It was the tenth day of our silent war, the fight that started because of a female intern, when I heard his voice on a late-night call-in podcast. “I have a girlfriend. We’ve been together eight years. Back in high school, her right hand was broken for saving me. She can never paint again.” “I always told myself I’d take care of her forever. But I’m so tired now.” “She’s volatile. Hypersensitive. The new intern is different. She’s an artist too.” “When I look at her hands — perfect, unblemished — I feel alive again. I can’t keep facing those scarred hands. Every time I do, all I feel is guilt.” The host sighed and offered her advice. “Guilt isn’t love. Letting go is a kindness to you both.” “If she’s become a burden in your life, tell her directly. Offer her a settlement — enough to cover her medical bills and living expenses — and part ways cleanly.” The next second, a Venmo notification lit up my phone. Ethan Blake had sent five million dollars. “Rena. This is enough for your treatments and a fresh start somewhere new. Let’s stop torturing each other. Please just let me go.” I accepted the transfer. Typed back a single word: Okay. I set my phone down and looked at my right hand. A jagged scar ran from my wrist to my fingers. In the cold, it ached like a needle driving straight to the bone. This hand had been useless for eight years. It had kept Ethan chained for eight years. Now he’d bought his freedom for five million dollars. — The next morning, I went to Ethan’s office to return his apartment key. I pushed open the door to his office. He wasn’t there. Stella Sutton was. The intern he’d described on that podcast. She was sitting in Ethan’s chair, head bowed over a stack of documents. She looked up at the sound of the door and smiled at me. “Rena, are you looking for Ethan? He’s in a meeting.” I didn’t answer. I set the key on the most visible corner of his desk. I turned to leave. Stella called after me. “Rena, Ethan was in a bad mood last night — his stomach was acting up again. Could you maybe—” “I’m not his mother,” I cut her off. The smile froze on her face. Then it softened again. She picked up a cup of coffee from the desk and stepped toward me. “Sorry, I overstepped. Don’t be upset — have some coffee. I ground the beans myself.” She walked toward me. Her foot caught on something. She lurched forward. The scalding coffee poured directly onto my right hand. The pain was immediate and total. I hissed through my teeth, instinctively pulling my hand back. Stella screamed first as though she were the one who’d been burned. A few drops had landed on her wrist. A small red patch bloomed on her skin. The office door burst open. Ethan rushed in. He didn’t look at me once. He went straight to Stella, grabbing her wrist with both hands. “Where does it hurt? How bad is it?” Stella’s eyes reddened. She shook her head. “I’m fine, Ethan. I wasn’t careful — I spilled it on Rena.” Only then did Ethan look at me. His gaze dropped to my right hand — blistered, scalded red. His brow creased. There was no concern in his eyes. Only impatience. Only blame. “Rena. What is wrong with you lately?” His voice went cold. “Stella is just an intern. If you have a problem with me, take it up with me. Why are you going after her?” My heart felt scalded too. I watched him shelter Stella so carefully. She peered out from behind him, and for just a moment, a gleam of satisfaction crossed her face. I couldn’t find a single word to say. I picked up the key I’d just set down and put it back in my pocket. Ethan’s voice dropped lower, colder. “What now? Using the key as leverage?” “No,” I said. My voice came out raw. “I just figured that key is useless to you now.” “After all, you already changed the locks.” I turned and walked out. Behind me, Ethan’s voice followed, tight with barely contained anger. “Serena Holt. Are you done?” I didn’t look back. I walked out of that building one step at a time, out of the place that had never let me breathe. The sunlight outside was brutal. My right hand burned. Eight years ago, this hand had caught a steel pipe meant for his skull. He’d wept and promised he would never let me get hurt again. Eight years later, this hand was scalded by a cup of coffee. And he was asking why I was being so unreasonable. — I came back to my little flower shop. The familiar green smell of leaves and soil washed over me the moment I stepped inside. This place was how I survived. It was the only place that was mine. I pulled an ice pack from the refrigerator and pressed it against my hand. The sharp pain eased, just a little. The burning inside my chest only grew.

My phone rang. Mia Blake. “Rena, did my brother piss you off again? He’s such an idiot — don’t let him get to you.” Mia’s voice was as bright as ever. She was the only person in this entire relationship who had ever been on my side. “It’s nothing,” I said. “Nothing? He literally just called me and told me to talk some sense into you. He said that Stella’s wrist was peeling from the burn. He said you went too far.” My stomach dropped. Peeling? I looked down at the blisters rising on my own hand and almost laughed. “Rena, who even is this Stella? My brother keeps bringing her up.” “An intern he hired.” “Just an intern? I don’t buy it. You know how my brother is — when has he ever paid that much attention to any woman who wasn’t you?” I knew. Of course I knew. Ethan had always been guarded around people, especially women. Back in high school, he was the brooding overachiever the whole class had shut out. I was the only one who got close. I pulled him out of that darkness. I walked through the worst of it beside him. For a long time, his need for me had bordered on obsession. When had things started to change? Probably around the time he made something of himself. While I stayed exactly where I was — the woman behind the counter of a failing flower shop, with a useless hand. “Mia,” I said. “Ethan and I broke up.” Silence on the other end. A long moment passed before Mia’s voice came back, thick with tears. “Don’t scare me, Rena. Eight years. You can’t just — how can you call it over just like that?” “He ended it.” “That’s impossible. My brother loves you. He would never—” Her voice broke. I didn’t have the energy to explain. “I’m tired. I’ll talk to you later.” I hung up and sat in the corner of the shop without moving. Outside the glass, traffic moved and swirled. Boston was a big city. There was no place in it that felt like mine. Years ago, I’d turned down a full scholarship to RISD to stay in this city I hadn’t grown up in — because Ethan had gotten into Harvard pre-med and said he would give me a future. My professor had been heartbroken. She told me I was throwing away my talent for a man. I didn’t regret it. I believed him. So I learned to tend flowers instead of canvases. I opened a small shop with the hand that couldn’t paint anymore. I told myself we would grow old like this — quietly, steadily, together. I was the only one who ever believed that. — Evening came. The door of the flower shop swung open and the wind chime rang. I assumed it was a customer. I didn’t look up. “Rena.” Ethan’s voice. My body went rigid. I still didn’t move. He walked over and crouched in front of me, looking at my face. “Is your hand still hurting?” he asked. He sounded tired. I said nothing. He reached for my right hand. I pulled it back sharply. His hand stopped mid-air, caught off guard. “I checked the security footage this afternoon,” he said quietly. “I was wrong to blame you. Stella tripped on her own.” “The cameras in your office have been broken for two years,” I said flatly. Ethan went still. The cameras outside his office had been decorative for years — disabled to protect his privacy. He hadn’t checked any footage. He was testing me. If I’d followed his lead — admitted I was hurt, given him the opening to feel sorry — he would have offered a token apology. And then, like every other argument we’d ever had, it would have dissolved into nothing. But this time, I didn’t give him that. Ethan’s expression hardened. “Do you have to be like this, Rena?” “Like what?” “Picking a fight. Needing to be right.” I pulled the corners of my mouth into something that wasn’t a smile. Two tears slid down my face without my permission. “Who’s picking a fight?” I looked at him. “Eight years, Ethan. Is that really all I am to you?” He said nothing. That silence was worse than anything he could have said. He stood, reached into his pocket, and placed a small tube of ointment on the table beside me. “It’s imported. For burns. Use it regularly.” He was back to that version of himself — composed, elevated, dispensing care like charity. Like he was the one doing me a favor. Like I should be grateful. “And—” he paused, “—that money is yours. You earned it. Go live well.” He turned and walked out. No hesitation. No looking back. I watched his back — the one I had once thought was my steadiest place in the world. Now it felt like a knife. I grabbed the tube of ointment off the table and threw it at him with everything I had. It hit him between the shoulder blades and dropped to the floor with a hollow thud. His footsteps slowed. He didn’t turn around. The door opened. The door closed. The flower shop left me alone with the wreckage.

For the next few days, Ethan didn’t come back. My life fell back into its ordinary shape. I opened the shop. I helped customers. I kept moving. Only the burn on my right hand kept reminding me that something had changed permanently. Then, one afternoon, a package arrived. I opened it. An invitation card for an art exhibition. Stella Sutton: New Works — A Solo Exhibition. The venue was the most prestigious gallery in the city. The name on the invitation line: Ethan Blake. My chest tightened like a fist closing around my ribs. Stella studied art. Ethan had said that looking at her hands made him feel alive. What was he doing? Was he showing off? Showing me he had found a perfect replacement — a woman who could give him everything he’d ever wanted? I crumpled the invitation and threw it in the trash. Then I went anyway. I had no invitation, so security stopped me at the door. I stood on the other side of the glass wall and watched the crowd move inside. Stella stood in the spotlight in a designer gown, radiant, receiving compliment after compliment. Ethan stood beside her in a tailored suit. The way he looked at her — it was a softness I had never once seen him aim at me. A pride I had never once earned. In that moment I felt like exactly what I was: a person who had shown up somewhere she wasn’t wanted, pressing her face against the glass at someone else’s happiness. I turned to leave. And then I saw it. The largest piece in the center of the gallery. The title card read: Shattered. A girl curled in a corner. Fragments of shattered stars scattered around her like broken glass. The composition. The line weight. The color choices. I felt the world tilt. That was my painting. The last sketch I had ever made — drawn in the weeks after my hand was broken, when I was at the bottom of the worst pain and despair I had ever known. My hand shook so badly I could only finish the pencil outline before I couldn’t hold a pen anymore. I had kept that sketch locked in my studio. Only one other person knew the code. Ethan Blake. He had stolen my painting. He had taken the most painful memory I owned and handed it to his new lover to build her career on. The blood rushed to my head. The room spun. I shoved past the security guard at the entrance and pushed through the door. “Ethan!” My voice came out like a scream. Every head in the gallery turned. Ethan and Stella both looked up. Ethan’s brow collapsed. He strode toward me, fury in every step, his voice dropping low and vicious. “What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?” I pointed at the painting. My hand was shaking. “That painting. Why is it here?” Ethan glanced in the direction I was pointing. His face didn’t change at all. “That’s Stella’s work.” “Her work?” A broken laugh tore out of me. “You’re going to stand there and tell me you’ve never seen that sketch before?” His pupils contracted. “Ethan Blake, you are disgusting!” I screamed. “Rena—” He grabbed my arm. “This is a public event. Stop making a scene.” “I’m making a scene?” I looked at him, and the tears finally broke through. “You stole my painting. You stole my dream. You gave it to her. And I’m the one making a scene?” More people had gathered now, watching. Stella walked over and took Ethan’s arm, her face a portrait of confusion and distress. “Rena, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. This piece is entirely my own. Ethan just — gave me some inspiration.” “Inspiration?” I laughed coldly. “Taking my pencil sketch and painting over it — that’s what you’re calling inspiration?” “I don’t know what sketch you mean…” Stella let her tears fall. “Ethan, I’m scared—” Ethan pulled her protectively behind him and looked at me the way you look at someone beyond reasoning with. “Enough. One more word and I’m calling security.” Security again. In his world, I was always the disturbance that needed to be removed. “Fine,” I said. I wiped my face. “Remember today, Ethan.” I held his gaze for one long moment, then turned and walked out, each step heavier than the last. Behind me, voices: “Who is that woman? She’s unhinged.” “I heard she’s his ex. Her hand is disabled. She’s apparently not quite right mentally either.” “No wonder he moved on. Who could put up with that?” Each word landed like something sharp and small. So that’s what I was to them. A disabled, unstable ex. A burden he’d finally managed to shed. And Ethan was the one to be pitied. — I went back to the flower shop and locked myself in the storage room. It was full of old art supplies, untouched, layered in dust. From the bottom of a cardboard box I pulled out an old sketchbook. Every page was something I had poured myself into. Portraits of Ethan. Landscapes we had seen together. Everything I had once imagined for our future. The last page was the pencil sketch of *Shattered.* Only a few lines. But those lines were the deepest scream my soul had ever made. Now they were someone else’s staircase to success. I curled up in the corner of that small dark room, clutching the sketchbook, just like the girl in the drawing. Only this time, no one was coming to find me.

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“The wedding is off.” “I’m in love with your sister. I want to be with her.” My groom announced this at our wedding in front of everyone. I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t. Because my sister was only two years old. The hall erupted into chaos. I stood there in my white dress, my mind completely blank. He looked at me, guilt written all over his face. “Aria, look… I know this isn’t fair to you.” “But from the moment I first saw your sister, I knew she was the one.” I stared at him in shock. His voice softened, almost pleading. “Aria, please. Just let me be with your sister.” I finally moved my lips, but no words came out. “Aria, I know you’re crazy about me.” “But I don’t love you anymore. She’s the only one I want.” “Whatever, you’re just a fake heiress. You were never good enough for me anyway.” Caleb looked down at me, his eyes filled with contempt. The guests were buzzing. “He’s calling off the wedding? Oh, this is going to be good.” “Cheating but with Aria’s sister? You can’t make this stuff up.” “I mean, can you blame him? Didn’t you hear? Aria’s just a fake heiress!” “Caleb’s a top graduate, a rising star. Why would he marry a fraud? That’s just embarrassing.” Hearing this, Caleb seemed to stand a little taller. His voice turned coaxing. “Aria, don’t take it too hard.” “You’re just a fake heiress. But I’m going to be one of the most successful men in this city.” “Look around you. This is our wedding, and not a single person from your family bothered to show up. That should tell you something about how little you matter to them.” “A fake is a fake. You were never be my wife.” I listened to his absurd words, still unable to wrap my head around what was happening. Caleb and I had been together since college. Right after graduation, we started planning our wedding. But my parents had always looked down on him. They never wanted me to marry him. That’s why they didn’t come today. I never expected Caleb to twist their absence into this. A fake heiress? I was my parents’ biological daughter. How could I possibly be fake? And my sister… she was only two years old! How could he possibly be with her… I pressed my fingers to my temple, completely bewildered. “When did you even meet my sister?” “She’s only… how could you two possibly…” “What do you mean?” Caleb cut me off with a cold snort. “I fell in love with her the moment I laid eyes on her.” “She’s sweet, she’s the true heiress of the Sterling family. She’s the kind of woman who actually deserves to be with me.” “And just so you know, we’ve been together for three years.” My jaw nearly hit the floor. Three years? Three years ago, my sister was still in my mother’s womb! I took a deep breath and studied Caleb from head to toe. So he was cheating. But his mistress sure as hell wasn’t my two-year-old sister. My nails dug into my palms and smiled coldly a cold smile crept across my face. “Caleb, someone’s been playing you.” “Cut the crap!” Caleb shot back, anger flashing in his eyes. “You don’t believe me?” “Look at this!” He slapped a photo down in front of me. “Still going to tell me this isn’t your sister?”

All eyes locked onto the photo. I just stood there, frozen, unable to speak. “Is this the Sterling family’s true heiress?” “I guess she’s pretty, but her vibe isn’t even as classy as Aria’s…” “Please. Old money doesn’t need to show off.” Caleb turned to me with a smirk. “Now do you believe your sister and I are really together?” “Aria, I know this is hard for you to accept.” He sighed, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. “But it is what it is. A fake heiress like you was never good enough for me. Your sister and I are in love. We’re meant to—” “Who said she’s my sister?” I couldn’t help it. I cut him off with a frown. “I’ve never seen this woman before in my life. She’s NOT my sister.” Caleb’s face froze. But a second later, he burst out laughing like he’d just heard the funniest joke. “Never seen her? Wow, Aria. I didn’t know you had it in you.” “You’d really pretend you don’t know your own sister just to keep me?” “Give it up, come on. I never would’ve been with you if I’d known you were just a fake heiress!” I frowned, a bitter taste in my mouth. When Caleb and I first got together, he was the one who chased me for months. Texting me every day, checking in, being the perfect gentleman. That’s how he won me over. When my parents found out, they didn’t approve. But I was stubborn. Blinded by love. I insisted on marrying this broke nobody. And now? Now I find out he’s nothing but a shallow, gold-digging piece of shit. He thought I was a fake heiress, so he cheated on me for three years behind my back. And now he was dumping me at my own wedding. “Aria, I know how much you love me.” “We’ve been together for years. Of course I still care about you.” “Your sister’s even willing to be generous about it. She’ll be my wife, and you… well, you can stay in the picture.” “Just keep a low profile, stay out of her way, and she’s fine with me coming to see you.” My fists clenched so hard my knuckles turned white. The little bitter I’d felt turned into a wave of pure disgust. I never thought Caleb could actually say something like this out loud! What a shameless piece of shit! “Nothing to say? I knew you’d come around.” Caleb looked at me with that mocking smile, his tone playful. “I knew it. Women like you are all the same—get dumped and still come begging for scraps. This is what you wanted all along, isn’t it? Just be a good girl, and I’ll—” “Fuck you!” I lost it. I slapped him so hard across the face my palm stung. SLAP! The sound echoed through the entire hall. Caleb’s head snapped to the side. Five red fingerprints bloomed across his cheek. “What the fuck?! Did you just hit me?!” Caleb clutched his face, staring at me in disbelief. I laughed coldly and didn’t hesitate to kick him hard right where it hurts. “AHHH—!” His scream pierced the air. I lifted my foot, ready to stomp down on him. But just then— “STOP!” An enraged voice exploded from the back of the crowd.

#{3|The Real Sister} # “Caleb! Are you okay?” A woman rushed over and helped him up, then turned to glare at me with teary eyes. “How could you hit him?” “If you want to blame someone, blame me. I’m the one who wants to be with him.” “I’m so sorry… Caleb, this is all my fault. That’s all because of me…” Tears streamed down her face. “How is any of this your fault?” Caleb pulled her into his arms. “I’m the one who fell for you. If anyone’s to blame, it’s Aria.” Then he whipped his head toward me, his voice turning ice cold: “Apologize to Harper. Now.” I paused, almost laughing at the absurdity of it all. These two shameless cheaters actually had the nerve to blame me. They cheat, and somehow it’s my fault? “I’m so sorry!” Harper suddenly threw herself at me, eyes red and brimming with tears. “I know you’ve always been insecure about being a fake heiress.” “You’ve bullied me our whole lives, taken everything that was mine. I never held it against you.” “But please… I really love Caleb. I’m begging you, just let him go. Please?” She sounded so sincere, so heartbroken, that the crowd immediately started taking her side. “Oh my god, the true heiress got bullied this badly by a fake? Aria’s a monster!” “A fraud is a fraud! Stealing her things since childhood, and now even trying to steal her man!” “At least the real heiress has a good heart. After all that abuse, she’s still calling her ‘sister.’ If it were me? I would’ve slapped her across the face!” The whispers grew louder and louder. Everyone was looking at me like I was the villain. Like I was the homewrecker. Caleb looked heartbroken, pulling Harper closer to wipe her tears. I stood there, feeling like I’d stepped into some alternate reality. This woman, standing here calling me her sister and claiming to be the true heiress— I had never seen her before in my life. “Please, just let him—” “Who the hell are your sister?” I took a deep breath and stared at her coldly. “I don’t know you. Stop pretending we’re related.” “Aria!” Harper cried out, looking like I’d just stabbed her in the heart. Fresh tears spilled over. “I know you’re angry. I know you don’t want me to be with Caleb.” “But you can’t… you can’t just pretend you don’t know me!” She grabbed my hand, her voice trembling with desperation. “I’m sorry, okay? Please, just let me be with Caleb!” Seeing her play the victim so perfectly, the crowd started piling on. “Enough, Aria! You can’t force someone to love you. They’re happy together—why do you have to ruin it?” “Exactly! You’re just a fraud. What gives you the right to compete with the real heiress for a man?” “She’s your sister! Are you really going to throw away family over some guy?” I listened to the accusations flying at me, my nails digging into my palms. Finally, I looked at Harper and smiled. “Fine. If you’re my sister, sure, I’ll let you have Caleb.” “So do you have any proof?” The murmuring stopped. All eyes shifted to Harper. She looked away nervously, then cleared her throat. “Of course I have proof!” She pulled out her phone, dialed a number, and put it on speaker. “Hey, sweetheart! Why are you calling now?” I froze. My whole body went rigid.

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Over the holidays, my adopted sister Wanda brought my boyfriend Boyce home and announced their engagement. My parents gave their blessing. Boyce looked thrilled. I caught the warning buried in his glance at me, and offered a calm little smile. “You two make a beautiful couple. Congratulations.” But that night, once everyone else was asleep, he slipped into my room, his face dark. “You just—gave me up to your sister, just like that? Then what were the last seven years?” … “Call it a doctor-patient relationship.” His expression cracked. His fingers started worrying against each other—an old tic of his, the one that surfaced whenever his nerves got the better of him. Every other time he’d had an episode, I would’ve been the first to soothe him. Tonight, I simply looked away. “You’re taking Wanda to confirm the engagement venue tomorrow. Get some sleep.” He didn’t move. He stayed pressed against the door, his breathing audibly uneven. “And what about you? What about us? Our seven years?” I paused, then almost laughed. Where did he find the nerve to bring up our seven years? I had spent seven years walking beside a man with severe social anxiety and emotional dysregulation, coaxing him back into something resembling a normal life. Sitting through his therapy. His rehabilitation. Teaching him, slowly, how to build connections with other people again. And in the end—he became my sister’s fiancé. For as long as I could remember, Wanda had been the favorite. She was always at the center of every room, and I was always the one expected to step aside. The night before an SAT exam, I still had to stay up talking to her. Three sleepless days at work meant nothing—I was still dragged to Disneyland to keep her company. What I felt had never mattered. I gave him a faint smile. “I wish you both happiness.” Boyce stood frozen. It was a long time before he turned and walked out. I shut the door, sat back down at my desk, and looked at the email I’d already drafted. The recipient was a top-tier psychiatric center in Boston. I stared at the screen a long while, then pressed send. — Early the next morning, I’d planned to round everyone up for a trip out to the lighthouse—until I saw Wanda’s Instagram post. 【They say if you watch a sunrise together, you’ll be happy for the rest of your lives. We’re going to be so happy! 】 Nine photos. My parents. Boyce. Wanda. Everyone clustered around her, grinning. They’d driven down to the coast before dawn to watch the sunrise—even brought the family dog. I was the only one they hadn’t invited. I scrolled through every picture in silence, then put the phone down. On my way downstairs, I dropped the travel itinerary I’d spent half a month putting together straight into the trash. The four of them came back through the door, mid-laugh. The laughter stopped when they saw me. My father cleared his throat, fumbling. “Wanda got a sudden urge to see the sunrise. We didn’t want to wake you, so we just let you sleep.” My mother instantly produced a Polaroid. “See, we even saved you a spot. We can Photoshop you in later and print a new one.” Later. Again. Next time. Again. They watched me, almost wary, as if bracing for me to be jealous of Wanda. I just nodded. “It’s fine. I don’t really like hiking anyway.” The relief on their faces was visible. They walked right past me and up the stairs. No one asked where I was going. No one asked whether I’d eaten. I stood there for a long time. Then I sat down to a tasteless breakfast, alone. On my way back to my room, I passed my parents’ suite. The door hadn’t quite latched. From inside came the muffled sound of Wanda crying. “I didn’t mean to take Edith’s things…” “I was just scared. Scared of becoming the kid no one loved best.” My mother, undone, hurried to comfort her. “How could you ever not be loved? From now on, you’re the only child in this family who matters.” My father chimed in. “We’ve never told anyone outside which of you was adopted. People have always assumed it was Edith—from now on we’ll just let them go on thinking it.” Wanda’s tears turned to laughter in a heartbeat. “Really? I knew you loved me most.” I stood outside the door and listened to all of it. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. The relatives had already started passing the news around the family chat. 【So Edith wasn’t actually theirs?】 【That explains why she never looked like the rest of them.】 【Wanda was always the more lovable one anyway.】 I read through the messages, and something in me turned almost amused. To make Wanda feel better, they were willing to sever blood ties with me by their own hand. What was the point, then, in staying? I turned, went back to my room, and opened my laptop. I formally accepted the offer from the hospital in Boston.

The confirmation email had barely left my outbox when there was another knock at the door. I opened it to find Wanda leaning against the frame, smiling with practiced innocence. “Edith, since you’ve thrown out your travel plans anyway, why don’t you come with us today to finalize the engagement details? Everyone’s already talked it over.” I glanced down at my phone. The notification screen was empty. No one had so much as mentioned it to me. The next second, Wanda had already hooked her arm through mine, with all the easy expertise of someone who had done it a thousand times before—dragging me, the way she had since childhood, into a world that belonged to her. “Come on. I heard you had a boyfriend of seven years too, didn’t you? Weren’t you about to get engaged? You can help me out, give me some pointers.” She batted her lashes, her smile sweet and disarming. But I knew her too well. Maybe because she was the adopted one, she had grown up needing to take things from me—proof of her own importance, a way to shore up her sense of safety. Toys when we were small. Friends when we were older. And then— The man I had loved for seven years. Once upon a time I would have fought her tooth and nail. Now I was just tired. “We broke up,” I said flatly. A brief silence. The next second, her eyes welled up. “I’m sorry…” “Did I just bring up something painful?” She bit her lip, head bowed, looking heartbroken—as if she were the one who’d been hurt. My mother happened to be passing by and immediately gathered her into her arms. “There, there. Edith won’t be upset with you.” Then, with an arm around Wanda’s shoulders, she steered her gently away. As she went, she turned and gave me a long, weighted look. A few seconds later, my phone buzzed. A message from my mother. 【We know Boyce used to be your boyfriend.】 【But Wanda really likes him.】 【Be the bigger sister. Mom will introduce you to someone better later.】 I stared at the message for a few seconds. It struck me as almost funny. My parents probably still didn’t realize—Boyce had been the one to choose Wanda. I didn’t reply. I simply put my phone away. Just before we left, Wanda suddenly draped her arms around Boyce’s neck. “Don’t forget to introduce Edith to your best friend. Not you—the next best one. I mean, I’m about to be engaged to you, and Edith’s still all alone. It breaks my heart.” Boyce was quiet for a beat. Then, low: “Okay.” And he actually did push three contacts to me. 【They’re all good men.】 【The kind of normal relationship you’ve been wanting—they can give it to you.】 I looked at the messages for a few seconds, then replied: 【Thank you.】 He visibly froze. His fingers started working against each other again. The unraveling had begun. In the old days, the moment he showed signs like that, I would have stepped in to calm him. This time I just looked away as if I hadn’t noticed. My phone rang again. A message from my father, with a pin attached. 【The Grand Windsor Hotel.】 I stared at the name, my fingers stilling. Because in the original plan— that was where Boyce had been going to propose to me. A month ago, he had held me close in the middle of the night and asked, in all seriousness: “Edith, do you prefer white roses, or irises?” Back then, I’d really believed we had a future. … Half an hour later, the car pulled up at the hotel. A massive engagement banner had already been mounted out front. The photograph was one Boyce and I had taken together in New York. Only now, my face had been swapped out for Wanda’s. Inside the ballroom, white irises cascaded from above, swaying gently. Beneath each bouquet hung a love letter—one of the letters Boyce had written to me over the last seven years. Every signature, every name, had been changed. Wanda stood in the middle of it all, in a white gown, beaming, radiant. “Edith! Come look—isn’t it gorgeous? Boyce had been planning it in secret for the longest time. Even I didn’t find out till today. Honestly, with his social anxiety being what it is, how does he manage to be so romantic when it comes to love?” She complained out loud, but the smug pride in her eyes was impossible to hide. I looked quietly at Boyce. I said nothing. Because I knew— the dress on Wanda didn’t actually fit. He had cut it himself, to my measurements. The atmosphere stiffened. My mother stepped in to smooth things over. “Wanda, sweetheart, I invited a lot of your friends. Go say hello.” Wanda threw herself into her arms, even pressed a kiss to her cheek. That kind of affection had never, ever been given to me. When I was little, I had tried to hug my mother. But she had nearly died giving birth to me, and somewhere in her, a quiet resentment had always lived. Whenever I leaned in for closeness, she would instinctively push me away. So eventually, I stopped trying. This time, too, I simply lowered my head and reopened the flight-booking app. My mother spotted it, and her expression shifted. “Edith.” “Why are you looking at plane tickets?”

I instinctively darkened the screen. “Nothing.” But my mother’s brow furrowed, displeasure already creeping into her voice. “Are you sulking again? Trying to leave early?” “Today is the most important day of Wanda’s life. Could you please stop ruining things?” I paused for a second, then grabbed at the first excuse I could find. “There are always too many people traveling back at the end of the holidays. I was just checking flights to Boston for the whole family.” That softened her. She even smiled. “What’s the rush? If Wanda wants to stay a few more days, she can just quit her job. It’s exhausting work, and it’s not as if we can’t afford to support her.” Then, as if remembering something, she gave me a little nudge. “Don’t just stand there. Go take Wanda a glass of juice. Can’t you see she’s chatting with her friends?” I followed her gaze. In that little crowd were the friend who had once been closest to me, an upperclassman from medical school, and classmates who had pulled countless all-nighters with me in the lab. Somewhere along the way, every one of them had drifted over to Wanda’s side. And I had become the one who didn’t belong. Under my mother’s continued prodding, I picked up a glass of juice and walked over. The way I had for so many years—playing Wanda’s shadow. But before I could even get close, Wanda let out a sharp cry. She lurched sideways straight into the arms of the man next to her, and the juice in my hand went flying. The glass shattered across the floor. The juice splashed all down the front of me. Her eyes welled up instantly. “Edith… why would you throw the juice on me?” “Are you still angry with me? Please don’t be angry, okay?” “What did I do wrong?” Her voice trembled, as if she’d suffered some unspeakable wrong. The faces around her changed in a heartbeat. The friend who had once been my closest let out a cold laugh. “You haven’t changed a bit. You’re only happy when you’ve ruined Wanda’s mood, aren’t you?” Someone else simply shoved me back. “Could you stay away from her? You’ve been bullying her your whole life.” The upperclassman bent down to retrieve Wanda’s shoe. When he straightened up, the look he gave me was distant, cold. “Edith, even if you’re jealous of Wanda, this isn’t the way to treat her.” I stood there, soaked and disheveled, my chest aching so much it had gone numb—and I didn’t even have the will to defend myself. I just said, evenly: “Wanda, you knocked the juice over yourself. You know it.” The air went still. For a flicker of a second, the wounded look on her face froze. Her lips parted, as if she were about to say something. But before she could, my father had already come striding over, his expression dark. “Edith.” The weight in his voice. Just like every other time—he took Wanda’s side without asking a single question. “Wanda has always been insecure. You’re her older sister. You need to make more allowances for her.” He pulled a bank card out of his wallet and held it out to me. “Go clear your head somewhere. You don’t need to be at the engagement party tonight. We don’t need any more upset.” I looked at the card, and a strange laugh almost escaped me. So in their eyes, my very presence was the problem. Fine. I hadn’t wanted to stay anyway. So I nodded, obedient. “Don’t worry. I won’t do anything to interfere with their engagement.” Hearing that, my father visibly relaxed. As though a nuisance had finally been dealt with. I tucked the card away, reopened the booking app, and bought a one-way ticket to Boston. This time, I really was leaving. — On the final day of the holiday, I packed early. I had just snapped the suitcase shut when there was another knock at the door. Wanda poked her head in, beaming. “Edith! Today’s the last stop of our trip—Cape Destiny! They say that if couples and families go there to make a wish together, they’ll be happy forever. Come with me and Boyce?” I was about to refuse when Boyce, standing behind her, spoke up. “Come along. You missed the engagement party yesterday. Wanda’s been upset about it for hours. Don’t make her keep feeling guilty.” His eyes, as he spoke, were fixed on something behind me. In the next second, his expression changed. He had seen the suitcase on the floor. The air froze. He stared at the case, his voice dropping low and quiet. “Edith. The trip isn’t over yet. Where are you going?”

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In the Moretti family, there’s no such thing as divorce. There’s only death. Tonight, my husband holds his hand flat on the altar and lets the Don drive a blade through it — just to throw me away. Three years of marriage, and Dante is on his knees in the family chapel . He’s begging the Don to let him walk away. Because she’s back. The girl he was supposed to keep safe. The one everyone told him was dead. Those hands — the ones that used to cup my face in the dark, are sliding annulment papers across the table like I’m a deal gone bad. And he has the nerve to look like he’s the one hurting. “She was mine to protect. My father put her life in my hands, and I let them take her. I have to make that right .” I hold Lily so tight she squirms. ” What about our daughter?” He can’t even look at me. A long silence. “Sera can’t have children. She can’t even be reminded I have one.” “Lily has to disappear. From the registry. From my life. From everything. I’ll place her with a family far away — somewhere no one will ever connect her to me.” My own husband. Talking about erasing our baby. And just like that — it hits me. Christmas Eve. Three and a half years ago. That masquerade. The riddle he whispered in my ear. Funny. I thought it was romantic. Should’ve taken the hint. I take the papers. Fold them. Slip them inside my coat. “Fine. I’ll sign. But Lily’s mine.” “From tonight, we’re gone. Don’t look for us. Don’t send your people. Don’t even say her name. My daughter and I are dead to you. ” The chapel goes so quiet I can hear Lily breathing against my neck. Every single person in that room is staring at me. The capos. The uncles. The Don. His wife. All of them. I hold Lily tighter. She’s so small. She’s the only reason I’m still standing. Dante is staring too. And there it is — a flicker of shock behind his eyes. He expected screaming. Begging. The full performance. The kind of breakdown a wife is supposed to have when her husband tears her apart in front of his whole family. I didn’t give him the satisfaction. His mother gets to me first. Grabs my arm hard enough to bruise. “Elena — have you lost your mind?” “He doesn’t get to do this! The code won’t allow it — we won’t allow it!” The Don is on his feet. Shaking. I’ve never seen a man that old tremble with that much rage. He points at Dante, and his finger won’t hold still. “You ungrateful piece of— She gave you a daughter. She gave you everything a man could ask for. What did she do wrong? !” “You want to throw your wife and baby out like garbage? You’ve lost your goddamn mind!” The uncles are shaking their heads. The old consigliere — the one who’s been with the family since before Dante was born — leans forward. His voice sounds like it’s been dragged over gravel. “Dante. A hundred years. A hundred years of Moretti blood. No man in this family has ever thrown out his wife and child.” “You want to be the first? Fine. But you pay for it. Right here. Right now.” Dante doesn’t flinch. His back is straight. “Father. Mother. Everyone. This is my fault. Every bit of it.” “My father entrusted her to me. I was her only protection, and I pushed her away. The Volkovs took her because of me. Everything that was done to her — I carry that. I won’t carry it and do nothing.” He turns toward me. His eyes catch on Lily — asleep against my chest, and something in his face cracks. Just for a second. Then it’s gone. “Lily… I can’t keep her. Sera can’t have children. She can’t stand the reminder that I do.” “Once Lily’s off the registry, I’ll find her a good home. She’ll be safe. She’ll be—” The Don laughs.Not a real laugh. “Fine. Bring me the knife.” A blade is laid on the altar. Dante peels off his jacket. Drops to his knees. Lays his right hand flat on the marble. The Don picks up the blade. It punches through the center of his palm with a sound I’ll hear for the rest of my life. Blood hits the white stone. Someone behind me gasps. Dante doesn’t make a sound. The Don pulls the blade free. Flips it. And drags it across his son’s chest — slow, collarbone to ribs. Blood rolls down Dante’s torso and pools around his knees. He sways. His face goes the color of ash. But he doesn’t fall. The Don hurls the knife across the marble. It skids and clatters against the far wall. “Get out of my sight. And don’t you dare come back inside until you’ve come to your senses.” It’s pouring rain outside. Dante gets to his feet like a man twice his age. Blood is running down his arm, dripping off his fingers, mixing with the rain the second he steps through the doors. His face is white. His lips are going blue. Rain hits the open wounds and thins the blood out — long pink streaks running down his chest, pooling in the stone around his knees. And he just keeps saying it. Over and over. Teeth chattering. “I’ll die right here before I change my mind.” I watch him from the chapel doorway. This man. Bleeding out in the rain. Willing to die — for her. And my chest splits open. Because I remember. He knelt in this exact same spot for me once. Looked the Don in the eye and said he’d marry no one else. Took a beating for it. Bled for it. Didn’t flinch. That was a different man. Or maybe it was the same man . Back then he was the golden heir. The crown prince. The name everyone in New York whispered with respect. And me? I was nobody. The daughter of a mid-level accountant who used to keep the books clean for one of his uncles. Wrong neighborhood. Wrong tax bracket. Wrong everything. His whole world told him he was crazy. He married me anyway. Gave me the kind of wedding people in this city still talk about. On our wedding night, he lifted my veil. Candlelight on his face. And he whispered: “Elena. I’ll be good to you. For the rest of my life.” I believed every word. How the hell did we end up here? Yesterday. Lily’s christening. The compound packed with people — champagne, white roses, the kind of laughter that only happens when powerful men feel safe. That’s when she showed up. Sera. Thin as a ghost. Clothes torn. Eyes hollow. Standing in the doorway like something the rain dragged in. “Dante.” And the man I married came apart at the seams. His champagne glass hit the floor. He shoved past three people , nearly knocked a waiter down , and crossed the room like the building was on fire. Pulled her into his arms so hard her feet left the ground. I have never seen him lose it like that. Red eyes. Cracking voice. Saying sorry like it was the only word he knew. “It was my fault, Sera , I never should have turned you away . ” Three hundred people in that room. And not a single one was breathing. His men — capos, lieutenants, the guys who help him run half of Manhattan — they just shook their heads and muttered. “Knew he never got over her.” “She’s finally back.” And me? I stood in the corner. Holding our newborn daughter. Watching my husband hold another woman like she was the only thing keeping him alive. I told myself it was fine. He felt guilty. That’s all. He loved me. We had Lily. Our family was solid. I was wrong. Last night he came to my room. Sat on the edge of the bed. Didn’t speak for a long time. Then: “Elena. I want a divorce.” “I’m sorry. Sera was taken because of me. They held her for years. They did… things. She can never have children.” “My father gave me one job , keep her safe. I didn’t. That debt , I’ll spend the rest of my life paying it.” The air left the room. “A divorce.” I heard my own voice from somewhere far away. “And Lily? What happens to our daughter?” He wouldn’t look at me. “Sera can’t handle knowing I have a child. Lily has to go. Removed from the family. Placed somewhere she’ll never be tied to me again.” I hit him. Punched his chest with both fists, screaming, sobbing, asking him how he could do this — how any man could do this. He took it. Every hit. Never moved. Never blocked me. Just stood there with his jaw clenched and agony in his eyes — and never once took it back. By the time the sky started getting light, I had nothing left. No fight. No tears. Nothing. I said fine.

The blade wounds and the cold finally take him down. Dante collapses in the rain. His men drag him inside. A doctor comes. I stand in the courtyard with the rain soaking through my clothes, watching shadows move behind the windows, listening to his mother cry. I don’t feel anything. Back in my room, I start packing. Three years in this house. I’m amazed at how much I’ve accumulated. Jewelry. Dresses. Art he bought because I admired it once in passing. All of it worthless now. Every piece a reminder of a life I’m walking away from. I’m folding Lily’s things into a bag when I hear footsteps behind me. Dante. Propped up between two of his men like a puppet with half its strings cut. He looks like death warmed over. Bandages peek out from under his shirt — already spotting red. “Elena. This is all on me. I know that.” His voice is wrecked. I don’t turn around. “I’ll make sure everyone knows it was my decision. I’ll tell people it was mutual — not a casting out. Your reputation won’t take a hit.” He pauses. Swallows. “You’re still young. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’ll meet someone who deserves you. And I’ll make sure you have enough to start over — more than enough.” I stop packing. Turn around. Look at him. He’s standing there with guilt plastered all over his face. So earnest. Like he really, truly believes he’s being a good man right now. I almost laugh. “Dante. Stop pretending this is about me.” He blinks. I walk toward him. Close enough to see the pulse jumping in his throat. “You’re not doing this for my sake. You’re doing it so you can sleep at night. So you can marry Sera without the guilt eating you alive.” “You keep saying you can’t lose her again. Fine. But what was I? What were these three years? What was any of it?” His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Elena… I never wanted it to end like this. But I can’t undo what happened to her. And I can’t be two people.” I stare at him. At that beautiful face I used to love so much. At the careful, practiced sorrow he’s wearing like a mask. “So three years of marriage and a baby daughter — we’re still worth less than your regret.” I hear my own voice — flat, dead — and barely recognize it. Something breaks behind his eyes. But all he says is: “I’m sorry.” I turn my back on him. Go back to packing. But my mind won’t stay in this room. It keeps pulling me backward. Christmas Eve. Three and a half years ago. A masquerade in midtown Manhattan. One of those obscene parties where the chandeliers cost more than most people’s houses. Champagne I couldn’t pronounce. Masks that cost a month of my father’s salary. I’d slipped away from the crowd , and found a little fortune teller’s booth tucked in the corner. A card on the table. A riddle written below it in gold ink: I’m born the moment you look, and I die the moment you touch. I stared at it. Drew a blank. Was still frowning when a voice came from right beside me , a little amused. “A reflection.” I turned. A man in a black mask. Dark suit, perfect fit. The kind of posture you can’t fake. And behind the mask — eyes like honey in firelight. He tilted his head. Half-smile. “I believe the prize is a dance. Would you like to claim it?” I couldn’t speak. I just nodded. He held out his hand. And that was it. Every rumor I’d ever heard about Dante Moretti — brilliant, impossibly elegant, untouchable — stopped being a rumor and became the man holding my hand on a dance floor. The second time was a hotel uptown. Some charity event. A storm knocked the power out — guests stranded, hallways dark, everyone panicking. He found me sitting alone in a corridor. Didn’t say a word. Just handed me his room key, told me his driver would be waiting in the morning, and disappeared. I found out later he spent the night on a chair in the lobby. Third time — outside a restaurant in SoHo. Two drunk sons of a rival family decided I looked like easy entertainment. They had me cornered against a wall when Dante appeared. He didn’t yell. Didn’t threaten. Just stood there and looked at them. They left. He walked me to my car. Didn’t say a single word the entire way. Then there was the garden party at the Moretti estate. I knew exactly what it was — his mother parading potential brides in front of him like a fashion show. I was there as a courtesy invite. Background decoration. I sat in the corner of the garden, miserable, trying to figure out how to leave without being rude. He found me. “Hiding in the corner at my mother’s party. Bold move.” Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was the late afternoon light doing something impossible to his face. Maybe I was just tired of pretending. “Because I know I don’t belong here. And I know I’ll never be good enough for someone like you.” He went still. Just… studied me. Like I’d said something he wasn’t expecting. Then he smiled. Slow. Quiet. The kind that makes you forget where you are. “That’s funny. I was just thinking the opposite.” He married me three months later. Against his mother’s wishes. Against the consigliere’s advice. Against every unwritten rule about who a Moretti heir is supposed to end up with. Everyone in the city said Dante Moretti was a man of principle. That he married for love, not leverage. I believed them. I believed him. I believed we’d grow old in that house. Turns out I was just the intermission.

The first two years, Dante was the kind of husband other women invent in their heads. He’d trace my eyebrows with his thumb while I was still half asleep. He walked out of sit-downs when I had a cold. When I got pregnant with Lily, he turned into a different person entirely — softer, careful, like I might break if he breathed too hard. I thought: this is it. This is what forever feels like. And then one afternoon, I knocked over a picture frame in his study. It had been facedown on the shelf. I figured it had fallen. I picked it up. An old photograph. Sera — maybe fifteen, sixteen. Standing in the back courtyard of the estate. Wild grin. A pistol in one hand, aimed at the sky like she’d just fired it. And Dante beside her. Young. Unguarded. Laughing — this open, reckless laugh I had never once seen on his face. I was still staring at it when the door opened behind me. “Who told you to touch that?” I froze. Not because of the words — because of the voice. Cold. Hard. A voice he had never once used with me. He crossed the room in two steps, almost knocked me out of the way, and snatched the frame from my hands. I caught myself on the desk. Stood there. Staring at his back. He was checking the glass for cracks. Running his fingers over the frame. Holding it the way you hold something irreplaceable. “Get out.” He didn’t turn around. “Who is she?” Silence. A long time. “Someone I grew up with. Serafina.” And then it came out. All of it. Sera’s parents were family allies. Good people. They were killed when she was eight — a Volkov hit. Don Moretti took her in. Raised her under his roof. And gave his son one order: She’s your responsibility. You protect her. You train her. You keep her alive. So Dante did. He taught her to shoot. To fight. To read people. To survive in a world that eats little girls whole. Day after day. Year after year. She was his shadow, and he was her shield. “She told me she was in love with me.” His eyes were closed. His voice was barely there. “I shut her down. Told her it was never going to happen. My father put her life in my hands — crossing that line would’ve been the worst kind of betrayal.” That night, Sera left the compound alone. Got drunk. The Volkovs picked her up off the street. She was gone. Dante’s voice broke when he told me the rest. “Three years. I tore the whole Northeast apart looking for her. Called in every favor. Burned every bridge. Everyone told me she was dead.” He turned around. Took my hands. He looked wrecked. “Meeting you — that’s when I finally stopped looking. You’re the reason I stopped drowning, Elena.” We fought that night. The worst fight of our marriage. I screamed until my throat was raw — if he never stopped loving her, why the hell did he come after me? Why drag me into this? Why let me fall for a man who was already gone? He couldn’t answer. Not really. In the end, he grabbed the photograph and threw it into the fireplace. Right in front of me. I watched the flames eat her face. Her grin. That reckless, wild-girl joy. He pulled me close. Whispered I’m sorry until the words lost their shape. Said there was only me now. Only us. I believed him. God help me, I believed him. After that, he was even better. More attentive. More gentle. Like he was trying to prove something — to me, or maybe to himself. Everyone in the city envied me. Elena Moretti. Luckiest woman in New York. I thought the photo was ash. I thought the past was dead. Then Sera walked through our front door. Said his name once. And three years of marriage went up in smoke. That’s when I finally understood something I should have known all along: Some things don’t burn. They just go underground. And they wait.

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On our wedding day, another woman bet my groom wouldn’t leave me at the altar. He proved her wrong. Liam dropped my hand right there on the altar steps. Turned to his groomsmen. Laughed. “Emily’s soft. I’ll sweet-talk her later. She’ll come running back.” His groomsmen erupted in catcalls. They called me a desperate gold digger. A girl who’d never have the spine to walk away. Chloe sauntered up the aisle in her four-inch Louboutins. She plucked the veil right off my head. Looped her arm through Liam’s. Walked out of the chapel laughing. Every guest in the chapel stared at me. I didn’t cry. I didn’t move. I stood at the altar with the same composed expression I’d worn walking in. But only I knew the truth. I wasn’t enduring anything. In that moment, I was carving him out of my life. One clean cut at a time. Liam glanced back over his shoulder. Almost approvingly. He left me with one last line. “That’s the composure a future Fox wife should have. Go home and wait for me.” I watched him walk away and almost laughed out loud. Composure? No. I was just done with him. Three years later. Liam Fox showed up at my boutique with nine black Maybachs and a pink diamond ring. “Cooled off yet?” He smiled like the last three years had never happened. “I’m here to keep my promise.” I didn’t even look at him. I cradled my belly and said flatly, “Excuse me. My husband is waiting for me at the hospital.” “Cute. You strapped on a fake silicone bump for the drama?” Liam had one hand in his pocket. His gaze slid lazily across my stomach like he was watching a bad joke unfold. His voice carried that smug certainty I used to mistake for confidence. I met his eyes without flinching. “Mr. Fox. Move.” The front of my boutique — Lambert & Co. on Madison — was sealed off by all nine of his blacked-out Maybachs. A drone hovered overhead trailing a banner across the morning sky. MARRY ME, EMILY. Pedestrians had started to gather. My staff stood pressed against the glass storefront. Phones were coming out. Whispers rippled around us. Liam didn’t seem to register any of it. He stepped closer and held out a bouquet of red roses. “Three years, Emily. The tantrum’s gone on long enough. Time to come home.” He looked at me with what he thought was indulgent affection. “You know how I feel about women who throw fits. But for you—” he tilted his head “—I made an exception. I gave you three whole years.” I looked at the roses in his hand. Three years ago, I’d been hooked up to an IV in an ER. Hives. Pollen reaction. He’d sent the exact same bouquet that day. Told me Chloe had picked them. Told me I should be grateful. I didn’t reach for the flowers. I slid a hand over my stomach and took a small step back. “Liam. I’m not throwing a tantrum.” I held his gaze. My voice was quiet. “I’m married. I’m five months pregnant.” Liam laughed softly under his breath. Then he tossed the roses into the trash can at the curb like they were used napkins. “You’d really make up a lie like that just to get a rise out of me?” He pulled a Tiffany-blue velvet box from his inside pocket and snapped it open. A pink diamond. Six carats, easy. “We didn’t get to finish three years ago. I’m making it up to you now.” He didn’t even kneel. He just held the box out. “Put it on. Tomorrow we’ll pick out a dress. This time, I promise — I won’t walk.” He said it like he was handing me the keys to heaven. I looked at the diamond and felt nothing. That night three years ago, I’d peeled the dress off alone in my apartment. I’d taken a pair of scissors to the stained hem. Then I’d thrown both the scraps and the engagement ring into the fireplace and watched them burn down to ash. From that moment on, Liam Fox was dead to me. “I don’t need it.” I stepped around him toward the curb. Liam’s brow finally creased. He reached for my wrist. I twisted away. His hand grabbed empty air. “Emily. Enough.” His voice dropped, low and warning. “My patience has limits. Who is this performance for?” Right then his phone buzzed. A custom ringtone. A girl’s voice — breathy, sweet, helpless. “Liam? Did you find Emily yet? I’m not feeling so good… I’m really dizzy…” The kind of helpless little tone that had always worked on him. Liam’s expression softened instantly. He held the phone up and pressed the voice reply. “Take something for it, sweetheart. I’ll bring her home soon.” Then he turned back to me. Harder again. “Chloe’s sick, and she’s still worried about you. You need to stop being so hostile toward her.” A note of reproach crept into his voice. “What happened three years ago was a joke. The Sinclairs spoiled her — she doesn’t always think things through. You’re the mature one, Em. Why hold a grudge against a girl like that?” Sinclair. The family his parents had spent decades trying to merge with. Chloe’s father was Liam’s father’s biggest business partner. An alliance between their families had been the Foxes’ lifelong dream. I had been Liam’s college rebellion. The girl he’d picked up at a frat party because she wasn’t on his mother’s approved list. I watched him stand there — righteous, certain — and felt my stomach turn. It was the pregnancy. But the man in front of me made it worse. I drew in a slow breath and pushed the nausea down. “Liam. Do you not understand English?” I pointed to the Uber pickup zone. “My husband is waiting at the hospital. Move.” Liam’s face went cold. His eyes dropped to my stomach. “Emily. You’re really not going to stop? You’d stoop this low just to force me to apologize?”

“Stoop this low?” I rolled the words around in my mouth. They almost made me laugh. “Think whatever you want.” I was done arguing. An Uber pulled up at the curb. I went straight for it. I yanked the door open. Slid into the back seat. One hand cradling my belly. Liam slammed his palm against the door before I could close it. “Which hospital? I’ll drive you.” He stared down at me — every inch the entitled Fox heir. “I want to see for myself which broke loser you hired to play house with you.” I stared at his hand on the door. “Let go.” “Emily. Don’t push it.” His patience was gone. He yanked open the front passenger door and got in. I sighed and gave the driver the address of a private OB clinic in Midtown. The driver glanced from me to Liam. Hesitated. Liam tossed a handful of hundreds onto the dashboard. ” Drive.” The car merged into traffic. The silence was suffocating. Liam leaned back against the headrest, head tilted toward me. “You used to flinch at a flu shot.” His gaze settled on my stomach, sharp and assessing. “And now you’re walking around with a fake bump just to spite me?” “Take it off. Aren’t you boiling in there?” I zipped my coat all the way up to my chin. Closed my eyes. Stopped answering him. Thirty minutes later, the car stopped at the hospital. I got out. Liam followed. The lobby was hushed — the kind of quiet that only money could buy. I walked straight to the self check-in kiosk and tapped my insurance card. Liam stood at my shoulder, eyes on the screen. Obstetrics – Follow-up. 20 weeks. A muscle twitched at the corner of his jaw. Then he composed himself. “Quite a commitment to the bit.” A cold little laugh. I took my slip and walked toward the elevators. He stayed glued to my side. On the third floor, I found an empty seat in the waiting area. I’d barely settled in when the elevator chimed again. Chloe Sinclair stepped out in red-soled stilettos, cradling a bouquet of white roses against her camel cashmere coat. She spotted us instantly and made a beeline over. “Liam, Em.” She thrust the bouquet at me, all wide-eyed innocence. “I heard you were pregnant. I just had to come and congratulate you.” The pollen hit me like a slap. I jerked my head away and sneezed hard. Liam frowned at her. “She’s allergic to pollen. Keep them away from her.” Chloe bit her lower lip. Her eyes welled up on cue. “Oh — Em, I’m so sorry. I totally forgot.” She pressed a hand to her chest, eyes wide. “I was just so excited for you.” Then she dropped the bouquet on the empty chair beside her and slid right down next to Liam, settling in like she belonged there. “But Em…” Her gaze drifted theatrically across my belly. “Isn’t this all a little fast, though?” She covered her mouth with her fingertips and giggled. “The baby’s already this big. You didn’t just marry the first guy who looked at you to get back at Liam, did you?” “And on such an important day — where is your husband, anyway? Did he leave you here all by yourself?” Liam didn’t stop her. Didn’t even glance her way. He was watching me. Waiting. Almost curious to see how I’d react. “Her husband’s too busy to bother,” he supplied for me, the sneer curling under the words. “What kind of paid actor takes a gig like this seriously?” I sat there listening to the two of them play off each other. Something cold and clear settled behind my ribs. This was the man I had loved for seven years. He could stand in a hospital waiting room and watch a woman humiliate his pregnant ex — and pile right on for sport. “Excuse me — is Mrs. Lockwood here?” A nurse appeared in the doorway of the exam suite, chart in hand. “That’s me.” I stood up. The nurse’s eyes flicked from me to Liam, then to Chloe. “For your appointment today, I’ll need your spouse to sign some consent forms. Which one of you is the husband?” Liam stepped forward without thinking. “I am.” I turned. My voice cut between us — flat, final. ” He’s not.”

The nurse froze mid-step. Her eyes flicked back and forth between me and Liam. Liam’s outstretched hand — the one already reaching for the chart — hung in the air, suspended. His face darkened. “Emily. Don’t do this.” He lowered his voice. The warning underneath it was sharp. “This is a hospital. Not the place for one of your scenes.” I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on the nurse and offered her a polite, almost apologetic smile. “I’m sorry — I don’t know these people. They followed me in. My husband is on his way. He’ll be here any minute.” The nurse nodded smoothly — the way nurses do when they’ve seen worse — and tucked the chart back under her arm. “Of course, Mrs. Lockwood. Please wait out here until he arrives. Some of these forms have to be signed by the spouse in person.” She turned and disappeared back into the exam suite. Liam’s hand fell slowly to his side. He slid it into his trouser pocket — that same casual, in-control gesture I’d watched him use in a hundred boardrooms. But his eyes had changed. There was something dangerous in them now. “Mrs. Lockwood. Strangers.” He let out a short, brittle laugh. “Three years, and look at you, Em. You won’t even let me sign as next of kin?” Chloe shot to her feet and clutched at his arm. Her white roses were forgotten on the seat behind her. “Liam, please. Don’t get worked up.” Then she turned to me. Right on cue, her eyes filled with tears. “Em — are you still upset about that silly little joke three years ago?” She sniffled. Voice quivering at exactly the right register. “I just made a bet with him. I was trying to make the reception more fun. How was I supposed to know you’d take it so personally and run off for three whole years?” She had reduced a man walking out on his bride at the altar to a silly little joke. She had reduced my breaking point to not being able to take a joke. I stared at her tear-streaked, doe-eyed face. I almost admired the sheer nerve of it. “Turning a wedding into a bet — that was a joke?” I turned to Liam. “Leaving me at the altar in front of my parents and two hundred guests — that was a joke?” I looked back at Chloe. “Stepping on my dress. Yanking the veil off my head. Putting it on yourself and laughing all the way out of the chapel. Was that a joke too?” Chloe shrank back and ducked behind Liam. Liam’s brow tightened. He stepped between us — putting himself in front of her like a shield. “Enough.” His voice was hard now. “Chloe grew up with everything handed to her. She doesn’t always think before she acts. You’re older than her, Em. Just once, can’t you be the bigger person?” He looked at me with open disappointment. Like a parent at a child who’d let him down. “You take one small thing and turn it into a three-year grudge. You weren’t always this petty.” This petty. I held his gaze. For that wedding, I had stayed up half the nights of an entire month. Hand-stitching his initials — L.F. — into the inner cuff of his groom’s shirt. By candlelight. Because I’d wanted something only the two of us would know about. I’d waited until two in the morning for him to come try on his tux. He’d never showed. Just a text. Too busy. I’d thought our wedding day was the start of everything. It turned out to be the glass of poison he handed me with a smile. “Liam.” I said his name quietly. “Do you really believe that all you have to do is crook your finger, and I’ll come crawling back to you on my hands and knees?” His eyes flickered. “That’s not what I said.” He shifted, recalibrating. “I just don’t think you needed to marry some random man to make a point.” He paused. Softened his voice — that low, coaxing tone he used on his investors when a deal started slipping. “This so-called husband of yours can’t even make it to a prenatal appointment on time. You really think he knows you better than I do?” He even remembered. “You hate needles. Someone always has to talk you through a blood draw. Does he know that?” I looked at him — that arrogant, self-satisfied tenderness on his face, like he thought he was being deep. Something close to pity prickled along the inside of my chest. “He doesn’t need to know.” I rested a hand on my stomach. “Because he’s never let me face any of this alone.” The door to the exam suite opened again. The nurse stepped out with a slim stack of papers. “Mrs. Lockwood — these are from your previous intake. Could you confirm the information is correct?” She held them out to me. Liam was taller. He read over my shoulder in a single glance. His eyes snagged on the spouse signature line. And stayed there. Two words. Black ink. Confident, slanting strokes. Damien Lockwood.

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Soldiers hurled my sister into a tub of pearls. Her tail glowed faint blue. They shoved their hands all over her, ripping off scales. Shimmering blue scattered across the floor. Then they cut her open and pulled out her heart. The Queen had heard rumors of sirens in the Southern Isles. That their princess carried a Siren’s Heart inside her body. Swallow it, and you’d have eternal beauty. An allure no man could resist. The Queen wanted it. So the King sent soldiers to slaughter us and gut my sister for her heart. That day the sea ran red. Everywhere I looked, my people lay split open. I hid beneath a reef, blood clouding my vision, tears rolling down and hardening into pearls. Every one stained red. My sister’s last words echoed in my ears. *”Elara, stay alive.”* The world knew our colony had one princess, one Heart. No one knew this generation, there were two. And one wasn’t just beautiful. She was a witch. That one was me. I dragged myself ashore and cast the old spell to trade my tail for legs. Then I summoned a familiar. It took shape of a snake. I fed it my blood and bound it to me. It coiled around my wrist, teeth glinting, and I named it Malice. Three months. That was all it took. I made my way to the capital, slipped into the palace as a dancer, and traded a pouch of siren tears for the King’s whereabouts. —

Moonlight spilled across the lake. I danced on the water, toes skimming the surface, ripples spreading silver beneath me. A sweet fragrance rose from my skin. Fireflies drifted in from the reeds, circling me, refusing to leave. Alaric stood on the bank, frozen. When I finished and turned, my eyes met his. I feigned surprise, slipped on my shoes, and made to leave. “Wait.” I stopped. “You’re a palace dancer? I’ve never seen this dance before.” I kept my head down. “It’s from my homeland, Your Majesty. Few have seen it.” The spring night was cool. I let myself shiver. He noticed. He took off his pale robe and draped it over my shoulders. I looked up at him, let my cheeks flush pink. The fragrance thickened. The air turned warm. I saw the flash of want in his eyes. He cleared his throat. “The Queen loves dancing. Her birthday approaches. You will perform this for her.” I dropped to my knees. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I didn’t know who you were.” He waved his hand, but his gaze lingered on my face. “Rise. No offense taken. Don’t disappoint me or the Queen.” I thanked him and accepted the task. As he walked away, I flicked my fingers. A tiny leech burrowed into his skin. It would feed on his thoughts, bend his feelings toward me. By the next morning, the whole palace was talking about the dancer who’d caught the King’s eye. Someone knocked on my door. A woman I’d never seen before. —

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To support my husband’s dreams, I gave up my career to be a housewife for eight years. When my husband’s company was about to go bankrupt, he begged me to come back and save it. I was closing a $100 million deal when my husband’s new intern barged in and demanded I go buy her breakfast. The client’s face went dark. I told the intern to get the hell out. Afterward, I apologized over and over and agreed to cut our margin by one percent just to salvage the deal—the deal that could save our dying company. I grabbed the signed contract and headed to my husband’s office to give him the good news. He slapped me across the face. Twice. In front of everyone. That’s when I found out Tiffany had ended up in the hospital for low blood sugar because she hadn’t eaten breakfast. But there was a Coke and a Snickers bar sitting right on her desk. I’d bought them for her this morning. I looked up at Greyson—my husband—his face twisted with rage over some intern. My cheek burned. My chest went cold. I was quiet for a long time. Then I finally said it. “Greyson. Let’s get divorced.” The second the words left my mouth, Greyson’s expression froze. Then he grabbed the janitor’s mop bucket and dumped it over my head. Freezing, rancid water soaked through everything. My white blouse clung to my skin, my bra showing through. The stench spread through the air. I stood there dripping, hair plastered to my face, water running down my cheeks. Everyone was staring. Greyson pointed at me, his voice vicious. “You out of your mind? Let me help you wake the hell up.” Dead silence. Every employee looked at the floor. I clutched the contract—now soaked and ruined—my fingers ice-cold. Bitterness clawed up my throat, but I snapped back anyway. “Greyson, do you even know what this deal was for? That bonus was supposed to save my mom’s life. What the hell is more important than keeping this company afloat? More important than keeping my mom alive? Tiffany had low blood sugar, but the Coke and Snickers I gave her were sitting right there on her desk. Why didn’t she eat them? There were plenty of people free in the office. Why did she barge into the meeting room while I was closing a $100 million deal? And let me say something ugly—I left my daughter at home to come save your company. I gave up eight years for you. Why the hell should I be buying breakfast for an intern?” Greyson’s face went pale. He had no comeback. Then he sneered. “Since you want that money so bad, fine. I’ll tell you right now—you’re not getting a single dollar of that bonus. I’m giving it all to Tiffany.” My whole body went cold. I couldn’t believe this was the man I’d been married to for ten years. “On what grounds?” His voice was ice. “Your mom’s got one foot in the grave anyway. Does it really matter if she gets the money or not? Tiffany’s young. She’s got a future. Giving her the bonus will knock you down a peg while I’m at it. Maybe remind you what happens when a housewife forgets her place.” The words hit me like a knife twisting in my chest. My body started shaking. Tears finally broke through. I’d sacrificed everything for this man. I had a degree in biochemical engineering—top of my class, recruited by three major firms before I even graduated. But when Greyson started this company, he begged me to quit. “Just stay home with the baby,” he said. “I need to focus on building this business. Once we’re stable, you can go back to work.” That was eight years ago. This company only survived because of my mother. Because of the patent she spent her whole life developing. She got cancer from years of exposure to experimental metal radiation while working on that patent. Six months ago, when the company was circling the drain, Greyson came crawling back. “I need you. Just this one deal. Use your connections. Save us.” So I left our daughter with a babysitter. I called in every favor from my old life. I sat through endless pitch meetings and business dinners, just to land a client willing to fund a 100 million contract. And now… My voice cracked. Tears spilled over. “Greyson, did you forget what you looked like when you had nothing? When you got on your knees in front of my mother and begged her to let you use the patent? My mom felt sorry for me. She felt sorry for you. She let the company use her core patent for over a decade—for free. She never asked for a single dollar. And now you talk about her like this? Doesn’t your heart hurt at all?” My voice echoed through the office. Dead silence. Every employee looked at me with sympathy. Then they started whispering. “That’s way over the line. How could he say something like that?” “Yeah, she gave up her whole career for him and he treats her like this?” “So this whole company only exists because of her mom’s patent, and he says that? That’s…” The murmurs died the second Greyson’s face darkened. The quiet sympathy hung in the air. Greyson’s face went from red to white. He looked humiliated. For once, his voice softened. “Elena, I… I didn’t mean it like that…” Before he could finish, footsteps echoed from the lobby entrance. Tiffany stumbled in, flanked by bodyguards, her face pale. She opened her mouth and the fake-innocent act started immediately. “Stop fighting—it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have bothered Mrs. Rivers to buy me breakfast.”

“My life isn’t worth anything. I don’t deserve to make you angry over me.” “It’s all my fault. Please don’t fight because of me…” Tiffany started crying. Then she actually dropped to her knees in front of me. “I was wrong. I never should’ve asked Mrs. Rivers to buy breakfast. She didn’t do anything wrong—it’s all on me. Someone like me isn’t worth living anyway. I should just jump out a window!” She screamed and lunged toward the window like she was about to kill herself. Greyson’s face went white. He grabbed her and yanked her back hard. “Tiffany! Don’t do it! I’m here!” They struggled. His top shirt button popped off. His neck and chest were covered in marks—fresh red ones and older bruises. We’d been sleeping in separate beds for almost a month now. Late nights. Perfume on his clothes. Unexplained charges on his card. His phone glued to his hand. Every sign I’d ignored suddenly clicked into place. He’d been cheating. With her. The intern he was so obsessed with protecting. My whole body went cold. It hurt to breathe. Greyson saw me staring at his neck. Panic flashed in his eyes. Then rage. “Elena, what’s the point of dragging up ancient history? I run this company now. You answer to me. And stop lying—your mom’s not that sick. She said herself it’s nothing serious. You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” The bitterness surged again. My mom had been pretending she was fine so Greyson wouldn’t get distracted from work. If he’d bothered to visit the hospital even once, he’d know she’d die without surgery. Before I could respond, he kept going. “You think coming back for one deal makes you special? You’re done here. Go home. Take care of our daughter like you’re supposed to. That’s all you’re good for anyway.” That was it. The final straw. All the humiliation, all the rage from finding out he cheated—it exploded. I raised my hand to slap Tiffany across the face. Greyson moved fast. He shouted. “Security! Hold her down!” Two massive bodyguards grabbed my arms and pinned me to the floor. Greyson’s eyes went dark. “She tried to hit someone. Beat her. Don’t stop until she learns her lesson.” Slap after slap landed on my face. Ten. Fifteen. My lip split. My cheek swelled. My ears rang. My vision went black. Greyson turned to the room and barked at everyone. “If anyone says a word about what happened today, you’re fired. Blacklisted for life.” The bodyguards shoved me to the ground. I was covered in filth, tears, and blood. I looked like a drowned rat. I tried to push myself up. Greyson crouched down in front of me. “Elena, if you even think about calling the cops, I’ll cut off your mom’s medication and let her die. And I’ll make sure you never see our daughter again.” My chest seized. My nose burned. My mom had spent her whole life as a professor. She lived frugally, donated most of her salary to scholarships and research funds, gave the rest to Greyson’s startup, and kept nothing for herself. I had no money of my own. I’d been out of work for eight years. Every dollar I’d earned before marriage went into this company. My bank account was joint with Greyson’s—he controlled everything. I bit down hard. I couldn’t say a word. I swallowed the lump in my throat. I stumbled out of the office and went straight to the hospital. But the second I got to the lobby, my phone rang. The doctor’s voice was frantic. “Mrs. Rivers, your mother’s medication has been stopped!” My whole body shook. I dialed Greyson’s number with trembling hands. He answered immediately. His voice was cold. “Consider this a lesson. Do what you’re told. Go home and stay there. Or your mom won’t last another day.” I heard Tiffany’s voice in the background, sweet and sickening. “Greyson, can we go to that French retaurant tonight?” The line went dead. I stood in the cold hospital corridor, watching patients and families pass by. I sank to the floor and finally broke down. I pulled out the debit card I’d opened secretly last month—the only account Greyson didn’t know about. I’d been putting aside grocery money, twenty dollars at a time. It had $340 in it. I handed it to the payment window with shaking hands. The nurse checked the balance and looked up at me gently. “Mrs. Rivers, your mother’s treatment costs $8,000 a week. This won’t cover it.” All the strength left my body. Ten years of marriage. I’d given up my career, raised his child, kept his house, and saved his company. And to him, I wasn’t worth a single dollar. My mom was in a hospital bed waiting for medication to keep her alive. I had no choice. I wiped my face and headed back to the office. By the time I got there, it was long past business hours. The whole building was dark except for the top floor—the CEO’s office. The lights were still on. I got to the elevator. The head of security blocked my path, looking me up and down with contempt. “Mrs. Rivers? What are you doing here? Didn’t Mr. Rivers tell you to go home?” I didn’t have time for this. I shoved past him and ran toward the office. The closer I got, the clearer the sounds became. A woman moaning. A man’s rough breathing. The desk rattling under the weight. “Greyson, slow down, I can’t…” “What if that old hag finds out? She’ll kill me.” Greyson’s voice came through, panting. “Don’t worry. She depends on me now. She’s got no job, no money, nowhere to go. Without me, she’s nothing…” My mom was dying in a hospital bed. And he was in here screwing his intern. Rage and humiliation hit me like a tidal wave. I raised my foot and kicked the door open. BANG.

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“Mr. Vance has asked to buy this dress for his fiancée —Mrs. Vance.” The staff said to me. Mrs. Vance? So who am I? And behind me, a young woman was wearing the wedding dress I’d designed for myself. ********** I was checking my custom-made wedding dress at the bridal boutique. I’m a fashion designer. I spent six months making my own gown, for a perfect, once-in-a-lifetime wedding. And a young and pretty girl walked in. The staff told me, “She’s rejected ninety-nine dresses in the last three months.” “And she has a husband funding every single tantrum.” I saw the staff scramble to flatter her. “This one.” She turned around and saw my dress. The manager told her that it is personalized customization with an apologetic smile. She pulled out her phone and made a call. Three minutes later, the manager came back to me and said in a low voice. “Ms. Valerie, her husband already acquired the building’s retail rights. He asked to buy her the wedding dress.” I didn’t agree. How could I possibly agree to that? One of the staff leaned close and murmured, “Valerie, you might want to think this over. She’s Mrs. Vance. Stella Vance. She is the fiancée of the Vance Group’s CEO. It’s not worth the friction.” Mrs. Vance? So who am I? I didn’t answer. I turned to the manager instead. “Get me the contract, please.” She handed over the folder. I flipped straight to the last page. There it was. A signature I would recognize anywhere. Bold, slanted, unmistakable. Dominic Vance. My blood ran cold. My fiancé, Dominic, was cheating on me. My knees buckled. I grabbed a glass of water and forced the panic down my throat. I looked up at the girl. She was watching me with a small and satisfied smile. “You’re a designer, right?” she said pleasantly. “Imagine the exposure when people see your dress at my wedding. Could really put your name on the map.” I stared at her for a long moment. Then I said yes. Stella clapped her hands and headed toward the private dressing room. I offered to do her makeup. “My husband doesn’t let me share a vanity with other clients,” she said, waving me in. “Everything in here—he had it all bought fresh. Brand new, just for me.” I smiled. “He spoils you.” She pouted, but her eyes were glowing. “He could at least show up when I try on dresses. I’ve been here so many times, and today he’s too busy.” The staff laughed flatterly. “Mr. Vance has come almost every single time. Today must be a real emergency.” Stella’s pout melted into a grin. “Fine. He would be here if he could.” I picked up the brush and started on her brows. She glanced at me in the mirror. “Hey—was that dress supposed to be a gift for someone? Why did the staff say it wasn’t for sale?” I paused. Then I smiled. “I designed it for myself.” Stella blinked. For a moment she actually looked embarrassed. “Oh. I’m so sorry.” She said sorry. But she didn’t look like she was letting go of the dress. She caught my eye in the mirror and gave me a little cute wink. “It’s just—you know how picky I am. I’ve turned down nearly a hundred dresses. This is the first one I’ve loved.” She tilted her head. “You’re so talented. I’m sure you can design yourself something even better. I believe in you!” I laughed softly and shook my head. “It’s fine,” I said. “I’m not in a rush.”

When I was working on her brows, Stella’s phone rang. She put it on speaker. A familiar male voice filled the room. “Hey, baby. How’s the fitting going?” The voice was full of affection. He used to talk to me like that. Back when we first moved in together, he’d wake up before me every morning just to whisper in my ear. Valerie. Time to get up. When I ignored him, he’d blow air on my face and tickle me until we were both laughing. I turned my head away. I was afraid Stella would see my tears. Stella pouted at the phone. “Still in the middle of it. Baby, you’re really missing out. The dress is unbelievable. I wish you were here.” “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” His voice was gentle. “Board meeting this afternoon. I can’t get out of it. Next time, I promise.” “No!” Stella whined. “I finally found one I love. You can’t miss this.” A short pause. Then he sighed and gave in. “Alright. I’ll come as soon as it wraps. Okay?” Stella broke into a grin. Last night I told Dominic I was picking up the finished dress today. I asked him to come with me more than once. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gave me four words. “Don’t be so needy.” Then he walked back to the bedroom and closed the door. And now Stella bats her eyes once, and he folds completely. His schedule wasn’t the problem. I was. Stella giggled into the phone a little longer, then hung up. The staff member beside her sighed dreamily. “Mrs. Vance, the way Mr. Vance treats you—it’s honestly unfair to the rest of us.” Stella smiled, satisfied. Then she looked at me. “What about you? When’s your wedding?” Before I could answer, another designer walked in carrying accessories. She’d never liked me much. She laughed. “Her wedding? We’ve been watching her design and custom-fit this dress for months. Not once has anyone seen this so-called fiancé of hers. Honestly, who knows if he even exists.” She turned to Stella, all warmth. “Not everyone’s as blessed as you, Mrs. Vance. Mr. Vance runs a whole empire and still finds time for all of this.” I looked down and said nothing. Because she was right. Dominic and I hadn’t even set a date. Every step of this had been me—just me, planning a wedding for two people. Stella frowned. She seemed genuinely annoyed on my behalf. “Your fiancé doesn’t help at all? You’re doing everything alone? That’s not okay. You really need to think hard about whether this is the right person.” She meant well. But the satisfaction underneath it was hard to miss. I smiled anyway. “You’re right. I’ll think it over.” I turned it back on her. “What about you? Have you set a date?” Stella thought for a moment. “Sometime in the fall. We already handled the legal part. He took care of everything—I just got to pick what I liked.” I stilled. “You already made it official?” “May 1st.” She stuck out her tongue a little, almost shy. “I love that day. He had a flight booked and I refused to let him cancel it—I mean, go. ” She laughed at herself. “Am I too childish? My mom always says I never grew up. But Dominic says that’s exactly what he loves. ” “He wants to spoil me, protect me. He says I should spend my whole life without a single worry.” She smiled. Bright and easy and completely unbothered. My chest went cold. May 1st. My birthday. I’d booked his favorite restaurant and waited until midnight. He texted at eleven: running late, don’t wait up. I didn’t dig into it. I told myself it was work. But I never expected on my birthday, he was with her. Making it official and promising her a lifetime. I’ve been with Dominic since I was eighteen. Ten years. In the beginning, he couldn’t wait to marry me. He used to joke that he was counting down the days until I was old enough to make it legal. And then he stopped mentioning it altogether. Now I know why. He’d already made his promise to someone else. Once, under a sky full of fireworks, he got down on one knee. He slid the ring onto my finger and said he would love me, protect me, and never let anything hurt me. Now he has made the same vow to another woman.

Stella stepped into the fitting room to change. I went in to help her tie the back and she suddenly lowered her voice. “Could you let the waist out a little?” I looked at her in the mirror. “It fits you perfectly. Letting it out would change the whole silhouette.” Stella hesitated. Then she leaned in close. “I’m pregnant. Dominic doesn’t know yet. I want to surprise him at the wedding.” She met my eyes in the mirror. “By then I’ll be showing. If we don’t adjust it now, it’ll be too late. Please don’t say anything.” I stood there for a long moment, not moving. She was pregnant. Dominic had gotten another woman pregnant. Stella stroked her stomach with a quiet, happy smile. That smile hurt to look at. I mumbled something and slipped out of the fitting room. I leaned against the door. Two years ago, I was pregnant too. Dominic said it was bad timing. Vance Group was restructuring. He said a baby right now would complicate everything. So I ended it. Because he asked me to. And now Stella was carrying his child. I caught myself thinking something ugly: maybe when he finds out, he won’t be so happy about it either. Then Stella’s phone lit up on the vanity table. Dominic’s name on the screen. “Can you grab that?” Stella called from inside. “I can’t move in this thing.” I hesitated. And then something dark rose up in me. What would he do if he heard my voice? I picked up the phone. “Hello?” I’d been crying earlier. My voice came out low and rough. Dominic didn’t recognize me at all. “Who’s this?” I almost laughed. Fine. I’d play it out. “I’m one of the bridal boutique staff. Ms. Stella stepped into the fitting room. Is there anything I need to tell her?” He didn’t suspect a thing. “Nothing, just letting her know I’m sending afternoon tea over. Make sure she eats something. I don’t want her feeling faint.” His voice was so careful and attentive. “Is Ms. Stella not feeling well? Is there anything we should watch out for?” A brief pause. “She’s pregnant. She thinks I don’t know. I don’t want to spoil her surprise. Just keep an eye on her. That’s all.” I hung up. I sank down slowly until I was crouching on the floor, both hands over my face. Tears slipped through my fingers. So he did want children. Just not mine. Valerie. All those years. And you never saw it. Stella came out of the fitting room. She was breathtaking. My dress was made to my measurements. And it fit her like it was always meant for her. Just like the man I had chosen. We had the same taste. The staff crowded around her, gushing. Stella loved every second of it. She lifted the hem, did a slow spin, then snapped a photo and sent it to Dominic. Baby, look at this dress. Good eye, right? His reply came back almost instantly. Beautiful. Wear it home for me. The staff smiled. “Oh my god, Mrs. Vance—you two are so cute. I can’t stand it!” Stella went a little pink and didn’t reply.

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My husband, Julian Serrano, the Don of the most powerful mafia family in North America, was a no-show at our fifth-anniversary party. Instead, his assistant-of-the-month, a girl named Laura Vance, explained his absence with a sickeningly sweet smile. “Mrs. Serrano, Julian was just so exhausted at my place last night. I felt bad for him, so I turned off his alarm. You don’t mind, do you?” Then, she shoved a bouquet of roses made from condoms into my hands. A wave of muffled laughter rippled through the guests. They all thought the little assistant was a fool for daring to provoke the woman Julian Serrano supposedly cherished more than anyone. After all, he’d sworn when we were young that he would marry me and never let me suffer a single injustice. He was just as possessive in bed. The second a tear rolled down my cheek, he would only get rougher, more demanding, fucking me until I couldn’t think straight. Everyone was waiting for the show, expecting me to tear the mistress apart. But they didn’t know what I knew. Just yesterday, I’d found this same girl sobbing, a complete mess. Julian had snatched a document from her hands, ripped it to shreds, and kissed her over and over. “Fine, fine, we won’t sign the ‘sponsorship agreement.’ Just think of me as your boyfriend.” “Stop crying, okay? You know I can’t stand it when you cry.” They were a tangled mess of limbs before their clothes were even fully off, their desperate gasps echoing as they stumbled into his private lounge. The open safe was right there. Ninety-nine identical sponsorship agreements spilled out, hitting me in the face and shattering the last of my delusions. When Julian finally arrived, he was so sure I wouldn’t dare make a scene. He wrapped an arm around me, his voice a low, soothing murmur. “Kate, don’t worry. We’re husband and wife. No one will ever come before you.” “I already gave that Gold Coast apartment to your butler. Don’t cry. I want to see you smile for the rest of your life.” But I didn’t smile. Last night, I had already gotten the only permission that mattered—from the true head of the Serrano family—to leave. My tears and my smiles had nothing to do with him anymore. … When Laura Vance handed me that disgusting bouquet, her eyes were shining with excitement. She had been waiting for this moment for a long time. For six months, she had been sending me things like a rat scurrying through the sewers. Julian’s underwear. Key cards to five-star hotels. And finally, a small, bloody bundle—the proof of what she’d gotten rid of. My legs gave out, and I fell down the stairs, losing our child. The old Don never asked for reasons, only results. “It is your failure to allow harm to come to a Serrano heir.” Julian’s mother just sighed, calling me useless. They paid a fortune in hush money and hired the best doctors, thinking they had done more than enough. No one cared that I was so overwhelmed with guilt that I sliced my own wrists open. Julian rushed home, glanced at my bandaged arms, and smiled. “We’ll get you a skin graft. You care about your looks, you don’t want scars. Once you’re better, we can have another one.” He never mentioned punishing Laura. I just stared at him, too stunned to even cry. “But what about our promise…” “Enough!” He smashed his whiskey glass against the wall. “She already lost the baby, what more do you want?” “The baby you were carrying was mine, but so was hers!” “Do you really need her to pay that penalty for leaking a few family secrets to feel better? Katherine Hayes, you came from nothing, too. Can’t you have a little compassion for her?” That was the first time Julian had ever yelled at me like that. It was the second time since our marriage that my world completely fell apart. But now, facing Laura’s provocation, my face was a mask of terrifying calm. She seemed surprised, then took a drag from a cigar, a sneer on her lips. “Mrs. Serrano, my boyfriend was so good to me last night. He loves feeding me things. Especially this.” She held the moist cigar right in front of my face. “Want a taste? Or maybe you’re already used to ‘second-hand’ things.” I was going to ignore her. But if she wanted a scene, I wasn’t going to back down. I turned and winked at Julian. “Miss Vance is telling me all about her boyfriend. It’s so funny. Does she not know about the declaration you made when you took over the family? The one that the entire Chicago underworld remembers?” Julian froze, staring at me in disbelief. The room went so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Everyone remembered the words of a 16-year-old Julian Serrano as he took control of his family. “A woman’s loyalty is between her legs. To ensure there areno mistakes, my personal assistant can’t have so much as a male fly near her.” So those ninety-nine condoms… they could only have been for Julian and Laura. Shock was written on everyone’s faces. After all, our love story had been so public, so epic. Everyone called us “the last fairy tale of the Chicago Outfit.” “I’ve never seen a mistress brazen enough to crash the wife’s party like this. So shameless!” “Exactly! And showing off that kind of filth? It’s a disgrace to the family name!” The whispers made Laura stumble, and she looked at Julian, her eyes welling up with tears. “Julian…” A single tear was all it took for the always-composed man to fall apart. He grabbed my hand, his words spilling out in a rush. “Katherine, you’re older now, you don’t get it. It’s normal for young girls to want to share everything. She didn’t mean any harm.” “I’ll apologize for her, okay? Just let it go. Go say something nice to her. If you don’t, she’ll be crying in my arms all night.” I pressed my lips together, then let out a laugh. “You’re right, I don’t like to share. Which is why I have no use for cheap trash that anyone can have.” Julian’s eyes widened. “What did you just say?”

Laura covered her face, sobbing. “Julian, she’s attacking my character! How can I ever show my face again?” I laughed. She had the nerve to be a mafia boss’s mistress, but she was afraid of a few words? But what Julian did next sent a tremor of pure terror through me. He dragged me roughly toward the floor-to-ceiling window and ripped open the curtains! A raw, physical fear stole my voice. When I was ten, my wannabe gangster father brought his mistress into our home. The shock of it gave my grandparents fatal heart attacks, one right after the other. My mother attacked him like a madwoman, but my dad just laughed. “Betrayal? I was a nobody. You think I was interested in you, you naive little princess? It was always about your family’s connections.” In the end, my mother leaped from a high-rise building, landing in a pool of blood at my feet. Ever since, heights have been my deepest fear. Julian was so preoccupied with Laura’s tears that he didn’t notice I could barely breathe. “Katherine, your dad was right about you. You just don’t know what’s good for you!” I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood, but my vision still blurred. On my wedding day, my father was blocked at the door and screamed at me in a rage. “Katherine Hayes, you’re just as ungrateful as your mother! No man will ever love you forever!” Julian had been furious, throwing his dignity aside to fight him. “You listen to me, you old bastard! As long as I’m alive, I will love Kate for the rest of my life!” But now, he was using my father’s own words to humiliate me. Through the haze, I heard someone shout. “Mrs. Serrano lost control of her bladder!” Laura choked back a laugh and clutched her chest, crying out in pain. The grip on my wrist suddenly loosened. Julian looked down, hesitating for only a second before scooping Laura into his arms and striding away. That night, Chicago’s underground forums exploded. Some cursed the shameless mistress. But many more mocked me and my mother, calling us pathetic for not being able to keep our men. They even asked if my mother used to piss herself every time her husband mentioned divorce. Meanwhile, Laura’s Instagram was blowing up. Julian took her to exclusive private clubs for dinner and to watch the sunset over Lake Michigan. These were all the places Julian had once taken me, places that were no longer just ours. Before I left for good, I wanted to erase our memories from this city. My first stop was the high-end bridal boutique. The wedding dress that had been on display for five years was still the dream of countless girls. But at that moment, Laura was wearing it. The boutique owner gushed with praise. “Mrs. Serrano, you look absolutely stunning!” Julian and Laura exchanged a loving, knowing smile, both of them accepting the title. But I didn’t care. Just as I was about to speak, Laura tilted her head at me, playfully using my first name. “Katherine, this dress fits me perfectly, don’t you think?” That’s when I realized it. My one-of-a-kind wedding dress, my perfect dress, had been completely altered to fit her. No wonder it felt so wrong on the day of our anniversary party. But I hadn’t wanted to disappoint Julian. So I had squeezed myself into someone else’s skin and played the fool. The straps kept slipping, and he had just laughed, telling me I’d gotten fat and needed to lose weight. A wave of nausea washed over me. “Don’t you have your own clothes? Take it off.” Julian just smirked. “Come on. Laura has no official status with me, she’s insecure. It’s just a dress, let her have it.” I stared at the dress I had spent over six months designing. I gritted my teeth and stood my ground. “No official status? Didn’t you hear them calling her Mrs. Serrano?” “I don’t want the dress anymore. But I’m not letting a piece of trash have it either!” I reached out to tear the dress. Before I could even touch it, she screamed and started flailing her arms as if possessed. Julian panicked, grabbing my chin and yelling at her. “Here! Hit her here!”

Before I could process what was happening, a heavy slap sent my head spinning. Then another, and another, dozens of slaps raining down on my face. My eyes were wide with shock, my cheeks burning. Julian carefully pressed an ice pack to my face, his voice tinged with a hint of apology. “She’s been having nightmares. A Gypsy psychic told her that the next time she sees her demon, she has to strike it down immediately.” “It’s my fault, really. I haven’t been taking good care of my woman, I’ve let her get upset. You’re my wife, you should understand me better than anyone. Just let her have this.” I suddenly laughed, a hollow sound that made my eyes burn. I wanted to hit back, but I was too disoriented to even see straight. Blood dripped from my nose onto the white dress. The dress was ruined, my dignity was shattered, and I was covered in bruises. I broke down completely, swinging my arms wildly, screaming and crying. “Get out! Get the fuck out!” “Miss Katherine, you don’t have to be like this. I’ll apologize when I’m feeling better, okay?” Laura pouted, melting into Julian’s embrace. Compared to her, I was the crazy one. And Julian believed every word she said. Seeing me defy him again and again, his expression hardened. He snorted. “The psychic said Laura needs to spend a night with her demon. Then she’ll be cured.” I stared at him blankly, not understanding what he meant. Not until I was tied to the bedpost like a footstool, a humiliating restraint. Laura stepped heavily on my stomach to climb into the bed. The man’s heavy breathing, the woman’s shameless moans—every sound was a knife twisting in my gut. I hugged my knees, my whole body shaking. I knew they had been together countless times, that they’d even had a child that didn’t make it. But seeing it with my own eyes was a pain like no other. When a pair of sticky panties landed on my face, Julian lifted my pale chin, his hand trembling slightly. “You must be hurting right now, right? Remember this feeling. And don’t ever mess with Laura again.” I closed my eyes, a strange numbness spreading through me. “Fine. Let’s get a divorce. We’ll have nothing to do with each other.” After that night, I didn’t see Julian again. I stopped following their lives and quietly booked a flight out of the country. Before I left, I wanted to visit the graves of my mother and grandparents to say goodbye. Surprisingly, when I called, Julian actually remembered the anniversary of their deaths. “Kate, wait for me.” The wind in the cemetery was cold enough to make my eyes water. Ten years ago today, I had lost everyone I loved in a single night. I ran a high fever, refusing to eat or drink, just waiting to die. If Julian hadn’t forced me to take the medicine, I would have been long gone. After he saved me, my father tried to sell me to a 60-year-old rival boss to pay off his gambling debts. That night, Julian went to the underground racetrack and bet his life. He came back at dawn, covered in bandages, and threw a check in my father’s face before leading me away from that house forever. His right hand, the one he broke that night, still trembles slightly when he signs documents. My thoughts returned to the present. I clutched the divorce papers in my bag and managed a weak smile. We shouldn’t have ended up like this, but maybe it was the only way. I never expected Laura to be the one who showed up first. She didn’t even bother to pretend, showing off the love bites on her collarbone. “Do you know what he said when he was on top of me last night?” “He said he can never really let go with you. He’s always afraid you’ll get too excited and lose control of your bladder.” “He said he regrets it all. Saving you, ruining his hand for you, and especially marrying a woman who does nothing but embarrass him.” “He also said… he should have just let you die all those years ago!” With that, she kicked her high-heeled shoe hard against my mother’s headstone! My sanity snapped. I lunged at her, ready to kill. But Laura didn’t move, just smiled a slow, chilling smile. Something was wrong. The next second, a dozen of the family’s enforcers surrounded us. “What do you want?”

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At dinner, my son asked my husband in German, “Dad, when are you going to divorce Mom and marry Miss Elena?” Julian kept peeling the shell off my egg, his expression perfectly calm as he answered in German, “That depends on when your Miss Elena agrees to my proposal.” My son rolled his eyes. “Then you’d better step it up. I don’t want to call the witch ‘Mom’ anymore.” I kept eating breakfast. My eyes burned. Julian tensed the moment he saw. “What’s wrong, Viv?” I shook my head. “Nothing. Just choked on the egg.” But the egg he’d peeled for me sat untouched on my plate. The tears came because I understood every word they said. … Julian must have forgotten. I minored in German during my master’s program and finished top of my year. He only took that class because he was trying to get close to me. Now he was watching me with that worried look. “Feeling better, babe?” I nodded absently and reached for my glass of milk. Before I could bring it to my lips, Julian snatched it away. “It’s gone cold. Let me heat it up for you.” I watched him walk away. I couldn’t reconcile the man who cared for my every need with the man who had already given his heart to someone else. My son rolled his eyes. “Dad, you’re going to spoil her until she can’t do anything for herself.” I couldn’t tell if he was teasing or mocking me. Julian ruffled his hair. “One day you’ll have a wife of your own, and you’ll be even worse than me.” “Besides, if I didn’t love your mom this much, where would you be?” My son said nothing. Maybe he was marveling at his father’s acting skills too. I married Julian fifteen years ago, when I was twenty. The year after our wedding, I quit my job and followed him abroad to build his career. That same year, our son was born. For fifteen years, I devoted myself to this family. I had no career left, no circle of my own. I lived for the two of them. And now my husband had betrayed me, and my son despised me. I had almost forgotten who I used to be: top of my class, fluent in six languages. Julian set the warmed milk by my hand. He noticed me staring into space. “What are you thinking about, babe?” I smiled at him. “Just wondering if you’re this attentive with other women too.” He stroked my hair. “You and your imagination. There’s no one else.” His voice was tender, his gaze steady. If I hadn’t understood their conversation, I’d still be falling for it. Julian took my hand. “Silly girl. I promised you on our wedding day: you’re the only one I’ll ever love. Don’t you believe me anymore?” I smiled back. Of course I believed he meant it when he said it. But words spoken in love only hold while the love lasts. When Julian was chasing me, he wasn’t much to look at, and he hadn’t made his fortune yet. I was the one everyone wanted. Top of my class, beautiful, accomplished. He worked hard to win me over. In the end, his sincerity got to me, and I chose him. For fifteen years, he took care of me. And then, six months ago, he started sleeping with his secretary. I used to think we’d be happy forever. Now I knew it was time to leave. I didn’t confront him. I didn’t scream or cry. I prepared to leave in silence, while he suspected nothing. One month. That’s how long until my doctoral admission letter arrived. Then I could leave Julian Sterling for good. —

After breakfast, Julian cleared the table like he always did. “Babe, I actually have some free time today. Let me take you shopping.” Our son, home for the weekend, whined about wanting to go camping instead. Julian frowned. “What’s the rule in this house? Mom comes first.” Watching him lecture our son, I couldn’t help but think: without Elena, he might actually be a decent husband and father. But how could I keep believing this act? My phone buzzed on the table. I picked it up. Elena had sent me a photo of her and Julian, faces pressed together. I turned off the screen and said nothing. A few minutes later, she texted again: “Julian has the day off. Who do you think he’s going to spend it with—me or you?” I almost laughed. She was the only one who still cared about the answer to that question. Julian walked over and leaned against my chair. “What is it, Viv? Something wrong?” I set the phone face-down. “Spam. It’s nothing.” Before, I would have shoved the photo in his face and screamed at him. Now I didn’t have the energy. I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted to slip out of his life without a sound. Julian sensed something was off. He reached for my phone. I pressed my hand down on it. His phone rang. A breathy voice came through: “Julian, come keep me company, pleeeease?” He straightened up and stepped away. I ignored him and went to the bedroom to change. Half an hour later, I came back out. Julian had just hung up. I picked up my bag. “Weren’t we going shopping?” He looked me over, guilt flickering in his eyes. “Viv, something came up at the office. I can’t go with you.” I nodded. “Then go.” My easy acceptance seemed to throw him off. I pushed him toward the door. “She’s waiting for you. Hurry up, or you’ll be late. Work is important.” Julian kissed my forehead with a show of reluctance. It made my skin crawl. When he was gone, I felt lighter. I had more important things to do today. My visa had come through, and I needed to pick it up in person. An hour later, I walked out of the government building with a fresh visa in my hand. I felt like I could breathe again. Julian was probably having a good time right about now. Ten minutes ago, Elena had sent me another message: a photo of Julian’s bare back in the shower, and a line of text. “Vivian, you lose again.” I hailed a cab on the curb. “The mall, please.” I didn’t need Julian to go shopping. I could buy my own clothes. Most of my wardrobe came from him anyway. If I was leaving, I might as well replace all of it. —

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