In the elite circles of Manhattan, Silas Sterling was a king, and he had two “princesses” by his side. One was a spoiled brat who pouted and called him “Uncle Silas.” The other was a siren who drove him to madness in the sheets. I was the latter. The former was Tiffany Moore, a girl who hated me to the bone. She was reckless, cruel, and pampered beyond reason. The day she pushed me into the freezing Atlantic from a luxury yacht, she laughed so hard she could barely stand. “You’re just a cheap little bird, Sera,” she sneered. “Did you really think you could compete with me? Now, go feed the sharks.” Let her throw me in. I was already carrying Silas’s child, and I was just looking for the perfect way to turn his protective streak into a weapon of mass destruction. 1 Silas Sterling ruled both the boardroom and the back alleys of New York. The tabloids called him ruthless, a man with ice in his veins who had no room for women. Two years ago, I appeared by his side, sporting the face of an innocent “English Rose”—pure, soft, and fragile. Only after getting close did I realize that this “ascetic” mogul was anything but. On countless blurry nights, Silas would strip away his mask of cold indifference. He would tear off my silk slips and drag us both into a feverish abyss. The high-thread-count sheets would be soaked in sweat, smelling of his heavy, masculine cologne. It was Friday the 13th, a night of bad omens. Silas returned to the penthouse reeking of expensive bourbon. The city lights flickered like dying embers outside. He shed his bespoke suit jacket and gestured for me. I walked over obediently and sat on his powerful, muscular lap. In the dim light, Silas’s emotions were thick and suffocating. I cupped his sharp jawline, raining kisses on his eyes, his nose, and finally, his sensitive throat. He let out a low, tired chuckle. “Only with you, Sera… do I find a moment of peace.” I knew that. Silas had climbed to the top over the bodies of his own rivals. Family betrayals, boardroom coups—he had seen it all. He was pathologically paranoid. Every woman who approached him, whether an A-list actress or a billionaire heiress, was viewed as a pawn with an agenda. Except for me. Well, and one other girl: Tiffany Moore. Silas had doted on her for far longer. At 3:00 AM, she was the only one who dared to call his private line. He put it on speaker. A muffled sobbing came through: “Uncle Silas… it’s the anniversary of my dad’s death. I had that nightmare again.” “Can you come over? I’m so scared.” 2 I leaned against Silas like I had no bones, my arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “It’s a bad night to be out so late,” I whispered. “Can’t you wait until morning?” Silas looked at me with a gaze that was cold and unreadable. I sighed and obediently slid off him. My face was a mask of disappointment and worry. Seeing me turn away, he brushed the hair from my neck and kissed my earlobe firmly. “Tiffany is just a kid, Sera. Don’t be petty.” Right. In the eyes of men like him, the girls they hold in their palms are always “kids.” Even if she was a year older than me. I kicked him playfully under the covers. “If she’s a kid, what does that make me?” Silas pulled me back into his arms, kissing my lips until I was breathless. “You’re a little succubus. You’re the one I can’t stay away from.” I blushed, burying my face in the pillows, my voice muffled and longing: “Tell Arthur to drive you. If you get a DUI, the papers will have a field day.” “Mhm.” As he closed the door, his gaze held a softness he didn’t even realize was there. 3 This wasn’t the first time Tiffany had snatched him away. She was “drunk.” She had “fought with friends.” She was “being harassed at a club.” She always had an excuse to bring Silas running. The paparazzi, used to the scandals of the wealthy, were stunned by how much he indulged her. Once, on a flight to Aspen, Tiffany complained of a stomach ache. Silas ordered the private jet to turn around immediately. He lost a nine-figure deal that day, but he didn’t care. He stayed by her side. Rumors flew that Silas was simply waiting for her to grow up. But years passed, and they never became “official.” Meanwhile, every woman who tried to get close to Silas was either blacklisted, disappeared, or had her reputation ruined in the most public way. Tiffany proved, time and again, that her position was untouchable. She was the one in his heart. Until I showed up. Silas protected me fiercely, keeping me out of the spotlight. We met at NYU. I was a finance major—beautiful, sharp, but seemingly untouched by the world. I was a hard worker, a girl from a rough background who had clawed her way into an Ivy League circle. He had me investigated. He found a father with a history of violence and a mother who died young. My background was as clean as white paper. I was the perfect project: innocent and aspirational. I’ll never forget the day Tiffany found out about me. She trashed my apartment and slapped me across the face until I bled. Silas screamed at her for the first time, shielding me behind his back. Tiffany wailed, “Uncle Silas, don’t you love me anymore?” His heart softened instantly, and he let her sob into his chest. “You’ll always be my first priority,” he promised. But men have weaknesses. Lust is a powerful thing. To take the top spot in Silas’s heart, I didn’t just work on being his “muse.” I spent my nights studying how to be his greatest addiction. Hard work pays off. When he left me now, he was no longer so decisive. 4 It was a high-society charity gala hosted by the Hunt family. Tiffany, as usual, arrived draped in Cartier and haute couture. When she saw me, her smile vanished. “Seraphina Vance. How did a stray like you get an invite?” Tiffany looked down on me. To her, I was just Silas’s high-end “kept woman.” I had been with him for two years, and not even my college roommates knew. I was his secret, a ghost in his life. I didn’t belong at a party like this. But Silas wasn’t hiding me because he was ashamed; he was hiding me because I was his Achilles’ heel. Normally, I met him at his private penthouses, driven by his personal security. But after a stalker nearly broke into my place, he moved me into his most secure estate. Facing Tiffany’s sneer, I remained poised. “I graduated top of my class, Tiffany. I have friends in high places. It shouldn’t be a surprise to see me here.” Tiffany eyed my floor-length, form-fitting gown. Her eyes turned venomous. “You’re nothing. One phone call last night and Silas came to me. He gave me a pink diamond necklace from the Sotheby’s auction. It’s worth six million.” “What did he give you? That dress looks like a rental.” She was right. Silas never took me shopping. I didn’t ask for luxury gifts. But I didn’t need to. In the quiet of the night, he taught me the secrets of the market, hand-holding me through investment strategies. Isn’t that more interesting than a piece of jewelry? When she saw no jealousy in my eyes, she hissed: “Bitch. He’ll get bored of you soon. When he’s done, you won’t be able to find a job in this city.” I touched my neck, smiling. “Last night… he was so obsessed he wouldn’t let me leave the room until dawn. I don’t think he’s getting bored quite yet.” I leaned in closer. “It’s pathetic, Tiffany. You love him, but you’re too afraid to even try to get into his bed.” 5 Tiffany lost it. She smashed her wine glass against the floor near my feet. A shard of glass sliced into my calf. Blood began to seep out. Grayson Hunt noticed the commotion and rushed over. “Miss Moore, I’m hosting this event. Why are you attacking my guest?” In New York, Tiffany was used to being Silas’s untouchable ward. “The bitch started it,” she snapped. Grayson was about to argue, but I grabbed his arm. “It’s fine. I must have been a poor host. She’s the guest here; I should apologize.” Tiffany looked triumphant. “Kneel down and wipe that wine off my shoes.” Grayson was about to protest when a familiar, deep voice came from behind. “Tiffany. That’s enough.” “Uncle Silas! She was bullying me!” Tiffany flew into Silas’s arms like a wounded bird. I took a step back, feigning a stumble. My heel caught, and my silhouette was perfectly framed in the light. Grayson caught me by the waist to steady me. “Did you twist your ankle?” Silas’s eyes went cold, his gaze fixed on Grayson’s hand on my waist. I tried to push Grayson away, but he held me firm. “You injured your foot playing tennis last week, Sera. Don’t make it worse.” I looked back at Silas. The rage in his eyes was like a physical heat. 6 I was dozing off in my apartment when Silas arrived, unannounced. I limped to the door. He pinned me against the sofa, biting my lip hard. “Seraphina… how dare you let another man touch you?” His kiss was a punishment, meant to consume me. Eventually, I went soft in his arms, whispering: “Grayson doesn’t even like women, Silas. He’s like a brother to me.” The words acted like a sedative. Silas paused. “I don’t care! No one touches what’s mine.” He was so possessive. I bit my lip. “If he didn’t help me, was I supposed to kneel and lick the floor? I’m not a dog.” “Of course you aren’t. Tiffany was out of line. I’ve dealt with her.” He added, “She’s just a girl. She’s immature. Just stay away from her for a while.” Tiffany really was his weakness. I toyed with his tie, my fingers tracing the silk. “I know. I’m not trying to take anything from her.” “It’s her birthday on Saturday. I’ll go and apologize to her.” Silas looked satisfied. “I bought her a yacht for her birthday. If you like, I’ll buy you one too.” I didn’t want what everyone else had. I wanted something better. Looking into Silas’s dark, wanting eyes, I kissed him sweetly. “That’s so expensive. I should bring her a very special gift, shouldn’t I?” A gift she would never see coming. 7 Tiffany really was number one. Silas was a man whose schedule was booked months in advance, but he cleared an entire day for her birthday yacht party. The party was wild. Tiffany was surrounded by her “mean girl” squad and a group of male models they had hired for the day. When she saw me, her face fell. Who wants their enemy at their birthday party? I stayed quiet, handing her a beautifully wrapped gift with a smile. Tiffany scoffed. “Cheap.” Silas rubbed her head. “The jewelry and the Ferrari weren’t enough? Be nice to Sera.” Tiffany grew even more irritated. She went over to her friends, whispering about how I was just a “gold-digger.” Silas was busy on a conference call. Tiffany took off her million-dollar watch and threw it into the ocean. “Whoever dives in and finds it gets to keep it!” The male models scrambled into the water. Tiffany didn’t care about the watch; she only wanted to make Silas jealous. I sighed, leaning in close to her so only she could hear. “Don’t be mad at Silas. He’s always busy. He only really has time for me at night.” I knew exactly what would push her over the edge. She glared at me, her face contorted. “You’re just a whore who’s good in bed.” I smiled gently, my hand resting on my stomach. “Careful, Tiffany. One day, my child might have to call you ‘sister’.” She looked at me in disbelief, screaming: “You bitch! Silas would never have a kid with you!” “Why not? I’m smart, I’m educated, and he’s obsessed with me.” “You aren’t old money. He’d never marry you.” “You don’t know Silas very well. He never goes on the dates his family sets up.” I lowered my voice. “Or are you just waiting for him to marry you? But he only sees you as a niece. You feel it too, don’t you?” That was the breaking point. Tiffany lost her mind and shoved me into the ocean. “No one save her!” she screamed. “Let’s see how long she lasts!” The water was freezing. I had told Silas a lie once—that my father had tried to drown me when I was a kid and that I was terrified of deep water. I had to make my struggle look desperate. How else would I erase Tiffany from his heart? 8 I woke up in a hospital bed. My face was pale, my body aching. Silas was there, his expression heavy. “You’re pregnant? Why didn’t you tell me?” I forced a smile that looked more like a sob. “Mr. Sterling… I knew you wouldn’t want it. I was going to find a time to end it. I didn’t expect…” Losing the baby didn’t seem to make Silas sad. He was an illegitimate son himself. He had a traumatic childhood. He had always sworn he wouldn’t have children before marriage. But his protection of the “murderer” was far too obvious. “Tiffany said… you tripped and fell.” My eyes burned with tears. “Is that what she said?” “I want to hear your version.” I didn’t need to say anything. To keep Tiffany safe, Silas had installed hidden cameras all over the yacht. He hadn’t told her because she hated being watched. I had chosen the perfect spot to provoke her. I leaned back against the pillows, my eyes red. “It was my fault. I slipped. It’s a miracle I was saved.” Silas leaned over, his eyes searching mine. He wanted to see through me. But in an instant, my tears fell uncontrollably. “I’m sorry. I lost control.” Silas wasn’t a patient man. He hated crying women. Except for Tiffany. But this time, he pulled me into his arms. “It’s okay. You’re young. We can have children later.” I sniffled. “I wasn’t ready to be a mother anyway. You know my family was terrible. I didn’t want to bring a baby into this world to suffer.” 9 Silas froze. He would never marry me. The “father” of my future children would have to be someone else. He gripped my chin roughly. “Seraphina… are you planning on having kids with someone else?” I didn’t fight him. I took his hand and looked at him sincerely. “Silas, I’m not a canary looking for a gilded cage. Without your help, the aunt who raised me would have died. I owe you my life.” “I won’t leave you. Unless…” He cut me off with a harsh, punishing kiss. He wiped the tears from my eyes, his voice a warning: “You aren’t leaving without my permission.” I suppressed my grief and hugged him back. I’m sorry, baby, I thought. This world was too dirty for you anyway. 10 As compensation, Silas gave me a job at his firm. In the venture capital department—his favorite division. Silas had a legendary eye for investments. It was how he had ousted his half-brothers and taken control of the family empire. Tiffany was there too. She got paid, but she did no work. Silas just wanted to give her a title. Just like he had donated a building to her college to get her a degree she didn’t earn. In the office, Tiffany tried to make my life hell. Silas kept his personal and professional lives separate. He wasn’t going to stand up for a “mistress” in front of his staff. I didn’t care. I used my own money to buy coffee and snacks for the team, making friends with everyone. When the “mean girl” tried to make me her personal assistant, my colleagues stood up for me. I played my own game. I used my “recovery” as an excuse to stop going to Silas’s estate. He mocked me: “The little bird’s wings are getting strong.” I laughed it off and went back to work, pulling all-nighters to create brilliant investment proposals using the knowledge he had taught me. Months later, the head of the department praised me in front of Silas. “Seraphina is brilliant. She has a rare gift for this.” The boardroom erupted in applause. Silas had a faint smile on his lips. He looked at me through his gold-rimmed glasses—the look of a man who was no longer just attracted to a body, but to a mind. 11 When I finally returned to his estate, Silas taught me more about the dark side of business. I sat on his lap, rewarding him with kisses. He was in a great mood, his hands wandering over my waist. I stopped him, looking pained. “Promise me… we’ll be careful. I can’t have another baby.” “You really don’t want my child?” “No. I told you… my father killed my mother. I barely survived.” “I don’t want my history to repeat.” Silas had done a background check, but he only knew the basics. He didn’t know that in my remote, impoverished hometown, domestic violence wasn’t a crime—it was a way of life. My mother was kind, but she couldn’t give my father the son he wanted. Every time he was frustrated, he beat her. The winter my uncle had a son, my father came home fuming. He attacked my mother without warning. I tried to protect her, but he threw me aside by my hair. He kicked her until she was vomiting blood. I tried to take her to a doctor in the next town, but my father found us. He hit me with a shovel, shattering my leg. “You aren’t taking her anywhere,” he hissed. My mother died of internal bleeding. My leg was broken. My father refused to pay for treatment. He wanted me to drop out of school to serve him. A volunteer teacher in the village paid for my surgery. She wasn’t much older than me, but she told me: “The world is big. If you work hard, you can fly away.” From that day on, I studied like a demon. I never missed a chance to escape. Silas stared into my eyes. “What happened to your father?” “After I left, he kept hounding me for money. He threatened my aunt. I had to give in.” “And then?” “He became an alcoholic. He spent all the money on booze and froze to death one winter.” I looked sad, as if I were grieving. “I handled the funeral. He was still my father.” Silas kissed my forehead. “You’re a good person, Sera. That’s why you’re so patient with Tiffany.” I almost laughed. Good? I was the one who made sure he had an endless supply of cheap, high-proof alcohol. He killed my mother and got away with it. I just let the universe handle the rest.

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Jude Sterling and I were both heralded as genius painters. From the time we were toddlers, we were rivals, constantly fighting for the top spot in every gallery and competition. That was until I walked in on a girl defacing his submission for a prestigious national contest. Instead of being angry, he laughed, kissed her, and called it a “naughty little penalty.” He had fallen for a “broken” girl from the wrong side of the tracks—Chloe Miller. For her, he skipped classes, dropped out, ran away from home, and eventually prepared to give up painting altogether. Behind his back, that girl blackmailed me. She told me she’d dump him if I paid her off. I didn’t want to see him rot. I paid. But Jude spent the rest of his life hating me for it. He crushed my hands—the hands that held my future—ensuring I could never paint again. He drove my parents to their graves and left me in the gutters while he climbed to the top of the art world on the back of my silence. I opened my eyes and found myself back at the peak of their toxic, whirlwind romance. This time, I won’t stop him. This time, he can have his “true love” and his ruin. I’m picking up my brush to take back my throne. 01 Two people. One studio. I stopped just outside the door. I knew exactly who was in there: Jude Sterling and Chloe Miller. In my past life, this was the day I accidentally stumbled upon their secret. Jude and I were childhood friends. We lived next door to each other, both cursed—or blessed—with extreme talent. We grew up in the same studios, went to the same exhibits, and eventually got into the same elite Art Institute on full-ride scholarships. But we were also enemies. We never conceded to one another. We fought for every blue ribbon, every “Best in Show.” We were the rivals that defined each other. Everyone assumed we’d end up together. Our parents joked about a wedding being a “merger of empires.” Jude never denied it; he even told his friends he was going to ask me out formally after graduation. But he broke that promise. I walked in to find him pinned against a drafting table, kissing a complete stranger. This was our private studio. Jude’s mother had built it specifically for the two of us. No one else was allowed inside. Yet there she was, Chloe, laughing as she knocked over jars of expensive pigment, turning the pristine space into a chaotic mess. Jude, usually a clinical perfectionist, didn’t care. If I so much as moved a charcoal sketch an inch out of place, Jude would fly into a rage. He didn’t let anyone touch his drafts. He didn’t allow food in the studio. He was a man of a thousand rules and “don’ts.” I used to think that was just his temperament. Now I realized he only enforced those rules on me. Even as Chloe took a brush and started doodling graffiti over his canvas—a piece he had spent months preparing for the National Youth Exhibit—Jude only feigned annoyance. He gripped her waist, kissed her hard, and whispered that it was a “penalty.” That was his masterpiece. The one he’d labored over through dozens of drafts. The deadline was the next day. He had no time to start over. This was the competition of a decade. Missing it was professional suicide. We had both been so confident. We had even made plans to use the prize money to travel to Maine and paint the autumn leaves together. In my past life, I was furious. I stormed in, snatched the draft from Chloe’s hands, and screamed at her for being reckless. And Jude? His face went cold. He shoved me back and shielded her. “What’s it to you, Phoebe?” he spat. “Mind your own business.” 02 That was the first time in twenty years Jude had ever used that tone with me. We ended in a bitter standoff. That day, Chloe didn’t just ruin his canvas. She took my finished painting, folded it into a paper airplane, and tossed it into the industrial sink, letting the water wash the oils away. Their “paper airplane” was a romantic gesture of rebellion. My life’s work was a soggy mess. I stayed up all night trying to salvage it, but the version I submitted was rushed and amateur. I was rejected. The competition I had prepared for my entire life ended in a pathetic whimper. Both Jude and I were cut in the first round. My work was sloppy; his was covered in Chloe’s doodles. Our professors and peers were in shock. They couldn’t believe the two “prodigies” had failed so spectacularly. They demanded answers. I said I just had a bad day. Jude told them I had ruined his painting. He didn’t want Chloe to face the faculty’s wrath, so he made me the scapegoat. The rumor mill at the Institute went wild. They said I was jealous because Jude was the favorite to win, so I sabotaged him. No matter how much I explained, no one believed me. Jude’s word was law. While I was drowning in rumors and the shame of “letting down the school,” Jude took Chloe on a road trip to see the maples in the North. He posted a photo of their hands intertwined against a backdrop of red leaves with the caption: Youth is meant for romance, not just rules. 03 The biggest mistake I made in my last life was trying to pull Jude out of the mud as he slowly sank. So, standing before the studio door again, I didn’t hesitate. I pushed it open, walked straight to my corner, and began packing my supplies. I ignored them completely, treating them like shadows. I am not saving him this time. Jude saw me and instinctively tried to hide Chloe behind him. When he realized I wasn’t even looking at them, a flash of confusion crossed his eyes. Chloe peeked from behind him, tugging at his shirt. “Jude? Is that your childhood friend?” She lowered her head, acting small and intimidated. “She’s so pretty. Why… why are you with me instead of her?” Jude snapped out of his daze, squeezed her hand, and glared at me. “Babe, don’t say that. You’re ruining the mood.” Looking at them—one a liar who broke a twenty-year promise, the other a girl who knew exactly what she was doing—made me want to gag. I walked toward them. Jude braced himself. “Phoebe, what are you doing?” He expected me to be jealous. He expected a scene. He expected me to try and tear them apart. I pulled the spare key to the Sterling estate out of my pocket and slammed it onto his table. “Here’s your key. I won’t be coming here to practice with you anymore. Also, I hope you two are very happy together.” I turned and walked out. Jude stood there, stunned by my indifference. This time, I sent my carefully prepared draft to the exhibit early. It was a masterpiece. It won the Grand Prize. With the grant money in my pocket, I invited my real friends to go see the autumn foliage. The mountains were a sea of fire under the sunset. Meanwhile, Jude was cut in the first round. It was the scandal of the year. People noticed the graffiti on his canvas and suspected foul play. Just like before, Jude tried to pin it on me to protect Chloe. But this time, I waited until the accusations were at their peak. I returned to the Institute and played a recording on the big screen in the lounge. It showed Chloe playfully stamping paint-covered handprints on Jude’s easel while Jude laughed and called her “cute,” letting her smear his work into oblivion. Silence followed the video. Then, the uproar began. 04 Jude was exposed as a liar. The faculty was livid. The master painter the Sterling family had hired to mentor him resigned on the spot. Jude’s parents were furious. They found out about his secret relationship and looked into Chloe’s background—a dropout from a community college with a reputation for being a “black widow” who used guys for their money. They demanded he break up with her. But now that the secret was out, Jude leaned into the drama. He became the “tortured artist” fighting for love. The more his parents pushed, the more he rebelled. He started skipping classes to be with her. In my past life, I did his homework. I took notes for him. I recorded lectures. I did his group projects just so he wouldn’t fail out. He never thanked me. I once saw him throw my painstakingly written notes into a trash can without reading a single page. He used to drag me along on his dates with Chloe just to use me as a cover for his parents. I was the one who got yelled at by our families and teachers for “distracting” him. There was a massive apprenticeship exam coming up. The winner would become the personal protégé of a world-renowned master—an opportunity that could define a career. Everyone was grinding. Every second was worth gold. I stopped caring about his whereabouts. I kept to my schedule: studio, library, cafeteria, bed. I lived a “boring” life while they lived their “romance.” Jude, meanwhile, spent his parents’ money taking Chloe on cruises and buying her designer bags and watches. Without me to fix his messes, his grades tanked. He was put on academic probation. Everyone who once admired him was now disappointed. But Jude didn’t care. He had his “precious love.” Chloe eventually cried to him: “Your parents think I’m not good enough for you.” Jude went home, had a screaming match with his father, and threatened to run away and give up painting if they didn’t accept her. The exam was days away. Jude announced he was quitting art to “live for love.” 05 Jude’s parents were at their wit’s end. They came to me, begging me to talk sense into him. “Phoebe, you grew up with him. You have a bond. He won’t listen to us, but maybe he’ll listen to you.” Mrs. Sterling, once the picture of elegance, now had grey hairs peeking through. Her makeup couldn’t hide her exhaustion. She looked exactly like my mother did in my past life—aged twenty years in a few months. In the previous timeline, I had gone to Jude. I had begged him to be rational. He had pulled Chloe close, kissed her in front of me, and looked at me with disgust. “Phoebe, you’re pathetic,” he had said. He didn’t know that Chloe had already come to me. She had demanded a “settlement” of fifty thousand dollars to leave him. And I, desperate to save Jude’s career, had paid it. I did it because I respected him as a rival. I didn’t want to see a genius rot. I wanted to beat him fairly on the canvas. Chloe took the money and dumped him that very night. Jude, who had never touched a drop of alcohol, got blackout drunk and trashed his apartment. We all thought the nightmare was over. But right before Chloe boarded her flight, she called Jude. She sobbed into the phone: “Phoebe gave me money to leave you. She forced me out.” She didn’t mention the money his parents gave her. She didn’t mention it was a shakedown. She told a half-truth that made me the villain. Jude chose to believe her sob story over the recording I tried to show him. Then, her plane crashed. She died at the height of their “tragic romance.” Jude spent the rest of his life mourning her and hating me. 06 The day the news of the crash hit, Jude broke into my house. His eyes were venomous. “Are you happy now, Phoebe? Is this what you wanted?” I tried to calm him down, but he shoved me. Our house had a beautiful, decorative spiral staircase. The railing was low. I went over the side. I broke an arm and both legs. Jude’s parents apologized. They paid for my bills. They visited every day. But Jude never showed up once. The apprenticeship exam came. I wasn’t healed. My mother begged me to let it go. “Your arm hasn’t set yet, Phoebe.” But I couldn’t. I had worked so hard. I ripped out my IV, put on a coat, and snuck out of the hospital. I made it to the exam hall late, disheveled and pale. The Master was watching. He looked at my messy hair and my lateness with a frown. In his world, discipline was respect. I had already failed the first impression. I sat down, picked up the brush, and realized my right hand was shaking uncontrollably. I painted through the blinding pain. There was no miracle. My work was a mess. The Master’s critique was brutal: “Shaky technique. No foundation.” I tried to explain my injury, and the Master almost relented, seeing my passion. But then, a voice from the corner of the room sneered: “How can we trust her? She’s the one who defaced her rival’s work to win the last contest.” My reputation was already ruined. The crowd agreed. I was kicked out. Jude won the top spot. He became the Master’s protégé. The Sterling family threw a gala that was the talk of the town. When I was discharged from the hospital, no one was there. My parents were away on business; my “friends” were all at Jude’s party. I walked home alone in the winter cold, looking at the white lines on the road. Our lives had been parallel for twenty years. Now, they were diverging. He was going up; I was going down. He was the sun; I was the abyss. 07 Jude became a global star. He studied in Paris and Florence. His solo shows sold out in minutes. He was the golden boy of the new generation. I didn’t even graduate. I was framed for a series of plagiarism scandals. The evidence was “ironclad.” I was expelled. It was Jude. He used his new influence to bury me, a slow-burn revenge for Chloe. His parents moved to Europe, leaving Jude in control of the family’s domestic business. He used that power to crush my parents’ startup. We weren’t old money. My parents were self-made. They couldn’t survive a targeted attack by a conglomerate. The company went under. My father was left with millions in debt. We sold the house. We moved into a cramped apartment in the outskirts of the city. I had to give up painting to work three jobs just to keep us fed. In the dead of night, I would sneak into the kitchen to look at my old drafts. Sometimes, I would hide in the bathroom and sketch with a cheap pencil on napkins. It was my only solace in a life of misery. 08 Then, my father died. He had been hiding a heart condition to save money on meds. One day, he just didn’t wake up. My mother fell into a deep depression, which triggered a latent cancer. As I was struggling to pay for her chemo, Jude appeared. I hadn’t seen him in years. He was wearing a Patek Philippe watch and a bespoke suit. He looked like a king from another world. I was holding a bag of discounted frozen bread. I had never felt more humiliated. He was wearing an old, frayed hair tie on his wrist—Chloe’s. Even amidst all his luxury, he kept that piece of trash as a memorial. He mocked my “decrepit” furniture. Then he made an offer. “I’ll give you a million dollars. On one condition.” A million. It was enough to save my mother. I agreed. 09 His condition was demonic. He wanted me to personally, by my own hand, destroy my right hand. He wanted to ensure the “genius” could never paint again. He wanted to kill my soul. I stared at him. He was more vicious than I ever imagined. “Well?” he asked coldly. “Do you want the money or not?” I thought of my mother’s hospital bills. I nodded. But as I hesitated to pick up the hammer, Jude lost his patience. He smashed a glass jar and drove the jagged edge deep into the back of my hand. He looked at me with pure hatred. “If it weren’t for you, Chloe would be alive. “We would have been happy. “You say she only wanted money. Look at you now. Selling your soul for a check. “You were always jealous of her. You’re a monster, Phoebe.” My hand was a bloody mess. I didn’t make a sound. “Remember,” Jude said, “you earned this.” He walked out. He never sent the money. My mother tried to go to his office to demand it, but the security guards threw her out. The stress killed her within a week. 10 My hand never recovered. It remained weak, scarred, and useless. I sold my childhood trophies to pay for my mother’s funeral. She died on a day she had spent her last strength buying groceries to make me a “celebratory” dinner. I came home to find her cold, with a table full of food she’d never eat. I eventually died in a fire on the anniversary of Chloe’s death. I suspect Jude had something to do with it. In my final moments, I regretted everything. I regretted saving him from himself. I regretted letting him steal my glory.

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The highway drug interdiction point was a gauntlet of flashing blue and red lights against the obsidian sky. A state trooper, hand resting on his holster while his K-9 strained at the leash, tapped rhythmically on my driver’s side window. “Pop the trunk, please.” My hand was already reaching for the release lever when Blake, sitting in the passenger seat, suddenly lunged forward. He grabbed the trooper’s arm with a desperate, white-knuckled grip. “Officer… please… there’s a body in the back! A girl… she’s been butchered!” The dog exploded into a frenzy of barking. Within a heartbeat, a dozen tactical rifles were leveled at my head, the red dots of laser sights dancing across my forehead like blood-spotted flies. Cold sweat drenched my spine instantly. I threw my hands up, palms flat against the roof of the car. “I’m a lead SFX artist for a film crew!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Those are silicone props for a horror shoot tomorrow! I have the permit paperwork in the glove box!” “Out of the vehicle! Hands behind your head! Now!” the trooper roared. He didn’t wait for my explanation. He wrenched the trunk open. Inside, scattered across a black heavy-duty tarp, were limbs—pale, blood-streaked, and sickeningly realistic. Before I could breathe, Blake collapsed against the side of the car, burying his face in his hands and sobbing hysterically. “Jade… why? That college intern… what did he ever do to you? How could you put his head inside a mold like that?” My scalp went numb. A primal chill crawled up my throat. I looked toward the glove box—the permit and the production logs I’d placed there personally were gone. And the silicone props that should have been light and scentless? They were suddenly heavy, emitting the thick, sweet, unmistakable stench of rotting meat. … “On your knees! Hands behind your head!” My knees slammed into the asphalt, the impact jarring my teeth. Two officers tackled me, pinning my face into the grit of the road. The lead investigator, a man with a face like carved granite, shone a high-intensity flashlight into the trunk. He ripped open one of the bags. The smell hit me then—a metallic, organic rot that made my stomach flip. “It’s a mistake! It’s all a mistake!” I shrieked into the pavement. “I’m Jade Miller! I’m the head of prosthetics for The Crimson Trace! Those are molds! Pigment, silicone, and theatrical stench-agents! They aren’t human!” The investigator didn’t even look at me. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and used a tactical knife to slit the heavy plastic bag further. He froze. He turned slowly, his eyes boring into mine with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. “Cuff her. Tight. Get her to the interrogation room. Call the coroner and the homicide unit. Now!” The steel ratcheted shut around my wrists, biting into the bone. I was hauled up, my legs feeling like overcooked noodles. Nearby, Blake was being draped in a shock blanket by a female officer. He was a mess of snot and tears, shaking like a leaf. I stared at him. I had packed those props two hours ago. I’d seen the permits. Blake had only been away from the car for ten minutes at the rest stop while I grabbed coffee. Aside from that, the car had been locked. “Blake! What did you do?!” I screamed, my vision blurring with red rage. “Where are my props? What is in that bag?!” Blake let out a strangled cry and recoiled behind the officer. “Jade… stop it… you’re doing it again. That look you had when you killed him… I saw it. I saw you through the workshop door!” “You’re a liar!” I thrashed against the officers holding me. “Officer, he’s lying! Check my phone! I made the delivery calls!” The lead investigator grabbed me by the collar, forcing me to look at him. “Shut it. Not another word.” He turned to Blake, his voice softening. “You’re safe now, sir. Did you actually witness the murder?” Blake nodded, clutching the officer’s sleeve. “The intern… Casper. Jade has been obsessed with him. Yesterday, after we wrapped, she lured him into the prop storage. I went back to grab my keys and saw her through the gap in the door…” He doubled over, dry-heaving. “She had the saw. There was blood everywhere. Casper’s eyes… they were still open. She was stuffing pieces of him into the molds, saying it was the only way to get the ‘texture’ right for the close-ups.” “I didn’t!” I screamed, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “That was red wax! Casper went back to the city—check the group chat! My phone is in the car, just look at the logs!” The investigator let out a dry, mirthless laugh. “We’ll check everything. But here’s the thing, lady—no matter how good your ‘silicone’ is, the coroner knows a real human head when he sees one.” A real human head. The words echoed in my skull, hollow and terrifying. There was a body in my car. A real one. In that moment, Blake lowered his head, peeking at me from behind the officer’s shoulder. Just for a flicker of a second, his face transformed. The terror vanished, replaced by a sharp, jagged smirk of pure triumph. The temporary interrogation room at the checkpoint was a concrete box that smelled of stale cigarettes and damp earth. I was bolted into a metal chair, the cuffs already rubbing my wrists raw, blood beginning to seep onto the floor. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the ice flooding my veins. The door creaked open. Detective Burke, a heavy-set man with eyes that had seen too much, walked in. In his hand was my old, cracked smartphone. “Jade Miller,” Burke said, sitting down heavily. “The medical examiner gave us a preliminary. Male, early twenties. Time of death within the last twenty-four hours. Cause of death was a severed carotid. The entry wound is jagged—consistent with a power saw or a serrated blade.” He slammed a crime scene report onto the table. “We didn’t find any permits. But we did find a miniature power saw coated in blood hidden in the spare tire well of your SUV. That’s part of your ‘kit,’ isn’t it?” Sweat soaked through my shirt. “Detective, it was planted! I swear to God, it was planted!” I rattled the cuffs until the chair shook. “That saw has been in the repair bin at the studio for three days! It wasn’t in my car!” “And Casper? You think he’s just missing? Blake is a wreck. He told us everything. We’re checking the rest stop footage now.” Burke lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around his head like a halo. “Actually, don’t bother. The rest stop had a localized power surge last night. The cameras were down. Your husband was never out of sight of the witnesses at the diner. As for Casper, we contacted the production. The AD confirmed Casper ‘took a leave of absence.’” Burke leaned in, his face inches from mine. “The reason he left? He filed a formal complaint. He said you were sexually harassing him, Jade.” I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. “That… that’s impossible…” my voice was a ghost of itself. “I barely spoke to the boy. Everyone on set knows I’m a workaholic. I barely have time for my own husband, let alone an intern!” The door opened again. Blake walked in, flanked by a deputy. He looked devastated, tears streaming down his face. “Jade,” he whispered, standing over me. “Just confess. Maybe they’ll give you life instead of the needle. Please, just tell them the truth.” He reached into his pocket and handed a device to Burke. “Detective, this is our home tablet. It’s synced to her cloud. Look at what she’s been sending him.” Burke took the tablet and turned it toward me. It was a thread on a messaging app. My profile picture. My handle. Jade: Casper, come to the workshop tonight. I need your face for a life-cast. No one else will be there. Casper: It’s late, Ms. Miller. The director said we were wrapped. I’m tired. Jade: Don’t be a brat. You want that recommendation for the studio in LA? Then get your ass down here. If you don’t… you know I can make sure you never work in this industry again. Casper: Please don’t do this… I’m not coming. Jade: You little bitch. You think you can run? If I don’t see you in ten minutes, I’ll hunt you down myself. The timestamp was 9:00 PM last night. The exact time Blake claimed I killed him. I stared at the screen, my blood turning to slush. It looked exactly like my account. But I hadn’t sent those. I hadn’t even thought them. “This is a setup! Detective! This is spoofed! Someone hacked me!” I roared, lunging across the table. “Blake is the only one who knows my passwords! He’s the one! He did this!” Blake stumbled back, sobbing into his hands. “Jade! How can you say that? Your phone was in your pocket all night! Why did you insist I come on this trip today? You wanted to get me out into the mountains to kill me too, didn’t you?” I gritted my teeth, staring at the man I had slept beside for five years. “Let me make a call!” I demanded, my eyes bloodshot. “Call the producer, Sarah Jenkins! She knows about the props! And check my IP logs! You’ll see the messages didn’t come from my device!” Burke let out a cold snort. “Sarah Jenkins? We called her. The studio is sending a representative to identify the remains. Jade, this is a slam dunk. Once the DNA confirms it’s Casper, we don’t even need your confession. You’re going to the Row.” The four hours I spent waiting for the DNA results were the longest of my life. The door opened again. Burke’s face was grimmer than before. Behind him were Blake and a woman in a designer blazer. I recognized her instantly. Taryn Vane, the assistant director. Taryn didn’t wait. She pointed a finger at me, her voice trembling with manufactured rage. “You monster! Casper was a good kid! How could you?” She turned to Burke, handing him a folder. “Detective, this is an official statement from the studio. We fired Jade yesterday. This murder was a personal vendetta. The studio has no record of any ‘silicone prop’ order for today.” I laughed, a sharp, hysterical sound. “Taryn! You liar! You told me yourself yesterday that the investors were coming to the set and I needed to make the ‘victim’ look as real as possible!” Taryn spat on the floor. “Bullshit! We’re a low-budget indie, Jade. We don’t have fifty grand for high-end silicone body doubles. You used the movie as a cover for your sick fantasies!” I froze. No record? The invoices, the purchase orders, the emails—everything I’d spent weeks on. All gone with one sentence from Taryn. Blake stepped up next to Taryn, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Detective, I’m so sorry. Jade… she’s been in a dark place. Gambling debts. Off-shore accounts. I told her to see a shrink, but she wouldn’t listen…” Gambling? Mental illness? The pieces finally clicked. Taryn had been at our house constantly the last month, “discussing the script.” Every time I came home late from the lab, Blake said they were just working. “You two…” I hissed, my voice trembling. “You killed him. You killed Casper and you’re pinning it on me.” Taryn’s face contorted. She lunged at me, hand raised. “You bitch! I’ll kill you myself!” Burke caught her arm. “Easy! This is a police station!” He turned to me and dropped the final report on the table. “Save it, Jade. The DNA is back. It’s Casper Whitlock. And we found your skin cells under his fingernails. Your fingerprints are all over the handle of that saw.” Skin under his nails? My prints on the saw? My head spun. I had never even touched Casper. Blake looked at me, his eyes gleaming with a sickening light. He pretended to pull Taryn into a comforting hug, but over her shoulder, he flashed me the middle finger. His lips moved silently: Rot in hell. Just as Burke reached for the arrest warrant, a commotion erupted in the hallway. The door burst open, and a young officer, pale as a ghost and drenched in sweat, ran in. “Chief! We have a problem! A massive, national-level problem!” Burke roared, “I’m in the middle of an interrogation! Get out!” The officer didn’t move. He leaned in and whispered into Burke’s ear. I watched Burke’s face turn from flush-red to a sickly, ashen gray. He looked at the report, then at me, then at the door. Taryn rolled her eyes. “Detective, just have her sign the papers so we can put this trash away.” “Shut up!” Burke barked, spittle hitting Taryn’s face. She flinched. Blake went still. Burke grabbed his radio, his hands shaking so violently he almost dropped it. “All units! Lockdown! Live ammo! Seal the building! No one leaves this perimeter, do you hear me? No one!” He turned to the room, his voice barely a whisper. “We just verified Casper Whitlock’s real identity.”

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I was the charity case the Montgomery family took in. At twenty-two, I married Calvin Montgomery because I was pregnant with his child. Calvin was a notorious germaphobe. He demanded separate serving utensils at dinner. He refused to kiss me on the lips. He wouldn’t even touch a water glass I had used, treating my very existence as something inherently contaminated. But at a dinner party last week, I watched him intercept a cocktail meant for his first love—the woman who had always haunted our marriage. To spare her from drinking too much, he pressed his lips to the exact spot on the rim where her lipstick had left a perfect, rosy smudge, and swallowed it down. That was the exact moment I knew our marriage was over. 01 I was the one who had to physically support Calvin’s weight as we walked through the front door. He had taken so many drinks for Brianna that his usually sharp, calculating eyes were hazy and unfocused. Right before we left the venue, Brianna had looked at me, her face a perfect portrait of manufactured guilt. “I am so sorry, Hermosa. It’s entirely my fault Calvin drank so much.” She reached out, her manicured fingers smoothing the lapel of Calvin’s jacket, her palm lingering on his chest. “I had a little too much at a gala once and almost kissed the wrong man. Ever since then, Calvin just absolutely refuses to let me get tipsy.” She offered a saccharine smile, instructing me to make sure I brewed him some warm honey water before bed. I think, if I were any other woman, I would have slapped her right across her flawlessly contoured face. But I didn’t. I just quietly took Calvin’s arm, shifted his weight onto my shoulders, and said absolutely nothing. It wasn’t that I possessed an endless well of patience; it was simply that I knew my place. I had no right to be angry. When we finally got to the kitchen, I poured Calvin a glass of plain, lukewarm water. Even through the heavy fog of the alcohol, his eyes narrowed as I handed it to him. “Whose glass is this?” he slurred, his fingers hesitating. “Yours,” I said. My voice was entirely flat. Only then did his shoulders drop. He brought the glass to his lips and drank. Calvin’s obsessive need for sterility was something I had known from the very beginning. Early in our marriage, he had been struck by a sudden, agonizing bout of stomach cramps. In my panic to get him his medication, I had filled my own water glass and handed it to him. When Calvin realized it was mine, he threw it. The glass shattered against the hardwood floor. “Didn’t I tell you I don’t use other people’s things?” he had snapped. It was the first time I had ever seen him truly furious. I had stood there, frozen against the kitchen island, too terrified to breathe. Seeing me shrink away, his tone had softened, just a fraction. “It’s not you. I just have an aversion to sharing things. Just be careful next time.” But tonight, in that velvet-lined VIP booth, sharing Brianna’s glass had been the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t have an aversion to sharing things. He just only wanted to share them with Brianna. The realization hit me like a physical blow to the chest. My throat tightened, a sharp burning sensation settling behind my eyes. It wasn’t that I didn’t know about Brianna. I did. But she had been living in London for years. Calvin never brought her up, and he treated everyone with the same polite, icy detachment he gave me. For a long time, I convinced myself that this was enough. That we could build a life in that cold, quiet space. But tonight, I saw what Calvin looked like when he actually loved someone. All the tiny indignities, the quiet rejections I had forced myself to swallow over the years, suddenly rushed back in. A tidal wave of grief threatening to pull me under. I suddenly felt deeply, overwhelmingly exhausted. Maybe I didn’t have to carry this anymore. Maybe walking away was the only way either of us would ever survive. 02 After maneuvering Calvin into his bedroom, I retreated to my own to wash the evening off my skin. We slept in separate rooms. It was an unspoken rule. Calvin only came to my bed every other Friday. He called it “fulfilling our marital obligations,” treating my body like a recurring meeting on his calendar. But whenever he drank, the rigid, untouchable Calvin melted away. He would become inexplicably clingy, sneaking into my room, wrapping his large frame around me, and refusing to let go until morning. Just like tonight. I had just slipped beneath the duvet when the door clicked open. Before I could process the shadow moving across the rug, heavy arms banded around my waist. He pulled my back flush against his chest, burying his face in my neck. He let out a long, satisfied exhale, and within seconds, his breathing leveled out. He was asleep. In the past, even if the sharp scent of scotch turned my stomach, I would have talked myself into staying. Just go to sleep, I’d tell myself. The Montgomerys gave you a life. You owe them this much. But tonight, the debt felt paid. I didn’t want to endure it anymore. I wrestled myself out of his iron grip. If he wanted this bed so badly, he could have it. The Montgomery estate had no shortage of guest rooms. The moment I stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, I stopped. Hudson was standing by my door, his small brow furrowed in concern as he peered past me into the room, looking for his father. I forced a soft smile, kneeling down to be at eye level with my son. I reached out to smooth his messy hair. “Hudson, why are you still awake, sweetie? You have school tomorrow. You need to get to bed.” Hudson swatted my hand away. He glared at me with a pair of icy blue eyes that were a terrifying replica of Calvin’s. “Hermosa, you don’t get to tell me what to do.” Hermosa. Not Mom. Ever since the kids at his elite prep school had cruelly pointed out that his parents didn’t love each other, and he realized my pregnancy was the only reason I was allowed into the Montgomery family, Hudson had blamed me. He conveniently forgot the countless nights I had sat awake with him when he had the flu. He forgot how he used to curl into my lap, burying his face in my chest, whispering that I was his favorite person in the whole world. Now, his greatest wish was that someone, anyone else, was his mother. Watching his small silhouette retreat down the grand hallway, I let out a shaky breath, stood up, and walked into the guest room across the hall. I locked the door, sat on the edge of the mattress, and dialed the number of my former boss, Camille. “Camille,” I said, my voice finally steady. “I’ve made up my mind. I’ll go with you to Paris.” 03 There was a brief pause on the line before Camille let out a shriek of genuine delight. “Are you serious? Hermosa, that’s incredible! Okay, get your visa paperwork expedited this week. Once I wrap up the transition here, we are on a plane.” I had majored in fashion design and worked as an assistant designer at Camille’s label before I got pregnant. After marrying Calvin, I had stepped back, doing occasional freelance sketches for her just to keep my sanity. Camille was currently orchestrating a massive career move, taking her core team to helm a major luxury house in Paris. She had been begging me to come with her for months. I had hesitated. Growing up in the foster system, the concept of a “family” was something I revered. It was a holy grail. I couldn’t bear the thought of abandoning my son. But looking at it now, Hudson didn’t want me. And I was finally starting to understand that a home isn’t defined by the people who happen to live in it. Sometimes, you have to become your own home. After hanging up, I opened my laptop. I scrolled deep into my hidden files, finally locating a PDF. It was the divorce agreement Calvin’s mother had drafted for me four years ago. 04 The next morning, I walked out of the guest room just as Calvin emerged from mine. He looked tired, running a hand through his hair, his eyes silently demanding to know why he had woken up alone in my bed. I didn’t miss a beat. “You stumbled in last night and wouldn’t let go. I didn’t have the energy to fight a drunk man, so I let you have the room.” A rare flash of embarrassment crossed Calvin’s face. He cleared his throat, looking away. “My apologies. It won’t happen again.” I simply nodded, already walking past him. I headed downstairs to help the chef with breakfast. Behind me, Calvin froze. In the past, when I brought up his drunken affection, I’d look away, my cheeks flushed with a quiet, hopeful warmth. Today, my face was entirely blank. I just looked bored. That shift kept Calvin rooted to the top of the stairs, staring at my back for a long time. At the breakfast table, I announced that I had errands to run. I wouldn’t be driving Hudson to school, and I wouldn’t be dropping off Calvin’s lunch at the corporate office. They were on their own. “Where are you going?” They asked it in perfect unison. Father and son, both staring at me as if I had just announced I was moving to Mars. I blinked, genuinely surprised they even cared to ask. “I’m going to the main estate,” I said. “I haven’t seen Evelyn in a while.” The tension in Calvin’s jaw visibly relaxed. The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Wait until I get off work. I’ll go with you.” I shook my head, taking a sip of my coffee. “No need. I can drive myself.” Calvin’s eyes narrowed into slits. He studied my face for a long, silent moment before standing up. He didn’t push it. But right before he walked out the door, he paused. “I trust I won’t be hearing any unpleasant rumors coming from my mother after your visit.” I stared at him for a second, and then I couldn’t help it—I laughed. A short, dry sound. He wanted to come with me to make sure I didn’t tattle on him. He really thought too highly of himself. The tabloids were already having a field day with him and Brianna; Evelyn didn’t need me to tell her anything. Hudson lingered by the staircase for a long time, watching me. Maybe it was just my imagination, but beneath the resentment in his eyes, there was a flicker of hurt. A quiet betrayal. Eventually, he let out a dramatic huff and followed the driver out the door. I shook my head, clearing the thought. I was projecting. Hudson couldn’t stand me. Why would he care if I wasn’t the one driving him to school? An hour later, I was sitting in the sunroom of the main estate. Evelyn walked in, elegantly dressed as always. I looked at her and said the words out loud for the first time. “I want a divorce.” 05 Evelyn Montgomery was the one who had pulled me out of the group home. Years ago, Calvin’s father had died in a horrific accident. The family was drowning in grief, and Evelyn, desperate and grasping at anything that felt like hope, had sponsored my education. She gave me an allowance, paid my college tuition, and treated me with a distant but genuine kindness. I worshipped the ground she walked on. Then came that awful charity gala. Calvin’s drink had been spiked by an overly ambitious social climber. I had simply been in the wrong hallway at the wrong time. He was delirious, burning up, and the next morning, my life was over. Everyone in their circle assumed I was the one who drugged him. They called me a parasite. A gold-digger who bit the hand that fed her. Calvin knew the truth. He knew it wasn’t me. But he never said a single word in my defense. When I found out I was pregnant, Evelyn came to my tiny apartment. She sat on my thrifted sofa and begged me to keep the baby. Calvin and Brianna had gone through a brutal breakup a year prior, and Calvin was spiraling. He refused to marry. He refused to move on. Evelyn saw the child as an anchor for a drowning man. She promised me that if I just had the baby, I could divorce him whenever I wanted. Looking at the woman who had saved me from poverty, watching the tears spill down her cheeks, I said yes. When Hudson was born, I fell in love with him. I couldn’t leave. I rationalized it, telling myself that a loveless marriage in a mansion was better than the freezing nights I had spent in the foster system. I had vastly overestimated my ability to survive without love. Sitting in the sunroom now, Evelyn didn’t yell. She didn’t shame me or beg me to stay. She simply picked up her phone, called the family lawyers, and had them bring out the paperwork. She sat beside me, explaining every clause, ensuring I was protected. She acted more like a mother than a mother-in-law. I hadn’t realized that signing those papers would make me an extraordinarily wealthy woman. When I finally stood up to leave, Evelyn reached out and gently squeezed my hand. “Hermosa,” she said softly. “Thank you.” My throat locked up. Tears threatened to spill. Evelyn had always been good to me. She had kept her distance when we married, giving us space, never interfering. She was a better woman than Calvin deserved. 06 I was barely through my front door when my phone rang. It was Calvin’s executive assistant. He sounded stressed, explaining that because I hadn’t brought lunch, Calvin was refusing to eat. He was terrified Calvin’s ulcer would flare up before his afternoon meetings, and begged me to make something quick and bring it down. My immediate instinct was to say no. But then I thought of Evelyn, and the grace she had just shown me. I sighed. “Fine. I’ll be there in an hour.” When I reached the executive floor, the corridor was quiet. As I approached Calvin’s office, the door was slightly ajar. I could hear him talking to his oldest friend, a guy who ran a tech firm downtown. “So, the rumors are true? You and Brianna are playing house again?” his friend asked, a smirk audible in his voice. I heard the scratch of a fountain pen stop. “Don’t believe everything you read. And if you keep talking out of line, I’ll have your father drag you out of my office.” His friend laughed. “Come on, man. It’s me. If it was fake, your PR team would have killed the story by now. Look, if you’re still hung up on Brianna, just divorce Hermosa. Marry the girl you actually want. Put everybody out of their misery.” “No.” Calvin’s rejection was instantaneous and sharp. There was a long stretch of silence before Calvin continued, his voice lowering. “Brianna has ambitions. She has a career she loves. I can’t tie her down to this life. It would ruin her.” “And Hermosa?” “Hermosa…” Calvin hesitated. “She keeps the house running. She takes good care of me and Hudson.” His friend snorted. “So you’re keeping her around as a highly paid nanny?” Calvin didn’t answer. Standing in the hallway, the polished wooden box containing his carefully prepared lunch suddenly felt incredibly heavy. So that was it. He wouldn’t divorce me because I was convenient. I folded his laundry, managed his diet, and raised his son. Meanwhile, Brianna was a goddess meant for a pedestal. He loved her too much to burden her with the reality of being his wife. And me? What the hell was I to him? I realized then that if you spend your life settling for scraps, people will eventually assume that scraps are all you deserve. I didn’t walk into the office. I turned around, took the elevator down to the lobby, and handed the expensive lunch box to the stunned janitor cleaning the glass doors. That night, Calvin and I barely spoke. But when I went to close my bedroom door, he was standing in the frame, blocking my way. “What is it?” I asked, exhaustion seeping into my bones. Calvin’s jaw ticked. “It’s Friday.” 07 I had completely forgotten. It was our scheduled night. Calvin cultivated an image of a cold, ascetic businessman, but behind closed doors, he was entirely different. He was demanding, possessive, and unrelenting. He claimed he wouldn’t kiss me, but in the dark, when the control slipped, he would fist his hands in my hair, drag my mouth to his, and swallow my breath. He would demand I say his name, over and over, until my voice gave out. But I was leaving him. The thought of letting him touch me made my skin crawl. “Not tonight. I have my period.” I tried to shut the door, but his hand shot out, wrapping around my wrist like a vice. “Your cycle doesn’t start for another week,” he said, his eyes dark and calculating. I hadn’t expected him to keep track. I yanked my arm, trying to break his grip, my temper finally flaring. “It’s early. Is that a crime?” I didn’t care if he believed me or not. I ripped my hand free, stepped inside, and slammed the door in his face, locking it with a sharp click. I heard him stand in the hallway for a long, heavy minute before his footsteps finally retreated. Sometime in the middle of the night, the mattress dipped. Before I could fully wake up, large, burning-hot hands pulled me backward. He buried his face in my hair, his voice a low, stubborn murmur against my ear. “Just because you have your period doesn’t mean we can’t share a bed.” I pushed at his arms, trying to wedge some space between us, but it was like fighting a statue. Eventually, the sheer exhaustion of the day pulled me under, and I let him hold me. When I woke up, the bed was empty. Arthur had already taken Hudson to school. I grabbed my purse and headed downtown to finalize my French visa. On the drive back, a pang of guilt hit me. Should I sit Calvin and Hudson down? Tell them about the divorce properly? They were my family, no matter how broken we were. But the moment I walked through the front door, that guilt evaporated. Calvin, Brianna, and Hudson were sitting in the living room. It was a picture-perfect domestic scene. The moment Hudson saw me, he scrambled off the sofa and threw his arms around Brianna’s neck. “Dad and Brianna came to pick me up from school today! It was the best day ever,” Hudson announced loudly, his eyes darting toward me to ensure I caught every word. “I wish Brianna could pick me up every single day.” 08 Brianna let out a musical laugh, stroking Hudson’s hair with practiced affection. “If you want, sweetie, I can try to make time to come get you.” Calvin remained seated. He met my gaze, offering only a brief, dismissive explanation. “Brianna said she missed Hudson. I brought her over.” I felt remarkably hollow. I didn’t even look at my son. I walked straight up to Calvin. “Do you have a minute? I need to speak with you privately.” Calvin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if I were a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Hermosa, really? Are we doing this now?” “Doing what?” “I know you’re threatened by Brianna, but she is a guest in our home, and I expect you to treat her with respect. Whatever you’re upset about, we can discuss it tonight. Brianna mentioned she was craving those sweet and sour ribs you make. Go tell the chef, or better yet, make them yourself.” Brianna immediately pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes wide with mock horror. “Calvin, don’t be awful! Hermosa isn’t the help. We can’t ask her to cook for me. I wouldn’t even know how to turn on an oven.” “It’s fine,” Calvin waved her off dismissively. “She’s not like you. She’s used to doing this kind of stuff.” “Oh. Well, if you don’t mind, Hermosa, that would be wonderful,” Brianna smiled at me. The look in her eyes was a lethal mix of triumph and pity. I took a slow, deep breath. He had given my meticulously prepared lunch to Brianna. Of course he had. Suddenly, I had absolutely nothing left to say to this man. It was embarrassing how long I had tried to make him see me. “I have a headache. If you’re hungry, figure it out yourselves.” I turned and headed for the stairs. Just then, the doorbell rang. It was Calvin’s assistant, looking pale and deeply uncomfortable. He carried a sleek leather folder. He walked into the living room, glancing nervously at me, then at Brianna, before finally handing the folder to Calvin. “Sir, there’s… another document that needs your signature.” “What is it?” Calvin asked, annoyed by the interruption. “It’s… well. It was couriered over by your mother’s office this afternoon. It’s a divorce settlement.” The room went dead silent. Calvin and Hudson both snapped their heads toward me. Even Brianna looked genuinely shocked, her perfectly glossed lips parting in surprise. Calvin flipped open the folder. As his eyes scanned the thick, legal paragraphs, the expensive pen in his hand snapped. Ink bled over his knuckles. He looked up, his voice dangerously quiet, vibrating with barely contained rage. “You want a divorce?”

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At the gala meant to welcome the “real” heiress back into society, Cassidy Montgomery did the unthinkable. In front of every old-money titan and gossip-hungry socialite in Manhattan, she dropped to her knees, sobbing and begging our parents to save her deadbeat boyfriend. “Jax owes the underground bookies five million,” she wailed, her voice cracking through the silence of the ballroom. “If he doesn’t pay by midnight, they’re going to break his legs. They’ll kill him!” She looked up at our parents, her mascara running in ugly black tracks down her face. “The Montgomerys have more money than God. Why can’t you just pay it? Why won’t you help him?” The air in the room turned brittle. My parents stood frozen, their faces turning a ghastly shade of grey. This was supposed to be their triumph—the return of their biological daughter after twenty years of separation. Instead, she was dragging our name through the gutter before the first course was even served. I stepped forward, trying to salvage the wreckage. “Cassidy, get up. This is a family matter. We’ll discuss it in private.” She didn’t just refuse; she lunged. She shoved me so hard I stumbled back against a champagne tower, the glass rattling ominously. “Why do you get to use their money, Jessica? You’re the fraud! You’re the one who lived my life while I was rotting in the sticks. If you won’t give me the five million to save Jax, I’m not moving. I’ll stay right here until I die.” I looked down at her—at the sheer, agonizing stupidity of a woman blinded by a toxic “love” that was clearly eating her alive. I reached into my clutch, pulled out a pre-prepared severance agreement, and dropped it at her feet. “Sign this. Relinquish your claim to the Montgomery estate and cut ties with this family forever. Do that, and I’ll wire the five million to your boyfriend’s bookie right now.” … Cassidy picked up the document, her hands shaking like a leaf in a storm. Then, she snarled. She threw the papers directly at my face, her eyes bloodshot and filled with a primal, jagged hatred. “Jessica Montgomery, you’re the one who should’ve been kicked to the curb the moment I walked through that door,” she spat. “My parents haven’t said a word. What right do you—the replacement—have to tell me to leave?” The room went cold. I could hear the whispers starting like a hissing radiator. People knew. They knew that in this city, I was the one who held the leash. I reached out, my fingers clenching her chin with just enough pressure to make her wince. I looked down at her from a height she would never truly reach. “What right? Today, I’m going to show you exactly what right I have.” I glanced toward the back of the room. “Arthur, clear the floor.” With a single nod to our head of security, the doors were thrown open. Within minutes, every guest—including the city’s most powerful power-players—filed out through the back exits in a stunned, disciplined silence. No one dared to laugh. No one dared to linger. Cassidy had no idea. She didn’t know that for the last five years, I was the one who had bled for this family. I was the one who navigated the shark-infested waters of the shipping industry to save our company from bankruptcy while our father’s heart was failing. I was the one who took the hits, intercepted the lawsuits, and maintained the “Montgomery dignity” while she was playing house with a gambler. Without the “fake” daughter, the Montgomerys would have been a cautionary tale years ago. She didn’t have the luxury of judging me. “I’m asking you one last time,” I said, my voice flat. “Sign it, or don’t.” She looked at our parents, her eyes pleading for a miracle. My father looked away, and my mother fixed her gaze on the floor. Their silence was my mandate. Cassidy broke. She collapsed into a fit of hysterical sobbing. “Dad, Mom… the people who raised me were monsters. Jax was the only one who ever looked at me like I mattered. Without him, I’m nothing. I can’t lose him.” She crawled toward my father, clutching at his tuxedo trousers. “Dad, please. Just this once. Just help him this one time!” Then, in a blur of desperate motion, she scrambled toward the buffet table and grabbed a steak knife, pressing the serrated edge against her own throat. “If you don’t help him, I’ll end it right here!” I didn’t flinch. I walked straight up to her, grabbed her wrist, and turned the point of the blade into her skin just enough to draw a pinprick of red. “You want to die? Let me help you.” I applied a fraction more pressure. She gasped, the bravado evaporating as the reality of cold steel hit her. “Ah… stop!” She slumped to the floor, the knife clattering away. I knelt beside her, whispering so only she could hear. “Listen to me, little sister. You play by my rules, and you stay a Montgomery. You get the trust fund, the connections, the life you were born for. But there is a price: you dump the gambler. You marry the youngest Moretti son. That is your job. That is what a real Montgomery does.” After a long, agonizing silence, she nodded weakly. “Fine.” For a few days after the gala, Cassidy went quiet. she retreated into her wing of the estate, refusing to speak, eating her meals in solitary confinement. “Keep an eye on her,” I told the housekeeper. “Every move she makes, I want a report.” I was in the middle of a high-stakes negotiation with a West Coast logistics firm when my phone buzzed. It was the head of security. “Miss Montgomery, Cassidy just left the house.” “Follow her. Tell me where she goes.” Ten minutes later, the update came in. “She’s at a high-end pawn shop in the Diamond District. She brought your vintage Birkin and the sapphire necklace.” The idiot. She was hockng my heritage to fund her loser’s addiction. “Let her go for now,” I said, my jaw tightening. A few days later, I pulled Cassidy out of her room. “Get in the car. I’m taking you somewhere.” We drove to an illegal gambling den tucked behind a dry cleaner in Queens. Inside, the “love of her life” was draped over a blackjack table, a cocktail in one hand and a scantily clad dealer on his lap, laughing as he blew through thousands. “See that?” I pointed. “That’s the jewelry you stole. He’s literally throwing your ‘sacrifice’ into the trash.” Cassidy’s eyes turned a violent shade of red. “You brought me here just to mock me, didn’t you? I love him, Jessica. I don’t care what he does. At least he’s human. You’re just a cold-blooded killer. You don’t even know what love is. You’re pathetic.” I actually laughed. It was a sharp, bitter sound. “Maybe I don’t know love, but I know the penal code. That jewelry was worth ten million. The bags? Five. That’s grand larceny, Cassidy. I could have you in a jumpsuit by dinner.” She crumpled into a heap on the sidewalk. For the sake of our parents’ reputations, I didn’t call the police. I just gave the order: “Cut off her accounts. Move her into the smallest guest room. She stays there until she learns how to be a daughter.” I thought that would be enough. I thought the shock would clear the fog. I was wrong. A week later, security caught her sneaking out to meet him again. I dropped everything and drove to the fleabag motel where they were hiding. I kicked the door in. They were in bed, a mess of tangled sheets and cheap booze. But that wasn’t what made my blood boil. Cassidy’s face was a map of bruises—yellow and purple welts across her cheek and brow. I didn’t even think. I grabbed her by her hair, pulled her off the bed, and slapped her hard enough to make her head ring. “You stupid, God-awful brat!” I screamed. “You’re engaged to a Moretti! If the press gets a whiff of this—if the Morettis find out you’re slumming it with this parasite—they’ll pull out of the shipping merger. The overseas routes we’ve spent a decade building will evaporate in a day.” The Morettis controlled the three major Atlantic shipping lanes. They were the key to our survival. Ten years, countless millions, and more than a few ‘disappeared’ rivals had paved the way for this alliance. Three years ago, I had saved the Moretti matriarch’s grandson from a kidnapping attempt. That was the only reason they even considered us. If they knew Cassidy was cheating on their son with a street-level gambler, they wouldn’t just cancel the deal. They’d bury us. But Cassidy just looked at me with a swollen eye and a defiant smirk. “So what? Your business is a drop in the bucket compared to my heart. I said I’d marry the guy, isn’t that enough?” “He beat you, Cassidy!” I pointed at her face. “That’s how he loves you? With his fists? Next time, he won’t just bruise you. He’ll break you into pieces.” I turned to the man on the bed—Jax—who hadn’t said a word the entire time. He was a coward, through and through. I looked at my security team. “Take him to the pier. Let him see if he can swim with the fishes.” “No!” Cassidy shrieked. “Jessica, you can’t! That’s murder! I’ll go to the cops!” “The cops?” I leaned in close. “I played poker with the Police Commissioner last night and ‘lost’ half a million to his favorite charity. Go ahead. Tell them whatever you want. The door is right there.” She collapsed, the fight leaving her. “Fine… just let him go. I won’t see him again. I promise.” When we got back, she didn’t say a word to our parents. But at dinner, she made a sudden announcement. “Dad, Mom… I want to start interning at the firm. I want to be like Jessica. I want to help the family.” My parents looked at me, waiting for my approval. “Fine,” I said. “Start tomorrow. You’re my junior assistant.” She started to protest, but a sharp look from my father silenced her. At the office, I threw a mountain of files on her desk. “Learn them. Ask if you’re confused.” Later that afternoon, during a senior management meeting, the door swung open. Cassidy walked in, looking more polished than I’d ever seen her. “Hope I’m not late, sister. I thought I should start learning how the big decisions are made.” Technically, she didn’t have the clearance. But for the sake of peace at home, I let her stay. She was suddenly attentive, asking questions, hovering. I answered everything, thinking maybe—just maybe—she was finally growing up. The day we were set to sign the final contract with the Morettis, she insisted on coming along. “I want to see my fiancé. And I want to be there for our big win.” We were in the Moretti boardroom. Victor Moretti, the CEO, had the pen poised over the signature line when his phone rang. He listened for ten seconds, and his face turned the color of a thunderstorm. He hung up and stood, pulling a sleek black pistol from his desk drawer and leveling it at my forehead. “Jessica. Are you here to spit in my face?” I didn’t move. I raised my hands slowly. “Victor, we’ve worked together for years. If there’s a problem, tell me.” “A problem?” He threw his phone onto the table. “You sign a merger with me, while your people are currently hijacking my shipments at the Jersey docks. Look for yourself.” The video was clear. Men in Montgomery uniforms were raiding a Moretti vessel. “Victor, this is a mistake. Let me make a call.” I dialed my logistics manager. “What the hell is going on at Dock 3?” “Boss? You gave the order! You said to seize the Moretti cargo so we wouldn’t have to pay the transit fees!” “I never—” I turned. Cassidy was standing by the window, a smug, dark smile playing on her lips. “And then there’s the matter of my son’s honor,” Victor growled. He threw a stack of photos onto the table. They were high-resolution shots of Cassidy and Jax in the motel room. Graphic. Humiliating. Click. Victor cocked the hammer. “My gun hasn’t tasted blood in a long time. Today, one of you stays here permanently.” I closed my eyes for a heartbeat. Then I looked at Victor. “I’ll stay. Let her go.” Cassidy’s smile faltered. She looked at me, stunned. “You’re… letting me go?” “Get out!” I barked. She didn’t wait. She scrambled out of the room, her heels clicking frantically down the hall. A minute later, a shot echoed through the penthouse. I walked into the Montgomery estate hours later, my white silk blouse stained with red. Cassidy was already tucked into bed, probably dreaming of her “victory.” I didn’t knock. I burst into her room, grabbed her by her hair, and slammed her head against the mahogany headboard. “You stole my corporate seal,” I hissed. “You sent those men to the docks to sabotage the Moretti deal, didn’t you?” “Get off me! You’re crazy!” she screamed. “Tell me the truth, or you won’t live to see the sunrise.” I slammed her again. Her nose started to bleed, the red dripping onto her silk pillowcase. “Yes! It was me!” she shrieked. “So what? You lost a business deal. Big deal! I lost my life! I lost Jax!” She laughed, a jagged, broken sound. “I wanted to destroy you. I wanted to burn the Montgomery name to the ground. Your status, your precious company—it’s all a lie anyway. I sent the photos to Victor myself. How does it feel, Jessica? To lose everything?” “Housekeeper!” I yelled. “Lock her in the basement guest room. No phones, no visitors, no exits.” I didn’t tell my parents the truth. I told them I’d been in a minor car accident. But while I was in the hospital getting my shoulder stitched up, they came rushing into my room, frantic. “Jessica, it’s Cassidy! She’s gone!” “I told the staff to keep her locked down,” I gritted out, the pain in my shoulder searing. “Idiots.” My father’s phone chimed. It was a video. Cassidy was tied to a chair, her face battered, her clothes torn. “Dad, Mom… please! They kidnapped me! They want fifty million or they’ll kill me! Please, just pay them!” My mother collapsed into a chair, sobbing. “Jessica, you have to save her. I know she’s been difficult, but she’s our blood. Please.” My father looked like he was about to drop to his knees. I caught him before he could. “Dad, stop. I’ll get her back.” I called the CFO and authorized the fifty-million-dollar wire. Then, I put a call out to every contact I had in the city’s underworld. Find her. Ten million for the location of the kidnappers. Three days later, I got a hit. An abandoned construction site in the industrial outskirts of the city. When I arrived, the only sound was the wind whistling through empty steel beams. Then, a gunshot cracked near my ear. “You really aren’t as smart as you think you are, Jessica.” Cassidy was standing on a catwalk, looking perfectly fine. Beside her stood Jax, holding a rifle. “I knew they’d send you to ‘save’ me,” she mocked. “So I set a trap. You’ve been the queen of this family long enough. Today, the fraud dies.” Before I could move, a dozen armed men in black tactical gear emerged from the shadows, surrounding me. “You stupid, treacherous girl,” I said, staring at her. “You’re tearing your own family apart for a man who would sell your organs for a winning parlay.” Jax walked up to me and kicked me square in the ribs, sending me to the dirt. He climbed on top of me, raining blows down on my face until I tasted copper. “Shut up, bitch! You ruined my life. Today, I take what’s mine.” I spat a mouthful of blood into his face and grinned. “You? You’re a one-handed gambler who can’t even pay his own rent. You think you’re a king?” He roared and kicked me again. My ribs groaned under the impact. “What’s the matter, Jax?” I wheezed. “Swing harder. You hit like a debutante.” He grabbed a pistol from one of the mercenaries and pressed it to my temple. “I’ll kill you right now!” I looked him dead in the eye. “Do it. Pull the trigger. And tomorrow, my people will find your mother in her little rent-controlled apartment and make sure she never wakes up. Go on. Shoot.” His hand began to shake. “He might not have the guts, but I do.” I looked up. Tristan Blackwood, the CEO of Blackwood Holdings—our primary rival—stepped out of the shadows. “Jessica. Long time no see.” “So, you’re the puppet master,” I muttered. “You used this idiot to steal my seal, sabotage the Morettis, and lure me here.” Tristan chuckled. “You were always the smart one, Jessica. Too bad the ‘real’ daughter is such a convenient tool. But let’s be honest—you aren’t even a Montgomery. Why die for them?” He dropped a stack of papers in front of me. “Transfer the Montgomery shipping assets to Blackwood, and I’ll let you walk.” “Is that so? Well, we’ll see who’s walking out of here today.” I looked at Cassidy. “You see him, Cassidy? You’re dancing with a wolf. You want my life, but he wants your legacy. You’re just a pawn he’s going to discard the second I’m dead.” “Shut up!” Cassidy shrieked, snatching the gun from Jax and aiming it at my head. “I’d rather the company go to a stranger than stay with a liar like you!” “Don’t hesitate, babe,” Jax urged. “Kill her and we’re rich!” Cassidy pulled the trigger. But before her bullet could find me, a sniper round whistled through the air, shattering the gun in her hand. Suddenly, the perimeter exploded. Hundreds of my men, backed by heavy tactical vehicles, stormed the site.

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I found out my husband had been sleeping around. The real kicker? My own sister was the one who played matchmaker. When I confronted her, the air in her luxury apartment thick with the scent of expensive sandalwood, she didn’t even flinch. Instead, she swirled her champagne and turned the blame entirely on me. “What is the big deal, Jo?” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “A successful man is going to have options. If you couldn’t keep his attention in the bedroom, that’s on you.” “Are you insane?” I stared at her, my blood running cold. “A woman should be unconditionally accommodating,” she lectured, inspecting her perfectly manicured nails. “Having a girl on the side is nothing. You’re just too narrow-minded. You suffocated him.” A bitter, incredulous laugh clawed its way out of my throat. “You are so desperately thirsty for male validation, Brittany. No wonder you’re perfectly content bowing and scraping, living as some rich man’s dirty little secret.” That struck a nerve. Her face flushed a violent red, and she immediately launched into a tirade, bragging about her “benefactor”—how insanely wealthy he was, how handsome, how he bought her the very penthouse we were standing in. And as the argument escalated, the ugly truth finally spilled out. For two entire years, she had been covering for my husband’s affair. Providing alibis. Helping him hide the credit card statements. Fine. If she was willing to destroy her own flesh and blood just to uphold her twisted worship of men, then the gloves were off. Three days later, I tracked down her billionaire at an exclusive members-only lounge downtown. And I deliberately, effortlessly, climbed into his bed. … That night, I left absolutely nothing on the table. I poured every ounce of my grief, rage, and strategy into pleasing Pierce Kensington—wait, no, let’s call him Pierce Sterling. No, let’s go with Pierce Vance. Wait, I’ll just use Pierce. Pierce Davenport. Yes. I gave Pierce Davenport an unforgettable night. When morning broke, the light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, he looked at me with a heavy, satiated kind of hunger. “I still don’t know your name,” his voice was rough with sleep. “What do you want? Anything. Name it.” I didn’t even give him the dignity of a glance as I slipped my dress over my shoulders. “You performed adequately last night. If I have free time, I might call you.” I had done my homework. A man like Pierce Davenport, surrounded by women desperate for his money and approval, was intoxicatingly drawn to exactly this: a woman who was a beautiful, impenetrable iceberg. He practically forced his private number into my phone, his dark eyes tracking my every movement until the elevator doors slid shut. Well, Brittany, I thought, stepping out into the crisp morning air. Your billionaire wasn’t that hard to catch after all. After a long, scalding shower to scrub away the scent of expensive cologne and exertion, I returned to my house, my muscles aching. The moment I unlocked the front door, chaos greeted me. My soon-to-be ex-husband, Mark, was tearing through my living room, ripping drawers from their tracks. “That cold bitch thinks she can leave me with nothing in the divorce?” he was snarling. “I’m getting what’s mine.” And there was my sister, Brittany, practically glowing with excitement as she helped him. “Jocelyn hid some of her grandmother’s jewelry in this cabinet,” Brittany chirped, handing him a screwdriver. “Here, pry the hinge off. Oh, and grab those vintage wine bottles in the back. That painting in the hall, too—it’s worth at least ten grand.” Mark stuffed a velvet box into his duffel bag, looking at my sister with pathetic devotion. “You are a lifesaver, Brit. Seriously, you’re the most reasonable, beautiful woman I know.” Brittany thrived on this. She practically vibrated whenever a man tossed her a scrap of praise. She feigned a modest blush. “Jocelyn just never knew how to appreciate a real man. No matter how much you take today, Mark, it won’t make up for the emotional damage she’s caused you!” The sheer, staggering weight of her internalized misogyny shattered whatever restraint I had left. A blinding, white-hot rage enveloped me. “Are you two out of your goddamn minds?” I stepped into the foyer, my voice trembling with fury. “This is breaking and entering! It’s felony robbery!” I yanked my phone out of my purse to dial 911. Brittany lunged forward, roughly batting my hand down. “Stop being so hysterical! He’s just taking the compensation he deserves!” She turned to Mark, flashing him a sickeningly sweet smile. “Don’t worry about her. Keep packing. Even if you strip this place to the studs, I’ve got your back.” Mark had briefly frozen like a deer in headlights when I walked in, but seeing Brittany championing his cause emboldened him. He went right back to ransacking my dining room. A suffocating lump formed in my throat. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold my phone. “Brittany,” I choked out, “first you help him cheat on me, and now you’re helping him rob me? Do you even remember that I am your sister?” She planted her hands on her hips, utterly self-righteous. “I didn’t do anything wrong! You’re the one in the wrong! Do you have any idea how hard it is to be a man in today’s world?” She actually sounded like she believed it. “I felt sorry for Mark, having to come home to a miserable, nagging housewife every day. So I introduced him to someone young and fun to take the edge off. You should be taking notes from me, Jo.” Mark eagerly chimed in, “If you had even half of your sister’s warmth, Jocelyn, I wouldn’t have needed to look elsewhere. You’re just a cold fish. You should really learn from Brittany.” Brittany practically preened under the compliment. The two of them stood side-by-side, forming a physical wall to block me from my own living room, daring me to call the police. I ground my teeth together, the metallic taste of adrenaline in my mouth. “You have so much empathy for my cheating husband, Brittany? Maybe you should save some of that energy for yourself. Before you know it, your rich benefactor is going to toss you out with the trash, and you won’t even see it coming.” As if the universe itself was waiting for its cue, my phone vibrated in my palm. A new text. Pierce: It’s Pierce Davenport. Are you free tonight? I froze for a split second, a dark thrill shooting through my veins. I didn’t expect him to crack this fast. It was a stroke of absolute luck that Pierce never cared enough to ask about Brittany’s personal life; he had no idea she even had a sister. I wasn’t about to lose momentum. I typed back rapidly: Jocelyn: I told you, I despise men who try too hard. Don’t text me unless it’s important. Pierce was a young king of the real estate world. He had everything handed to him. Naturally, he was addicted to a challenge. My icy dismissal was the polar opposite of the desperate, cloying women he usually dealt with. It ignited a primal urge to conquer. My screen lit up with three consecutive typing bubbles. Meanwhile, Brittany was still running her mouth, utterly oblivious. “You’re just jealous because I have a man who actually provides for me! At least I’m a kept woman for a gorgeous billionaire. That’s a million times better than being a discarded, used-up ex-wife! Instead of being a bitch, you should be on your knees begging Mark not to finalize the divorce. No one else is ever going to want you.” Drunk on her own cruelty, she turned to Mark. “Call a moving truck. Take the solid wood furniture, too. That way, you won’t have to furnish your new apartment.” Mark, wearing a smug, punchable smirk, sneered at me. “Get on your knees and apologize to me right now, Jocelyn, and maybe I’ll leave you the sofa.” I didn’t even bother looking at him. I was too busy playing a high-stakes game of chess with Pierce Davenport. I hit the emergency button on my phone and silently connected to the police dispatcher, letting the phone hang by my side. Then, I looked at my sister, my eyes dead and calm. “Brittany, a shiny little pet like you—bought and paid for—is the easiest thing in the world to replace. Don’t be surprised when your billionaire swaps you out for a newer model.” That struck the exact, terrifying core of her insecurities. Despite her constant bragging, Brittany lived in perpetual terror of losing her arrangement with Pierce. She lunged at me, raising her hand to slap me, practically screeching. “Shut your mouth! Pierce has incredibly high standards! I have a perfect body, and I look exactly like the girl who got away—the one he’s always been in love with! My place is completely secure!” Ah. She looked like the ghost of his first love. But I looked more like her than she did. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to drag a man like Pierce into bed with just a few aloof words and a sultry look. My phone buzzed again. Pierce had sent an address for a luxury hotel and a suite number. I looked up from the screen to see Brittany adjusting her designer cardigan, looking incredibly smug. “I’ve survived by his side for two years. That proves he’s serious about me. He’s not going to just throw me away! Honestly, he’ll probably propose soon.” A slow, dangerous smile curled the corners of my lips. I stepped back. There was no point in arguing with her anymore. Words were cheap. Ripping the one man she worshipped away from her—that would be the only poetry she understood. The more confident she was right now, the sweeter the fall would be. I couldn’t wait to see her face when I finally took her place. When the police arrived with lights flashing, Mark’s bravado evaporated. I handed the officers the security footage and left them to process the scene, already dialing my divorce attorney to file additional criminal charges. Brittany, refusing to lose face, trailed right behind me to the precinct. “Oh, you have a lawyer? Please. Anyone can hire some cheap hack. I’ll have Pierce call his elite legal team for Mark right now.” She pulled out her phone, desperate to flex her connections. But Pierce was currently busy sending me dangerously filthy text messages. Brittany dialed him. Once. Twice. Three times. Every single call went straight to voicemail. I let out a soft, genuine laugh. “Wow. Seems like your billionaire doesn’t really want to talk to you, Brit.” She raised her hand to strike me again, but a stern look from the arresting officer made her shrink back. She gritted her teeth. “Don’t get cocky, Jocelyn. The pocket change Pierce gives me for a shopping spree is more than enough to afford Mark a top-tier defense attorney.” Even the desk sergeant couldn’t help but mutter, “What is wrong with you, lady? Why are you funding your cheating brother-in-law over your own sister?” I offered the cop a tired, resigned smile. I was used to it. Brittany had always been wired this way—a deeply ingrained, pathological need to side with men. When the boy next door bullied me when we were kids, she didn’t defend me. She blamed me. “Boys will be boys, Jo. It’s your fault for acting so aggressive. No man likes a difficult girl.” When our father was caught with a 22-year-old secretary, she didn’t comfort our devastated mother. She defended our father. “Mom let herself go. She’s old and frumpy. Obviously, a man is going to have physical needs. It’s totally natural.” My mother, broken and disgusted, took me and left. She let our father keep Brittany. We lived entirely separate lives after that. But when I got married, Brittany showed up uninvited, dropping a five-thousand-dollar check into the gift box just to show off. “This is just the loose change my benefactor gave me this week,” she whispered to me in her designer gown. “See? I’ve always known how to cater to a man’s ego, and now I’m treated like a queen. I get whatever I want.” Because being a sugar baby wasn’t exactly something you could brag about at the country club, she started orbiting my life again just to have an audience for her vanity. Over the last two years, she had talked so incessantly about Pierce Davenport that I inadvertently memorized all his habits, his preferences, his trigger points. Which was exactly why seducing him at the lounge, and maintaining this cat-and-mouse game, had been so effortlessly easy. My manufactured persona—the cold, mysterious, untouchable woman—demanded every ounce of his attention. For the next two weeks, Pierce didn’t text Brittany once. Instead, he spent every evening pulling me into his dark, intoxicating world of excess. Brittany was visibly unraveling. Once, in the dead of night while I was lying in Pierce’s sheets, she called his private line. He glanced at the caller ID, an expression of profound irritation crossing his face, and sent it straight to voicemail without missing a beat. With nothing else to do, Brittany poured all her frantic energy into helping my ex-husband fight me in court. Meanwhile, I was quietly, methodically, moving the chess pieces into place. After a particularly intense, breathless afternoon in his penthouse, Pierce reached into his jacket and tossed a heavy, black titanium credit card onto the marble nightstand. “If you’re open to it, I want an exclusive arrangement,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Whatever you want, whatever you need, I can provide it.” Pierce operated under the assumption that every woman had a price tag. I was going to be the anomaly that haunted him. I picked up the black card, walked over to the corner of the room, and dropped it casually into the trash can. “I just finalized a messy divorce,” I lied smoothly, securing my bra. “I needed a distraction. A physical outlet. Sleeping with you was just a convenient way to burn off some adrenaline.” I grabbed my coat. “Don’t flatter yourself, Pierce. I told you, I hate men who crowd me.” I turned for the door, fully intending to walk out. He moved faster than I expected, catching my wrist. His grip was firm, his eyes dark and searching. “I still don’t even know your last name. You are the most infuriating, fascinating woman I’ve ever met. What do you actually want?” Every other woman he knew wanted his bank account or a diamond ring. He could read their motives from a mile away, which made them painfully boring to him. But I wasn’t there for his money. I was there to destroy Brittany. My utter lack of interest in his wealth translated into a terrifying kind of power. I looked completely, genuinely unbothered by his status. “I told you. I wanted an outlet.” I pulled my wrist out of his grasp, giving him a slow, mocking once-over. “You look like the kind of guy who keeps a whole stable of shiny little pets. If I ever settle down again, it’s going to be strictly one-on-one. A man like you isn’t even on my radar for anything long-term.” A slow, wicked smile spread across Pierce’s face. “A kept woman isn’t a wife. I can clear the board whenever I want.” He stepped closer, invading my space. “If you’re interested, I’d clear the entire deck just for you.” God, I wished Brittany could have been a fly on the wall in that exact moment. But I wasn’t done yet. The timing wasn’t perfect. I swallowed the spike of triumphant adrenaline and gave him a bored, noncommittal shrug. “I’ll think about it.” I didn’t even stay the night. I walked out of the penthouse, leaving him staring after me, wanting me more than he had ever wanted anyone. But the universe has a funny way of complicating things. The second I walked out of the opulent hotel lobby, a hand violently grabbed my shoulder. “I knew it!” Brittany hissed, her eyes wild as she yanked me around. “You’re whoring around in expensive hotels! You’ve probably been sleeping around this whole time!” She raised her voice, practically screaming on the sidewalk. “Jocelyn, you’re a dirty, cheating hypocrite! How dare you try to leave Mark with nothing when you’re acting like trash yourself?” Pedestrians began to slow down, staring at the spectacle. Heat rushed to my cheeks. The sheer embarrassment was suffocating. In a moment of desperation, I snapped. “Brittany, did your billionaire finally dump you? Is that why you have so much free time to stalk me?” The words hit her like a physical blow. She flinched, her face contorting. “You’re just projecting because you couldn’t keep a man to save your life!” she spat, her voice shrill. “You think I’m a failure like you?” “Really?” I tilted my head, my voice dropping to a dangerous calm. “Because the last time I checked, he was sending your calls straight to voicemail. And since you’ve been playing lawyer with my ex-husband every single day, I’m guessing Pierce hasn’t asked to see you at all.” “He is a CEO of a massive conglomerate! He’s busy!” she shrieked. “You think he’s some unemployed loser like the guys you pick up?” I laughed on the inside. Oh, he’s busy alright. Busy obsessing over me. To cover her spiraling panic, Brittany pointed a shaking finger an inch from my face. “He hasn’t stopped seeing me! I’m with him every night! The lawyer Mark is using? Pierce secured him for me!” She was panting now, desperate to convince herself. “Even if you died tomorrow, Pierce would never leave me! I’m the only woman he sees!” I just stood there, letting the cool breeze wash over me, watching her self-destruct. The higher she built this house of cards, the more devastating the collapse would be. Before storming off, she delivered her final threat. “I took pictures of you walking out of this hotel. Just wait, Jocelyn. I’m going to ruin you.” That very night, she weaponized those photos. She sent them to every aunt, uncle, and family friend in our hometown group chats, spinning a vicious narrative. “Jocelyn caught a horrible STD from sleeping around, and that’s why Mark had to leave her,” the texts read. “Now she’s trying to steal his house, and when he went to get his clothes, she had him arrested! She’s an absolute monster.” The gossip spread like wildfire. Distant relatives began calling my mother, berating her, shaming her for raising such a “disgusting” daughter. The stress of the vicious rumors finally cracked my mother’s heart. She collapsed in her kitchen. If I hadn’t gone over to drop off groceries, she would have died. I sat by her bed in the ICU, listening to the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. She looked so small, her skin grey against the hospital sheets. She gripped my hand, tears leaking from her eyes. “If I had known she would turn out like this…” my mother whispered, her voice breaking. “I should never have let her father take her.” I squeezed her hand, lowering my gaze to hide the absolute, chilling darkness that had settled in my eyes. Enjoy your last few days of delusion, Brittany. For the next four days, I stayed in the hospital. I completely ghosted Pierce Davenport. Every text he sent went unanswered. And true to form, the more I ignored him, the more frantic his need to conquer me became. The day my mother was discharged coincided with my scheduled mediation meeting with Mark and his lawyers. Brittany sent me a gloating text at 7:00 AM: I’m bringing the elite legal team Pierce paid for. Get ready to be humiliated. Oh, I was more than ready. An hour before the meeting, standing outside the sleek glass doors of the law firm, I finally sent Pierce a text. Jocelyn: I need a favor. He replied in less than ten seconds. Pierce: The sun must be rising in the west. You actually texted me. Jocelyn: My ex-husband is harassing me. I’m in a bad situation. Can you come help me? This sudden, shocking display of vulnerability was exactly the kind of bait a man like Pierce couldn’t resist. He didn’t ask questions. He just asked for the address. I stood on the curb, waiting. Less than twenty minutes later, a midnight-black Rolls-Royce glided to a stop in front of me. The moment Pierce stepped out of the car, looking sharp in a tailored suit, I dropped the ice-queen act. I rushed forward, letting out a soft, trembling breath, and practically collapsed into his chest. “Thank you so much for coming,” I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears. “If you weren’t here, I don’t know what I would do…” The whiplash of this contrast—the untouchable woman suddenly soft and seeking his protection—hit him like a drug. His protective instincts flared instantly. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against him, lowering his head to murmur something in my ear. Suddenly, a piercing, hysterical screech shattered the moment. “Jocelyn! What the hell are you doing?!”

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I ended up in bed with my arch-nemesis after a drinking contest that went off the rails. When I woke up, my body aching and my dignity bruised, I didn’t cry. I pulled ten hundred-dollar bills from my purse, slapped them onto the nightstand, and scribbled a note: “Sub-par experience. Zero stars. Don’t bother with a follow-up—actually, I hope the hardware stays permanently out of commission. Consider this a tip for the effort.” I slept with him, then I gutted his ego. He’d probably want to crawl into a hole and die. The thought gave me a rush of pure, petty adrenaline. Then, I did what any rational woman would do: I fled the country, finished my degree in London, and built an empire while raising two kids. Five years later, I returned to New York. The city’s most powerful bachelor sent over a formal invitation to meet. My twins, the gatekeepers of my heart, shut him down before he could even get through the door. “Mommy said you were a ‘disappointing amateur’ and that there are no refunds on life!” The cold, untouchable man looked like he’d been struck by lightning. “Was I… really that bad?” 1 I was invited to join The Mogul Initiative, a high-stakes reality show designed for the heirs of the country’s elite. I didn’t expect to run into Damian Ashford. He was supposed to be in London, far away from my orbit. He is the bane of my existence. The kind of man you’d gladly pay to have erased from your memory. Our families have been rivals for decades, clawing at each other’s throats for every contract, every scrap of prestige. Growing up, every girl I called a friend eventually became his ex-girlfriend. Every crush I ever had was sabotaged by him under the guise of “vetting them for my parents.” Even the stray ginger cat I wanted to adopt ended up living in his mansion. Because of him, I, Jane Montgomery, had reached the age of twenty without a single successful relationship. In the studio, he caught my eye and gave me a look of cold, sharp indifference. It was a look that said, Oh, it’s you again. How tedious. Asshole. Just wait until I peel back that polished mask. During the introductions, I waved at him with a smile that was all sugar and no substance. “Damian, honey! You’re finally back from your ‘treatment’ abroad. How are you? Feeling… functional?” He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Better than ever, thanks to your concern.” I blinked, my eyes welling with fake sympathy, waiting for him to snap back. Usually, this was where the fireworks started. But he just stared. I cleared my throat and leaned in toward the mic, projecting for the cameras. “You really should stay on top of your therapy, Damian. Your future girlfriend’s… happiness depends on it.” The implication hung in the air like a lead weight. The live-chat feed on the monitors exploded. Damian’s face turned a dangerous shade of obsidian. Score one for Jane. The moment filming wrapped, I headed straight to The Velvet Room. It was my birthday, and my best friend, Sophie, had rented out the entire lounge. And then, Damian appeared again. Carrying a gift box. To hell with my luck. 2 “Happy birthday, Jane.” He held the box out with both hands, his expression unnervingly sincere. It made the hair on my arms stand up. This man never did anything without a hidden blade. When I was four, he gave me a caterpillar for my birthday. When I was five, it was a toad. Every year, without fail, he delivered a gift designed to make me scream. I wasn’t touching that box. I reached out, grabbed his tie, and yanked him closer. “Damian, we both know the score. Drop the act.” The faint smile on his lips vanished. “Jane…” “Zip it,” I snapped. “You’re giving me the creeps. Be the man I know you are—miserable and arrogant. Or are you losing your edge?” Something shifted in his eyes. He set the gift down and took a seat at the bar. I signaled the bartender, who lined up a row of high-octane cocktails. “Let’s play, Damian. One drink for every point of that tech merger we’re both fighting for. If I win, the contract is mine.” He nodded once. A silent challenge. Three rounds in, the lounge had cleared out. Most of our friends had stumbled home, but we were still there, locked in a battle of attrition. The alcohol was starting to blur the edges of the room. I leaned into his space, my hand finding the nape of his neck. “Look at you,” I slurred. “I’m gonna drink you under the table.” His gaze darkened, fixed on my mouth. “Jane, you’re drunk.” I laughed, feeling invincible. “What’s the matter, Ashford? Giving up? You always were a bit of a loser.” The next thing I knew, the setting had changed. We were in the penthouse suite upstairs. I pulled a bottle of vintage red from the minibar and held up a finger. “One more bottle. Then the merger is mine.” He nodded again, his eyes never leaving mine. I took a long swig, and the filter between my brain and my mouth disintegrated. “So, tell me. Did you really go to India to fix… that?” He frowned. “Fix what?” I rolled my eyes. Men and their pride. Three months ago, Damian had vanished to a retreat in the East. His best friend, Marcus, had whispered to everyone who would listen that Damian was seeking ‘specialized medical help’ for a certain… masculine deficiency. We all pretended not to know to save him the embarrassment. His face went dark—properly dark this time. I felt a twinge of guilt, but the wine pushed it aside. I reached out and patted his cheek. “It’s okay if it’s not fixed. Someone out there will love you anyway. Probably.” His eyes turned a hazy, bruised red. “Would you, Jane? Would you mind?” As he spoke, his lips moved in a way that was suddenly, agonizingly distracting. They looked soft. Like something I wanted to bite. A wave of heat rolled through me, my heart hammering against my ribs. Damian looked the same—flushed, breathless. Maybe there was something in the wine. Maybe it was just us. Desire drowned out my common sense. I wrapped my arms around his neck. “I wouldn’t mind at all, Damian.” His lips were cool against mine, a momentary relief from the fire in my blood. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. Damian tried to pull back, his hands gripping my waist. “Jane, we need to stop. We’re not thinking straight.” “If I think any more, I’m going to go insane,” I whispered, sliding my hand under his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his stomach. “You won’t regret this?” he rasped. “I don’t have ‘regret’ in my vocabulary.” “Fine.” He lifted me effortlessly, and I locked my legs around his waist. When we connected, the sheer physical reality of him made me gasp. Deficiency? The rumors were absolute lies. He kissed my eyes, my nose, the corner of my mouth. Everywhere his touch landed, a fire followed. The night became a blur of hunger and soft cries. “Easy,” he whispered against my skin. “I’ve got you.” I let go of my defenses and let the night swallow me whole. The next morning, the pain was the first thing I felt. My body felt like it had been dismantled and put back together incorrectly. The heat of the man lying next to me brought everything back in a sharp, terrifying flash. Oh, God. I slept with Damian Ashford. Panic won out over logic. I scrambled for my clothes, ready to bolt. But at the door, I stopped. If I just left, it would look like I was running. Like I was scared. I dug through my bag. I always kept cash for emergencies. I pulled out ten bills. A thousand dollars. I grabbed a notepad from the desk and wrote the note. Sub-par experience. Zero stars. Don’t bother with a follow-up—actually, I hope the hardware stays permanently out of commission. Consider this a tip for the effort. I slept with him, and then I humiliated him. Surely, he’d never want to see me again. The victory felt hollow. Deep down, I knew I couldn’t face him. Not because of the sex, but because I knew he didn’t love me. Marcus had mentioned once that Damian had a diary full of entries about a girl he’d loved since they were teenagers—the girl who was finally coming back to New York. If I stayed, if I let him “do the right thing,” I’d just be a placeholder. I couldn’t do that to myself. My phone buzzed. It was Sophie. “Jane, huge news. Isabelle Vance is back in town.” 3 Isabelle Vance. Damian’s “The One.” Their story was the stuff of elite gossip. He’d reportedly turned down billion-dollar deals for her. He’d once flown into a storm-ravaged mountain range just to find her when she went missing on a hike. And yet, she’d left him to go abroad. Thinking about what I’d done the night before made me feel sick. My phone rang. It was Damian. “Jane. About last night… I’m taking responsibility. We need to talk.” I could hear the tension in his voice. “Listen,” he continued, “Isabelle is back, and there’s something I have to handle with her first, but then I’m coming straight to you—” He still loved her. The realization was a dull ache in my chest. I didn’t let him finish. I adopted my most bored, aristocratic drawl. “Oh, please. You’re making a federal case out of a one-night stand. We’re even, Damian. Go play house with your little first love. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” I hung up, blocked his number, and booked a flight. I hadn’t actually left because of him—I’d been planning to go to London for grad school for years. I had the offer from London Business School in my pocket. The timing was just… convenient. As the plane took off, I told myself Damian Ashford was a closed chapter. When I landed, I planned to buy the morning-after pill. But nature beat me to it—my period arrived that afternoon. I felt a surge of relief. The next three months were a whirlwind of settling into London. But when my cycle skipped two months in a row, the relief turned into a cold, hard knot of dread. At the clinic, the doctor beamed at me. “Congratulations! It’s twins.” “Twins?” I whispered, staring at the ultrasound. “See here?” She pointed to two tiny flickers. “Two gestational sacs. One is round, one is more elongated. Very likely a boy and a girl.” I didn’t know whether to scream or cry. Since my mother passed away, “home” hadn’t existed. My stepmother and stepsister had squeezed me out of my father’s life. I was alone in a foreign city. How could I raise two children? “I don’t think I can do this,” I told the doctor. She gave me a sympathetic look and scheduled a procedure for three days later. I went back to my flat and cried until I fell asleep, clutching a photo of my mother. That night, she appeared in my dreams for the first time since her funeral. “Jane, my darling. I didn’t want you to be lonely, so I sent two little angels to keep you company. Love yourself, sweet girl. I’m watching over you.” When I woke up, I placed my hand on my stomach. “Thank you, Mom.” I decided to keep them. The only person who knew where I was was Xavier, a close friend from back home. He’d moved to London years ago after a falling out with his family. He was now a titan in the venture capital world. With his help, the next five years were peaceful. But it was time to go back. The Montgomery Group needed to be returned to its rightful owner. A frantic email from Sophie arrived: “Jane, those two witches are trying to move your mother’s grave. They say it’s ‘bad feng shui.’ I can’t stop them. Where are you? Come home!” 4 My knuckles turned white as I gripped my phone. The “witches” were Lydia, my stepmother, and Tiffany, her daughter. Lydia had moved into our house while my mother was still in the hospital. I was thirteen then, powerless. I was twenty-five now. When I arrived at the welcome-back gala my father had arranged, I walked in holding Ben and Tess by the hands. The room went dead silent. “I didn’t know the Montgomery heiress got married. Whose kids are those?” “Probably some fling from London. Unwed mother… how scandalous.” “And her father wanted to merge with the Ashfords. No one’s going to want her now.” Tiffany stepped forward, a smirk playing on her lips. “Sister, you’ve been gone five years and you come back with baggage? You’re a disgrace to the family name. Who’s the father? Or was it so many people you couldn’t keep track?” Ben looked up at me, his little face scrunched in confusion. “Mommy, why is that lady barking like a dog?” Tess added, “I think she forgot to brush her teeth, Mommy. Her breath is scary.” I let out a sharp, genuine laugh. My father, whose face was a mask of fury, glared at me. “You think this is funny? You’ve humiliated me. I have no daughter.” I clapped my hands softly. “Perfect. Because soon, there won’t be a Montgomery family left in this city.” I didn’t say it aloud, of course. I had a role to play. Xavier, standing behind me, gave me a subtle thumbs-up. Suddenly, the heavy doors of the ballroom swung open. Damian Ashford walked in, looking sharper, colder, and more lethal than the boy I’d left behind. Isabelle was on his arm, draped in silver silk. Tiffany rushed over to Isabelle. “Isabelle, can you believe Jane? She shows up like this while you and Damian are finally getting back together. Only you are worthy of him.” Isabelle gave a modest, sugary smile. “Now, Tiffany, don’t be unkind.” Damian didn’t even look at them. He walked straight to me. “Jane Montgomery.” His voice was a low growl. I felt a traitorous shiver run down my spine. Xavier stepped forward, sliding an arm around my shoulder. “Easy, babe,” he whispered. Then he extended a hand to Damian. “Hey there. You must be the ‘ex.’” Damian froze. “And you are?” Before Xavier could answer, Ben and Tess yelled in unison, “Daddy!” Kids, not now! Damian’s eyes flashed with something that looked like pure venom. “Daddy? You have kids? Two of them?” Xavier picked up Ben in one arm and Tess in the other. “What can I say? I’m a high-achiever. Way better than the previous model, wouldn’t you say?” Damian’s gaze swung back to me, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Jane. Explain.” “Explain what?” Xavier interjected, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Who are you to demand an explanation? My wife doesn’t owe you anything. Maybe go look after your own hangers-on and stop bothering my family.” I rubbed my temples. “Xavier, let’s just go. I want to see my mother.” At the mention of my mother, Lydia scurried over. “Jane, it’s not that we’re being mean. A consultant told us your mother’s plot is blocking the family’s prosperity. We’ve had three experts confirm it. The grave has to be moved.” I saw right through them. They wanted to erase every trace of my mother. Tiffany muttered, “Old woman is still haunting us from the dirt.” Slap. Slap. I didn’t hesitate. Two sharp rings across Tiffany’s face. “If anyone touches her grave, I will end you. I’m not the little girl you remember. Try me.” 5 At the cemetery on the north side of the city, I found two security guards standing by my mother’s headstone. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Mr. Ashford hired us, ma’am. Twenty-four-hour protection for the site.” Damian. My chest tightened. My mother, Elena Montgomery, had been the real brains behind our company. My father, Arthur, had been a mid-level investor who wooed her just as the business took off. Once they were married, he slowly took control, and my mother retired to raise me. Before she died, she gave me a file. She didn’t trust Arthur. I’d hidden it in a compartment inside her urn, knowing it was the only place he’d never look. I knelt with the twins. “Kids, this is your grandmother, Elena. She was a brilliant scientist. She saved a lot of people with her work.” Tears blurred my vision. Tess wiped them away and hugged me, while Ben knelt solemnly. “Grandma, we’ll protect Mommy. I promise.” Outside the gates, Damian watched them from his car. His eyes were bloodshot. “Get a DNA test,” he told his assistant. “I want to know if those children are mine.” He remembered that night five years ago with agonizing clarity. The way she’d challenged him, the way she’d tasted like wine and fire. He’d wanted to marry her the next day. He’d wanted to save her from her family. But she’d vanished. Why? Was it because he wasn’t enough? Was this Xavier guy really that much better? Thinking of Xavier, Damian decided to add another hour to his workout routine that night. He had a lot of frustration to burn off.

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After Lauren was promoted to Chief of Rail Operations, her schedule became a black hole that swallowed our marriage. In three years, I’d seen her exactly twice. Both times, she’d slipped through the front door in the dead of night and vanished before the sun hit the pavement, her designer bag trailing the scent of expensive perfume and cold ambition. When my father-in-law fell critically ill and the bills started piling up like autumn leaves, I sent letter after letter. No reply. Desperation finally drove me to the central terminal. I needed my wife. I stood at the service counter, sliding our marriage certificate and my travel authorization through the glass partition. The clerk frowned, picking up the certificate and squinting at it as if it were a counterfeit bill. He checked his screen, then looked back at the paper, then back at me. Finally, he slid it back with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Sir, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but you aren’t listed as Chief Miller’s family. The emergency contact and spouse on file is someone else. Stop wasting my time.” My heart did a slow, sickening roll in my chest. Did something happen to Lauren? Was she being coerced? In a daze of panic, I bought a standing-room ticket and forced my way onto the northbound express, heading straight for the executive lounge. I stopped just outside the heavy oak door. Inside, the sound of raucous laughter and clinking glasses drifted through the wood. “Lauren, seriously, you’re a genius,” a male voice teased. “Finding a full-time live-in nurse for your father-in-law for three straight years? That couldn’t have been cheap. How’d you pull it off?” My hand froze on the brass handle. My breath hitched. Both of my parents had been dead for nearly a decade. Lauren didn’t have a father-in-law. Not through me. Before I could process the thought, the door swung open. A man in a crisp conductor’s uniform—sharply tailored, expensive—brushed past me. He didn’t even see me; his eyes were locked on Lauren. He walked straight to her and swept her into a possessive embrace. The room erupted in cheers. “Careful, Tyler,” one of the junior staffers joked, raising a glass. “You’re late for your own celebration.” … 1 “Alright, everyone, let’s clear out,” someone shouted over the music. “Give the happy couple some privacy.” The crowd started filtering out into the narrow corridor. As the door swung shut, one of the older guards—a guy named Joe who I used to work shifts with years ago—stopped dead when he saw me. “Norton? Norton Henderson?” He blinked, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. “I thought you quit years ago. What are you doing back here? Reliving the glory days?” Quit? My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. The words were there, heavy and bitter, but they wouldn’t leave my throat. Three years ago, right after Lauren and I exchanged vows, she told me her father had suffered a massive stroke that left him paralyzed. She was the breadwinner, the one with the high-flying career. She couldn’t quit. She begged me, tears streaming down her face, to step up. “Norton, you’re the only person I trust with him,” she’d whispered, her hands trembling in mine. “I’ll keep your spot at the station open. As soon as he’s better, I’ll bring you back. I promise.” I loved her with a ferocity that bordered on blindness. I’d walked away from my career without a second thought. But standing here now, looking at Joe, the truth started to settle in like lead. Rail jobs are prestigious—they don’t stay “open.” She hadn’t put me on leave; she’d resigned for me. She’d handed my life over to the man inside that room. The man they called her husband. Joe mistook my silence for nostalgia. “You really vanished, man. Didn’t even show up for Lauren’s big wedding bash. We all wondered where the hell her ‘old work buddy’ had gotten to.” “I… I’ve been away,” I managed to choke out. My voice sounded like it belonged to a ghost. When Lauren and I “married,” she told me we were too broke for a ceremony. We’d had a somber dinner at a roadside diner, lit two cheap candles in our cramped apartment, and called it forever. No rings. No photos. No witnesses. The door opened again. Tyler, the man in the uniform, stepped out, looking energized. “What’s the hold-up?” he asked, spotting the small huddle. Joe gestured toward me. “Tyler, meet Norton. He was one of the best conductors on the line before you took over his route. He and Lauren started at the academy together.” Tyler beamed, extending a hand that looked like it had never seen a day of hard labor. “So you’re the famous Norton! I’m Tyler Vance, Lauren’s husband. I stepped into your old shoes, though I hear I’ve got a lot to live up to. Lauren’s always saying how ‘reliable’ you are.” He laughed, a rich, confident sound. “Honestly, I don’t know how we’d manage without that nurse Lauren found for my dad. It lets us actually spend time together on the road. Most devoted wife in the world, this one.” One of the girls from the office chimed in, “Seriously. Three dollars an hour for a live-in? Lauren, you’re a shark. Where did you find such a desperate charity case?” Three dollars. The air in the corridor felt thin. I couldn’t breathe. For three years, I had cared for that man. I’d changed his linens, bathed him, endured his screaming fits. Lauren told me she was broke, that every cent went to “specialists.” I’d stayed up until 3:00 AM every night doing freelance transcription work just to buy the old man’s heart medication. I wasn’t a husband. I wasn’t even a martyr. I was the “cheap help” she’d scammed to keep her lover’s father comfortable. “Norton? Hey, man, you okay? You’re… you’re crying.” Tyler’s voice dropped, sounding genuinely concerned, which only made it worse. I wiped my face, surprised to find it wet. My chest felt like it had been hollowed out with a rusted spoon. “Tough times, huh?” Tyler sighed, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a silk pocketbook and handed me a handkerchief. “Keep it. Seriously. If you’re looking for work, I can talk to Lauren. She’s got a soft spot for the ‘old guard.’” I stared at the handkerchief. It was a deep navy silk with a subtle silver embroidery. I recognized it instantly. I’d saved up for three months to buy that for Lauren as a wedding gift from a boutique downtown. She’d cried when I gave it to her, promising she’d keep it close to her heart wherever the rails took her. Now, it was just a rag her “real” husband used to wipe away the tears of a man he considered a pathetic stranger. I gripped the silk until my knuckles turned white. My eyes caught the vintage charcoal suit I was wearing—my only “nice” clothes, now frayed at the cuffs and faded from years of washing. Tyler’s eyes lit up. “That’s a sharp cut on that blazer, Norton. Brooks Brothers?” “I had it made,” I whispered. It was a lie. I’d tailored it myself to save money for Lauren’s “debts.” “It’s classic,” Tyler said, nodding. “Listen, could you give me the name of your tailor? I’ve got a big event coming up and I want to look that sharp.” Before I could answer, the train’s whistle shrieked, signaling the departure. 2 I needed to get off. I needed to run until my lungs burned. But Tyler grabbed my arm, his grip friendly but firm. “Seriously, Norton, help a guy out! Lauren loves when I dress classic. Our son’s first birthday party is in a few weeks—I want to look like a million bucks for her.” Son. The word hit me like a physical blow. Without waiting for a response, he scribbled an address on a scrap of paper and tucked it into my jacket pocket. “Drop the tailor’s info there if you find it. See ya around, Norton!” The heavy doors hissed shut. The train began to groan and roll, a green-and-silver blur picking up speed. I stood on the platform, paralyzed, watching my wife’s life disappear into the distance. When I finally stumbled back to the “rental” house on the edge of town, I barely had the door open before a heavy ceramic mug shattered against the wall next to my head. “Where the hell have you been? I’m starving! You useless piece of trash!” The old man—Mr. Garrity—glared at me from his wheelchair. I looked at the blood trickling down my cheek where a shard had grazed me. For three years, I’d looked for Lauren’s eyes in his. I’d looked for a family resemblance to justify the abuse I endured. Now, seeing him clearly, I realized there was none. But he looked exactly like Tyler. He had the same arrogant curve to his brow. “What are you staring at?” he barked. “Get in the kitchen!” I didn’t move. I didn’t argue. I walked into my cramped, windowless bedroom and locked the door. I sank onto the floor and let out a sound that wasn’t a cry—it was a howl of pure, unadulterled grief. Lauren hadn’t just cheated. She had erased me. She’d turned my love into a commodity, a way to subsidize her “real” life. I cried until I was numb, my body heavy on the thin mattress. My hand brushed the pocket of my jacket, finding the scrap of paper Tyler had given me. 322 Crestview Drive. The blood in my veins turned to ice. That wasn’t a rental address. That was my childhood home. The house my parents had left me. After we “married,” Lauren told me the neighborhood was too painful for me, that I’d be happier in the quiet suburbs. She told me she’d rented out the Crestview house to a “nice family” to help pay for her father’s medical bills. She’d taken the keys and I hadn’t seen a dime of the rent in three years. I didn’t sleep. The next morning, I took the bus across town. I stood at the gate of my own home at noon. Tyler opened the door, his face lighting up with genuine surprise. “Norton! You actually came. I was just telling Lauren I forgot to give you my measurements.” I stepped into the yard. My father’s prize-winning oak tree was gone. In its place was a professionally installed koi pond. Tyler followed my gaze, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Beautiful, right? Lauren knew I loved fishing, so she had the tree cleared out and the pond put in last spring. Best anniversary gift ever.” He led me inside. Everything was different. The walls were painted a trendy slate gray. The furniture was modern, expensive. “Here, try this,” Tyler said, handing me a steaming cup of artisanal coffee. “Lauren brought the beans back from a trip to Seattle. Best stuff on the coast.” He popped a piece of gourmet chocolate into his mouth. “She says this is how they do ‘afternoon tea’ in Europe. Very sophisticated.” He turned on a high-end Bose system. Smooth jazz filled the room—music I didn’t recognize, a lifestyle I had funded with my own sweat and the loss of my dignity. “She calls it… living the dream,” Tyler said, a goofy, lovestruck grin on his face. He actually did a little half-step dance to the music. I looked at him, the bile rising in my throat. Part of me wanted to scream the truth, to tell him he was living in a house built on a lie, sleeping with a woman who was technically married to the “nanny.” But Tyler reached out and grabbed my shoulder. “Seriously, Norton. Tell the tailor I need the suit within the week.” “Why the rush?” my voice was a raspy whisper. “The baby’s christening party,” he said, his eyes shining. “I have to look my best. For Lauren. She’s worked so hard for this family.” “And you should come,” he added, missing the look of death on my face. “I’ll tell Lauren to find you a better job at the station. No more freelancing for you, buddy.” 3 “You… you have a child?” I asked, my voice cracking. Tyler’s smile softened into something truly paternal. “Yeah. I wanted to wait, but Lauren was insistent. She said she needed a ‘symbol of our love’ to come home to. She’s a bit of a romantic under that tough exterior.” He chuckled. “She’s busy, obviously, but she hired this amazing night nurse for the baby. We still get our ‘us’ time. She thinks of everything.” My vision blurred. Lauren and I had a child once. Or we could have. I remembered the day I found out. I’d been so happy, so ready. But Lauren’s face had gone cold. ‘Norton, the timing is impossible. My father needs us. I’m on the verge of a promotion. If I take maternity leave, we lose everything.’ I’d suggested a nanny. She’d screamed at me, calling me “entitled” and “lazy” for even suggesting we pay someone else to do “our job.” She’d dragged me to a clinic on a rainy Tuesday. She told me afterward that she never wanted to go through that pain again. She stopped letting me touch her. She didn’t hate children. She just didn’t want mine. I wasn’t the father; I was the help. I turned away, blinking back tears of rage. Tyler, thinking I was admiring the photos on the mantle, pointed to a framed shot of their wedding. “That’s from the big day. And that’s my dad next to us. He looks a bit rough there, but thanks to that guy Lauren hired, he’s gained twenty pounds and his color is great. Lauren really knows how to pick ’em.” I had my answer. I walked out without a word. When I got back to the suburban house, the old man was waiting. He’d crawled out of bed, dragging his useless legs across the floor, clutching a broom. He swung it at my shins with a guttural snarl. “You’re late! I’ll tell her! I’ll tell her you’re a thief!” Usually, I would have knelt. I would have apologized. I would have thought of Lauren and found the patience to endure. Instead, I kicked the broom out of his hand. He rolled across the floor, shocked into silence for a heartbeat before he began to scream. “Help! Murder! The help is attacking me! He’s a deviant! He’s been looking at my daughter-in-law!” He started tearing at his own clothes, scratching his face, creating a scene for the neighbors who were already peering through the curtains. It was a nightmare. When Lauren had “hired” me, she told me the old man had dementia, that he’d hallucinate and think every man was a “home-wrecker” who’d ruined his marriage. She’d looked at me with such fake pity, promising she’d never be like the mother who broke his heart. She was worse. The neighbors were gathering on the lawn, whispering and pointing. I walked past the screaming old man, grabbed my jacket, and went to the payphone at the corner. I called Lauren’s direct office line. “I’m done,” I said when she picked up. “Your father-in-law is a monster. Come get him.” Lauren’s voice didn’t soften. It sharpened into a blade. “Norton? Are you insane? Do you have any idea how much this call is costing the company? He’s an old man. Deal with it. I’m in the middle of a budget meeting. Stop being a drama queen.” She hung up. She was so certain of my devotion. She thought I was her dog, happy for the scraps of her attention. I stood by the phone, my hand trembling, ready to call back and burn it all down, but a neighbor ran up to me, breathless. “Norton! Get back there! The old man… he fell. He hit his head on the radiator. He’s not moving!” The next hour was a blur of sirens and flashing lights. At the hospital, the ER doctor came out with a clipboard. “We need a signature for emergency surgery. Next of kin?” The neighbors pushed me forward. I looked at the pen, then at the doctor. My voice was eerily calm. “I’m not his family. I’m just the help. But his son and his ‘wife’ will be here shortly. Wait for them.” Lauren, the woman who was “too busy” for a phone call, arrived in forty minutes. Tyler was right behind her, his face pale and tear-streaked. When Tyler saw me standing in the waiting room, his grief turned to pure, unadulterated rage. He lunged at me, his fist narrowly missing my jaw. “You! What did you do? Lauren said you were a professional! You let him fall? I’ll kill you, you pathetic loser!” I didn’t move. I looked past him, straight into Lauren’s eyes. 4 Lauren’s gaze flickered. For a split second, I saw it—the calculation, the fear, the cold gears of her mind turning to find an exit. She reached out and squeezed Tyler’s hand. “Tyler, honey, breathe. I’ll handle this. Call the police.” The world felt like it was tilting on its axis. “Lauren?” I whispered. “Is this really how you want to do this?” “Shut up!” she hissed, her voice loud enough for the entire waiting room to hear. “I hired you out of the kindness of my heart because I heard you were struggling. And this is how you repay us? By neglecting a helpless old man? You’re lucky if you only end up in jail.” She grabbed my arm, dragging me into a quiet alcove, her fingernails digging into my skin. “Don’t you dare say a word, Norton. If you ruin this for me, I will destroy you. Just take the hit. I’ll make it right later. I promise.” I looked at her—really looked at her. The woman I’d spent three years “waiting” for was a stranger. “No,” I said. “No more promises.” She didn’t give me a chance to speak. She pushed me toward the approaching officers. “Officer, this man was the caregiver. He’s been unstable for weeks. My father-in-law is in surgery because of his negligence.” Between Lauren’s polished “professional” testimony and Tyler’s hysterical accusations, the police didn’t hesitate. I was cuffed and led away in front of everyone I knew. The old man woke up three days later and, true to Lauren’s coaching, claimed I’d beaten him for years. I spent seven days in a holding cell. The woman who promised to “make it right” never showed up. The day I was released due to lack of physical evidence of ‘intent,’ Joe was waiting at the gates in his truck. “The whole station is talking, Norton,” Joe said, shaking his head. “They say you went obsessed. That you were stalking Lauren, that you were jealous of Tyler and took it out on the old man. Is any of it true?” I climbed into the truck, staring at my scarred hands. “You’ll find out soon enough.” I took every cent of the freelance money I’d saved and caught a bus to Lauren’s hometown. I spent two days talking to old neighbors, digging through public records, and finally, standing in a neglected cemetery on the outskirts of town. I found what I needed. Three days later was the day of the christening party. I arrived at my own house—the Crestview house—just as the festivities were hitting their peak. Lauren was in a stunning white dress, a glass of champagne in one hand, Tyler’s waist in the other. They were surrounded by the elite of the Rail Authority. “Thank you all for being here,” Lauren beamed. “This family is everything to me.” I kicked the gate open. Two heavy-set laborers followed me in, carrying two granite slabs. With a synchronized grunt, they dropped them right in the center of the manicured lawn. CRACK. The koi pond’s edge shattered. Lauren turned purple. She marched over and slapped me across the face so hard I tasted copper. “Norton! This is a private event! Get out before I have you arrested again!” Tyler charged over, kicking me in the stomach before I could even steady myself. I hit the grass, gasping for air. “What the hell is wrong with you? My son is inside!” I struggled to my feet, a bloody grin spreading across my face as the guests gathered around. “Take a look, everyone!” I shouted, pointing at the granite slabs. “These are the headstones for Lauren Miller’s actual parents. They’ve been dead for five years. The man I’ve been nursing for three years isn’t her father. He’s Tyler’s.” I turned to the two officers standing by the buffet table—the same ones who’d arrested me at the hospital. “Officers, my name is Nathaniel Henderson. I am here to report a case of aggravated bigamy and the fraudulent seizure of private property. And I have the paperwork to prove it.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “417799”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The night we were supposed to welcome home my long-lost brother—the biological heir to the Prescott family, swallowed by the Atlantic thirty years ago—I tasted the lobster risotto he had prepared with his own two hands. Then, I slapped him across the face. Three times. The grand ballroom of the Prescott estate plunged into a deafening, horrified silence. The clinking of Baccarat crystal and the low hum of Boston’s elite were instantly extinguished. Charlie Walsh, the man claiming to be the missing heir, stood in the center of the Persian rug, clutching his reddened cheek. Tears pooled in his eyes, a portrait of devastating vulnerability. “I just wanted to make you something,” he choked out, his voice trembling. “Why would you do this to me?” I didn’t blink. I didn’t shout. I simply stared at him, my gaze boring into his soul, before I picked up the third china plate of his homemade risotto and scraped it coldly into the nearest champagne bucket. “Because,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, “you put salt in it.” … The words hung in the air. Charlie froze. For a fraction of a second, the thinnest veil of raw, unadulterated fury flashed across his eyes. It was gone as quickly as it came, instantly replaced by a mask of wounded innocence. “Brother…” he stammered, looking around like a trapped animal. “Is there something wrong with salt? Or… or did I use too much? I tasted it myself in the kitchen. It wasn’t too salty…” He didn’t get to finish the sentence. A fresh wave of white-hot rage erupted in my chest. I closed the distance between us in a heartbeat and delivered a fourth slap. Crack. This one had the weight of thirty years of grief behind it. The force of it sent Charlie staggering backward until his knees buckled, sending him sprawling onto the polished hardwood floor. He stayed there, a crumpled heap in the center of the room, his shoulders shaking with calculated sobs. “I know I’ve been gone a long time,” he wept, his voice carrying perfectly to the back of the room. “I know I grew up rough. I don’t know the rules of your high society. I know you don’t want me here, Nate. You think I’m just some blue-collar stray coming to steal Mom and Dad’s love. You think I’m a stain on the Prescott name. But… to humiliate me over something so trivial? Over salt?” I looked down at the pathetic, weeping man at my feet. The anger in my blood was a physical pressure, ringing in my ears. “I will ask you one last time,” I said, my voice dangerously level. “Are you absolutely certain you tasted this risotto yourself, and that there is salt in it?” Charlie looked baffled by the question, but he nodded vigorously, playing to the crowd. “Yes! I tasted it with my own mouth. Why would I lie about that?” A low murmur of unrest ripped through the guests. I could hear the whispers, the sharp intakes of breath. I was known in Boston as the stoic, unflappable adopted son who ran the Prescott empire with clinical precision. My sudden, violent break in character was incomprehensible to them. But what was even more incomprehensible was the reaction of Jace—the twenty-something son Charlie had supposedly raised single-handedly through poverty. Jace remained seated at the edge of the room. He hadn’t flinched. He hadn’t moved an inch to help his father. He just sat there, watching with eyes as cold as dead stars. Sensing the crowd’s sympathy turning in his favor, Charlie smiled through his tears. He reached out with trembling hands and scooped up a handful of the risotto that had spilled onto the floor during his fall. “It’s not poisoned, Nate. I swear,” he whimpered. “I’m your brother. Why would I ever hurt you? I barely had enough to eat growing up on the docks… it’s a sin to waste good food.” He lifted the cold, floor-stained rice to his mouth and began to eat it, looking utterly wretched. I didn’t feel a shred of pity. Instead, I grabbed the closest bowl of risotto left on the buffet table and upended it directly over his head. The rich, creamy rice cascaded down his hair and ruined his ill-fitting tuxedo. That was the breaking point for the room. The whispers turned into outward outrage. “What the hell is wrong with Nathaniel?” a tech mogul muttered loudly. “What else do you put in risotto if not salt? Arsenic? The Prescotts are treating this poor man like an animal.” “I heard the real son went through hell,” a socialite whispered, shaking her head. “He shattered his leg falling off a pier trying to pay for his foster parents’ medical bills. It’s a miracle he’s even alive.” “Nathaniel grew up with a silver spoon. He has no idea what real suffering is,” another guest sneered. “Three slaps for three plates of food? This is a blatant power play. He’s terrified of losing his inheritance.” “And Richard and Catherine are just standing there, letting their adopted son beat their flesh and blood? It’s barbaric.” Hearing the crowd rally behind him, Charlie seemed to find a tragic burst of strength. He swayed as he stood, rice clinging to his collar, and turned toward my parents. He offered them a deep, agonizingly slow bow. “Mom. Dad. I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I was foolish to think I could just walk back into your lives and be part of a happy family. I’m leaving. Just… pretend you never found me. Pretend I drowned in the Atlantic all those years ago.” It was a masterclass in emotional manipulation. A retreat designed to force an advance. But it didn’t pull a single drop of pity from my parents. My mother, her posture rigid and her eyes like flint, didn’t shed a tear. Instead, she turned to the head of our security detail. “Lock the doors,” she ordered. Her voice cut through the room like a scalpel. “No one leaves.” The heavy mahogany doors of the ballroom slammed shut. The deadbolts clicked. The guests bristled. A few of the older board members, emboldened by the open bar, puffed out their chests. “What is the meaning of this?” one of them barked. “Are you holding us hostage, Richard? This is false imprisonment!” “This is completely out of line!” a woman yelled. “You invite us to a homecoming gala, and we get a public execution? Even if the man isn’t exactly what you hoped for, he’s your blood! You should be making amends, not helping your golden-boy adopted son torture him!” “The Prescotts used to stand for decency!” another voice piled on. “This is an absolute disgrace to your family name!” The ballroom was deteriorating into a mob. The cursing, the shouting, the sheer indignation threatened to swallow us whole. Then, a voice cut through the chaos. It wasn’t loud, but it possessed an authority so absolute that the room went dead silent. “The Prescotts are a dynasty of this city. And yet, here you are, tearing each other apart over two boys like stray dogs in an alley. Have you lost your minds?” The crowd parted. Rising slowly from the table of honor was Beatrice Montgomery. She was the undisputed matriarch of Boston’s old money, a woman with eyes like a hawk and a grip on the city’s financial arteries that could choke out a rival family with a single phone call. “Whatever grievance you have can be handled behind closed doors,” Beatrice said, her cane thumping against the floor. “There is no need for this grotesque theater. Let the man leave.” Everyone held their breath. When Beatrice Montgomery gave an order, you obeyed. It was the fundamental law of our world. But I didn’t back down. Feeling the crushing weight of a hundred stares, I turned to Beatrice and offered her a respectful, albeit stiff, bow. “I apologize for the disturbance tonight, Mrs. Montgomery,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “But until the absolute truth is brought to light in this room, Charlie Walsh is not taking a single step outside.” Gasps rippled through the crowd. People looked at me like I had lost my mind. I was a junior executive. She was an institution. I had just publicly defied a decree from the closest thing America had to royalty. For a long, agonizing moment, the air in the room stopped moving. And then, surprisingly, Beatrice Montgomery began to laugh. It was a dry, scraping sound. “I have navigated the waters of this city for fifty years,” Beatrice said, her amusement vanishing into a frigid glare. “It has been a very, very long time since someone was foolish enough to speak to me that way. The Prescotts must feel utterly invincible these days. So invincible, you think you no longer need the Montgomery family’s grace.” My mother stepped forward, her composure slipping slightly as she tried to mediate, but Beatrice held up a single, manicured hand. “I have no interest in your domestic squabbles, Catherine,” Beatrice snapped. “But by turning your private filth into a public spectacle and trapping us in it, you are making a mockery of our entire circle. If you cannot provide a satisfactory justification for this circus tonight, consider our association severed. A family without decorum does not deserve its seat at the table.” The threat was catastrophic. It meant financial ruin. In the heavy silence that followed, Charlie’s low, pathetic sobbing flared up again. With shaking hands, he reached into the inner pocket of his ruined jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I… I never meant to intrude on your lives for long,” he choked out, waving the paper weakly. “I have brain cancer. The doctors in the city said… I only have until the end of the month.” He forced a brave, agonizing smile. “My only dying wish was to see the faces of my real parents just once. I didn’t expect my homecoming to be a firing squad. So… I’ll go back to my trailer. I’ll die quietly. I won’t be an eyesore to you anymore.” He lunged toward the tall glass terrace doors, making a dramatic show of trying to throw himself out into the night. I watched him weep. I felt nothing but a glacial, hollow disgust. “I don’t care if you have cancer,” I said, my voice dead flat. “Just don’t die on my floor. It’s a pain to clean.” I closed the distance, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and slammed him back down onto the hardwood. The crowd went feral. People were shouting, surging forward, hurling insults at me. “Are you even human?!” a man screamed, pointing a shaking finger not at me, but at Jace, who was still sitting in the corner. “And you! You ungrateful bastard! You’re just going to sit there and watch your father get beaten half to death?” The man lunged, his finger inches from Jace’s face. That was when Jace finally moved. He didn’t rush. He stood up slowly, the silence radiating off him like a physical chill. He walked over to where Charlie lay groaning on the floor. He knelt, wrapping his hands gently under Charlie’s arms, lifting him up. Charlie wept harder, clinging to his son. “Jace… oh, God, Jace…” He thought his son had finally come to save him. Then, in a blur of motion that made the entire room gasp in unison, Jace let go of his father, planted his foot squarely into Charlie’s chest, and kicked him violently backward. Charlie skidded across the floor. Before he could even register the betrayal, Jace was standing over him. With brutal, calculated precision, Jace brought the heel of his dress shoe down hard on Charlie’s bad leg. He twisted it. “AGGGHHHH!” Charlie’s scream was blood-curdling. It echoed off the vaulted ceilings. The ballroom was paralyzed. Mouths hung open. No one could process what they were seeing. Into that stunned silence, I snapped my fingers. The kitchen doors swung open. My private staff marched out, carrying ten steaming bowls of freshly cooked, piping hot lobster risotto. They set them down in a row on the long dining table. Charlie, gasping in agony on the floor, saw the bowls and his eyes went wide with genuine, unscripted terror. “What… what are you doing?” he panicked, scrambling backward. “No. I can’t. I can’t eat all that!” I ignored him. I nodded to my security team. Two massive guards hauled Charlie up by his armpits, dragging him to the table. One grabbed his jaw, forcing his mouth open. I picked up a silver spoon, scooped up a massive mound of the scalding risotto, and shoved it in. His cheeks bulged grotesquely. He gagged, grains of rice spewing from his nose as he thrashed his head wildly. I leaned in, my face inches from his. “Is it salty?” I snarled. “Tell me. Is it salty?” Tears and snot streamed down his face. He nodded frantically, choking on the food. Seeing his desperate confirmation only fueled the inferno in my chest. Jace stood a few feet away, watching the spectacle with a dead, expressionless face. When Charlie shot him a look of absolute, begging terror, Jace actually let out a soft, dark chuckle. Bowl five. Bowl six. By the time we hit the tenth bowl, Charlie’s stomach was visibly distended. His body was twitching with involuntary, sickening spasms. I smiled. It was a terrible, broken thing. “Still salty?” I asked, mechanically scooping up more rice, forcing it past his lips. As I reached for the eleventh bowl, Beatrice Montgomery’s cane cracked against the floor like thunder. “ENOUGH!” she roared. “I have lived a long life, Nathaniel Prescott, but I have never witnessed such barbaric, animalistic cruelty!” Beatrice’s voice shook with righteous fury. “You torture a frail, dying man in front of half the city? You are a stain on the elite of Boston! If you do not stop this instant and beg this man for forgiveness, the Prescott name will be erased from this city by morning! You will have nothing left!” I didn’t flinch. I slowly put the spoon down, wiped my hands on a linen napkin, and looked Beatrice dead in the eye. “I will bet the entire Prescott fortune,” I said smoothly, my voice echoing in the vast room. “I will bet every company, every asset, and my own life against your threat, Mrs. Montgomery.” “By the end of this night, every single person in this room will know exactly why I am doing this. And I promise you, when you find out, you will regret ever opening your mouth to defend him.” The sheer audacity of the wager sent a shockwave through the room. Taking advantage of the distraction, Charlie managed to pull a burner phone from his pocket. His trembling thumbs frantically dialed 911. Before the call could connect, Jace stepped in and slapped the phone out of his hand. It shattered against the wall. “Calling the cops?” Jace asked, his voice eerily calm. “Didn’t you tell me we shouldn’t air our dirty laundry? You brought this on yourself. Who are you to call for help?” Jace picked up the discarded silver spoon from the table. He wrapped his arm around Charlie’s neck in a brutal chokehold, pulling his head back, and drove another spoonful of rice toward his mouth. “Chew it,” Jace whispered into his ear. “Taste it. Keep eating until you choke on the truth.” Charlie was suffocating, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. The facade of the fragile victim finally cracked. He thrashed wildly, breaking Jace’s grip, and screamed at me, his voice ragged and raw. “Nate! What the hell did you do to my son?! What poison did you feed him to make him turn on me like this?!” Smack! Jace hit him. A closed-fist backhand that snapped Charlie’s head to the side. Charlie spat blood onto the rug, his eyes wild with betrayal. “I raised you!” he wailed, the agony in his voice entirely real now. “I gave up my life for you! I broke my back on those docks! I washed other men’s clothes! I wore rags in the dead of winter just so you could have books for school!” He looked around the room, pleading with the audience. “Remember when you were little? You promised you’d grow up and make me rich! And now what? You become a hotshot CEO and suddenly your old man is too dirty for you? You’re selling me out to kiss up to these billionaires?” “I want the police!” Charlie screamed at the crowd. “Arrest them! Arrest all of them!” The crowd’s sympathy, which had momentarily stalled at Jace’s violence, came rushing back. “This is sickening,” a woman cried. “He starved himself to raise that boy, and this is how he repays him?” “Nathaniel obviously bought the kid off,” a man sneered. “This whole thing is a setup. The adopted son is paying the kid to help him murder the real heir to protect his inheritance.” “My heart is breaking for him. The Prescotts belong in prison for this.” The murmurs grew into a unified roar of condemnation. Charlie clutched his chest, wailing. “Nate! I don’t know what you promised my boy, but how could you turn a son against his father? Do you have no soul?!” “Shut your mouth!” Jace roared, his voice cracking with a sudden, violent grief. But the crowd had already made up its mind. I was the villain, Jace was the corrupted youth, and Charlie was the martyr. Jace looked down at the man who had raised him. His patience had entirely evaporated. He grabbed Charlie by the hair and yanked his head back. “If you call the cops, you are dead to me,” Jace snarled, his eyes hollow. “I will never look at your face again as long as I live. Confess right now. Apologize to Nate, and I swear I will make sure you get a quiet death. If you don’t…” Charlie stared at his son in utter disbelief. He didn’t recognize the man standing above him. “You’re threatening me?” Charlie whispered. “Your own father is being tortured, and you’re helping them?” Realizing his son was truly lost to him, Charlie turned back to me. He dragged his bruised body across the floor and slammed his forehead into the hardwood. Once. Twice. Three times. “I’m sorry, brother!” he wailed, pressing his face to the floor. “Please, I beg you, let me go! Remember the shipwreck? Remember how I gave you the last spot on the lifeboat?! Spare me for that! I’ll vanish. You’ll never see me again. Just stop torturing me!” I looked down at his groveling form. The sheer audacity of his lies was almost impressive. “Fine,” I said softly. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my own phone, and held it up for everyone to see. “You wanted the police?” I asked calmly. “Don’t trouble the guests. I’ll do it for you.” Under the stunned gaze of Boston’s elite, I dialed three numbers and hit speakerphone. “911, what is your emergency?” The ballroom was dead silent. No one could fathom why a man orchestrating a kidnapping and assault would call the authorities on himself. “Yes,” I said smoothly. “I need officers dispatched to the Prescott estate immediately. We have a hostage situation and a severe physical assault in progress.” I hung up the phone. I crouched down, bringing my lips inches from Charlie’s ear. I whispered a single sentence, meant only for him. Charlie’s face drained of all color. The blood rushed from his skin, leaving him looking like a corpse. With a sudden, terrifying burst of energy, he lunged forward, grabbed my phone from my hand, and hurled it against the fireplace, shattering it. Then, he began to frantically slap his own face. “No! No, Nate, please!” he begged hysterically. “Call them back! Tell them not to come!” I watched him beat himself, my expression carved from stone. I slowly shook my head. “It’s too late,” I said. “Are you really going to keep lying, even now?” Charlie froze, his hand suspended in mid-air. He looked at me with a profound, cornered terror. “Are you trying to kill me, Nate? Is that what it will take?” “Cancel the cops,” he pleaded, grabbing my ankle. “I don’t care about my son anymore. I don’t care about the money. Just let me go back to my trailer.” Beatrice Montgomery had seen enough. She slammed her cane into the ground with the force of a gavel. “Nathaniel Prescott!” she roared, her voice booming with absolute authority. “You are completely out of control! Do you think because you have money, the law does not apply to you?!” Her outrage was the spark that ignited the powder keg. The room exploded. “You sick bastard!” a young executive screamed. “Over salt?! You’re just terrified he’s going to take your trust fund!” “He gave you his spot on the lifeboat, and this is how you repay him?!” “Don’t worry, Mr. Walsh! We’ve got your back! We won’t let them cover this up!” Someone threw a heavy crystal whiskey glass. I closed my eyes as it shattered near my feet. In an instant, the crowd surged forward. A dozen men rushed me, shoving, pulling, throwing punches as the elegant gala devolved into an absolute riot. But just as the mob threatened to trample me, the shrill, cutting wail of police sirens pierced the night air. The sound grew louder, flashing red and blue lights painting the high windows of the ballroom, until tires screeched to a halt on the gravel driveway outside. The riot froze. The crowd instinctively parted, creating a path to the grand double doors. A team of uniformed officers burst into the room. Their hands were on their holsters, their eyes scanning the sheer destruction—the broken glass, the ruined food, the mob of angry billionaires, and Charlie Walsh, battered and covered in rice on the floor. The lead officer, a stern-faced woman, took a step forward. “We got a call about an assault. What the hell is going on here?” The guests erupted, all trying to be the hero. “Arrest him!” a woman shrieked, pointing at me. “He’s been holding this poor man hostage! He forced him to eat until he nearly ruptured his stomach! Look at him!” “He forced the man’s own son to beat him!” another man yelled. “It’s depraved! He’s a monster!” “We all saw it! We’ll all testify!” Charlie played his part beautifully. He let out a low, agonizing groan, curling into the fetal position, looking every bit the broken survivor. The lead officer absorbed the chaos, then locked eyes with me. She walked over, her expression hardened. “Sir, if I’m not mistaken, dispatch said you were the one who made the call.” She looked around at the angry crowd. “But according to fifty witnesses, you’re the one committing the assault. What is this, some kind of sick joke?” I calmly reached up, adjusted my tie, and smoothed back my ruffled hair. I nodded. “I made the call. Yes.” The officer looked baffled, and then deeply irritated. “The Boston Police Department is not a toy for rich people, Mr. Prescott. Do you have any idea what the charges are for this? I need a damn good reason why you are torturing this man.” The entire room held its breath. Hundreds of eyes were pinned on me, waiting to see how I could possibly talk my way out of this. I didn’t flinch. I looked the officer dead in the eye, the silence stretching out, heavy and absolute. “Because,” I said, my voice echoing clearly across the ruined ballroom, “he put salt in the lobster risotto.”

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The yellow police tape flickered in the wind, a thin plastic barrier between the world and the nightmare inside. I stepped toward the line, reaching for my badge, but the detective blocked my path. “There’s a suspected explosive device inside,” he barked, hand hovering near his holster. “Back away, civilian!” I was halfway through pulling my ID when Lexi, the intern I’d been stuck with for three months, let out a choreographed gasp. She pressed a manicured hand to her mouth, her voice going high and breathless—the sound of a woman playing a victim in a Lifetime movie. “Officer! Oh my god, thank god you’re here! He has detonators and timers in his bag! It’s so scary!” The air turned to ice. The bustling street, the sirens, the shouting—it all went silent. In the heartbeat that followed, three black muzzles were leveled directly at the bridge of my nose. “I’m Sam Mercer!” I yelled, my throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper. “I’m the lead tech from the Federal Bomb Disposal Unit! Everything in that bag is standard issue gear!” “Drop the bag! Hands behind your head! Now!” the Captain roared. I dropped it. They kicked it open. Insulated pliers, a blast blanket, and liquid nitrogen cooling canisters spilled across the pavement. Before I could get another word out, Lexi was pointing a trembling finger at me, her eyes wide with a performative terror that made my stomach churn. “Why are you acting so innocent now?” she shrieked. “You literally just told me you were going to blow this hotel to hell! What, you’re losing your nerve now that the real cops are here? You’re a monster!” The Captain didn’t hesitate. He slammed me down onto the hood of the cruiser, my face grinding into the hot metal as he wrenched my arms behind my back. “Take him in for interrogation,” he snapped. “Level four priority.” My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it stopped. Inside the Grand Regency’s ballroom, a Ghost-7—a sophisticated, multi-layered device capable of leveling half the block—was ticking toward zero. I was the only man in the state who knew how to disarm it. And because Lexi had a grudge and a big mouth, I was in silver bracelets. The clock was at twenty-nine minutes. … “Officer, this is a massive mistake!” I was being hauled toward the command van, my wrists screaming as the cuffs bit into the bone. “I’m Sam Mercer, Federal EOD! Badge number 079-527! Call the field office! Verify it!” Captain Briggs flipped through my wallet, eyeing the ID. He looked at the gear scattered on the asphalt and then back at me. “You can buy these badges at a flea market, kid,” he said, tossing my life’s work into an evidence bag. “You say you’re an expert, but your own colleague says you’re carrying illegal detonators. How do you explain that?” “There are no detonators! Those are pliers and nitrogen canisters!” I twisted my head, catching sight of Lexi three yards away. She was leaning against another cruiser, scrolling through her phone, looking about as traumatized as someone waiting for a latte. “Lexi! Tell them the truth! You know exactly what’s in that kit!” Lexi looked up, her face melting back into that mask of “innocent girl.” “Sam, how would I know?” she cooed, her voice so sweet it was sickening. “I just saw all those weird wires and things… and then you started talking about the building coming down. I was just so scared for my life.” “I never said that! We were talking about the blast radius!” My temples were throbbing. Briggs held up a hand, cutting me off. “Threatening an act of terror at a high-profile target? Lock him in the van until we get a hit on his prints.” “Wait! Listen to me!” I dug my heels into the pavement, refusing to move. “There is a Ghost-7 in the basement. There are only three people in the country who can crack that fuse. One is in London, one died in the line of duty last month, and I’m the third.” Briggs paused. “I know your local EOD lead, Merlin,” I pressed. “He’s a good man, but he can’t handle a Ghost-7. The fuse is a triple-nested sequence. If he uses a standard bypass, it’ll trigger a secondary tremor. Give me twenty minutes. If I don’t clear it, you can bury me under the prison.” Briggs looked at his comms officer. “What’s the status inside?” The officer listened to his headset for a second, his face draining of color. “Sir, Merlin says… he’s never seen this configuration. He tried a bypass and almost triggered a jump in the timer.” A flicker of hope sparked in my chest. “You see? I’m telling you the truth! Let me in there!” But Lexi chose that moment to saunter over. “Officer, you really shouldn’t believe a word he says,” she whispered, leaning close to Briggs. “He’s a compulsive liar. At the office, he spends all day bragging about being ‘number one,’ but he’s really just a washed-up hack on the verge of being fired.” She tilted her head, looking at me with feigned pity. “The truth is, he’s been having a mental breakdown. Our boss talked to him last month about a mandatory psych leave. Does that sound like the kind of man you want touching a bomb?” Briggs’s eyes hardened. The hope I’d felt vanished, replaced by a cold, leaden weight. “Lexi, for the love of god!” I roared. “This isn’t a game! There are hundreds of people in there!” “See?” Lexi whispered, shrinking back. “The instability. He just snaps. It’s honestly terrifying to work with him.” Briggs didn’t wait. “Get him out of my sight. Throw him in the command van and wait for the feds to call back.” As they dragged me away, I looked over my shoulder at the hotel. In the lobby, I could see groups of kids in sequins and tuxedos being ushered toward the exits. It was the finals of the National Youth Piano Competition. Three hundred kids. Their parents. Their dreams. And twenty-six minutes left on the clock. Inside the command van, I was cuffed to a metal rail. Briggs sat across from me, staring at my phone. “Sam Mercer… Federal EOD…” he muttered into his radio. “Dispatch, I need a priority background check on a Sam Mercer, ID 079-527.” Static hissed back. No immediate answer. “Captain, please,” I said, my voice cracking. “The clock is ticking. At least let me talk to Merlin. I can walk him through it over a video call!” Briggs hesitated, his hand moving toward the radio. The van door slid open. Lexi poked her head in, holding her own phone like a trophy. “Captain? Before you do anything, I have something you need to see.” Briggs frowned. “What now?” Lexi stepped in, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. “I wanted to apologize. I was a little… dramatic outside. Sam is technically an expert. I shouldn’t have lied about the detonators.” Briggs’s jaw tightened. Before he could explode, she kept going. “But… I did it because I was afraid you wouldn’t take me seriously. The truth is, Sam caused a massive accident during a training exercise three months ago. He nearly killed three teammates. He’s been on administrative leave, but he’s been stalking the office, saying he was going to ‘show them all’ what a real explosion looks like.” I felt like the floor had dropped out from under me. “Lexi, you lying bitch! You were the one who tripped the sensor during training! If I hadn’t pushed those guys out of the way, they’d be in the ground!” I lunged forward, the chair rattling against the floor as the cuffs jerked my arm back. Lexi flinched, her eyes instantly welling with tears. “You see? The rage. He’s obsessed with blaming me for his failures. Captain, I’m scared he brought me here today just so I’d be at the center of the blast.” Briggs looked at me like I was a rabid dog. A disgraced, mentally unstable tech with a box of tools and a grudge. It was a perfect, terrifying narrative. “Take him to the precinct,” Briggs ordered. “Captain! She’s lying!” I was screaming now. “Check my personnel file! There are no reprimands! I have a clean record!” “We’ll check,” Briggs said coldly. “But until we do, you aren’t going anywhere.” I slumped back into the seat, the reality of it hitting me like a physical blow. “Why?” I whispered, staring at Lexi. “Why are you doing this? There are kids in there, Lexi. Real people.” Lexi waited until Briggs turned his back to answer a radio call. The tears vanished. Her face went blank, then sharpened into something jagged and mean. She leaned in close, her voice a low venomous hiss. “Why? You really have to ask?” “You embarrassed me, Sam. You dressed me down in front of the whole unit for a ‘minor mistake’ during training. Do you have any idea how many people mocked me on the group chat after that? Even Ben from Tactical—he actually liked me until you told everyone I was a ‘liability.’ You ruined my reputation. You ruined my chances with him. Now, I’m going to make sure you never work in this town again.” It was so petty it was surreal. I had yelled at her because she was on her phone during a live-fire drill and nearly blew four people to pieces. “Lexi, we’re talking about hundreds of lives.” She pulled out a lipstick and checked her reflection in her phone. “Don’t get all high and mighty with me. I’m just here for the three-month internship to get my credit and move to my uncle’s office at City Hall. I don’t care about your ‘duty.’ Only a loser like you spends his life crawling toward bombs.” A frantic pounding on the van door interrupted her. A comms officer burst in, his face white. “Captain! Merlin failed the second bypass! He says the fuse has an anti-tamper chip his gear can’t read! The timer just jumped. We have twenty-one minutes!” “Twenty-one minutes?” I surged up again, my wrist bleeding where the metal scraped the skin. “Let me in! I have the bypass codes for that chip! They’re on my phone!” Briggs looked at my phone, then at the chaos outside. “Captain, send ten officers with me! Keep a gun to the back of my head if you want!” I pleaded. “But don’t let those people die for a petty grudge!” Briggs wavered. He looked at Lexi. “The codes he’s talking about—do you know anything about them?” Lexi shrugged. “He’s probably making it up. He just wants to get closer to the device to finish the job. Just wait for the official word from headquarters.” “There’s no time!” I roared. “The verification will take thirty minutes. The building will be a crater by then! Let me make one call! To my Chief! He’ll tell you!” Briggs stared at the blood on my wrist. Finally, he looked at his officer. “Unlock one of his hands. Let him call. But watch him.” I grabbed my phone. The screen lit up with thirty-plus missed messages from my boss, Chief Sullivan. [Where the hell are you, Mercer?] [Local EOD is drowning!] [You’re the only one with Ghost-7 experience!] [Pick up the damn phone!] The last one was a voice note. I hit play on speaker. Sullivan’s gravelly, panicked voice filled the van. “Sam! Where are you?! Merlin’s pulling his team out—he says the structure is unrecognizable! If you aren’t there in twenty minutes, the whole east wing is coming down! We’ve got kids still being evacuated! You’re the only one who can stop this! I’ve talked to the Commissioner’s office, and they’re clearing your entry now! WHERE ARE YOU?!” Silence fell over the van. Even Lexi looked momentarily stunned. Briggs reached for the phone, his brow furrowed. “This Sullivan… he’s Federal?” “Yes! Chief of EOD! Call him back right now!” Briggs’s thumb hovered over the call button. “Wait,” Lexi snapped. She stood up, pointing at the screen. “Captain, look at the contact photo. It’s just a gray silhouette. No official verification. Anyone can change a contact name to ‘Chief.’ And that voice? There are AI apps that can mimic any voice for twenty bucks. He’s playing you.” Briggs froze. “Just call the number!” I screamed. “It’s one phone call!” But Lexi grabbed Briggs’s arm. “Think about it. If he’s such an expert, why did his own intern report him? Why was he acting so suspicious at the gate? He’s a pro—he knows how to stage a cover story.” Briggs pulled his hand back. “Keep him locked down. We wait for the official channel.” “No! We can’t wait!” I lunged for the phone, the chain of the handcuffs snapping taut. “Let me talk to him! If you don’t believe me, talk to him yourself! People are going to die!” Briggs stood up and walked toward the door. “Sit down. When the feds confirm your story, you’ll be the first to know.” “It’ll be too late!” As the words left my mouth, a sound like the world cracking open shattered the air. BOOM.

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