I saw the flash of disgust in Sebastian’s eyes before he masked it. “Not necessary,” he said, his voice flat. “I don’t give my number to strangers.” He turned back to me, his expression softening instantly into something that looked like pure devotion. “Sorry about the interruption, babe. Let’s get out of here. I’ll take you to Cartier; you deserve a new bracelet for having to deal with this.” I smiled, casting a triumphant look back at Natalie. She stood frozen on the court, her face turning a sickly shade of gray. My previous boyfriends would always give her a polite rejection in front of me, but I could see the hunger in their eyes. They’d always end up adding her on social media later that night. She thought every man was the same—a lock she could eventually pick. But this time, she had slammed into the brick wall that was Sebastian Black. 3 I was satisfied with Sebastian. So satisfied, in fact, that for a fleeting moment, I almost believed he was the exception to the rule. But in this world, reality has a way of hitting you when you least expect it. A week later, I went to find him during theater rehearsals for the campus play. Sebastian was the lead, obviously. When I walked into the auditorium, the stage was dim, but I saw them in the wings. Sebastian and Natalie were sitting close—too close. They were sharing a cup of boba tea. Sebastian took a sip, and then Natalie leaned in, her lips hovering over the exact spot on the straw his mouth had just left. She took a long, slow sip, and then Sebastian took the cup back and drank from it again without a second thought. My world went static for a second. Sebastian looked up and saw me. He didn’t jump, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. He followed my gaze to the straw. “Natalie’s blood sugar dropped,” he said, his voice steady. “She almost fainted on stage a few times. I just wanted to get through the scene so we wouldn’t waste everyone’s time.” He handed the rest of the drink to Natalie. “Finish it so we can get back to work.” Natalie took the cup, sipping slowly while her eyes locked onto mine. She gave me a slow, victorious smile. “Your boyfriend is such a boy scout, Maria. No matter how much I flirt, he’s a total professional. You really picked a winner this time.” She walked away, her heels clicking rhythmically against the floor, her silhouette radiating the same arrogance she’d always had. I stood there, my heart hammering against my ribs. I knew that look in her eyes. It was the look of a predator who had finally tasted blood. Sebastian saw my expression and pulled me into an embrace. “Babe, don’t overthink it. The original lead actress got into a car accident, and Natalie stepped in last minute to save the production. I owe her a professional courtesy, that’s all.” I nodded, resting my head on his shoulder, playing the part. “You know… Natalie has a habit of liking my boyfriends. She’s taken them all. I’m just scared that you…” He held me tighter. “Trust me. You’re the only one I care about.” The words had barely left his lips when his phone buzzed. I caught a glimpse of the screen. A message from Natalie. He checked it quickly and pulled away. “I have to get back to it. I’ll call you later, okay?” I watched him walk away, and I felt my heart sink—not because I loved him, but because the game was moving faster than I anticipated. I thought Sebastian would be different, but it had only taken a week for her to get under his skin. Over the next few days, Sebastian could tell I was distant. To “make it up to me,” he invited me to a party on his family’s yacht, promising to introduce me to his inner circle. I decided to give him one last chance to prove my suspicions wrong. The yacht was massive, a floating monument to old money. The deck was lined with champagne towers and gourmet appetizers. Sebastian introduced me proudly: “Everyone, this is my girlfriend, Maria.” The guys were friendly enough, and for a while, the atmosphere was pleasant. But then, the conversation shifted to business—to the Black family’s latest pharmaceutical venture. “How’s the R&D on the new heart medication going?” one of his friends asked. Sebastian’s expression darkened. “We hit a wall. There’s a technical hurdle we can’t clear. If we could get a consultation with Dr. Howard Bennett, the top cardiac specialist, we’d be set. Otherwise, millions in initial investment are going down the drain.” Before anyone could respond, a familiar voice cut through the air. “Dr. Howard Bennett?” Natalie stepped into the light, looking stunning in a silk slip dress. “I know him. My aunt is a senior medical liaison; she’s had dinner with Dr. Bennett dozens of times. If you need an introduction, I can make it happen.” Sebastian’s eyes lit up with a spark of genuine interest. I stood beside him, my fingers tightening around my glass until I thought it might shatter. In an instant, his focus had shifted entirely to Natalie. While they were deep in conversation, I stepped into the shadows and pulled out my phone. I sent a text to a number with no name attached. The fish is biting. Move to Phase Two. 4 Sebastian began seeing Natalie behind my back. Frequently. And after every “meeting,” Natalie would show up with something new—a designer scarf, a piece of jewelry, a limited-edition handbag. One afternoon, she was back in the dorm, preening with a brand-new bag. Kayla’s eyes were the size of saucers. “Is that the new Birkin? There are only three of those in the city, Natalie! Who gave you that?” Natalie’s smile was enigmatic. “Some people think they’ve caught the Golden Boy, but they don’t realize that even the best statues can be moved if you know which buttons to push.” She looked genuinely satiated. I knew that look. She had finally “gotten” him. I suppressed the bile rising in my throat, put on my noise-canceling headphones, and turned the volume to the max. Sebastian hadn’t reached out to me in days, supposedly because he was “swamped” with the drug trials. But on my birthday, he suddenly asked to meet. He greeted me with an exuberant hug, his voice buzzing with excitement. “Maria, I have the best news! We finally broke through the research barrier! Everything is back on track.” He apologized profusely for neglecting me, explaining how much pressure he’d been under. If he succeeded with this drug, he would officially take over the family empire. The fact that he wanted to share this “first” with me almost touched me. Then, he took me to a high-end jewelry boutique and pointed to a stunning, ten-carat diamond necklace sitting in a velvet case. “Do you like it?” I was stunned. The piece was breathtaking—almost surreal. “It’s beautiful. But Sebastian… it’s a fortune.” “Price doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “I want you to have the best.” My eyes welled up. For a moment, the clouds of the last few weeks seemed to vanish. Sebastian took the exquisitely wrapped box and placed it in my hands. “Maria… do me a favor. Give this to Natalie for me.” I froze. “What?” “She’s been working tirelessly behind the scenes. She really came through for the company. Since you’re my girlfriend, it’s more appropriate if the gift comes from you. It keeps things professional.” I looked down at the box. My face was a mask of practiced neutrality. “Of course,” I said quietly. I messaged Natalie immediately. By “coincidence,” she was at the same mall. Sebastian and I went to find her. When we reached the designated spot, we found her in the middle of a heated argument with a man. It was Jackson. My ex. “Natalie, stop avoiding me,” Jackson was saying, grabbing her arm. “I’ve already looked at the penthouse at the Riverside. It’ll be in your name. Just stay with me, and I’ll give you everything.” Natalie hissed, “Jackson, you’re delusional. Let go!” But Jackson was relentless, refusing to let her walk away. In the next heartbeat, a blur of motion streaked past me. Sebastian slammed a fist into Jackson’s face. “Who the hell do you think you are, touching her?” Sebastian roared. Jackson stumbled back, spitting blood, staring at Sebastian with pure hatred. They lunged at each other, the fight turning brutal in seconds. It took four security guards to finally pull them apart. I stood there, watching the chaos, and a bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. My current boyfriend and my ex-boyfriend were brawling in public—both of them fighting over the same woman. The irony was staggering. Natalie, eyes red and brimming with tears, threw herself into Sebastian’s arms. “Thank god you were here… I was so scared…” Sebastian held her tight, his voice a low, soothing murmur. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He threw a warning glare at Jackson and then led Natalie away. Not once did he look back at me. Not once did he remember it was my birthday. I turned to leave, but a hand clamped around my arm, pulling me into a nearby service corridor. My back hit the cool tile wall. A familiar scent—sandalwood and rain—filled my senses. After a long, breathless kiss, the man finally spoke. “Did you get what you needed, babe? How was my performance? Because every time that girl touched my arm, I felt like I needed to scrub my skin with bleach.”

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The words flickered across my vision like a glitching neon sign, and I froze. In this high-stakes marriage of convenience, I was nothing but a “fragile ornament”—a decorative weight he couldn’t wait to shed. The scrolling text told me he loathed my clinginess. They said my family’s “new money” status made me a joke in his world. They predicted that tonight, the moment he stepped into his office, he would fall for the real female lead at first sight. And me? I was destined to go into a jealous spiral, cause a scene at his headquarters, and get crushed by a truck. My family would be driven into bankruptcy by his hand shortly after. The tears that had been pricking my eyes suddenly vanished. All those times I’d cried because he came home late, because he pushed me away, or because he was too rough—it all felt pathetic now. I pulled back from him, forcing my voice to sound like ice. “You should go. The office is more important.” After all, this “easy-crier” reflex of mine was probably just an annoyance to a man like him. 1 Blake looked up at me, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches. His face was a mess of my lipstick marks, and his wrists were locked in leather restraints. I’d spent half the evening weeping just to get him to agree to this. When I’d handed him the sheer V-neck silk shirt and the cuffs, his expression had been dark enough to swallow the room. I had crumbled immediately, sobbing about how my best friend’s husband wore things like this, how he looked powerful and touchable, and how some women just had all the luck. Blake’s face had twisted with something like resignation, but he’d put them on. Now, his voice was a low, ragged growl. “Are you sure you want me to go?” His eyes searched mine, hunting for a crack in my mask. I nodded frantically, the sheer intensity of his gaze threatening to trigger my tears again. He went quiet for a beat. “Unlock me,” he said, his tone turning clinical. I shivered and climbed onto his lap to fumbling with the key. But my mind was a cinema of my own tragic ending. My fingers shook so violently I couldn’t find the mechanism. The more I panicked, the more the sob rose in my throat. He let out a heavy breath, his voice softening into something dangerously persuasive. “Gwen. If you don’t want me to leave, just tell me—” “There,” I gasped, the lock clicking open. I choked back a sob and pressed his dress shirt into his hands. “I’ll be fine here alone. Don’t worry about me. Drive safe.” Blake paused. He didn’t say a word. Maybe he really did find me repulsive now; when he took the shirt, he pointedly avoided letting our fingers touch. He dressed with the efficiency of a man reclaimed by his world. The tailored suit emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and once he slid his silver-rimmed glasses back on, the wall was back up. He looked distant, untouchable. “Don’t wait up for me.” I forced a bright, hollow smile. “Do what you have to do.” Blake’s jaw tightened. Without another word, he turned and left. The heavy oak door shut with a thud that echoed through the empty penthouse. The dam broke. The tears fell in heavy, silent drops. I dialed my mother, my voice thick with grief. “Mom… I want out. I want to end the arrangement.” My mother’s voice sharpened with concern. “What’s wrong, honey? What happened?” I stumbled over my words. I couldn’t tell her that Blake was going to fall for someone else, that I’d be killed by a truck, and that he’d dismantle our family’s empire. “He doesn’t love me,” I whispered. There was a long silence on the other end. “It’s okay, baby,” she said eventually. “A marriage should be a choice, not a sentence. The Callahan family… maybe they were always too much for us. I’ll talk to your father. Stop crying, okay?” “Okay.” I wiped my face. The bed beside me was already cold. It hurt. The “Feed” in my head was right. My family’s wealth had come fast—too fast. Before I was seven, I was drooling over dollar-store corn dogs. Then my dad won a massive lottery, made a few brilliant, aggressive moves in tech, and suddenly we were orbiting the elite of the East Coast. The Callahans, however, were old money. Centennial blood. People lined up around the block just for a nod from them. Blake was the golden heir, groomed for the throne since birth—composed, lethal, a man who took over the family conglomerate while most guys were still figuring out their majors. Supposedly, my family had done the Callahans a great favor once. I couldn’t remember what it was, and no one would tell me. I’d never even met Blake until a month ago when he showed up at our house and proposed the alliance. I’d wondered if it was a scam. But all my doubts had melted the moment I saw his face. I was all in. I wanted the man, the myth, the legend. Blake had given me a one-month “trial period.” He said if I felt it wasn’t a fit, we could walk away. At first, I thought he was being considerate. Now I realized he was just giving himself an exit strategy. Three days left. Just three days until the month was up. 2 To change the script, I spent the night being the perfect, invisible wife. I didn’t text him to ask if he missed me. I didn’t blow up his phone with “emergency” calls. I didn’t send a single emoji. In the morning, assuming he wouldn’t be back, I wandered downstairs without a bra, wearing only an oversized tee. “Why are you up so early?” The low, resonant voice made me jump. Blake was sitting on the sofa, a tablet in his hand. He looked up, his eyes sweeping over me, darkening instantly. Heat rushed to my face. [Lol, look at her acting all shy. Is she going to do the ‘clumsy trophy wife’ act again?] [Seriously, how old is she? The ‘innocent girl’ shtick is so cringe.] [The hero is exhausted from the office and has to come home to this? No wonder he falls for the heroine. Strong women are the future.] I dug my nails into my palms. Don’t cry. I fought the urge to throw myself into his lap and beg for attention. Instead, I gave him a cool, detached smile. “Couldn’t sleep. You’re back. Have some breakfast.” Blake set the tablet down, his brow furrowing. His gaze dropped to my feet. “The floor is cold. Where are your slippers?” “It’s summer,” I mumbled. “I’m fine.” When I looked up, he was already standing in front of me. Standing two steps lower on the sunken living room floor, he was eye-level with me. I could see the faint dark circles under his lashes. He looked weary. Edgy. I wanted to kiss the exhaustion right off his face. He reached out to pull me into his arms, a habit from the last few weeks. But then I caught it—the faint, unmistakable scent of a woman’s perfume. My fingers curled. I took a sharp, deliberate step back. “You should rest. I’m going to go eat.” Blake’s hand stayed frozen in mid-air. His eyes turned wintry. A chill ran down my spine. I didn’t dare look back as I bolted for the dining room. I didn’t see him staring at my retreating back for a long, long time. He didn’t stay long. He had to go back to the office. Before he left, he knocked on my bedroom door. I was curled up under the duvet, venting to my best friend, Sherry. I shoved my phone under the pillow like a guilty teenager. “Need something?” I asked, my voice hitching. I couldn’t let him see. Yesterday, he’d told me to stop listening to Sherry’s “nonsense.” If he knew I was currently trash-talking him, I’d be dead. Blake stood there, expressionless, his sharp eyes scanning my face before settling on the lump under the pillow where my phone was hidden. He lingered. I swallowed hard, my fingertips turning white as I gripped the edge of the mattress. “Blake?” He withdrew his gaze, his face somehow even grimmer than before. “I’m heading back. Call me if you need anything. Tell Maria what you want for lunch.” He paused. “I’m leaving now.” He was acting strange. He’d said “I’m leaving” twice. I just smiled at him. “Okay. Drive safe.” Blake’s grip tightened on the door handle until his knuckles turned white. He closed the door behind him. [Is the trophy wife actually giving up? I thought she’d beg for a goodbye kiss. Maybe she realized he likes ‘intellectual’ types and she’s trying to play hard to get?] [Please. He’s so annoyed he can barely look at her. If she tried to kiss him, he’d probably shove her off.] [He’s already subconsciously staying ‘pure’ for the heroine. Integrity is a man’s best accessory.] My heart felt like it was being soaked in acid. The ache was physical. I fought the tears with everything I had. My phone buzzed. A message from Sherry. “OH MY GOD! Dump him!! I don’t care how hot he is, he’s treating you like trash. It’s not like you begged for this marriage!” “It’s just a face, babe. With your money, we can find you ten models. 6’2, abs for days, guys who actually like you. Pick one!” “Seriously, end it. I’ll handle the rest.” I bit my lip. “Okay,” I replied. After I sent it, the weight of the night finally hit me. My eyelids felt heavy, and I drifted into a deep, dark sleep. I never saw the photo Sherry sent immediately after. 3 When I woke up, the room was draped in shadows. A single dim lamp was on by the sofa, casting a long, elegant shadow across the floor. Blake was sitting there, the soft light catching the sharp lines of his profile. He looked almost gentle—if you ignored the suffocating intensity in his eyes. “Gwen. Did you sleep well?” I startled, wondering how long he’d been sitting there in the dark. “Yeah,” I rasped, my throat dry. I reached for my phone. It was already plugged in, charging on the nightstand. I swiped the screen. It was a photo of a college-aged guy in a crisp white shirt—looking brooding, handsome, and very much like bait. My face went nuclear. I didn’t realize Blake had moved until he was right there, kneeling by the bed, reaching for my bare foot peeking out from the blanket. I flinched and shoved the phone face-down. “Blake! Why didn’t you wake me up?” My mind raced. Did he see the photo? Would he think I was looking for a replacement already? I searched his face, but it was a mask of exhaustion. “I’ll remember for next time,” he said quietly. There was a microscopic tremor in his voice. “Are you hungry? Dinner is ready.” I looked at him, the “Feed” echoing in my head. He must be so miserable being stuck with me. Even if he saw the photo, he’d probably just feel relieved. I pulled my foot out of his hand and gave him a strained smile. “I’m a grown woman, Blake. I can put on my own shoes. You don’t have to do that.” I added, “Thanks, though.” Blake’s empty hand slowly curled into a fist. “Right.” Dinner was excruciating. Blake didn’t talk, and I didn’t chirp away with my usual questions about his day. The silence was heavy enough to crush. My phone buzzed. A text from Mom. “Sweetie, your father and I talked. We support whatever decision you make. We just want you to be happy and safe.” The tears threatened to return. I didn’t want him to hate me more for being a mess, so I sniffled and stood up. “I’m done. Going to my room.” Snap. I looked back. Blake had just laid down his chopsticks. They were snapped clean in two. I froze, instinctively wanting to check his hands for splinters. But logic stopped me. Don’t be a nuisance, Gwen. I took a shower and felt a bit more grounded. I threw on a new silk slip and stepped out of the bathroom, only to be hit with a visual that stopped my heart. Blake was lying on the bed. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, his silver glasses catching the light. He looked devastatingly handsome. Like a trap. I felt a surge of heat. My hand moved toward him almost against my will. [Wait, is the hero actually seducing her? This wasn’t in the book!] [Why does he look like a king trying to reclaim his territory?] [The original plot says he met the heroine and her boyfriend today. He’s probably feeling territorial and taking it out on the wife. He’s just practicing his moves.] My hand stopped an inch from his shoulder. I reached past him for my phone charger instead. “Blake, I have something to say,” I murmured, my voice surprisingly steady. “Let’s end the agreement.”

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My mother, Seraphina Voss, was the only female Alpha in wolf history. She shattered the ironclad gender rule of the Alpha bloodline, a legend even the fiercest male Alphas bowed to. And I, Elara Voss, am her only daughter, the sole heir to her Wolf King bloodline. Right now, I’m staring at my father’s illegitimate daughter, my half-sister, Lila. I feel the bloodline imprint of my mate, Kael Black, in her swollen belly. My claws, snow-white and sharp, instantly sprung from my fingertips, but my father, Roderick, the current Alpha of the Silverveil Pack, pressed down on my shoulder. “Elara, this is your pup too!” My mate, Kael Black, Alpha of the Ironvein Pack, stood silently beside my father. His downcast eyes offered no rebuttal, tacitly accepting this absurdity. I understood. The pup in Lila’s belly belonged to my Alpha mate. Seeing my silence, Kael finally spoke, “You’ve never wanted to bear pups anyway. Lila is your sister; her having a pup won’t ever shake your position as Luna of the Ironvein Pack.” In their eyes, I never said no to them. But they didn’t know that on my mother’s deathbed, I swore by the Wolf King bloodline to protect them for seven years of peace. Now, the seven-year term is up. The pact is sealed. It’s time for me to go.

Kael Black’s hand was still resting on Lila’s swollen belly, his Alpha gaze so tender it could melt. Seeing this, my wolf inside me howled wildly, trying to ease the sharp pain in my heart. For so many years, I cleared out the rebellious factions in his Pack, ensuring his safety in the Alpha position. Yet, in the end, I was still no match for Lila, who only knew how to look at him with adoring eyes. “Elara, don’t be mad at Kael.” Lila lay on the bed, a harmless smile on her face. “Dr. Ellis said my health isn’t great. Kael was afraid something would happen to me and the baby, which is why he kept it from you.” “We’re all doing this for your own good. You’ve been Luna for so many years, yet your womb has been empty. The elders of the Pack have gossiped endlessly about it. They all say that you inherited Alpha Seraphina’s bloodline, but you can’t even bear a pup, bringing shame to the legendary Wolf King.” She said, patting my hand affectionately, “Once the baby is born, he’ll be registered under your name. He’ll share in Alpha Seraphina’s glorious bloodline, and he can call you ‘mother,’ okay?” My father cleared his throat, adopting his Silverveil Pack Alpha demeanor, and barked sharply, trying to assert an authority he’d never dared to show my mother: “Elara! The pup Lila is carrying is the firstborn of the Ironvein Pack, and the hope of our Silverveil Pack!” “Your sister is sharing the burden for you, for both Packs. Instead of being grateful, you’re giving everyone a cold shoulder? Don’t forget, your mother set the rule that you were to protect the Silverveil Pack!” Kael finally removed his hand from Lila’s belly and walked towards me. He tried to take my hand, but I sidestepped, avoiding him. A flicker of annoyed defiance crossed his eyes. He was so used to my obedience, used to me smoothing over every storm for him, allowing him to sit securely in the Alpha position. “Elara, we’ve been mates for so many years, don’t you understand me?” “Everything I’m doing is for you, for both our Packs. I can’t let other Packs talk behind your back, calling you a she-wolf who can’t bear pups, saying the legendary Wolf King’s daughter can’t even manage basic reproduction.” I looked at him, unable to say a word. He would never understand that my mother becoming the only female Alpha wasn’t about bearing pups. It was about her ability to protect the entire Western Territory’s wolf kin on her own. He also didn’t understand that I never cared about idle gossip. I only cared that the people my mother gave her life to protect, now turned around and trampled her legacy underfoot. Seeing I was unmoved, Kael’s patience finally ran out. “Alright, stop being dramatic. I’ve already had the kitchen prepare a feast to celebrate this happy occasion.” “As Luna of the Ironvein Pack, you should at least show some appreciation.” He turned to help Lila, a tenderness in his movements I had never seen before. “Lila, what do you want to eat? Should I have the hunting party go catch the freshest venison?” Lila leaned weakly against him, pouting playfully: “I want soup, and I want you to feed me yourself.” “Alright, whatever you wish.” They acted intimately as if I wasn’t even there, treating me like a transparent ornament. Standing there, I felt ridiculously superfluous. Just then, Dr. Ellis, the Pack’s doctor, walked in with his medical bag. He had been my mother’s exclusive doctor but, after her death, he became Lila’s. With a beaming smile, he pulled a bloodline test report from his bag, his voice loud, intentionally letting everyone in the room hear: “Alpha Kael, Alpha Roderick, congratulations!” He handed the report to Kael, his tone full of flattery: “Miss Lila’s pregnancy is very stable, and the bloodline test shows it’s a male pup!” Kael passionately kissed Lila, his aura practically vibrating with joy.

He finally had something to prove himself, a pup of his own, a bargaining chip to rid himself of the “legendary Wolf King’s son-in-law” label. My father was also flushed with excitement. He had lived his entire life in my mother’s shadow, and now, he finally felt he could triumph over the dead woman. Dr. Ellis turned to me, a hint of pity in his smile, “Luna Elara, don’t be too sad.” “Since your womb has been quiet, having Lila bear one for you is just the same. After all, Alpha Seraphina’s glory must be inherited by a child, mustn’t it?” The laughter in the room felt like countless poisoned needles, piercing my ears. I clenched my fists, my nails digging deep into my palms. They dared to desecrate my mother, daring to use her legacy to whitewash this sordid betrayal. Kael held the report, walked up to me, and thrust the paper in front of my eyes. “Elara, look how adorable he is. From now on, he’ll be our pup. He’ll inherit the Voss family’s glory, he’ll inherit everything from your mother.” My father quickly added: “But Elara, even though the pup will be registered under your name, he’ll also call Lila ‘mother.’ After all, only a biological mother can raise him well, unlike some people who only know how to fight and kill, completely lacking what a woman should be.” They still, as always, expected me to agree to all their requests. Just like seven days after my mother’s death, my father brought home Lila, who was only half a year younger than me. He claimed she was the daughter of an old acquaintance, but her face was almost identical to his. He dared to do this only because he was sure I would honor my mother’s dying wish, not expose him, and not destroy the Silverveil Pack. Just like after Kael said he wanted a pup of ours, I tried countless Dr. Ellis’s remedies, even though I had told him before we married that my body was severely damaged protecting my mother during an assassination attempt, making it difficult to conceive and impossible to take strong medicine long-term. He hugged me then, saying it was okay. But then, he used that very fact as an excuse to betray me. All because seven years ago, on her deathbed, my mother, using the Voss family’s Wolf King bloodline, established a blood pact. It was to help my weak father secure his position as Alpha of the Silverveil Pack, and to pave a bright path for Kael, whose Pack was on the verge of extinction, to rise again. For my mother, the Silverveil Pack were her kin, and the former Alpha of the Ironvein Pack was her savior. This was her last lingering attachment. But for me, it was nothing more than a seven-year agreement. Now that seven years had passed, I saw nothing worth clinging to here. I turned, walked to the deserted Moonlit Terrace, and called Cain, the trust lawyer my mother designated before her death. He was the person my mother trusted most, and the only one in the entire Wolf Alliance capable of dissolving a blood pact. “Mr. Cain, seven years are up.” Silence on the other end, then a sigh, “Luna Elara, everything is ready. At your word, all resources injected into the Silverveil Pack and Ironvein Pack will initiate recovery procedures within twenty-four hours. We anticipate all transfers will be completed within a week. All pacts were established by Alpha Seraphina with her Wolf King bloodline; no one in the entire Wolf Alliance dares to defy them.” “Begin.” Hanging up the phone, I felt the chain that had bound me for seven years finally loosen. I no longer had to carry my mother’s lingering obsession, protecting a bunch of ungrateful wretches.

Kael Black walked over at some point, frowning at me, “Who were you talking to so mysteriously on the phone?” “Elara, I’m warning you, don’t go making alliances outside using Pack resources.” “Raising a pup will require resources everywhere later; you need to be frugal. Don’t forget, all these things will be my son’s someday.” He lectured me as if it were his right, completely forgetting that his Alpha position, was entirely paved with my mother’s resources and fought for by me, blade by blade. Years ago, he was hunted by rival Packs, hiding in the snow like a stray dog. My mother sent people to rescue him. I brought him back to the Silverveil Pack, giving him a chance at a new life. I ignored him and walked straight to the dining room. The long dining table was laden with food, but all of it was Lila’s favorites. Kael meticulously picked out tiny bones from the venison for Lila, completely oblivious that I hadn’t even touched my fork. My father, his face flushed from drinking, suddenly spoke, his tone a commanding dictate: “Elara, transfer your inheritance rights in the Silverveil Pack, and the Voss family’s hunting grounds in the Western Territory, all to the pup in Lila’s belly. Consider it a welcoming gift from you, as his elder sister.” I looked up at his face, etched with calculation, and nodded softly. “Alright.” My quick agreement stunned them all. They had probably braced themselves for my tears and resistance, never expecting me to agree so readily. Kael was the first to react, a satisfied smile on his face. “I knew Elara was the most sensible. Truly Alpha Seraphina’s daughter, she understands the bigger picture.” “Then the hunting grounds and resources under your name in the Ironvein Pack, and the Alliance pacts your mother left you, transfer those too. For our child, you’ll certainly be willing.” Lila leaned against Kael, feigning worry as she tugged on his sleeve. “Kael, don’t be like that, Elara will be unhappy. These are Alpha Seraphina’s things for Elara, I can’t take them.” My father sneered. “What nonsense, she’s delighted! Elara. Come, propose a toast to Lila. That way, you, as her sister, acknowledge this child.” Kael picked up a glass of wine and offered it to me. “I can’t drink,” I said. Kael’s face instantly darkened. His Alpha dominance instantly swept through the entire dining room. “Can’t drink? To secure the Eastern Territory’s hunting grounds, you drank until you puked at rival Pack gatherings, why didn’t you say you couldn’t drink then? To help me secure a seat on the Alliance council, you competed in drinking contests with those Alphas, and drank until you collapsed for three days and three nights, why didn’t you say you couldn’t drink then?” My father chimed in: “Exactly. All these years, for the sake of both Packs, how many drinking parties did you attend? I remember you enjoying it then; you even eagerly volunteered when not asked. Why are you pretending to be so noble now? Do you really think you’re the legendary Wolf King?” All these years, one of them had to maintain the image of a refined and benevolent Alpha, while the other had to put on airs as the leader of a rising strong Pack. The dirty work, the life-risking negotiations with rival Packs, naturally all fell to me. They complacently enjoyed my mother’s glory, and the peace I risked my life to earn, then turned around and found fault with me for not being gentle enough, not “womanly” enough. Taking the glass Kael had practically shoved to my lips, I turned to Lila. Her face held a poorly concealed triumph. I raised the glass and said to them, “To celebrate Lila’s good news, in a week, I’ll give you a grand gift.”

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The day my parents ran away with my sister, Lily, they handed me over to the debt collectors as collateral. “This kid’s got issues, always glued to books, talking nonsense like an idiot.” “If you can take her, fine. If not, just sell her for cash.” Lily’s bright laughter floated from the hallway: “Mom, isn’t Chloe coming with us?” “No, sweetie. We’re not taking her.” I’d heard that sentence countless times. After Lily was born, everyone in the family revolved around her. I ran over, wanting to see, but Mom pushed me away: “Don’t touch your sister, your hands are dirty.” From then on, I was the extra one. When the debt collector’s big brother kicked open the door, he saw me squatting in the corner, reading a book on criminal law. “Hey, your parents bolted. How do you plan to pay back the money?” I closed my book: “Sir, I’ve analyzed your recordings of violent debt collection. Twelve points can be argued as civil disputes. Follow my plan, and you can avoid jail time.” He froze. I broke down their three years of past cases one by one, writing out strategies to mitigate risks. The man with the dragon tattoo finished reading, then cursed: “I’ve been a gang boss for 20 years, and today I just learned you can collect debts legally.”

He introduced himself as OG Marcus, then crouched down to my eye level. I could clearly see the scar on his chin and my reflection in his pupils. “Who taught you to say all that?” I shook my head, fighting back my fear as I answered word by word: “I taught myself.” He scrutinized me from head to toe, his suspicious gaze sweeping over my malnourished arms. “Did your parents often hit you?” I shook my head. They didn’t hit me. They just acted like I didn’t exist. There was no plate for me at the dinner table, no face in family photos, and no one cared when I got sick. Once, I had a fever of 104°F and couldn’t get out of bed. My mom glanced at me and said, “Stop pretending. You just want to be lazy.” Then she took Lily shopping. I lay in bed for three days before I finally pulled through. Marcus came knocking to collect debts while I was hiding in the corner reading. It was a Civil Code I’d picked up from the trash. A corner of the cover was missing, and I’d taped it up. I’d read the words inside so many times I could recite them by heart. Beside me, my parents and Lily were packing luggage. Since I could remember, they’d argued and thrown things in front of me, then disappeared with Lily. Before each disappearance, they’d always say the same thing: this kid isn’t as likable as Lily; bringing her along is just a hassle. So every time, I was the one left behind. When my parents returned after fleeing debts, they’d always look at me with a strange gaze and sigh. Later, I understood it was disappointment. Disappointment that I was still alive and well, disappointment that they had to support this burden of a child again. I looked up into Marcus’s eyes. They were fierce, but I’d seen fiercer. My dad’s eyes after losing money, like he was looking at trash. “My parents have owed debts for over a decade. Our house was full of legal documents. I had nothing else to do, so I read them.” A piece of moldy bread and a book, and a day would pass. I paused, then added, “I started reading when I was three.” I wasn’t boasting. My parents had abandoned me to these people. If I couldn’t prove my usefulness, I might be sold off. “How old are you?” “Twelve.” Marcus looked at me, his eyes full of suspicion. The hallway light flickered. He stood up and waved his hand. “Frank, bring all our IOUs. Let our big shot lawyer take a look.” I don’t know how long passed, my legs were numb from squatting. Frank finally carried over a cardboard box. It was heavy, landing on the floor with a thud. Inside were IOUs, contracts, and transfer records, all haphazardly crammed together. Marcus patted the box, nodding at me. “Big shot, show us what you’ve got.”

Marcus and his crew were playing cards in the living room. Three men, hunched around a folding table, smoking cigarette after cigarette, the whole room thick with smoke. I sat in the corner, poring over the contents of the box under the dim light. Mid-game, the youngest man, Leo, glanced at me: “Marcus, come on, what could a twelve-year-old kid possibly figure out?” Frank also looked over: “She’s been sitting there for two hours, hasn’t moved a muscle.” I didn’t dare move. I’d seen abandoned kids before. There was a boy, two years older than me, who slept beside a trash can after his parents ran off. His eyes were empty, like two dark holes. Marcus didn’t speak, playing a card. As soon as he spoke, I put down the last file. “I’m done.” Everyone looked over. I walked to the folding table, and they automatically made space. The table was covered in ash and beer cans. I swept them aside, clearing a spot. I pointed to the first case: “The year before last, in March, you said, ‘If you don’t pay up, we’ll make sure you regret it.’ That was deemed a threat. But if you’d said, ‘If you don’t pay up, we will pursue legal action,’ it would be a legitimate collection notice.” Frank’s mouth hung open. I pointed to the second: “Taking the debtor’s fridge and TV was classified as theft. But if you’d had the debtor sign a debt-for-asset agreement at the time, it would have been a voluntary civil transaction between both parties.” “Splashing paint. Illegal, but only civil compensation is needed. Go apologize and pay the person, then have them sign a letter of understanding.” “Last September was the most dangerous. Someone was injured, a pretty serious injury. But they struck first, so you could argue excessive self-defense, not intentional assault. The sentencing difference between those two is three years.” The room was silent. No one spoke. Marcus leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression shifting from skepticism to seriousness. “Marcus, the kid actually makes some sense.” Leo, the young one, picked me up and looked me over, his voice astonished: “You’re only twelve? How do you know all this? Are you a genius?” I flailed my arms and legs, wanting him to put me down. My face flushed crimson. No one had ever hugged or picked me up since I was little. I wasn’t used to the feeling of being lifted off the ground. I was scared. Marcus took a hard drag from his cigarette, then gave Leo a light whack. “She’s a girl, she’s shy!” He stood up, walked over to me, and crouched down. It was the second time tonight he’d crouched to my eye level. “Chloe,” he said, “you’ll follow me from now on. I’ll pay for your education. You just need to do one thing: teach us how to live legally.” “What’s in it for me?” Marcus paused. Perhaps no one had ever negotiated with him before; his lips trembled slightly. “You’re a clever cookie, little girl. Much sharper than your parents.” “You’ll get thirty percent of all recovered money. Also, I’ll rent you an apartment with a bed, a desk, a lamp, and a south-facing window.” A south-facing window. Since childhood, no matter how many times we moved, Lily always got the big room, a princess bed, and pink curtains. When the sunlight streamed through the window onto her curtains, she’d dance in the sun in her princess dress, looking beautiful. My room was always the smallest, cluttered with junk, never getting any sunlight all year round. Once, I was so cold I couldn’t bear it, so I crouched by Lily’s bedroom door. Lily woke up in the middle of the night, screaming that I was trying to scare her. From then on, I never longed for her room again. “Okay.” Marcus extended his hand. It was a large hand, with thick knuckles and several old scars on the back. I took it. Marcus squeezed once, then let go and stood up. “Frank, tomorrow, get her transferred to the best school.” Frank wiped his eyes, his voice muffled: “Got it.” “Leo, go buy her a backpack. A good one.” Leo grinned: “Alrighty!” “From today on,” Marcus swept his gaze over everyone, “she’s our little lawyer. Anyone who disrespects her, don’t blame me for being rude.”

Marcus didn’t lie to me. The new apartment was next to the school, only a ten-minute walk. The entire balcony faced south, and when the sunlight poured in through the windows, it made me squint. I stood on the balcony for ten minutes. Just stood there, doing nothing, letting the sun warm me. It wasn’t until tears fell onto the back of my hand that I realized I was crying. I didn’t know why, only that there was a fire in my heart that needed to be released. I cried for a while, wiped my face, and went back inside. A row of new books sat on the desk; Leo had brought them last night. Books on law and textbooks for school, all neatly arranged. I sniffed the scent of the pages; they smelled fresh. When Marcus pushed open the door with breakfast, I was sitting at the desk, staring blankly at the new books. He glanced at me, said nothing, placed breakfast on the table, and went to the kitchen for forks. I watched him clumsily pour milk into a bowl, spilling a little on the table, then wiping it with a cloth. “What are you looking at? Eat.” I sat at the table and took a bite of a churro. It was crispy. I took another bite. I didn’t have good table manners. No one had ever taught me table etiquette. Eating was for living, and living meant shoving food into my mouth as quickly as possible because I didn’t know when the next meal would be. Once, Mom made a table full of food. I was ravenous, ate too fast, and choked. I coughed desperately, my face turning crimson. Mom glanced at me and said, “Like a starving ghost, so embarrassing.” I ran to the kitchen myself, turned on the faucet, and drank several gulps of water until I swallowed what was stuck. A flicker of an unreadable emotion crossed Marcus’s eyes. “Chloe, do you hate your parents?” I thought about it. I matured early. I wasn’t as sweet-talking as Lily; I couldn’t sweetly call out “Mommy” and “Daddy.” I loved reading, and when those facts drilled into my mind, I even thought I was sick. I went to tell my parents, but they thought I was a weirdo. “What garbage are you reading? What if it messes up your brain?” “Stop reading, go wash the dishes.” In their eyes, reading was the most useless thing. When I came home with an award for first place in my class, Mom was braiding Lily’s hair and didn’t even look up: “Just put it there.” I placed it on the table, hoping she’d glance at it. The next day, I found it crumpled up in the trash can, discarded with the garbage. I picked up the award, smoothed it out, and pressed it under my pillow. “What is hate?” Marcus was silent for a moment, then peeled a boiled egg for me. “None of that matters.” “Chloe, you must study hard. Go to the best university, get the best grades. Later, you can do whatever you want, without having to cater to anyone’s whims.” “When you become a lawyer, I’ll be your security guard.” Frank acted fast. He got me into the city’s best private middle school. Tuition was fifty thousand a year, not including miscellaneous fees or uniform costs. I didn’t know how much debt Marcus and his crew had to collect to earn fifty thousand dollars. When he dropped me off at school, he even slipped a wad of cash into my pocket. “You don’t have to worry about money. Just study. Study hard, and later you can help me with my cases.” He instructed me gruffly. I nodded, standing at the school gate, looking back at him. I suddenly remembered when I used to attend school, and they’d ask for material fees. Mom would always give me half the money, saying we were struggling. Later, I learned to be smart, saving my lunch money to pay for materials. That way, Mom wouldn’t complain daily about me being expensive. The sun shone on Marcus, a small section of his dragon tattoo peeking out from his shirt collar. The homeroom teacher led me to the classroom and gestured for me to introduce myself. I was silent for a moment before I spoke: “My name is Chloe, and I like to read.” I didn’t know what else to say. Before, at school, even the teachers preferred the sweet-talking Lily. Teachers never called on me, and classmates never spoke to me. I was an invisible presence. The homeroom teacher smiled and asked, “What kind of books do you like to read?” I thought for a moment and decided to tell the truth: “Law books.” The classroom fell silent for a second, then erupted in laughter. “Law? Hahahaha!” “Is she a lawyer?” “Reading law books at twelve? Who’s she trying to impress?” The homeroom teacher clapped the desk: “Quiet! Quiet! Every student has different hobbies, and we must respect each other.” The laughter subsided, but the whispering didn’t stop. Bearing everyone’s gaze, I sat down in the last row. I lowered my head, focusing on my textbook. The words blurred then sharpened before my eyes, sharpened then blurred again. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. Just like that, my life seemed to get back on track. Every day, I listened attentively in class. After school, I read books. In the evenings, I’d read legal knowledge to Marcus. Though every time, he’d usually just clean his ears and snore loudly. But I really liked this kind of life. During the first placement test, I got the top score. I held my report card, carefully tucking it into my backpack. I wanted to go back and show it to Marcus. But after a quick trip to the restroom, I returned to find my backpack thrown on the floor. Its contents spilled everywhere. A few boys were stepping on my books, their voices mocking. “She just transferred and got first place? Probably cheated.” “Guys, let’s rip up all her books. See how she copies then.”

Everyone around was watching, their faces carrying a subtle malice. Seeing me, they scattered. I walked over and picked up the things from the floor. My report card had a huge ‘X’ drawn across it, with “CHEATER” scrawled underneath. I carefully smoothed out the report card, holding it to my chest. The red ‘X’ couldn’t be erased. Neither could the words. It’s okay. I don’t need to care what they think. The next day, those boys poured ink and dead rats into my backpack. Everything was stained black, including the backpack itself. I went to the homeroom teacher. She looked at me with a sigh, her eyes filled with pity: “Ethan’s family is well-off, and he tends to be a bit boastful.” “He didn’t mean it, I’ll talk to him.” I returned to the classroom and placed my backpack on the desk. Someone quietly asked me, “Are you okay?” Before I could answer, Ethan’s voice rang out: “What could an unwanted stray possibly have wrong with her?” “You guys don’t know, do you? Her parents didn’t want her, they only liked Lily.” “Someone like her probably fantasizes about becoming a big lawyer and then proving them all wrong, right? What do they call that? Watched too many revenge dramas!” My hand clutching the backpack strap tightened. Everyone burst into laughter. I sat in my seat, legal statutes from the Civil Code flashing through my mind. From the very first article, I recited it over and over again. It wasn’t until the dismissal bell rang that I slowly headed home. When I got home, it was already dark. My backpack zipper was stuck; I tried several times but couldn’t open it. I sat on the couch, hugging my backpack, staring blankly. Marcus happened to come by to bring me dinner. He’d come two or three times a week, bringing food, bringing fruit. Sometimes he wouldn’t bring anything, just sit on the couch for a bit, watching me do my homework. He saw the backpack in my arms, and his face changed. “Who did this?” I didn’t speak. I didn’t know if Marcus would help me. He was good to me, providing for my education, but this kindness had conditions. Because he thought I was useful. But if I caused him trouble, what would he do? I didn’t dare to gamble. “Chloe, listen to me, you’re not alone anymore. If someone bullies you, you have to tell me.” “Marcus, do you hit people?” He paused. “Yes.” “Do you hit kids?” He paused again, then a slow smile spread across his lips. “Hit kids? I absolutely hit kids.” “Marcus, they’re only teenagers.” “So what? If they dare to bully you, they’ll pay the price.” I thought for a moment, then decided to tell the truth. “Ethan did it. His dad is on the school board. The teacher said I couldn’t afford to offend him.” Marcus stood up, pulled out his phone, and scrolled through a few contacts. “Mr. Davis,” he read aloud. “Owes two million three hundred thousand in merchandise payments. It’s been half a year. I was planning to go see him next month.” He put his phone away, looking at me. “Chloe, what do you want me to do?” The next day, I didn’t go to school. Not because I was afraid of Ethan. There was a contract for the company that needed reviewing, and Marcus couldn’t handle it, so I had to go help him oversee it. But Ethan didn’t know any of this; he thought I’d been scared off. During break, he stood at the front of the class, addressing everyone: “That stray isn’t here today; he must have been scared away by me.” “Honestly, I despise people who don’t know their place. They get one top score and think they’re hot stuff.” The whole class laughed along. A few girls whispered, “You guys shouldn’t be like this, she’s pretty pathetic.” Ethan got even more excited: “Pathetic? What’s pathetic? Her parents don’t even want her; it must be because there’s something wrong with her. She’s just an unwanted stray…” He didn’t finish his sentence before the classroom door was kicked open. Marcus, wearing a tight T-shirt that showed off his dragon tattoo, stood there. Behind him, Frank and Leo stood in a line, grinning as they looked into the room. “Heard someone’s been bullying Chloe?”

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