The professor was halfway through the attendance sheet when the ice settled in my chest. He hadn’t called Parker’s name. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice cutting through the hum of the lecture hall. “I think you skipped Parker. Parker Ward. He’s in this section.” Professor Miller didn’t even look up from his tablet. His brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing his face. “Please don’t disrupt the lesson, Mr. Payne. There is no Parker Ward on the roster for this course. There never has been.” I felt a ripple of confusion move through the room. I looked around, waiting for someone to laugh, for someone to say, Good one, Prof. But my classmates just stared at me with blank, pitying expressions. They nodded along with him. After class, my two other roommates, Brooks and Beckett, caught up with me in the hallway. They were pale, their eyes darting around like they were looking for an exit from a nightmare. “The housing list,” Brooks whispered, pulling me into a corner. “I checked the digital directory for our suite. Parker’s name is gone.” “Everything in his room,” Beckett added, his voice trembling. “His clothes, his laptop, that stupid neon sign he bought—it’s all gone. It’s like the room was professionally sanitized. There’s no trace of him anywhere on campus.” The three of us spent the next hour in a frantic, sweating blur, checking the registrar, the library, the student union. Nothing. But the real horror started the next morning. I woke up and went to class, my head throbbing. I waited for Brooks to show up—he was always five minutes early to Lit. But the seat next to me stayed empty. When the professor finished roll call, I stood up, my chair screeching against the floor. “Professor, where is Brooks? Brooks Sullivan?” The man looked at me with a tired, impatient sneer. “There is no Brooks Sullivan in this class. If you continue this disruptive behavior, you will be removed from the program permanently.” By the third day, the last of them was gone. I stood in the center of our empty suite, looking at the four identical beds. Only mine had sheets. Only mine had a life. The silence was heavy, pressing against my eardrums. I knew. I was next. 1 Parker’s disappearance had been surgical. Just thirty minutes before that first class, I had been shaking him awake, telling him he was going to be late. I could still smell the faint scent of his cologne in the air. And yet, now, not a single person in our cohort claimed to know him. The university database returned a “No Record Found” error for his student ID. A cold sweat broke across my skin. I sprinted back to the dorms, ignoring the shouts of the RA. I burst into our suite, heading straight for Parker’s bed. It was bare. The mattress was covered in a thin, plastic film, as if it had just been delivered from a warehouse. The nameplate on the door, which used to have all four of our names printed in Beckett’s neat handwriting, now only listed three. Brooks and Beckett came running in behind me, breathless. “Go back to class,” Brooks said, grabbing my shoulders. He was the steady one, the pre-med student who always had a plan. “We’ll figure this out. There has to be a logical explanation. A glitch, a prank—something.” I didn’t have a choice. I went back to the lecture hall, my mind a static-filled mess. Just as I reached the door, Brooks realized he’d forgotten his keys in the room. He turned back, disappearing down the dorm hallway. When he finally walked into the classroom twenty minutes later, he wasn’t the Brooks I knew. His eyes were hard, fixed straight ahead. He sat three rows away from me. I approached him after the lecture. “Brooks, man, did you find anything?” He turned on me, his fingers digging into my collar, slamming me back against the chalkboard. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. “Don’t you ever say that name again,” he hissed. “There is no Parker Ward. There has never been a Parker Ward. If you keep spreading these delusions, I will make sure you regret it.” The fire in his eyes chilled me to the bone. Beckett rushed over and pulled him off me. “What is wrong with you? We were supposed to find him together!” “Enough!” Brooks’s eyes were bloodshot. “I don’t know who the hell you’re talking about. Both of you—stop this psych-ward bullshit right now.” I caught Beckett’s eye and gave a small, subtle shake of my head. “You’re right,” I said, my voice hollow. “We don’t know a Parker.” Brooks’s breathing slowed. The tension left his shoulders, and he walked away as if nothing had happened. It was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. I followed him from a distance for the rest of the day. He went to the dining hall, he studied in the library, he scrolled through his phone. He was perfectly, eerily normal. The next morning, I rushed to the classroom, my heart hammering against my ribs. Brooks wasn’t there. The dread became a physical weight, crushing my lungs. After the professor finished the list, I raised my hand, my fingers shaking. “Professor… Brooks Sullivan isn’t here.” The entire class turned to look at me. It was the same look—the blank stare of people watching a car crash. “Who?” someone whispered. “Who is Brooks Sullivan? I’ve never heard that name,” the professor said, his voice flat. I couldn’t take the gaslighting anymore. I screamed. “What are you doing? How can you not know him? He was literally sitting right there yesterday! I’m calling him right now!” I pulled out my phone, scrolling frantically through my contacts. The names were gone. Parker, Brooks—both gone. I checked Instagram, my call logs, my texts. All the threads were deleted. When I manually typed in Brooks’s number, the automated voice told me the line had been disconnected for years. I stood there, paralyzed, the phone slipping from my numb fingers. “Mr. Payne,” the professor barked, his face flushed with anger. “I warned you yesterday. This ends now. Leave this room and do not come back until you’ve seen a specialist.” 2 Beckett caught me in the hall, dragging me toward the stairwell. “Chester, listen to me,” he whispered, his eyes wide with terror. “Don’t lose it. We’ll find them. They’re real. I know they’re real. Two grown men don’t just evaporate. We’ll look together.” I sat down on the steps, burying my face in my hands, trying to catch my breath. A moment later, Beckett stood up abruptly. “Damn it, I forgot my thumb drive. I have that presentation in ten minutes. I have to run back to the room.” The memory of Brooks turning back for his keys flashed through my mind like a warning light. I grabbed Beckett’s wrist, my grip desperate. “Don’t go back there,” I begged. “Something happens in that room. Stay here. Stay with me.” Beckett pulled his hand away, offering a weak, sad smile. “It’s just a USB, Chester. I’ll be right back. I’m not going anywhere, I promise. We’re in this together.” I sat in the hallway, counting the seconds. Ten minutes. Twenty. The class ended, and students poured out of the room. Beckett didn’t come back until the very end of the period. “Did you get it?” I asked, standing up. “Are we going to the campus security office now?” Beckett looked at me with a strange, distant expression. “Go where? And who are ‘they’? Look, Chester, you need to get a grip. It’s just been the two of us in that suite since move-in day. Stop trying to make up people.” The world tilted. I felt like I was falling upward. “Beckett, stop it! What did you see in that room? Who talked to you?” “I said drop it!” Beckett’s teeth ground together. He balled his hands into fists. “You promised me! You said you wouldn’t leave me alone in this!” Beckett lunged. He didn’t just push me; he swung, his fist connecting with my jaw. I hit the floor, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth. When I looked up, his face was a twitching mess of anger and—was that fear? Deep, primal terror masked by violence? “I said there is nobody else!” he roared. “Mention them again, and I’ll do more than hit you!” I scrambled to my feet, backing away. “Fine. You don’t want to look? I’ll do it myself.” For a split second, the anger in Beckett’s eyes vanished, replaced by a devastating, haunting look of pity. He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. “Don’t go back there,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You’ll regret it. Just… just stay here.” I shoved him off and ran. From that moment on, Beckett became my shadow. He followed me everywhere—to the cafeteria, to the library, even standing outside the bathroom stalls. He was like a jailer, his eyes never leaving me. I walked back into our dorm, and the nameplate on the door now had only two names: Beckett & Chester. A cold shiver crawled up my spine. Three days ago, four of us lived here. Now, two were ghosts, and the third was a hollowed-out version of a friend. Was I losing my mind? Was this some elaborate psychological experiment? The next morning, the silence in the room was deafening. I sat up in bed. Beckett’s bunk was empty. He must have gone to wash up. I knew I was running out of time. I moved quickly. I set up my DSLR camera on my desk, hidden behind a stack of textbooks, its lens pointed directly at the doorway and the empty beds. I hit Record. I had to know what happened in the silence. I slipped out of the room just as Beckett was coming back, his towel over his shoulder. He glared at me, his eyes dark. “Trying to sneak off?” “Just going to breakfast,” I said, my voice steady. In class, Beckett sat behind me, his eyes boring into the back of my head. I felt like a prisoner being led to the gallows. As we walked into the lecture hall, Beckett gave me a sharp shove. “Get in there. Don’t try anything stupid.” I stumbled forward, caught my balance, and turned around to snap something back at him. But the doorway was empty. Beckett was gone. 3 My heart dropped into my stomach. I didn’t think. I sprinted back into the hallway. “Beckett!” I screamed. The corridor was empty. I ran to the stairwell, then down to the lobby. Nothing. He had been right behind me. He hadn’t had time to go anywhere. I saw a guy from our hall walking toward the elevators. I grabbed his arm, nearly shaking him. “Did you see Beckett? Beckett Simon? He was just here!” The guy looked at me like I was a rabid dog. “Who? I don’t know any Beckett. You okay, man? You look like you’re having a stroke.” The buzzing in my ears turned into a roar. I knew. I knew exactly what I would find. I ran all the way back to the dorms, my lungs burning. I burst through the door of our suite, and the chill hit me like a physical wall. Beckett’s side of the room was bare. His bedding, his posters, his shoes—gone. The mattress was wrapped in that same sterile plastic. It looked like nobody had lived there in years. I turned to my camera. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely press the playback button. The video started. It showed the empty room, the sunlight shifting across the floor. Then, the door was kicked open. Suddenly, the screen went black. Static hissed and popped. I tried to fast-forward, to rewind, but the footage was corrupted. All I could see in the final frames, before the sensor failed entirely, was a shadow on the floor. A shadow of someone standing in the doorway. I walked to the door. The nameplate had changed again. Chester. Just me. My final deadline. I was staring at the name when the door swung open again. A guy I didn’t recognize stood there, holding a duffel bag. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, sounding annoyed. “What are you doing in my room?” I stared at him, my brain refusing to process the words. “Your room? This is my suite. I live here with—” “Look, I don’t know what you’re on,” he snapped, stepping inside and dropping his bag on Beckett’s old bed. “But I just moved in. Get your stuff and get out. This is a single-occupancy unit now.” “No,” I whispered. “You’re lying. You’re all lying!” I lost it. I shoved past him and sprinted toward the academic building. I didn’t care about the consequences anymore. I burst into the lecture hall in the middle of a senior seminar. “I know what’s happening!” I screamed, my voice raw. “My roommates didn’t just leave! Someone is erasing them! There’s an intruder in my room right now—he’s the one! If you help me catch him, we can find them!” The room was silent. Fifty pairs of eyes stared at me, but none of them held recognition. The professor walked down from the podium, his face tight with concern. “Son, you need to go back to your own department. You don’t belong in this class.” I felt my knees give out. I hit the floor. “I was here yesterday. I sat right there. We talked about the midterm.” “I’ve never seen you before in my life,” the professor said softly. I grabbed the attendance sheet from his hand. I scanned the names, my eyes blurred with tears. My name wasn’t there. I pulled out my phone and logged into the university portal. Invalid User. I wasn’t a student. I wasn’t a resident. I didn’t exist. I ran out of the building, heading for the dorms one last time. I had to get back into that room. But the security guard at the front desk stepped into my path. “No ID, no entry,” he said, his voice like gravel. “I live here! Room 402!” “Kid, I’ve been on this shift for three years. I’ve never seen your face. Move along before I call the cops.” I tried to push past him, but he grabbed my arm, his fingers like iron. I fought him, kicking and screaming, fueled by a frantic, jagged energy. “Let me in! They’re in there! My friends are in there!” A crowd began to gather. “Who is that?” someone asked. “Never seen him.” I looked around at the circle of strangers, and then my eyes snagged on something in the corner of the lobby. A small, familiar stack of papers on the security desk. I started to laugh. It was a jagged, ugly sound. “You can stop the act now,” I said, breathing hard. “I see it. I finally see the truth.” 4 The guard let out a heavy sigh, looking at me with pure disdain. “Look, kid. You’re clearly having a breakdown. You can’t get past the turnstile. Your face isn’t in the system. Just go.” He let go of my arm and stepped back, gesturing toward the scanner. I stepped up to it. The red light flashed. Access Denied. “See?” he said. “Nothing.” I didn’t back down. I pointed toward the desk, at the wastepaper basket tucked underneath. “If you’re not lying, then explain those.” I reached over and grabbed a handful of discarded papers. They were the old housing lists—the ones that had been posted on our door every day. “My name is right here! Chester Payne! Room 402!” I held the papers up like a shield. “I knew it. Every time one of them disappeared, you switched the list. You deleted them from the system, then you moved on to me. You’re trying to make me believe I’m a ghost!” The guard’s face went from annoyed to genuinely angry. “You little prick. You’re the one who’s been doing it! You’ve been coming in here every night, taping your own fake lists over the official ones. I’ve had to tear down a new one every morning.” He turned his monitor around and pulled up the security footage from the hallway. The video played. It showed the hallway outside Room 402. But in the video, I was always alone. I was the one walking in and out. I was the one taping the names to the door. I was the one talking to thin air in the cafeteria. The guy who had “moved into my room” stepped forward from the crowd. “I’ve been home on family leave for three weeks. I just got back today and found you sleeping in my bed. You’re a freak, man.” The world began to spin. A nauseating vertigo took hold. Was I the one? Was my memory a fractured, beautiful lie? The crowd pushed me toward the exit. I stumbled out onto the sidewalk, the cold autumn air biting at my skin. I stood there, staring at the brick facade of the university. Was everything—the late-night study sessions, the jokes, the brotherhood—just a dream? I turned to walk away, to disappear into the city, but then I heard it. A faint, electronic beep. The security gate behind me had cycled. A student was walking out. As the gate swung shut, the facial recognition camera caught me in its periphery. Verified. The gate clicked open again. My heart nearly stopped. The system recognized me. I was a student. They were lying. All of them. The video was a deepfake, the housing lists were a distraction. They were trying to break me. I didn’t think. I ran. I spent the entire day scouring the campus like a ghost. I checked every bathroom stall, every locker, every dusty corner of the library. I was looking for a footprint, a forgotten pen, anything. I found nothing. No records in the clubs we joined. No names in the registers of the coffee shops we frequented. I was ready to give up. I sat down in a patch of dirt behind the dorms, my head in my hands. And then, something caught the light. Hidden in the overgrown weeds of the landscaping, I saw a flash of plastic. I reached down and pulled out three student ID cards. Parker Ward. Brooks Sullivan. Beckett Simon. My heart hammered against my ribs. I screamed with a mix of terror and triumph. “They exist! They’re real!” The IDs were dusty, but the faces were unmistakable. This was proof. I knew I couldn’t go to the police—not yet. The school had too much power. I did the only thing a twenty-year-old in 2026 knows how to do. I started a livestream. My hands were shaking so hard the camera was a blur. “Please, if anyone is watching, help me! My roommates have been taken. The university is covering it up. They’re telling me these people never existed!” I held the three IDs up to the lens. “Look! I found these hidden on campus! They’re in danger! A-State University is erasing its students!” The viewer count exploded. The comments began scrolling so fast I couldn’t read them. Is this a prank? Look at those IDs, they look legit. Someone call the cops on that school! Within twenty minutes, campus security descended on me. They didn’t even try to be gentle. They tackled me, pinned my face into the dirt, and dragged me toward the administration building. I was shoved into the Dean’s office. He was red-faced, trembling with fury. “You have no idea the damage you’ve done,” he hissed, pointing a finger at me. “Spreading these lies, manufacturing evidence—” “Lies?” I spat, throwing the IDs onto his mahogany desk. “Explain those. Explain why their faces are on your school’s IDs if they don’t exist!” The Dean stared at the cards. His expression shifted from anger to a cold, hard pity. “Chester,” he said quietly. “Look at the dates on those cards.” I picked one up. I looked at the issue date. September 2018. I froze. “That’s… that’s a typo.” “No,” the Dean said. “It’s 2026, Chester. Those men would have graduated years ago. They haven’t been students here in a very long time.” I backed away, my wrist hitting the edge of the desk. My watch—the heavy, silver watch the guys had given me for my 19th birthday—caught the light. “No,” I whispered. “They gave me this. Last month. For my birthday.” “Chester,” the Dean said, stepping around the desk. “You aren’t a student here anymore. You haven’t been for years.” I turned to run, but the door opened before I could reach it.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “417796”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

As a top-tier Operative for the System, my current assignment was simple: capture the heart of this world’s male lead. To conquer Troy Croft, I operated on a simple, reverse-engineered principle: relentless devotion breaks the hardest stone. Day in and day out, I threw myself at him, manufacturing encounters, pushing boundaries, and tangling myself in his sheets. I firmly believed that if I poured enough heat into him, even a man made of absolute ice would eventually melt. Tonight, I was playing my greatest hit. I had him pinned against the leather sofa, my fingers deftly undoing the buttons of his immaculately tailored dress shirt. Just as his breathing began to fray, just as that dark, consuming haze of lust finally clouded his eyes, the System’s alarm violently shattered the inside of my skull. [Warning! Target allocation error!] [Troy Croft is the designated antagonist of this narrative. He is a cold-blooded sociopath who fundamentally despises being touched or pursued. If you continue this seduction, he will tear you apart until there is nothing left but ash!] [The true male lead is about to enter the timeline. Host, you must disengage immediately and prepare for the new objective!] My body went rigid. For two agonizing seconds, the silence in the room was deafening. Then, without a shred of hesitation, I unhooked my leg from around his waist. I rolled off him with practiced efficiency, scooping up my scattered clothes from the rug and pulling them over my chilled skin. I was halfway to the door when a hand clamped around my wrist. The heat of his palm was like a branding iron. Troy’s brow was deeply furrowed. Beneath the heavy, lingering veil of interrupted desire in his eyes, a dark, dangerous displeasure was rapidly boiling to the surface. “Why did you stop?” 1. I stared down at the hand manacling my wrist. His nails were neatly trimmed, the faint, abrasive calluses on his palms digging into my fragile bones. His grip was absolute. “I just remembered… I left the gas burner on at my apartment.” It was the cheapest, most pathetic lie I could have conjured. Troy let out a low, breathy scoff. He sat up slowly, his unbuttoned shirt falling open to reveal the sharp planes of his chest. A single bead of sweat traced the line of his collarbone, vanishing into the shadows. “Belinda,” he murmured, his voice deadly soft. “What do you take me for?” With one violent yank, I was pulled backward, crashing hard against his chest. The solid muscle bruised my nose, making my eyes water. “Let me go, Troy.” I forced my expression into a mask of ice. If the System said he was going to grind my bones to dust, then every second I remained in his orbit was another shovelful of dirt on my own grave. The lust bled out of his eyes in an instant, replaced by a layer of frost that made the air in the room drop ten degrees. “Weren’t you just saying, less than five minutes ago, that you couldn’t live a single day of this life without me?” I twisted violently, wrenching myself from his grasp. “I was out of my mind. I’ve sobered up.” I snatched my purse from the armchair and bolted out the front door of the penthouse without a backward glance. As soon as the biting night wind hit my face, a violent shiver racked my spine. Inside my head, the System was frantic. [New target localized: Patrick Craig. Wall Street wunderkind, old money elite. He is currently attending a private celebration at Obsidian.] [Please note, Host: Patrick is your true destiny. Troy is nothing but a psychotic roadblock hindering your progress.] I flagged down a yellow cab, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Obsidian. Step on it.” The heavy bass of the club’s sound system vibrated through the floorboards as I stood at the end of the VIP corridor, staring at the door the System had highlighted in neon blue in my mind’s eye. I pushed the heavy oak door open. The room was thick with the smell of expensive bourbon and cigar smoke. Sitting dead center was a man in a deep navy suit. His features were elegant, refined, radiating an effortless, aristocratic warmth. Patrick Craig. He was leaning down to listen to someone beside him, a gentle, easy smile playing on his lips. This. This was the blueprint of a perfect male lead. Not like Troy, who walked around with a permanent scowl, looking as if the entire world owed him a billion dollars in blood money. I took a deep breath, grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, and glided toward him. “Mr. Craig. I’ve heard so much about you.” I executed my signature move—a perfectly calculated slip of the heel, sending me tumbling gracefully toward his chest. It was a classic trope, but it had a hundred percent success rate. Except, a hand caught my shoulder before I could reach him. The grip was brutal, immovable. It wasn’t Patrick’s. I whipped my head around. Troy’s shadow fell over me, his face a storm of quiet fury. I had no idea how he had followed me so fast. He was completely put together now, his shirt buttoned up to his throat, the picture of lethal composure. “Did you turn off the gas, Ms. Belinda?” He was smiling, but he was grinding his teeth so hard I could hear the enamel squeak. Every syllable was spat with venom. The room plunged into sudden silence. Patrick looked at us, his brow raised in mild confusion. “Troy? Who is this?” Troy didn’t look at him. His pitch-black eyes were locked onto mine, drilling into my skull. “Just a lunatic who walked into the wrong room.” He hauled me out of the VIP lounge by my arm, his grip so vicious I thought he might actually dislocate my shoulder. “Troy, are you out of your mind?!” I finally managed to rip my arm free as we hit the empty hallway. The flickering neon lights from the main floor made my head spin. He backed me into the corner, planting both hands flat against the wall on either side of my head, caging me in. “You ran away from me… for that?” he sneered, his chest heaving. “That’s your standard now?” I let out a harsh laugh. “What’s wrong with Patrick? He’s gentle. He’s considerate. Unlike some people who don’t even know how the muscles in their face form a smile.” Troy’s face morphed into something truly terrifying. He leaned in until his forehead was resting heavily against mine, trapping my breath in my throat. “Belinda. You chased me for three months. You sent me ninety-nine arrangements of black roses. You waited in the lobby of my building for two weeks straight just to bring me coffee. And now you’re telling me you’ve swapped me out?” I averted my eyes, a wave of genuine guilt washing over me. I had only done all of that for the mission. How was I supposed to know the System had a glitch? “I was blind,” I whispered to his chest. “I’m cured now.” I pushed against his sternum. He felt like a wall of solid granite. He didn’t budge an inch. “Cured?” He let out a low, rough laugh. It didn’t reach his eyes. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. “Let me help you relapse.” He lunged. It wasn’t a kiss. His teeth sank into the tender flesh of my neck, right over the pulse point. The sharp, metallic tang of blood instantly flooded the narrow space between us. 2. A sharp cry tore from my throat. “Troy! Are you a rabid dog?!” I shoved at his shoulders with everything I had, but the harder I fought, the tighter he crushed me against his body, until the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hall. Patrick emerged from the shadows. “Troy, I don’t think that’s a very gentlemanly way to treat a lady.” Troy finally released me. I brought a trembling hand to my neck, feeling the wet, perfectly curved imprint of his teeth. He turned slowly, shifting his broad shoulders to completely block me from Patrick’s view. “Patrick. Mind your own goddamn business.” Patrick calmly adjusted his cuffs. “The lady doesn’t look like she wants to go with you.” He extended a hand toward me, his eyes kind. “Do you need some help?” The System shrieked in my ears: [Now! Take his hand! This is a massive opportunity to farm affinity points!] I stepped around Troy’s imposing frame and walked straight toward Patrick. Troy’s face went deadly pale. A violent, volatile rage swirled in his dark eyes. “Belinda. Take one more step. I dare you.” I ignored him entirely, slipping my arm through Patrick’s. “Mr. Craig, could you give me a ride home?” Patrick offered a reassuring smile. “It would be my pleasure.” Patrick’s car rode smooth, the cabin smelling faintly of sandalwood and expensive leather. “Your friend back there… he seems to have quite a strong opinion of you,” Patrick remarked casually, his eyes on the road. I rubbed my aching wrist, staring out the window at the blurred city lights. “Just an ex-pursuer. He doesn’t know how to take a hint.” The System chimed brightly: [Patrick Craig Affinity +5. Current Total: 5.] I let out a long exhale. So this was how the game was supposed to be played. Smooth, rational, elegant. When we pulled up to my apartment building, Patrick stepped out to open my door. “Belinda, if you don’t mind, I’d love to get your number.” I pulled out my phone. Just as the screen lit up, a blinding set of high beams cut through the darkness. A sleek black Bentley roared down the quiet street, accelerating to a terrifying speed, aiming straight for the rear of Patrick’s car. Crash! The deafening sound of crunching metal shattered the quiet night. The entire trunk of Patrick’s luxury sedan caved in like a crushed soda can. The Bentley lurched to a halt. The driver’s side door swung open, and Troy stepped out into the street. He was holding a solid titanium golf club. His face was a mask of chilling apathy. “My apologies,” he said, his voice carrying over the hissing radiator. “My foot slipped off the brake.” He stared at Patrick with a calmness that made my blood run entirely cold. Patrick’s polite veneer cracked. “Are you insane, Croft? That’s attempted vehicular manslaughter.” Troy scoffed. He dragged the heavy head of the golf club against the asphalt, the metal shrieking as he walked slowly toward us. “File a police report. Let’s see which precinct in this city has the guts to process the paperwork.” He stopped, turning his dead eyes toward me. “Come here.” My feet were glued to the pavement. I couldn’t breathe. “Troy, you need psychiatric help.” Without warning, he swung the club in a vicious arc. The remaining taillight on Patrick’s car exploded into a shower of red glass, raining down on the pavement. “Belinda. I will say it one last time. Come here.” He spoke so softly, but the sheer gravity in his voice made my spine tingle with primal fear. The System was losing its digital mind: [Warning! Troy Croft’s corruption meter is critical! Host, placate him immediately, or the timeline will collapse!] I looked at Patrick, who was visibly shaken, and then back at Troy, who looked ready to burn the entire block to the ground. I swallowed the lump in my throat and walked toward the man holding the golf club. “I’ll go with you. Just… stop this.” Troy dropped the club. It clattered against the street. He gripped my waist, his fingers digging into my hips, and shoved me into the passenger seat of the ruined Bentley. 3. The locks clicked down instantly. He circled the car, dropped into the driver’s seat, and floored the accelerator. The sudden G-force pinned me to the seat, making the city lights streak into blinding lines. He didn’t take me to the townhouse we usually frequented. He took me to a sterile, minimalist penthouse high above the skyline. It felt less like a home and more like a beautifully curated glass cage. He dragged me inside, threw me onto the massive bed, and caged me in with his body. “What kind of sick game are you playing, Belinda?” He caught my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You crawl into my bed, and the very next second you’re throwing yourself at Patrick Craig?” I stared blankly past his shoulder, fixing my eyes on the modern chandelier overhead. “I told you. I don’t want you anymore.” “Troy, you hated it when I smothered you. I’m finally letting you go. You should be throwing a parade.” He leaned down, his face mere inches from mine, his breathing ragged. “Who gave you permission to let go?” “You forced your way into my life, and now you think you can just walk out?” He began tearing at my clothes with a frenzied, desperate energy. Gone was the tightly-wound, calculated CEO. This was a man unraveling. “You started this, Belinda.” He crashed his mouth over mine. It was a suffocating, punishing kiss, laced with dominance and a terrifying undercurrent of grief. I thrashed beneath him, but he easily captured both my wrists in one large hand, pinning them above my head. “Let me go…” “Troy, if you do this, I will hate you.” He froze. For a heartbeat, the air was entirely still. Then, a broken, hollow laugh tumbled from his lips. “Then hate me. Hate me with everything you have. It’s infinitely better than you forgetting me.” When I woke up the next morning, the space beside me was empty and cold. A heavy, metallic band was locked securely around my left ankle. It had a blinking red LED light. A custom GPS monitor. If I tried to tamper with it, it would scream. I tugged at it. It didn’t yield a millimeter. He had put me under house arrest. The System sighed dramatically in my mind. [Host… Patrick’s affinity just dropped to 3. He thinks you’re toxic drama. You need to get out of here, or the mission will officially fail.] I stared at the morning sunlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “And how exactly do I do that? Sprout wings and fly off the balcony?” The bedroom door clicked open. A woman in a neat uniform walked in, carrying a silver breakfast tray. “Ms. Belinda. Mr. Croft left instructions that you are to finish everything on this plate.” I eyed the housekeeper. “Where is he?” “Mr. Croft is at the office.” I didn’t argue. I picked up the silver spoon and took a bite of the oatmeal, my brain working in overdrive. Troy was a paranoid obsessive. Fighting him head-on would only make him tighten the leash. I had to stroke the lion’s mane, lull him into a false sense of security, and wait for the cage door to crack open. For the next few days, I played the perfect, docile pet. When he came home, I would walk up to him and wrap my arms around his waist. When he brought his laptop to the living room, I sat on his lap and fed him fruit. The way he looked at me grew darker, deeper. Beneath the possessive fury, there were flashes of a desperate, intoxicating tenderness. “If you had just been this good from the beginning, you wouldn’t have had to suffer,” he murmured one evening, his long fingers absentmindedly stroking my cheek. I leaned into his palm, closing my eyes. “I was wrong, Troy. I realized Patrick doesn’t hold a candle to you.” A flicker of raw triumph crossed his eyes. It was fleeting, but I caught it. “Then prove it.” The next evening, he unlocked the monitor from my ankle and took me as his date to the Croft Enterprise Annual Gala. 4. Patrick was there. When he saw me draped on Troy’s arm, his expression tightened with a messy cocktail of pity and confusion. Troy held my waist in a vice grip, parading me through the ballroom like a king showing off the crown jewels. “Go offer Mr. Craig a drink,” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Show him exactly whose woman you are.” I took a flute of champagne and walked toward Patrick. I could feel the weight of Troy’s gaze burning into my spine. Patrick lowered his voice the moment I was close enough. “Belinda, if he’s holding you against your will, blink twice. I have lawyers. I can call the police.” I offered a perfectly manicured smile. “You’re overthinking it, Patrick. Troy and I just… enjoy playing rough.” I leaned in, brushing my shoulder against his, and dropped my voice to a barely audible whisper. “Do me a favor. Tomorrow at 3:00 PM. Have your car waiting in the service alley behind the Croft building.” Patrick stiffened. I didn’t give him a chance to respond. I tipped the champagne back, swallowed it down, and walked straight back into Troy’s waiting arms. Troy looked thoroughly satisfied. Right in the middle of the crowded ballroom, he tilted my chin up and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to my forehead. “Good girl.” The System chimed in: [Patrick Craig Affinity restored to 10. You’ve triggered his white-knight complex. Brilliant play, Host.] The next afternoon, Troy had a mandatory, closed-door boardroom meeting with his international investors. He left me in his sprawling executive office, placing two massive security guards outside the double doors. I sat on the white leather sofa, flipping through a magazine. “I’m craving an iced matcha from the cafe downstairs,” I called out, showing one of the guards a picture on my phone. The guard shifted uncomfortably. “Ms. Belinda, Mr. Croft gave strict orders—” “He told you to keep an eye on me, he didn’t say you had to starve me. It’s a two-minute elevator ride. One of you goes, one of you stays. What’s the problem?” The guards exchanged a look. Eventually, one of them jogged toward the elevators, while the other stood squarely in the doorway, his eyes locked on me. I stood up and stretched. “I’m going to go touch up my makeup.” I walked into Troy’s private en-suite bathroom and locked the door. I had mapped this out weeks ago. There was a small, frosted ventilation window above the tub that opened out onto a heavy-duty rain awning. I kicked off my heels, scrambled up the marble tile, squeezed through the narrow frame, and slid down the drainage pipe into the damp alleyway below. Patrick’s sleek sedan was idling by the dumpsters. I yanked the passenger door open and threw myself inside. “Drive! Go!” Patrick didn’t ask questions. He navigated us out of the city, driving two hours deep into upstate New York, pulling up to a secluded, rustic cabin surrounded by dense woods. “My family’s hunting lodge. It’s off the grid. He won’t find you here,” Patrick said, handing me a mug of hot tea. I wrapped my freezing hands around the ceramic. “Why are you doing this, Patrick?” He sat across from me, the firelight reflecting in his steady, gentle eyes. “Because I despise men who treat women like property. Love isn’t a cage, Belinda.” The System’s voice was practically singing: [Affinity +20! Current Total: 30. Strike while the iron is hot, Host! Lock him down!] I was just parting my lips to deliver a tear-jerking speech about finding true safety, when my phone vibrated violently against the wooden table. An incoming FaceTime call. From Troy. My hands shook as I swiped to answer. On the screen, Troy was sitting at his massive desk, casually flipping through the magazine I had left on his sofa. “Belinda,” he said softly. “Did you really think a boy like Patrick could keep you safe?” He looked up at the camera. His eyes were devoid of all humanity. It was the look of a predator staring at cornered prey. “Look out the window.” My blood turned to ice. I dropped the phone, sprinting to the cabin window. The woods were alive with headlights. A dozen black SUVs had silently surrounded the perimeter of the property, boxing us in entirely. Troy’s voice drifted from the speaker of the dropped phone. “Patrick. You stole something that belongs to me. The price for that… is going to ruin you.” Patrick’s face drained of all color. He stared out the window at the army of vehicles. “How… how did he find us so fast?” The video call disconnected. Less than three minutes later, the heavy oak door of the cabin was kicked off its hinges. Troy walked in over the splintered wood. He didn’t say a word. He walked straight up to Patrick, pulled his fist back, and delivered a sickening blow to his jaw. Patrick crashed into the coffee table, blood instantly pooling at the corner of his mouth. “Troy, stop!” I threw myself between them, shielding Patrick with my body. Troy stared down at me. The violence radiating from his pores was suffocating. “You faked submission. You ran. For him?” He reached down, twisting his fist into my hair, forcing my head back so I was looking up into his terrifying gaze. “I’ve been too soft on you, Belinda. Haven’t I?”

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In my past life, I was foolish enough to lose myself in two women simultaneously. One was my ice-cold boss, Virginia Beaumont. The other was my childhood friend turned pop-star sensation, Serena Valentine. Both eventually discarded me for the same man. The day Virginia fired me, I returned home only to have my throat pierced by one of Serena’s obsessed stalkers. I bled out on my own hardwood floor, the silence of the room swallowed by the gurgle in my lungs. Then, I woke up. I was back in the hotel suite, the scent of expensive linen and regret thick in the air. It was the morning after I had first slept with Virginia. … Seattle. A luxury penthouse suite. Virginia stood by the edge of the bed, her silhouette sharp against the floor-to-ceiling windows. She flicked a black titanium card onto the nightstand with a clinical snap. “Ben, I can’t give you a title or a public commitment,” she said, her voice like velvet wrapped around steel. “But as long as you’re with me, you’ll be taken care of.” The scene played out exactly as it had before. In her world, people didn’t “date.” They “belonged” to someone. In my previous life, I was so starved for her affection that I accepted the arrangement, becoming her dirty little secret. This time, I pushed the card back toward her. “You’re overthinking it, Virginia,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Last night was an accident. Two consenting adults, a bit too much scotch. Let’s leave it at that.” I dressed methodically—shirt, cufflinks, tie. I slid my glasses onto the bridge of my nose, feeling the familiar weight. Virginia watched me, her dark eyes narrowing in genuine shock. I didn’t wait for her to recover. I walked out. When I reached my apartment, exhausted and hollow, I froze. The lights were on. Sitting on my sofa was the most beautiful woman in the country—Serena Valentine. She stood up as I entered, a faint scent of wine clinging to her. Her eyes were hazy, soft with a dangerous kind of playfulness. She wrapped her arms around my neck. “You’re late,” she whispered against my jaw. “Where were you?” A flash of Virginia’s disheveled bedsheets crossed my mind. I didn’t flinch. “Work trip.” Serena smirked, her lips inches from mine. This was the face I couldn’t say no to for twenty years. This was the woman who owned my heart before I even knew what a heart was for. As she leaned in to kiss me, I turned my head. Her lips brushed my cheek instead. “I’m tired, Serena.” She pulled back, searching my face. She didn’t push it. Instead, she poured me a glass of lukewarm water, her movements graceful yet hesitant. “Did you hear?” she asked after a moment. “Sebastian is back in the States.” Sebastian. The man who would eventually convince both of them to destroy me. I hadn’t realized he’d returned this early. It didn’t matter. “I heard,” I said, taking a sip of the water. “Which is why we should end this. Today.” Serena didn’t argue. She leaned back against the cushions, looking at me with a detached sort of curiosity. “Fine, Ben. We can go back to being friends.” She reached into her designer bag and pulled out a red velvet box. “Consider this a parting gift.” I opened it. A Royal Oak—the latest model. I stared at it. She never remembered that I hated this brand; it was Sebastian’s favorite. She was buying a gift for the man she wanted me to be, not the man I was. I put the watch in the closet, a room already overflowing with the luxury scraps she’d thrown my way over the years. Then, I grabbed a cardboard box from the kitchen. “If we’re done, let’s be thorough,” I said. Under her bewildered gaze, I began clearing her life out of mine. Her silk robes, her spare heels, her toothbrush, the expensive skincare she kept on my vanity. Everything went into the box. When I handed it to her at the door, her expression shifted into something complex—half-insulted, half-intrigued. “Ben Brooks, are you actually cutting me off?” My pulse thrummed in my ears, the phantom pain of the knife in my throat prickling my skin. “Yes. We’re done.” I shut the door. The silence that followed was the first real peace I’d felt in two lifetimes. I touched my neck, tracing the smooth skin where the scar should have been. I suppose my death was the universe’s way of punishing me for playing house with two powerful women who never truly saw me. Lesson learned. I didn’t want love anymore. I just wanted to stay alive. The next day was a gray, suffocating Monday. When I arrived at the office, I didn’t head straight to Virginia’s desk with her specific morning latte like a loyal dog. Instead, I sat at my station and typed out a formal resignation. Ten minutes later, I was summoned to her office. As soon as the door clicked shut, Virginia threw a silk tie across her mahogany desk. It landed in my lap. “You left your tie in my car,” she said coldly. I caught it instinctively. It was my favorite one. “My apologies, Ms. Beaumont.” She leaned forward, her eyes black and piercing. “Ben, if you’re trying to play hard to get because I offered you that card, stop. The ‘push-and-pull’ routine doesn’t work on me.” She thought this was a tactic. I didn’t bother correcting her. “I understand.” Her expression softened slightly, back to her usual imperious mask. “There’s a charity gala tonight. You’ll be my plus-one. Be ready by seven.” As her senior assistant, I was always her escort to these things. But this time, I placed the envelope on her desk. “I’m resigning, Virginia.” The room went dead quiet. She looked at the envelope, then at me. “Give me a reason. Is it the salary? Or are you feeling sensitive about the… ‘accident’ the other night?” “Neither,” I replied. “I’m getting older. I’m moving back to my hometown. My parents want me to settle down and find someone to marry.” Virginia’s face darkened. I expected a fight, but she simply picked up a pen and signed the papers with a jagged, angry flourish. “Then I wish you the best of luck with your domestic bliss, Mr. Brooks.” It was easier than I thought. Without the emotional tether, I was just another employee to her. “Thank you, Virginia.” As I turned to leave, she spoke one last time. “Ben? If your little matchmaking experiment fails and you realize you’re bored of being a ‘normal’ man, my door is always open.” I didn’t look back. The handover process was tedious. As her right hand, I held the keys to half her kingdom. My colleagues were stunned. “Ben, you’re the soul of this firm,” one of them whispered. “You’ve been with her since the start.” I just smiled. I had been a sponge, soaking up everything she taught me while giving her my soul in return. It was a bad trade. Since I was officially on my way out, the gala duty was passed to the new intern, Andy. I left the office at exactly six o’clock. Stepping out into the evening air, I realized the sky was still light. For years, I hadn’t seen the sunset from anywhere but a window. I went home and made myself a real dinner. Just as I sat down, my phone buzzed. It was a video call from Andy. I picked up, and the screen was a blur of crystal chandeliers and tuxedoed backs. Andy’s voice was a frantic whisper. “Ben! Quick, tell me—who is this guy Virginia is with? Sebastian something? They look… intense.” The camera panned. There was Virginia, looking stunning in midnight blue, her eyes fixed on a man in a tailored charcoal suit. Sebastian. The golden boy. “That’s her… stepbrother,” I said, my voice flat. “Do yourself a favor, Andy. Don’t get in their way when they’re together.” I knew better than anyone what happened when you tried to stand between Virginia and her obsessions. Suddenly, the phone on the other end was snatched away. Virginia’s face filled the screen. She looked livid. “Mr. Brooks,” she snapped. “Since you’re leaving, stop filling the intern’s head with gossip. You’re making it sound like Sebastian and I have something to hide.” The lady doth protest too much. They were siblings by marriage, but the tension between them was a toxic cloud that Virginia had spent years trying to vent out on me. “My mistake, Ms. Beaumont. It won’t happen again.” I hung up. I was finishing a face mask and getting ready for bed when the phone rang again. This time, it was Serena. I tried to decline, but my thumb slipped. Her melodic, effortless voice filled the room. “Ben? I need you to drop a box of condoms at my place. Grab the brand Sebastian likes—extra thin, medium size.” She said it with such casual entitlement, as if I were still her errand boy, her safety net, her unrequited lover. In my last life, this hadn’t happened this way, but the disrespect was the same. “Serena,” I said, my voice cold enough to crack. “Call your assistant for that. And don’t call me again.” I blocked the number. The next morning at work, Virginia stopped me in the hall. “Ben. Deal with this.” She turned her laptop toward me. The headline was screaming in bold: “International Model Sebastian Thorne Spotted at Pop Star Serena Valentine’s Penthouse!” Virginia’s eyes were smoldering with jealousy. “Get the PR team to scrub it. I won’t have Sebastian’s reputation dragged through the mud by some tabloid singer.” She spoke of “reputation,” but it was pure heartbreak written in her gaze. “I’ll handle it,” I said. “But as I’m transitioning out, please direct these tasks to the new staff in the future.” Virginia stiffened. “Fine.” I spent the afternoon cleaning up their mess. By lunch, my phone was flooded with messages from Serena. I didn’t answer the calls, but I glanced at the texts. Serena: Sebastian blocked me because of the leak. He doesn’t want to go public yet. Serena: His ‘sister’ is furious. She’s been texting him all morning saying I’m a bad influence. Serena: Ben, what do I do? How do I fix this with him? Every word was about Sebastian. I deleted the thread and blocked her on everything. Finally, my world was quiet. On my last day, I cleared out my desk. I found a small, framed photo tucked in the very back of a drawer. It was Serena and me at her first-ever signing event. I had been there as her “number one fan.” Andy saw it and gasped. “Is that Serena Valentine? You were a fanboy, Ben?” I laughed, a dry, hollow sound. “Yeah. Back when I was young and stupid.” I tossed the photo into the trash can. “Whoa! Why throw it away?” Andy asked. “It’s just taking up space,” I said. “I don’t like her music anymore.” Just then, Virginia’s voice cut through the room. “Quite right. Shallow girls like that aren’t worth the devotion anyway.” The jealousy in her tone was thick. To anyone else, it might have sounded like she was jealous of me liking someone else. But I knew better. She just hated Serena because Sebastian loved her. “I’m all packed, Ms. Beaumont,” I said. Virginia nodded. “The team is hosting a farewell dinner for you tonight. I expect you there.” I couldn’t really say no to a final team dinner. But the night was a disaster. Virginia sat next to me like a glacier, her presence dampening the entire mood. The laughter died down whenever she glanced around. The dinner ended early. Virginia insisted on driving me home. We sat in her car outside my building in total silence. I reached for the door handle, but the locks clicked shut. “Virginia? I’m home.” She stared straight ahead. “Ben… if you’re just tired of the corporate grind, I can take care of you. Permanently. You don’t have to work.” I looked out the window. “I don’t want to be a kept man, Virginia. And I certainly don’t want to be the guy your future husband beats up for being the ‘other man’.” “I can promise you that will never happen,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. I smiled sadly. “You once taught me never to make absolute promises about the future. I’m just following your advice.” In my previous life, a year into being her lover, her “appropriate” fiancé found out about us. He cornered me at the office, nearly stripped me in front of the staff, and called me a pathetic whore. I hadn’t been able to say a single word in my defense then. Virginia fell silent. Before she could speak again, a figure emerged from the shadows of my lobby. It was Serena. She walked right up to the car and tapped on the glass. “Hey,” Serena said as I rolled down the window. “You’re his boss, right? It’s one thing to make him work late, but keeping him captive in your car is a bit much, don’t you think?” Virginia’s jaw tightened. She didn’t look at Serena. She looked at me. “You know her?” Serena was wearing a hat and a mask, but her aura was unmistakable. “She’s a… neighbor,” I said. Virginia unlocked the doors. I scrambled out. “Goodbye, Virginia.” As her car sped away, Serena linked her arm through mine. “Your boss seems a little obsessed with you, Ben. Does she want a piece?” A flash of light went off in the distance. My heart hammered. The stalkers. The paparazzi. “What are you doing here?” I shoved her hand away and hurried toward the door. Serena followed me inside, sighing as we entered my apartment. “You blocked me, Ben. We grew up together. Even if we aren’t sleeping together, we’re still friends. Why are you being so cold?” She had no shame. She truly didn’t see the problem. “What do you want, Serena?” She stepped into my space, her eyes suggestive. “I missed you. Honestly, nobody is as good as you in bed. Let’s just… keep going? No strings?” I didn’t believe a word of it. “Did Sebastian dump you again?” Her face went pale, then hard. “I’m being nice to you! You’ve loved me for years. You think you can find anyone better than me?” She really overvalued herself. Even in my last life, she wasn’t the only one I “loved”—I was just the only one who was always there. “I’m moving, Serena,” I said firmly. “Don’t come back here.” “Fine,” she spat, her eyes flashing with rage. “Hope you don’t regret it.” She slammed the door. The next day, I broke my lease and moved. I packed five years of my life into a few boxes and caught a flight to my hometown, a quiet suburb of Charleston. When I saw my parents, I finally felt warm. They were my only family, and I couldn’t bear the thought of the pain I’d caused them in my previous life by dying so pointlessly. I spent three days in blissful anonymity, helping my mom in the kitchen and taking out the trash. Occasionally, my old coworkers would call to ask how Virginia liked her coffee. “Tell her I can’t make her coffee for the rest of her life,” I told them. “She’ll have to develop a new palate.” Then came the high school reunion. And there, in the middle of our small-town gymnasium, was Sebastian Thorne. The international supermodel had somehow ended up at a reunion for a school he barely attended. I tried to stay in the corner, hoping to eat and leave, but Sebastian made a beeline for me. “Ben! Long time no see.” The room went quiet. Someone whispered, “Since when are they friends?” “We aren’t,” I said, trying to move past him. Sebastian put a heavy arm around my shoulder, his smile bright but his eyes cold as liquid nitrogen. “Everyone, did you know? Ben Brooks took advantage of my absence to steal my girlfriend, Serena Valentine. And then, he purposefully got a job as my sister’s assistant just to stalk her!” The room gasped. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, my blood running cold. Sebastian looked at me, tilting his head. “Swear it. Swear in front of everyone you never dated Serena.” He was playing a game. He wanted to humiliate me to clear Serena’s name for himself. I took a deep breath. “I swear, I have never dated Serena Valentine. And I never will. We have no relationship whatsoever.” Sebastian laughed and pulled out his phone. “Hear that, Serena? The test is over. I believe you now.” He had her on speakerphone. There was a long silence from the other end. Then, Serena’s voice came through, cold and mocking. “See? I told you, Seb. He’s just a neighbor. Why would I ever date someone so… ordinary?” “I believe you, babe,” Sebastian said, hanging up. He turned to me with a fake-apologetic grin. “Sorry, man. I’m just a little insecure. You know how it is.” In my last life, I would have been crushed. Now, I just wanted to leave these vultures behind. “It’s fine. Just don’t involve me in your drama again.” But the night wasn’t over. Someone suggested a game of Truth or Dare. Sebastian grabbed my phone and put it on the table. “I have a dare for the ‘ordinary’ guy,” Sebastian smirked. “Post on your Instagram story: ‘I just found out I have an STD. Not sure who gave it to me.’ Include a fake medical report. No blocking anyone. Leave it up for 24 hours.” The room went silent. Some people looked uncomfortable. “That’s a bit much, Sebastian. His family will see it.” Sebastian shrugged. “If he’s too chicken to play, he can just finish this entire bottle of tequila.” I looked at the tequila, then at the phone. Sebastian was determined to ruin my reputation in this town so I’d have nowhere to hide. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll post it.” I did it. Sebastian looked satisfied, like a cat who’d caught a mouse. When the party ended and I walked to the parking lot, I stopped dead. Two cars were idling at the curb. Virginia’s black SUV and Serena’s white sports car. Both women stepped out at the same time. Virginia in a trench coat, Serena with her signature silver-blonde hair blowing in the wind. Sebastian beamed. “Wow, both of you came to pick me up? I told you I could get a cab!” He started walking toward them, but I just wanted to vanish. “I’m heading out—” Before I could move, Serena grabbed my right wrist. Virginia grabbed my left. They both looked at me with identical expressions of horrified fury. In unison, they demanded: “Ben! If you’re sick, why the hell did you sleep with me?!”

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My father has always been haunted by the ghost of an impossible dream: he wanted to be an artist. But instead of picking up a brush himself, he pinned that entire, delusional ambition onto my brother, Tyler—a man whose primary talent is converting expensive espresso into wasted hours. And I, a forensic accountant who lives my life by the cold, hard logic of a balance sheet, became the only obstacle in their way. To scrape together the funds for Tyler’s “debut gallery exhibition,” my father announced a plan so reckless it made my blood run cold during our family dinner. He was going to sell the house. Our only home. When I refused to sign off, he pointed a trembling finger at me, his face twisted with a primal sort of loathing. “You were born with a calculator for a heart, Natalie! You don’t have a single drop of soul or art in your entire body!” My Aunt Beatrice sat beside him, fanning the flames. “Oh, Natalie, don’t be so small-minded. If Tyler becomes a master, think of the prestige it brings to the family name.” I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “A master? His work wouldn’t even pass a freshman remedial class. It’s amateur hour at best.” That single sentence was the match that lit the fuse. By the next afternoon, Tyler had posted a weeping, soul-baring “open letter” on Substack and Instagram, accusing his “cold-blooded sister” of strangling his artistic spirit. He paired the post with a moody, 45-degree-angle selfie looking at the clouds, followed by slides of his “masterpieces.” He expected a wave of public sympathy. Instead, the comment section became a massacre. “Dude, this composition is a disaster. My three-year-old nephew has a better grasp of negative space.” “Is this art? Or did a printer have a seizure?” “Wait, you’re selling the family house for THIS? Your sister is a saint for stopping you.” “Big Sis is the only one with her head on straight. Get a job, man.” 1 Saturday night dinner was a performance. My father, Arthur, had done something he almost never did—he’d opened a bottle of vintage Napa Cab. He was flushed, his eyes bright with a manic sort of energy as he raised his glass. “I have a major announcement,” he said. The table went silent. My mother, Martha, looked down at her plate, her shoulders hunched in familiar anxiety. Aunt Beatrice wore a smug, knowing grin. Tyler sat slumped in his chair, twirling an expensive, imported Italian squirrel-hair brush between his fingers like it was a cigarette. Arthur cleared his throat. “I’ve decided. We’re putting the house on the market.” My fork clattered against the porcelain. “Sell the house? And go where, Dad?” I stared at him, searching for any sign that this was a joke, or a symptom of the wine. Arthur glared back. “Where we live is secondary. What matters is Tyler’s future. He has a gift, Natalie. He shouldn’t be trapped by four brick walls and a mortgage. I’m going to use the equity to lease him a high-end studio in the city. We’re hiring a professional curator. We’re going to give him an exhibition that will put this family on the map.” I sat there, stunned. This house was old, sure, but it was our anchor. It was the only thing we truly owned in a city that was becoming unaffordable. And he wanted to liquidate our entire life’s security for Tyler’s glorified finger-painting? Beatrice started clapping, her jewelry jingling. “Arthur, your vision is just… breathtaking! I’ve always said Tyler was special. One day, a single one of his canvases will buy ten houses like this.” She turned to me, her voice sharpening into a needle. “Natalie, you’re making six figures now. Surely you’ll be the first to support your brother?” I looked her dead in the eye. “This isn’t an investment, Beatrice. It’s a sinkhole. Tyler hasn’t even mastered basic perspective. A gallery show? It’s a joke.” Arthur slammed his fist onto the table, making the wine glasses jump. “What do you know about art?” he bellowed. “All you do is crunch numbers. Your head is a ledger, nothing more. Your brother is a genius, and the path of a genius is never understood by common people!” I looked at Tyler. He was playing the part of the wounded martyr perfectly, his eyes shimmering with rehearsed tears. “Natalie, you just can’t stand to see me succeed. You want me to spend my life staring at a dusty ledger just like you, don’t you?” My mother reached over, tugging at my sleeve. “Natalie, honey, just… let it go for tonight. Your father is excited.” I pulled my arm away. “Mom, this isn’t about letting things go. This is the house. Your name is on the deed, too. Do you honestly agree with this?” She looked away, unable to meet my gaze. Arthur pointed a finger at my nose. “I am the head of this household. What I say goes! And you’re not just going to agree—you’re going to hand over that twenty thousand you’ve been hoarding in your savings. Consider it the seed money for your brother’s career.” I laughed, a cold, hollow sound. “I won’t give you a cent. And I won’t let you touch that deed.” Arthur’s face turned a dangerous shade of purple. He grabbed his wine glass and hurled it. It didn’t hit me, but the red wine splattered across my white silk blouse like a fresh wound. “You selfish, ungrateful bitch!” he roared. “I paid for your degree! I gave you everything! And now you turn your back on your own blood?” I stood up, looking at the strangers sitting around the table. “His dream shouldn’t be built on the ruins of our lives.” I walked to my room and locked the door. Behind me, I could hear Beatrice’s toxic whisper. “Don’t worry, Arthur. She just needs to be taught a lesson. Why does a girl need that much money anyway? She’ll just take it to some husband’s house one day. Better to invest it in Tyler now.” I sat on the edge of my bed, looking at my reflection in the mirror—the red stain on my chest, the shaking of my hands. I couldn’t stay here another night. But I couldn’t just leave. This house was half my mother’s, and it held years of my own sweat and contributions. I pulled out my phone and began searching for the documents I’d scanned months ago. If they wanted to live in a dream, I was going to be the one to wake them up. Outside, Arthur began kicking at my door. “Hand over your cards, Natalie! Or you’re out on the street tomorrow morning!” I gripped my phone until my knuckles turned white. 2 The next morning, I woke to the sound of my life being ransacked. Arthur was in the living room, tearing through my work bag. He’d dumped everything—lipstick, tampons, keys, my laptop charger—all over the hardwood floor. He was looking for my checkbook and my savings passbook. I lunged forward, snatching my bag back. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Arthur looked at me with total entitlement. “I’m getting what’s mine. I brought you into this world; your assets are my assets. I’ve already called the realtor. They’re coming to see the house this afternoon. I need that twenty thousand for the earnest money on the studio.” I clutched my bag to my chest, backing away. “That’s my down payment for my own apartment. You’re never touching it.” I hadn’t noticed Aunt Beatrice was already there, perched on the sofa like a vulture, sipping coffee. “Natalie, darling, listen to your elders. A young woman like you doesn’t need to buy a place. When you get married, your husband will provide. Giving this money to Tyler… that’s an investment in family.” I turned on her. “If it’s such a great investment, Beatrice, where’s your check? You could sell that retail space you lease out. That would fund ten of Tyler’s shows.” Beatrice’s face hardened. She set her cup down with a sharp clack. “That’s my retirement, you insolent girl. That’s completely different.” Arthur lost his patience. He lunged, grabbing my arm with a grip that felt like iron. “Give it to me! You’re going to support this family, or I’ll beat the defiance out of you!” I struggled, the pain searing through my shoulder. “No! It’s my life!” Arthur swung his hand. Crack. The slap echoed through the house. My head snapped to the side, my ears ringing with a dull, high-pitched hum. My mother ran out of the kitchen, throwing her arms around Arthur’s waist. “Arthur, stop! Please, let’s just talk!” He shoved her aside. “Talk? She’s a cold-blooded animal! I should have never sent her to college. I educated a monster!” He pointed at Tyler, who was standing in the hallway watching. “Look at your brother! He works day and night for his art. And you? You only care about your bottom line. You were born to be a servant to numbers, Natalie. You have no soul.” I wiped a smear of blood from the corner of my mouth and looked at him with a clarity I’d never felt before. “Soul? You mean those pathetic doodles of his? The ones where he can’t even get the lighting right? The ones that are just cheap imitations of real artists?” Tyler stepped forward, holding a canvas. His eyes were red, the picture of a persecuted saint. “You can insult me, Natalie. But don’t you dare insult my art. Dad, forget it. If she’s going to be like this, I’ll just stop painting. I’ll rot in the mud so she can keep her precious money.” His manipulative “martyr” act was the final straw for Arthur. He charged again, shoving me backward. My head hit the wall with a sickening thud. “Get out!” Arthur screamed, pointing at the door. “You’re no daughter of mine. I won’t have a greedy parasite in this house!” Beatrice sneered from the couch. “Good riddance. A snake in the grass is what she is.” I steadied myself against the wall, my vision swimming. “Fine. I’m going. But remember this, Arthur: if you try to sell this house, I will fight you until there’s nothing left but ash.” I went to my room, packed a bag in ten minutes, and walked out. As I crossed the threshold, I saw Arthur stroking Tyler’s hair. “Don’t listen to her, son. I’ll get you that show. The deed is in the safe. Nobody can stop us.” I stepped out into the cold morning air, the slap on my face burning like fire. I didn’t cry. I took out my phone and dialed a number I knew by heart. “Hi, this is Natalie. I need to file an emergency Lis Pendens and a notice of title dispute on a residential property.” 3 I checked into a budget hotel near my office. Before I could even catch my breath, my mother called, hysterical. “Natalie, your father has lost his mind,” she sobbed. “He’s throwing everything you left behind into the trash. He found that old box you hid under the sofa.” My heart stopped. That box contained my ledgers. Ever since I started working, I’d kept a meticulous record of every cent I’d spent on the family—every utility bill, every time I’d paid off Tyler’s credit cards, every medical bill for Arthur. It was my insurance policy. “What is he doing?” I whispered. “He says you were spying on him. He says you kept these records just to hold them over his head like a debt collector. He’s in the living room now, screaming, saying he’s going to burn them.” I hung up and hailed a cab. That ledger was my final line of defense. I couldn’t let it turn to ash. When I burst through the front door, the house smelled of scorched paper. Arthur was hunched over a metal trash can in the center of the living room. He was tearing pages out of my ledger, one by one, and dropping them into the flames. “Record-keeping? You really are a piece of work, Natalie!” He looked at me with pure disgust. “Every time you bought your brother a canvas, you wrote it down. Every time you bought your mother her heart medication, you recorded it. You even kept track of the money I spent on my antique vases?” He stood up, throwing the mangled remains of the book at my face. “You’re part of this family! Contributing isn’t a loan, it’s a duty! You’ve been calculating against your own father since you were twenty!” Beatrice was there too, of course. “It’s pathological, Arthur. Imagine the darkness in a child’s heart to keep a tab on her own parents. She was waiting for us to fail just so she could collect.” Tyler stayed behind the sofa, his eyes flickering. He knew that at least sixty percent of those entries were to bail him out of trouble. The time he dinged the neighbor’s Lexus. The time he got caught with a fake ID at a club. The expensive oil paints he bought on my card and never used. I picked up the charred, fragmented pages from the floor. “Arthur, there is a total of two hundred and thirty-four thousand dollars in those records,” I said, my voice steady. “That is five years of my life. I kept records because I knew you’d never pay me back. I kept records because I wanted to remember who I was in this house—a bank, not a daughter.” Arthur lunged for the pages in my hand. “Give me those! I’m ordering you to burn the rest! Then you’re going to the bank and withdrawing your savings as compensation for the years I raised you!” He actually pulled out a lighter, flicking the flame inches from my sleeve. “Burn them, or I’ll burn the clothes off your back!” Looking at his crazed, desperate face, the last shred of my affection for him evaporated. He was willing to destroy his daughter for a phantom dream. I stepped back and pulled up a folder on my phone. “You want to see Tyler’s art, Dad? Fine. Let’s take a real look.” Tyler’s face went pale. He tried to grab my phone, but I dodged him. “Look closely, Dad. This is the ‘genius’ you’re willing to go homeless for.” 4 I pulled up the first side-by-side comparison. On the left was Tyler’s prize piece, Solitude Under the Stars. On the right was a piece by an obscure digital artist from Berlin. The composition, the palette, even the brushstrokes were identical. “It’s plagiarism,” I said coldly, swiping to the next image. “Red Scream? It’s a direct copy of a student’s work from a DeviantArt thread in 2018. The Silent Forest? He just traced a stock photo and added a filter.” I went through a dozen images, each with a clear source. Arthur’s face went from rage to confusion, then to a sickly grey. Beatrice shrank back into the cushions. Then, I played the audio. It was a recording I’d captured a few weeks ago when Tyler was drinking with his friends in the kitchen, unaware I was home. “…man, are you going to get caught?” a friend asked. Tyler’s voice was full of contempt: “Caught by who? My old man doesn’t know art from a hole in the ground. As long as I call it ‘original,’ he’ll hand over the deed to the house. Once I have the cash, I’m done with the painting crap. We’re going to Vegas.” The recording ended. The silence in the living room was deafening. Arthur’s hand began to shake. The lighter slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a hollow thud. Tyler suddenly snapped. “You tracked me? You spied on me!” He lunged at my throat. “You bitch! Why do you have to ruin everything?” I shoved him back with all my strength. “You ruined yourself! You were going to gamble away our parents’ survival, and you think I’m the problem?” Arthur let out a guttural roar. He turned and delivered a massive backhand to Tyler’s face, sending him sprawling onto the sofa. “Dad… Dad, let me explain, they were just jealous…” Tyler stammered. Arthur didn’t look at him. He turned to me, and for a second, I expected an apology. But what I saw in his eyes wasn’t guilt—it was an even deeper, more jagged hatred. “Are you happy now?” he hissed. “You’ve destroyed your brother. You’ve destroyed this family’s hope. Natalie, why do you have to be so damn smart? Why do you have to be so ‘right’?” He pointed at the door, his voice hoarse. “Get out. Take your ‘evidence’ and go. I’d rather be lied to than live in the world you’ve built.” I looked at him and felt a wave of pity so cold it felt like ice. He would rather live in a beautiful lie than face his own failure as a father. “I’m going,” I said. “But the house is under a legal hold. Until a judge hears my claim for the money I’ve invested in it, you can’t sell a single brick.”

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I had always known my fiancé kept a woman on the side. She was his executive assistant, but in our insulated, high-society circles, she was notorious as the ultimate corporate pass-around. A woman who weaponized her own body, willingly hosting various industry titans to secure lucrative deals for Pete. They used each other. It was transactional. I never asked questions. But recently, during a high-stakes dinner with a major client, she was pushed to drink until she miscarried. The damage was permanent; she would never be able to have children. In a fit of supposed righteous fury, Pete forfeited a billion-dollar tech acquisition and beat the client who forced the drinks down her throat until the man was hospitalized with severe trauma. Now, beside her hospital bed, Pete was on his knees, shedding tears of repentance. And he was promising her that any child I birthed in the future would call her mother. 1 I was standing right outside the door while Pete put on his tragic, desperately-seeking-forgiveness performance. Separated by a single slab of wood, his absurd words drifted clearly into my ears. “I’m so sorry, Violet. I promise you, any child Brandy has will be yours…” Pete Samuel was on both knees, his eyes brimming with endless remorse. Violet Gaines just kept her head bowed. She didn’t say yes, but she certainly didn’t say no. The sycophants filling the VIP hospital room exchanged uneasy glances. In the dark, twisted history of old money, everyone knew of wives who were forced to raise a husband’s illegitimate child to avoid scandal. But taking the legitimate heir born from the lawful wife and handing it over to the mistress? That was a brand-new flavor of depravity. As if terrified Violet wouldn’t believe him, Pete hurriedly added, “Don’t worry. I have the Davenport accounts in a chokehold. Brandy won’t dare say no. Ours is just a corporate merger. Other than getting her pregnant for the heir, I swear I will never touch her.” His entourage of trust-fund friends chimed in right on cue. “Yeah, come on, Violet. Just forgive him.” “Pete called us all here today just so we could be witnesses to this promise.” Only then did Violet lift her tear-streaked face. “I’ve always wanted a daughter. What if she has a boy?” Pete grabbed her hand, squeezing it tight. “Then I’ll make her keep having them until she drops a girl.” Hearing that, Violet smiled. Pete smiled. The vultures in the room smiled. Even I smiled. And harmonizing perfectly with their laughter, I raised my foot and kicked the heavy hospital door wide open. Bang! 2 The laughter died instantly. A room full of people who had just been doubled over in amusement now stared at me with wide, comical expressions of horror. I stepped into the room, my gaze sweeping over the sterile space before locking dead onto Pete. “Why did everyone stop laughing?” Brooks was the first to snap out of his shock. Our families were old friends. We had practically grown up at the same country clubs. He took a quick step forward, instinctively trying to block my view of Violet. “Brandy… what are you doing here?” I shifted my weight, leaning slightly to peer past his shoulder at the woman in the bed. “Just dropping by to check on your other sister-in-law.” Brooks’s face drained of color. He scratched the back of his neck, suffocating in the awkwardness. I shoved him aside and stepped right up to the bed, looking down at Violet. “Miss Gaines. If you want to play God with my uterus, shouldn’t you at least run it by me first?” Violet didn’t even flinch. She had played this game a long time. “Miss Davenport. We were just joking around. If it offended you, I apologize.” She had been Pete’s fixer for years. She handled confrontations like breathing. To be honest, I knew exactly who Violet was long before Pete and I got engaged. Ivy League educated, she threw away her dignity to trail after Pete without a title, willingly throwing herself to the wolves to grease the wheels of his empire. I had always assumed they were just utilizing each other. Exactly like my arrangement with Pete. For the stock prices. For the market share. For the power. But I genuinely hadn’t expected her to be doing it for love. I took a half-step back, gesturing to the floor beside me. “If you really want to apologize, get out of that bed, get down on your hands and knees, and press your forehead to this linoleum three hundred times.” If she was willing to do earth-shatteringly stupid things in the name of love, surely groveling three hundred times for love wouldn’t be too much of a stretch. Violet stared at me in sheer disbelief. “Excuse me?” “I said, press your head to the floor three hundred times, and I’ll pretend I didn’t hear a damn thing.” Pete lunged forward and grabbed my wrist. He had finally recovered from the initial guilt of being caught and slipped right back into his default arrogance. “Brandy, do not push your luck—” Smack! Without a single micro-expression of warning, I slapped him across the face. 3 In our world, keeping up appearances was everything. You leave a way out; you smile while twisting the knife. Whatever the conflict, you never resorted to physical violence. They considered striking someone to be animalistic. Crass. Low-class. I fundamentally disagreed. All I knew was that if I didn’t slap the taste out of his mouth right now, I wasn’t going to be able to sleep tonight. “You… you hit him?” Violet’s voice hit an octave of utter shock, even louder than before. The Samuel family held immense power. Pete was worshipped wherever he walked. This was probably the first time in his thirty years that someone had laid a hand on him. Violet scrambled up in the bed, looking far more hysterical than the man who had actually taken the hit. She pointed a trembling finger at me and shrieked, “Brandy! Yours is just a business arrangement! So what if he gives me the child? Go ask your father if he dares to tell Pete no!” “I suggest you recognize your place in the pecking order, or you’ll lose your ticket into the Samuel family entirely!” Her delusion actually made me laugh. She spoke of the Samuel family like it was the Pearly Gates and everyone was dying to get in. But… “If I don’t get in, what makes you think you will?” Violet’s mouth snapped shut. Of course she wouldn’t. If she could, there never would have been a need for me. She choked on her silence for a few seconds before her eyes went red. “You—you know nothing about what we mean to each other! We—” I couldn’t let her finish. “You’re right. Your sick, twisted little romance is entirely beyond my comprehension. I just can’t fathom the kind of epic love that requires you to spread your legs for other men to get your boyfriend a contract.” I pointed past her, straight at the gallery of trust-fund lackeys pretending not to watch. “If my memory serves me, you were in his bed just last month.” Violet froze, her eyes darting frantically to the men behind her. Filthy. Two people this deeply soaked in filth didn’t deserve to utter the word love. “Enough!” Pete finally snapped out of the shock of the slap. He yanked Violet behind him, shielding her. “Brandy, do you want to destroy your family? Do you honestly believe I won’t make one phone call and have your father and brother strip you of everything?” Pete was vile, but he was incredibly vain. That vanity was the exact reason I felt perfectly safe walking into this room alone. He cared too much about his image to hit a woman back. The worst he would do is throw empty threats. Which made things incredibly simple. Smack! I delivered a second slap, just as hard as the first. “I almost forgot to mention. That billion-dollar AI contract you botched because you couldn’t control your temper? I secured it. As of today, I am the one running Davenport.” 4 Walking out of the hospital, I felt fantastic. The bone-deep exhaustion of seventy-hour work weeks just melted away. But the moment I slid into the back of my car, my phone buzzed. It was my father. “Get your ass home right now!” I exhaled a slow, steady breath. It seemed Pete wasn’t the only one who hadn’t realized there was a new regime in town. It had been seven days since Pete put Arthur Caldwell in the ICU. In those seven days, I had aggressively reshuffled the entire board of Davenport Corporation. I went from an easily ignored regional director to the majority shareholder. Armed with the exclusivity contract I had just signed with Caldwell Tech, I leveraged my way to the CEO’s chair. Meanwhile, my father, my brother Colby, and his tacky wife had been vacationing in Dubai. Their flight had been delayed by a sandstorm, and they had just landed today. The Davenport estate in the Hamptons was ablaze with lights. As if right on cue for the melodrama, a cold, stinging drizzle began to fall. I kept my heels clicking sharply against the marble, humming softly to myself as I walked through the grand double doors. In the sunken living room, my father and brother were seated rigidly on the custom leather sofas. I couldn’t tell if they were just tanned from the Dubai sun or purple with rage, but their faces were terrifyingly dark. My sister-in-law, Tiffany, looked rather pleased, though. She had a fresh stack of chunky Cartier bracelets lined up her forearm. She deliberately adjusted her sleeve to make sure they caught the light as I walked in. Crash! A bone-china teacup shattered into shrapnel inches from my stilettos. “You ungrateful bitch! Who gave you the authority to buy up the shadow shares and call an emergency board meeting?! I’m the laughingstock of Wall Street! Overthrown by my own daughter!” I stared down at the porcelain shards glittering near my toes. I didn’t say a word. If I hadn’t paused for half a second, that cup would have split my forehead open. Taking my silence for submission, Colby stood up, puffing his chest. “Brandy, what the hell does a woman know about running an empire? You are going to call the board tomorrow, step down, and transfer all those voting rights to me and Dad. If you really want to play businesswoman, I’ll let you manage Tiffany’s boutique spa.” I slowly lifted my chin. A genuine, incredulous smile crept onto my face. Even now, cornered and outplayed, the sheer, breathtaking audacity of his entitlement was a marvel. “Colby. Stop dreaming.” The silence in the cavernous room was instantaneous and suffocating. Tiffany practically stopped breathing, shooting me a terrified, sideways glance. In this house, I had always been the designated punching bag. The quiet one who absorbed the blows and never once said no. She must have been wondering what kind of ghost had possessed me. “What did you just say?” Colby snarled. I enunciated every syllable. “I said, stop dreaming, Colby. Davenport belongs to me now. Every division, every subsidiary. If you want equity, you can buy it at market price. Like everyone else.” Colby lunged. He raised a heavy hand, fully intending to strike me across the face. I simply pivoted, stepping lightly out of his trajectory. He stumbled, whipping around to point a furious finger at my chest. “You little psycho! Have you lost your damn mind?” Mind? Oh, if he wanted to see losing my mind. I grabbed his outstretched forearm, snatching a silver fruit knife off the coffee table with my other hand, and drove it hard into the meat of his wrist. “AGGGGHHH!” Watching his face contort in sheer, unadulterated agony, my smile only widened. “Colby,” I whispered. “This is what losing your mind looks like.” Hearing the screams, my mother rushed out from the parlor. She shoved me away with a desperate shove. She stared at me, eyes wide with horror. “Brandy! Do you have any humanity left in you at all?” I bent down slightly, bringing my lips right next to her ear, and let the words drip like acid. “When you drugged your own daughter’s wine and handed her over to a room full of men, did you?”

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At twenty-two, I married Nathaniel Cross. His grandfather had practically used his final breaths to blackmail him into it, and Neil, ever the dutiful heir to the Cross empire, had folded. But everyone in the Manhattan elite knew the truth: inside the biometric safe in the CEO’s office at Cross Holdings, Neil didn’t keep gold or bonds. He kept a pair of worn-out ballet slippers belonging to Isla Sinclair. At twenty-five, I slid the divorce papers across his mahogany desk. He didn’t look at me. He stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the skyline, burning through half a pack of cigarettes in silence. Finally, he signed with a cold, jagged flourish. “Margot Bennett,” he sneered, the smoke curling around his handsome, bitter face. “Once you walk out that door, don’t you dare come back crying to me.” At twenty-eight, I returned to the city for the Cross Holdings Anniversary Gala. His eyes weren’t on the stage or the champagne towers. They were pinned, with lethal intensity, on the man standing at my side. “Is this why you were in such a hurry to leave?” Neil hissed, cornering us near the balcony. “To crawl into his bed?” Sebastian Beaumont—the man who held my hand—leisurely twisted the wedding band on his finger. With a casual, terrifying grace, he kicked a decorative marble side table aside, the crash silencing the nearby guests. “Neil,” Sebastian said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Watch your tone when you’re speaking to your aunt.” 1 “Did you hear? Margot Bennett is back in town.” “The one who walked away from the Cross fortune three years ago with nothing but her dignity?” “Who else? Isla Sinclair is finally about to marry into the family. Margot coming back now… she must be desperate. Regret is a hell of a drug.” “Regret won’t help her now. She only got that ring because the old man was superstitious and obsessed with her ‘bloodline energy.’ She stole her best friend’s life for three years. Now, things are finally back where they belong.” Three years. Apparently, this circle was just as suffocatingly bored as ever. To them, I was the loser of the century—the woman who failed at being a trophy wife and got discarded. Even my parents shared that sentiment. The afternoon I signed those papers three years ago, my mother summoned me to the family estate in Greenwich. The moment I stepped into the foyer, a porcelain teacup shattered at my feet. A shard jumped up, slicing a thin red line across my ankle. “Since you’ve humiliated us with this divorce, don’t stay in New York and be an eyesore,” my mother said, standing in the center of the living room, her hand still frozen in the throwing position. I didn’t look at the blood. I didn’t bend down to clean the mess. I just looked at her. She flinched under my gaze, but her voice remained sharp. “Isla lost her career because of you. She went to Paris in a fit of grief because you stole the man she loved, and she broke her ankle on stage. She’ll never dance again. Now that Neil is finally ready to make it right, don’t you dare come back and ruin it for her.” I wanted to ask her: Mom, I’m the one you carried for nine months. When you scream at me, does your heart ache? Even for a second? But I knew the answer. From the day Isla Sinclair moved into our house as a foster child, I had been the “extra.” Isla was the daughter of my parents’ late friends. Orphaned at three, she was the perfect ward. She danced; she pouted; she called my mother “Mama” with a sweetness I could never mimic. She would curl into my mother’s lap and recount her ballet lessons while I stood in the doorway, a quiet, unremarkable shadow. I was the “wooden” child. Average grades, no special talents, a personality like a closed book. Slowly, Isla took over my life. My bedroom moved from the master suite on the second floor to the drafty guest room on the third because Isla “needed to be closer to the home studio.” On my sixteenth birthday, my family went out to celebrate Isla’s lead role in a recital. They forgot to come home. I lit the candles on a grocery store cupcake by myself. I don’t even remember what I wished for. I never told anyone. No one would have believed me anyway. In everyone’s eyes, Isla was the tragic orphan, and I was the ungrateful, lucky daughter. My mother saw my silence and twisted the knife. “That marriage belonged to Isla. If it weren’t for Neil’s grandfather and his obsession with your ‘compatibility’—saying your presence was the only thing that could stabilize the Cross family’s luck—you wouldn’t have even been a footnote in Neil’s life.” I didn’t argue. I just turned and walked out. She was still shouting something behind me, but I didn’t turn back. Shards of porcelain were stuck in the soles of my shoes, and every step was a sharp, stinging reminder. But that pain was nothing compared to the hollow cavern in my chest. 2 The story of that marriage started five years ago. Neil Cross and Isla Sinclair were the “Golden Couple” of the Upper East Side. He was the sole heir to a dynasty; she was the beautiful, tragic ballerina. It made sense. Everyone rooted for them. Including me. I had been hopelessly, secretly in love with Neil for three years. It started when I was fifteen, watching him at one of Isla’s performances. He was in the second row, clutching a bouquet of white roses, his eyes fixed on her with a tenderness so profound it felt like the rest of the world had ceased to exist. I sat two rows behind him, staring at the back of his head for two hours. He never once looked back. I knew then that my heart was a losing bet. But then, the world tilted. Neil’s grandfather was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. The old man believed in two things: hostile takeovers and destiny. He had a “legacy advisor” vet the charts of every eligible socialite in the city. The advisor pointed to one name. “This girl,” the man had said, pointing at my file. “She is the anchor. Her energy is the only thing that can counter the volatility in your grandson’s life. She is his ‘Light.’” It wasn’t Isla. It was me. Margot Bennett. The old man made the decree: “Her. Within the month.” My parents’ first instinct was to refuse—not for my sake, but for Isla’s. “Sir, Neil and Isla are already together,” my father had pleaded over the phone. The old man’s response was a guillotine. “Fine. Then consider our joint venture in the downtown development project terminated by morning.” My father went silent. Thirty percent of our firm’s revenue came from Cross Holdings. One word from the patriarch could bankrupt us. That night, my parents sat me down. “Margot, will you do this for the family?” I looked at their faces. I knew it wasn’t a question. It was a command wrapped in a request to make them feel better about selling me. But the person who actually pushed me into it was Isla. The day we left the Cross estate after the “arrangement” was finalized, Isla grabbed my hand in the back of the car. Her skin was ice-cold. “Margot, you’ve always loved him, haven’t you?” I flinched, my face heating up. I wanted to lie, but her eyes were too sharp. She laughed. It wasn’t a cruel laugh; it was weary. She pulled an email up on her phone. An invitation from the Paris Opera Ballet. “I’ve waited three years for this, Margot.” Her voice was a low, fierce whisper. “I don’t want to be a trophy wife. I don’t want to be trapped in a penthouse raising heirs. I want to be a Prima. I want Paris.” She looked at me with a desperate, glittering intensity. “If the old man is forcing a marriage, take it. Replace me.” I stared at the screen for a long time. “What about Neil? He’ll never agree.” Isla didn’t look at me. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll handle it.” Three days later, on the night we were supposed to celebrate the engagement, Isla “attempted” to end it all in her bedroom. The cuts were shallow, horizontal—the kind that bleed a lot but don’t hit anything vital. My parents were hysterical. Neil got the call while the ink on our marriage license was still wet. He sprinted into the hospital and punched the wall outside her room until his knuckles were shattered. Then he turned and looked at me. His eyes were full of a loathing so pure it felt like a physical blow. To him, I wasn’t his wife; I was the murderer of his happiness. That same night, Isla boarded a private jet to Paris. She left a single text on my phone: Take care of him, Margot. I owe you one. I’ll pay you back someday. I stood in the center of our massive, empty New York apartment, clutching my phone. Outside, fireworks were going off over the park for some gala. The world was loud and celebratory, but inside, there was only the sound of my own breathing. On my wedding night, my husband sat in a hospital hallway, mourning the woman who had just played us both. 3 For three years, Neil and I lived like ghosts under the same roof. He deposited a fixed amount into my account every month. Not a penny more, not a penny less. It felt like a salary for a job I hated. His study was a forbidden zone. I only saw inside once because a maid had left the door ajar. The walls were covered in photos of Isla. Isla in the studio, Isla on stage, Isla in the wings. There was one photo of her in Swan Lake, frozen in a spotlight. In the corner of the frame, you could see the back of a man’s head in the front row. Neil. Looking at her like she was the sun. On his desk sat a pair of old, battered ballet slippers. The pink satin was frayed, the toes crushed. I later learned from his assistant that he used to keep them in the office safe. He brought them home because Isla told him she wanted him to “keep her dreams safe” for her. I closed the door and went to my room. I sat in the dark for hours, tracing the timeline of my life. He never touched me. We shared a bed for three years, and he would wrap himself in the duvet at the very edge of the mattress rather than risk even a brush of our skin. I cooked; he didn’t eat. He worked late, sometimes staying at the office for days. When he did come home, he disappeared behind the study door. I was a piece of furniture—useful for the occasional corporate dinner where he needed a wife on his arm, but otherwise shoved into a corner to gather dust. The decision to leave didn’t happen all at once. It was like water seeping into the cracks of a stone. It froze, it thawed, it expanded. Until finally, the stone just split. The day I decided, it was pouring rain. I was in the kitchen, and Neil was in the living room on a call. The apartment was so quiet that every word cut through the air. “Get the car ready. Paris-JFK. Isla’s flight lands in thirty minutes. Her ankle is acting up; she can’t be in the cold.” “Yes, have a wheelchair waiting at the gate.” “Book the VIP suite at the recovery center. I’m not letting her wait for treatment.” He hung up and grabbed his coat from the closet. He ran right into me as I was coming out with dinner. I looked at the table I’d set. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, the comfort food he used to like. “Dinner is ready,” I said, my voice strangely hollow. “Eat before you go.” He frowned, checking his watch with palpable impatience. “Eat it yourself. Don’t wait up.” He reached for his keys. I stopped him. “Neil.” He paused, but didn’t turn around. “What now?” I pulled an envelope from my apron pocket and held it out. “I want a divorce.” 4 He looked down at the document. I had circled the words Petition for Dissolution of Marriage in red ink. He went still for two seconds. Then he looked at me, searching my face for a joke. I stood there, more peaceful than I had been in years. He laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. It was sharp, condescending. “Fine.” He tossed the papers onto the coffee table, sat down, and lit a cigarette. He smoked one after the other as the rain lashed against the windows. When the pack was empty, he crushed it, grabbed a pen, and signed his name in a jagged scrawl. He stood up and shoved the papers back at me. “Margot, once you walk out that door, don’t you dare come back crying to me.” He grabbed his keys and left without a backward glance. When the door slammed, the sound echoed through the empty hallway, leaving me in a silence that finally felt like freedom. The legalities were quick. Twenty minutes at a lawyer’s office the next morning. I refused the Cross family shares. I only took what was mine—my personal pre-marital savings and the returns from a few investment projects I’d managed on the side during the marriage. It totaled about fifty million dollars. Clean, fair, and untouchable. But when the news reached my parents, it became a scandal. My father dragged me back to the house to scream at me. “How dare you take fifty million from the Cross family? You’re telling the whole world we sold you!” Isla was there, of course. She was wearing a white silk dress, a bandage visible beneath her hem where her “shattered” ankle was taped. She had returned from Paris six months ago after a fall ended her career. Now, her eyes were red and her voice trembled. “Margot… are you still mad at me? Is this because I came back to see Neil?” I looked at her. I knew that expression. It was her signature move: the tragic, innocent victim. “Isla, stop,” my mother snapped, turning her fury on me. “That ring belonged to Isla from the start! If it weren’t for that crazy advisor, she and Neil would have a family by now.” I ignored my mother and looked Isla in the eye. “Is that what you think, too?” Isla stiffened. She looked away, refusing to meet my gaze. I smiled. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Isla never did the dirty work; she just cried until someone else did it for her. I walked out of that house and didn’t look back. I stood on the sidewalk, pulled out my phone, and started blocking. Neil. My mother. My father. Isla. Everyone who had ever made me feel like an interloper in my own life. I hailed a cab, went to the station, and bought a one-way ticket to the coast. As I sat in the waiting area, the rain finally stopped. I watched the grey sky through the terminal windows. I felt empty, like something had been carved out of me. But for the first time in twenty-five years, I felt light. When my train was called, I picked up my suitcase and walked toward the platform. I didn’t look back once.

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Every three months, Vicky’s memory would reset. She would loop back to the day she hated me most. She would break my hand, shattering my fingers over and over again to avenge her adopted son. Then, beneath a canopy of fireflies, she would get down on one knee, ask me to marry her, and the clock would reset. I played my part in our tragedy on repeat, endlessly waiting for the day her memory would finally stick. Until I accidentally overheard her talking with her friends. “Vic, how much longer are you going to keep up this act?” a woman’s voice drifted through the heavy mahogany door of the VIP lounge. “What memory reset?” Vicky scoffed, the ice in her voice unmistakable. “Only an idiot like Channing would buy that. Every time, he drops to his knees, begging us to play along, still holding onto this delusional fantasy that we’re actually going to get married.” “You’re due for another ‘amnesia’ episode in three days, right? What is this, round nine?” “Round nine.” Vicky’s low, sophisticated drawl was terrifyingly clear. “Years ago, that cheap street food he brought home gave Tim food poisoning and ruined his eighteenth birthday party. This is his penance.” Through the crack in the door, I saw her reach out, her manicured fingers gently ruffling Tim’s hair. “Nobody messes with my boy.” Hearing that gentle, maternal tone layered over such staggering cruelty, I felt a physical tearing in my chest. All this time. My blind, bleeding devotion had been nothing but a punchline in her elaborate game of revenge. I wiped the wetness from my face, steadying my breathing, and summoned The System in the quiet darkness of my mind. The previous negotiation is void, I thought, my internal voice deadened. In three days, this progression task will fail. Please wipe every memory I have of Vicky. … [Host, are you entirely certain?] The System’s metaphysical voice echoed, thrumming against my temples. Before I could answer, the conversation in the lounge picked up again. “I heard if Channing’s hand gets broken one more time, the nerve damage will be permanent. He’ll never hold a paintbrush again,” someone murmured, their tone edged with hesitation. “Vic… don’t you think he’s been punished enough?” Vicky paused. The ruby liquid in her wine glass stopped swirling. Her lips pressed into a hard, unforgiving line. Beside her, Tim looked down, tracing the face of his custom Patek Philippe watch. “I love the watch you got me for my eighteenth, Mom,” he said softly, his voice carrying that fragile, wounded cadence he had perfected. “A coming-of-age party is just a formality anyway. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t get one…” Every word was designed to sound selfless; every word was soaked in calculated regret. Vicky’s face darkened instantly. She kicked the woman who had spoken right in the shin, her voice cracking like a whip. “Did I ask for your opinion?” She took Tim’s delicate hand in both of hers, cradling it like porcelain. “Even if Channing’s hand is crippled for good, it wouldn’t make up for ruining Tim’s milestone. A guy who slings hash in a food truck thinking he can be some great artist? He’s a stray mutt staring at the moon. Pure delusion.” Her soft, mocking scoff drove a thousand jagged splinters directly into my heart. I remembered the time I lost the national gallery competition. I had been ready to throw my canvases in the dumpster, ready to give up on my dream. It was Vicky who had held me. She had looked into my eyes and called me her wild thistle. She said I was resilient, that no matter how hard the concrete, I would always break through and bloom. But it was all a lie. A beautiful, saccharine lie spun to keep the stray mutt on his leash. A chorus of sycophantic laughter erupted inside the room. “You have to admit though, Channing’s got some talent,” someone chimed in. “If Vic hadn’t paid off the judges before the competition, he actually would have taken first place.” A high-pitched ringing consumed my ears. My fingers began to tremble violently. I had poured my soul into that gallery submission. I had bled onto that canvas, fueled by the most desperate, burning hope. And with a single phone call, Vicky had crushed it to dust. Are the dreams of the poor really that cheap to them? Are we just dirt for them to wipe their designer shoes on? I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. My heart felt as though it were being squeezed by a massive, unseen fist. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t pull air into my lungs. The System asked again. [Host, are you certain you wish to erase your memories?] [Previously, you traded ten years of your own lifespan just to extend the mission timer. Are you truly abandoning it now?] A bitter, acidic taste flooded my mouth. A month ago, The System had warned me my time was running out. The penalty for failing the mission was total memory erasure regarding Vicky. I hadn’t wanted to forget her. I hadn’t wanted to lose the ghost of the woman I loved. So, I traded a decade of my life, begging The System on my knees. I begged for days until it finally conceded. And for what? The love I was killing myself to protect was a funhouse mirror. A grotesque prank. It was hilariously pathetic. I closed my eyes, letting the last scalding tears slip down my cheeks into the dark. I’m certain. Just then, the phone in my pocket vibrated frantically. “Channing! It’s your dad. Something’s gone wrong!” 2 End-stage renal disease. The words on the medical chart burned my retinas. I choked back a sob, looking through the glass at my father’s pale, sunken face. For the last few years, I had been so entirely consumed by Vicky—by her moods, her “amnesia,” her needs—that I had completely missed the shadow of death creeping over my father. Guilt and regret hit me like a tidal wave, pulling me under. The tears I thought I had exhausted fell in heavy, relentless drops, crinkling the sterile white paper of his diagnosis. By the time I reached the billing department, my eyes were swollen shut. And when I checked the balance on my banking app—a number I could count on one hand—the floor seemed to drop out from beneath me. The billing clerk sighed, tapping her acrylic nails against the counter, her gaze heavy with judgment. “Is there any way…” I started, gripping my phone, my voice raw with humiliation. “Can I just…” “Channing.” I turned. Vicky was stepping out of the elevator. She strode toward me, breathless, her tailored silk trench coat flowing behind her. “I heard about your dad…” Seeing my red, ruined eyes, she didn’t hesitate. She pulled my freezing, trembling body into her arms. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here.” The warm embrace. The anchoring words. It was always like this. She always appeared like a guardian angel at my most broken, desperate moments. When my food truck was rear-ended, when I couldn’t make rent—she possessed this terrifying, psychic ability to drop from the sky exactly when I needed saving. Growing up without a mother, I had possessed a hollow, aching desperation for a woman’s unconditional warmth. That was why, even after she had my hand broken, the moment she bent down and apologized, I caved. Even when she was cold, when she was cruel, she would inevitably return to nurse me back to health without a single complaint. I chose to forgive her. I chose to fall in love with her. A woman twelve years my senior. The intoxicating comfort of an older, sophisticated woman was like straight bourbon—one sip and I was completely derailed. Drunk enough to lose my entire sense of direction. “Mom!” Tim’s voice sliced through the corridor. Vicky instinctively shoved me away. The physical rejection was a bucket of ice water. I snapped entirely awake. A bitter, self-deprecating smile touched my lips. I had almost let myself sink back into her counterfeit sanctuary. Pathetic. Tim walked up, his eyes darting to the glowing screen of my phone, catching my bank balance. He gasped, his hand flying to his mouth. “Oh my god, Channing, is that all you have left? Is the monthly allowance Mom gives you not enough?” His voice wasn’t a shout, but it carried perfectly down the quiet hospital hall. Heads turned. Nurses and passing patients stopped to stare. In an instant, I was reduced to the wealthy older woman’s kept boy. A sugar baby. The whispers started immediately. Vicky frowned, her brow furrowing slightly, but she made absolutely no effort to correct him. Instead, she leaned in and whispered to me. “He doesn’t mean it like that, Channing… I’ll talk to him at home. You know how sensitive he is. I can’t scold him in public.” Right. To protect his fragile ego, I had to wear the badge of a male escort. But of course. How could a stray mutt ever compare to the precious son she raised? I looked at Vicky. For the first time, there was absolutely no warmth in my eyes. “Give me fifty thousand dollars.” Vicky froze. In all our years together, I had never asked her for a single cent. But if I was going to be publicly branded as her kept man, I might as well get paid for it. More importantly, I needed that money to keep my father breathing. Her eyes darkened, a flash of aristocratic annoyance crossing her features. “Excuse me? What did you just say?” “All those designer clothes and watches you tried to give me over the years, I never took them. Combined, they’re worth a hell of a lot more than fifty grand.” Vicky ground her teeth, her anger simmering just beneath her polished surface. “That is entirely different.” She was right. It was different. When a master tosses a bone to a dog, it’s charity. When the dog demands it, it’s a transgression. Tim stepped forward, gently touching Vicky’s arm. Instantly, the tension drained from her body. She softened, a lioness pacified by her cub. Tim turned to me and smiled. The contempt in his eyes was blindingly bright. “Channing, Mom rushed out of the house. She didn’t bring her black card. But I have five thousand in cash on me. Take it. It’s a start.” He pulled a thick stack of bills from his designer messenger bag and grabbed my hand. But the moment the money hit my palm, he dug his perfectly manicured nails violently into the bruised flesh of my knuckles. I flinched in pain, instinctively jerking my hand back. Tim let out a theatrical, piercing shriek and threw himself backward, crashing hard onto the linoleum floor. The cash rained down around him like green confetti. Tears welled in his eyes as he looked up at me, the picture of victimhood. “Channing… why did you push me? I just wanted to help you. I wasn’t trying to humiliate you.” 3 Vicky’s gaze instantly turned to absolute frost. “Channing. Is this how you behave when you’re begging for money?” I opened my mouth to defend myself, but she threw her hand up, cutting me off. “Don’t even try. I know exactly what you’re going to say. You’re going to say he fell on his own.” I snapped my mouth shut, letting out a dry, hollow laugh. This wasn’t the first time Tim had framed me. And it wasn’t the first time Vicky had chosen to believe him over me. I had been so hopelessly stupid. So blinded by my belief in her love that I couldn’t see the twisted, deeply inappropriate intimacy brewing between the two of them. My face entirely numb, I knelt on the floor and began picking up the life-saving cash, bill by agonizing bill. Suddenly, Vicky’s designer boot stepped squarely onto the back of my hand, pinning it to the floor. She stared down at me, a god looking at an insect. “Apologize to him.” The soft rubber sole of her shoe ground the last remaining fragments of my dignity into the linoleum. I surrendered to the nightmare. “I’m sorry.” But Vicky wasn’t satisfied. “If you’re going to apologize, do it properly.” I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. I pulled myself up, only to drop both of my knees heavily onto the hard hospital floor. I said it again. “I’m sorry.” I tilted my head up, my eyes dead as I looked at her. “Is that enough?” Her chest heaved. She let out a heavy, dramatic sigh. Feigning exhaustion, she crouched down and began helping me gather the money. “I know the news about your dad is devastating,” she murmured, playing the benevolent savior once more. “But that is no excuse to take your anger out on Tim. Don’t let it happen again.” “It won’t,” I whispered back. Because there is no ‘again.’ Vicky used the cash to pay the immediate deposit and shoved the rest into my jacket pocket. “Take me to see him.” My dad hated Vicky. Despite her immense wealth, my father saw right through her. To him, she was a toxic, controlling woman playing games with his son. He had never once offered her a warm smile. But today, he broke his own rule. He held Vicky’s hand, speaking to her in a weak, raspy voice for a long time. I knew exactly what he was doing. He was entrusting me to her. He was terrified that when he died, I would be left utterly alone in the world. An endless, corrosive sorrow ate at my chest. My throat felt packed with sand. I didn’t have the courage to tell a dying man that the woman holding his hand was a wolf wearing human skin. I didn’t blow up at Vicky. I couldn’t afford to. I needed her money, and I needed her elite connections to secure a kidney donor. That very night, she pulled strings and found a viable match. If the kidney arrived by the next afternoon, my father would live. The next day, I waited. Every nerve in my body thrummed with frantic hope. I waited through the bright morning. I waited through the afternoon. I waited until the sky outside the window bled into a bruised, dusky orange. Vicky never showed up. The organ never arrived. The dying light cast long shadows over my father’s sleeping face, making him look like an illusion that could evaporate at any second. The primal, suffocating terror of losing my only family gripped me by the throat. With violently shaking hands, I dialed her number for the hundredth time. Finally, the call connected. But it wasn’t Vicky. It was one of her friends. Vicky, the woman holding the literal key to my father’s life, had vanished for the entire day because Tim had come down with a “sudden, severe migraine.” She was at her estate, nursing him. While the clock ran out on my father’s kidney. I lost my mind. I sprinted out of the hospital, hailed a cab, and tore through the city toward her sprawling estate. I burst through the front doors, ignoring the sight of the two of them curled up intimately on the master bed. I lunged for the medical cooler abandoned in the corner of the room, grabbing the handle and bolting for the door. I had thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to get this organ to the surgeon before the tissue died. I barely made it out the front door when two of Vicky’s private security guards grabbed me, hauling me forcefully up the sweeping staircase and out onto the estate’s third-story terrace. Tim was standing on the wrong side of the wrought-iron balcony railing, sobbing hysterically. Vicky’s face was a mask of thunder. She grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, violently yanking me toward the ledge. “Look what you did! You barged in, and… and he was terrified you were going to get the wrong idea! Now he’s suicidal!” she screamed. “Tell him you didn’t misunderstand! Fix this!” A manic, hysterical laugh ripped from my throat. “Misunderstand what? That you two play mother and son in public but act like degenerate lovers behind closed doors?” Smack. A vicious backhand whipped across my face, the force of it snapping my head to the side. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Vicky hissed, her voice trembling with absolute rage, her eyes manic. “If he doesn’t step back over that railing right now, you can forget about taking that cooler anywhere. And I’ll personally ensure no surgeon in this state touches your father.” I stared at her, utterly paralyzed. The sheer, immovable cruelty in her eyes was terrifying. She had already let the organ sit for hours just to soothe a headache. I knew, with sickening certainty, that she would let my father die just to prove a point. My dad was waiting. He was dying. I broke. I screamed it out. “I misunderstood! You two are completely innocent! You’re a beautiful, loving family!” A flash of absolute triumph sparked in Tim’s tear-filled eyes. He didn’t step down immediately. He dragged it out, whining and clinging to the railing, wasting another excruciating five minutes before finally letting Vicky pull him to safety. I swallowed the bile and the towering, apocalyptic hatred in my throat, grabbed the cooler, and raced back to the hospital. I ran into the surgical ward, my lungs burning, only to be met by the transplant coordinator. He looked at the time logs and shook his head. The organ was no longer viable. We had missed the window. By exactly the five minutes Tim had spent crying on the balcony. I collapsed against the sterile wall, screaming until my vocal cords tore. I stayed there until a courier arrived, handing me an impeccably wrapped, expensive gift box. 4 My phone buzzed. It was Vicky. “Channing. Tim’s parents were my closest friends. I have to protect him,” her voice was smooth, completely detached from the devastation she had just caused. “The kidney didn’t work out. We’ll just find another one.” I said nothing. I just breathed into the receiver. She sighed, pivoting the conversation seamlessly. “You got the suit, right? Put it on tomorrow night. Meet me at our usual spot. I have something incredibly important to ask you.” And then it clicked. Tomorrow was the three-month mark. The day of her ninth “memory reset.” The day of her ninth proposal. She had killed my father’s chance at survival, and she still wanted to play her sick little game of pretend. But I was done, Vicky. I wasn’t playing anymore. I didn’t want your money. And I sure as hell didn’t want you. The next day, I didn’t show up. The custom-tailored tuxedo went straight into the hospital dumpster. I was at the front desk, arranging to take my father home for hospice care, when Vicky’s friends ambushed me. They physically grabbed my arms, ignoring my protests, and dragged me out to a waiting town car. “Vic has been waiting for hours! What is wrong with you?” one of them hissed. “She’s proposed so many times, maybe this is the time her memory actually stays! You can’t give up now!” When we arrived, the meadow was exactly as it had been eight times before. A sea of glowing, floating fireflies. The first eight times I saw this, I had wept with pure joy. I had believed, with every fiber of my being, that I was Vicky’s ultimate choice. Now I knew I was just her favorite punching bag. The glowing lights in the dark weren’t romantic anymore. They made me physically nauseous. I stood there, totally hollowed out, as Vicky, wearing the exact same white silk gown, recited the exact same vows she had memorized. She opened the velvet box. I raised my hand and slapped it away. The million-dollar diamond went flying into the tall grass. Vicky froze, her perfectly rehearsed expression shattering. “Channing… you… you don’t want to marry me?” I looked at her, my eyes dead. “Drop the act, Vicky—” Before I could finish, one of her friends came sprinting up the hill, staring at her phone in sheer panic. She looked at the screen, then shot a terrified glance at me. Vicky, sensing the script was being ruined, kicked the friend in the leg. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something? Whatever it is, handle it and get out!” A cold, reptilian dread coiled in my gut. I lunged forward and snatched the phone from the friend’s hand. My heart stopped beating. The screen was playing a local news livestream. The camera was zoomed in on the roof of the hospital. My father was standing on the ledge. I turned and ran. I scrambled down the embankment, tearing through the brush to the highway, and threw myself in front of a passing cab. In the backseat, my hands shook so violently I dropped my phone twice. I tried calling the home-care nurse who was supposed to be with him, but it went straight to voicemail. Frantic, I started typing furiously in the livestream’s chat. Dad, please get down… Dad, it’s Channing… A second later, I realized how stupid I was. He didn’t have a phone. He couldn’t read the chat. I started tagging the streamer. Please. Tell him I’m coming. Tell him Channing is coming! The streamer, a kid looking for clout, read my comment out loud and let out a cruel laugh. “Oh, you’re the son? Hey everyone, this is the kid! The guy on the ledge is jumping because of his son! Turns out his boy is a high-end gigolo for some rich lady. No wonder the old man is ashamed to be alive!” The blood in my veins turned to ice. My phone vibrated. It was the nurse. “Channing! Oh god, Channing, get here now! Half an hour ago, some kid named Tim showed up. He told your dad that you were selling your body to pay the hospital bills. Your dad… he thinks he ruined your life. He thinks he’s setting you free…” I gripped the phone until the glass cracked beneath my thumb. The hatred inside me was so immense it threatened to rip my chest open. I sprinted the last three blocks to the hospital, shoving past the police barricades. I looked up just in time to hear a stranger in the crowd yell. “Just jump already! Raising a whore for a son, you’re a failure anyway!” And then. Crack. The sound was deafening. Right in front of me, my father hit the pavement. A grotesque halo of crimson bloomed outward. “NO—!” I threw myself onto the concrete, pulling his shattered body into my arms. My tears fell like rain, mixing with the hot, thick blood pooling beneath him. I looked up at the sea of cell phones recording us. I opened my mouth to scream, to beg for a doctor, but my vocal cords snapped. Only a harsh, jagged wheeze came out. Please. Someone. Please save my dad. [Host. The progression timer has expired. Your mission is officially a failure.] The System’s voice chimed, cold and absolute. [Commencing memory wipe protocol regarding the subject: Vicky…] Vicky had fully intended to follow Channing to the hospital, but her phone rang. It was Tim. His head hurt again. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, watching the taillights of Channing’s cab fade into the night. Then, she turned her car around and drove back to the estate. Tim was inconsolable. He clung to her, whining until she finally gave in and laid down beside him, letting him fall asleep against her chest. She slept until noon the next day. When she finally woke up, she checked her phone. The group chat with her friends was active. “Is Vic doing the whole ‘memory reset’ thing again today?” Vicky frowned, her thumb hovering over the screen for a long time. It wasn’t until Tim shifted beside her, murmuring in his sleep, that she finally typed a single letter. “Y.” She got out of bed, went through her morning skincare routine, and exactly like the eight times prior, she made the call to her security detail. The order was simple: find Channing and break his hand. But this time, a strange, suffocating anxiety gripped her ribs. She couldn’t sit still. Two hours later, her head of security called back. “Ms. Vic… Channing is gone.”

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The third year after I took Helena Montgomery back, she cheated again. It was the same man as before. When I ran into them at a bistro downtown, she tried to tell me he was just a client. Then, a second later, she instinctively pulled this “client” behind her, shielding him with a look of sharp, defensive suspicion. I knew that look. She was afraid I’d lose my mind again. She was afraid I’d hurt the person she held closest to her heart. But I didn’t scream. I simply stepped forward, smoothed a stray lock of her hair that had fallen out of place, and spoke in a voice that was eerily calm. “I understand,” I said. “Don’t drink too much. And remember to use protection.” I paused, realizing the advice was probably redundant. I corrected myself with a small, hollow smile. “Actually, don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter.” I thought I was being incredibly accommodating. Gracious, even. But for some reason, Helena’s face went pale, then darkened with a sudden, inexplicable rage. 1 The restaurant was quiet—the kind of place where conversations are hushed, and the only sounds are the occasional clink of silver against porcelain. The atmosphere was meticulously curated. Nothing but deep red roses at every table. Everyone there was a lover. Or perhaps they were like Helena—putting on a performance of devotion while their secrets sat right across from them. I ignored the storm brewing in her eyes. I gave a polite nod to the man cowering behind her and turned to leave. My friend, who had witnessed the whole thing, caught up to me outside. “How are you not angry, Adrian?” he hissed. Angry? I searched myself for the feeling. It wasn’t there. I had been angry once, years ago. I had raved and wept and burned bridges, and it had cost me everything. I had paid a price so heavy I couldn’t afford to pay it twice. I forced a smile. “There’s nothing to be angry about. She’s just seeing a client.” My friend stared at me, his eyes full of a pity that made my skin crawl. I couldn’t tell him that this was the first lesson Helena had ever taught me: Learn to look at her life and see nothing at all. By the time my dinner meeting ended, Helena’s black SUV was idling at the curb. I looked at the Uber app on my phone—the wait time was twenty minutes—so I didn’t hesitate. I opened the back door and climbed in. Naturally, the passenger seat was occupied. He turned around, offering a smile that was half-shy, half-smug. “Sorry about this, Mr. Sterling. I get terrible motion sickness.” It was Parker Vance. He looked younger than I remembered. “Helena felt sorry for me and insisted I sit up front. It’s nothing more than that. I hope you don’t misunderstand.” Helena slid into the driver’s seat, her voice clipped as she threw a glance into the rearview mirror. “It’s just a seat, Adrian. If it bothers you that much, I’ll make Parker swap with you.” I leaned back against the leather, my tone soft and accommodating. “It’s fine. I understand. I actually have some motion-sickness patches in my bag, Parker. Would you like one? It might make the ride easier on you.” Parker didn’t say a word. Helena went silent, too. The car became a vacuum of sound. Outside, a cold San Francisco rain began to fall, blurring the city lights into streaks of neon. My friend texted me, asking if I’d made it into a car or if he should come pick me up. I kept my head down, typing a reply, failing to notice how hard Helena’s knuckles were turning as she gripped the steering wheel. Finally, just before the downpour turned into a deluge, she lurched the car forward. “Drop Adrian off first,” Parker suggested, his voice light. “His place is closer.” “Fine,” Helena said, her voice overlapping with my “No need.” I blinked, realizing Helena’s patience had reached its limit. I quickly tried to smooth things over. “Actually, it’s getting late and the rain is getting worse. Driving back and forth is such a hassle. Why don’t you both just stay at my place? I’ll text the housekeeper to get the guest suite ready—” Before I could finish, Helena slammed on the brakes. The tires shrieked against the wet asphalt. My forehead caught the back of the passenger seat. Hard. Before the pain could even register, Helena’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Get out. Now.” I realized then that I had misread the situation again. I had been too accommodating. I shut my mouth, pulled my folding umbrella from my bag, and stepped out into the storm. The umbrella was useless against the wind. Within seconds, I was drenched. Helena sped off, her tires kicking up a massive spray of dirty rainwater that soaked my legs. By the time I wiped my eyes, I couldn’t even see her taillights. I had to swallow my pride and text my friend to come get me. When he arrived, he looked at my shivering, soaked form with pure frustration. “You let her do this to you! You deserve this for being a doormat!” I pulled my lips into a thin, jagged smile. “Thanks for the ride. I know you’re trying to help, but I can’t leave her.” It wasn’t that my heart wouldn’t let me leave. It was the reality of my life that held me in place. 2 I was just stepping out of the shower when Helena returned. She was sitting on the sofa, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. The living room was thick with smoke; she’d clearly been there a while. I froze, a towel halfway to my hair. The scene felt like a haunting echo of three years ago—the night before our first divorce. She had smoked one after another back then, her eyes cold and resolute, before handing me the papers in a cloud of grey haze. I walked over, stiffly, and gently took the cigarette from her lips. “Stop. It’s bad for you.” Helena looked up, her eyes swimming with a complexity I couldn’t decipher. I forced myself to smile. “You don’t have to worry. I didn’t misunderstand anything about you and Parker. You said he’s a client, so he’s a client.” I continued, my voice a practiced melody of understanding. “You already had plans with him. It made sense for him to sit in the front. I was the interloper. I won’t cause a scene, Helena. I won’t bother him.” I was being the perfect husband. The kind of man who didn’t ask questions. Yet, Helena’s expression only grew more grim. Her jaw was set so tight it looked like it might shatter. A spike of panic hit me. I spoke faster, desperate to appease her. “If you want to bring him over, I don’t mind. Truly. If he finds me annoying, I can move out for a few days—” “Enough!” Helena lunged up, grabbing my wrist with a strength that made me wince. Her eyes were bloodshot. “If you’re so goddamn understanding,” she hissed, “then why don’t you just give up the title? Why don’t you stop being my husband entirely?” I gritted my teeth against the pain in my wrist, staring into her eyes. “If I do… will you stop paying for my mother’s medication?” Helena’s eyes widened. I didn’t wait for her to answer. I pressed on, the words tumbling out with a desperate honesty. “If I give up my place in this house, will you keep funding her treatment? Helena, I’ll leave right now. I’ll sign whatever you want, as long as you keep her in that program. Please?” Helena recoiled as if I’d slapped her. She let go of my hand so abruptly she nearly lost her balance. She stared at me, searching my face for a lie, for a joke, for anything other than the cold, hard truth. I wasn’t lying. I would hand Parker Vance my wedding ring on a silver platter if it meant my mother lived another month. Helena let out a sharp, hysterical laugh. “And you say you didn’t misunderstand?” She stepped closer again, taking my hand back, her thumb rubbing the red marks her grip had left on my skin. “Parker is a client, Adrian. I’m not lying.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. “Don’t get jealous, baby. It’s exhausting. You know I don’t have the patience to coddle you.” I looked down at her hand on mine. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t jealous. I wanted to tell her that jealousy requires love, and I wasn’t sure what I felt for her anymore. But it was a pointless argument. I just nodded. “I know.” 3 After that night, Helena became a ghost of the woman she used to be. Suddenly, she was always home. She left late and returned early. Every morning, she made me walk her to the foyer, and before she stepped out, she would turn back to kiss my forehead. Every evening, she brought me flowers. Sometimes it was pansies, sometimes irises… never the same thing twice. She would kiss the corner of my mouth and whisper, “I missed you today.” But the woman who “missed me” spent her afternoons photographed at the mall with Parker Vance or spotted at a luxury spa in Napa with him. She was playing a part, and so was I. We were both experts at pretending. Then came her mother’s birthday gala. Helena told me she wanted me there by her side. I agreed. When she pulled up to the house to get me that evening, the passenger seat was already taken. Parker smiled at me through the window, his expression devoid of any real apology. “Sorry, Mrs. Montgomery… I just have such a weak stomach.” Was this another test? I smiled back, nodding politely. “It’s no problem. Motion sickness is miserable. I get it.” I reached for the back door handle, but before I could open it, Helena stepped out of the car. She walked around to the passenger side and looked at Parker. “Get out,” she said. Parker’s smile faltered. “Helena, I thought—” “Don’t make me drag you out,” she said, her voice like ice. The tension was thick enough to choke on. I started to say something to diffuse the situation, but Helena didn’t give me the chance. She practically hauled Parker out of the seat. “Either sit in the back or call a cab,” she snapped. She didn’t even look at his face. She held the door open for me, ushering me into the front seat. It was awkward, but I knew better than to defy her in this mood. I sat down and buckled my seatbelt. Parker didn’t call a cab; he sulked in the back. As we drove, Helena handed me a velvet box. “A gift for my mother. Give it to her when we get there.” I murmured a thank you. Before I could say more, Parker leaned forward from the backseat. “It’s an emerald necklace. I helped Helena pick it out. It’s stunning, isn’t it?” I traced the edge of the box and smiled softly. “Yes. It really is.” See? The woman who said she missed me spent her time with him. Her body was always somewhere else. How could I ever believe a word she said? 4 The dinner was small—just family and a few close associates. Helena’s mother, Evelyn, adored Parker. She thought he was charming and vivacious. I knew that during our first divorce, Evelyn had tried everything to set Helena up with him permanently. Helena had refused then. Perhaps she preferred the thrill of the “forbidden.” Tonight was no different. Evelyn ignored me entirely, reaching past me to take Parker’s hands. “I’ve been waiting for you! You naughty boy, you never come to see me. Without you, I don’t have a single soul in this house to talk to.” She pulled Parker to the seat beside her. I was a ghost. I placed the gift on the table. “This is from Helena. Parker helped her choose it.” Evelyn actually looked at me then, surprised. She opened the box, let Parker fasten the emeralds around her neck, and sighed. “You always had the best taste, Parker. Not like some people. Some people have no taste and even less common sense. They’re just… in the way.” A few years ago, that would have stung. I would have walked out. Now, I just stood there, a hollow man with no reaction. Helena frowned. Something felt wrong to her. Ever since that night at the bistro, I had been… too calm. Indifferent. For the first time in years, Helena got drunk at her family home. She couldn’t stop thinking about me standing there in the corner, head bowed, silent. Unfazed by the insults. Unfazed by Parker. Did I really not care? The thought drove her to drink more. Since we couldn’t drive back, we stayed the night at the estate. Parker was given the room right next to ours. It was Evelyn’s doing. A blatant move. So, when Helena pinned me against the bed late that night, her breath smelling of expensive wine, I pushed her away. I straightened her collar and gave her a small, polite smile. “Wait one second.” I walked out of the room and knocked on Parker’s door. Under Parker’s shocked gaze, I led him into our bedroom and closed the door behind him. Then, I took the car keys and drove away from the Montgomery estate. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed. It was Helena, her voice a low, dangerous hiss. “What the hell are you doing?” I watched the headlights cut through the darkness of the highway. “The last time you were drunk and holding me,” I said quietly, “you called out Parker’s name all night. I assumed tonight would be the same.” Helena screamed into the phone. “I didn’t say his name tonight!” “I know,” I replied, my voice steady. “But in case you did halfway through… I was just looking out for you.” The line went dead. She didn’t call back. 5 The punishment was swift. Helena vanished. Not physically, but she blocked me from her world. She stopped coming home, stopped answering my calls, and began appearing everywhere with Parker. The tabloids were full of them. Helena Montgomery and Parker Vance at the Charity Gala—The Golden Couple. Then: Helena purchases a multi-million dollar sapphire, placing it on Parker’s finger under the spotlight. It looked like a proposal. Then: Fireworks and a kiss at the harbor. The headlines were relentless. It felt like Helena had bought every trending topic on social media just to rub it in my face. But then, in the middle of the marketing blitz, a different kind of story broke. SHOCKING: The Secret Marriage! The Other Man Exposed! A thread went viral, detailing how Helena and I were actually married. It claimed she had divorced me three years ago for Parker, only for us to reconcile, and now she was cheating on me with him again. The internet turned on Parker instantly. He was labeled a homewrecker, a social climber, a “professional third party.” Someone doxxed him. His degree was fake. His certifications were lies. People sent death threats to his apartment. Helena called me immediately. She was surprisingly patient. “Adrian, honey, the things you’re seeing… it’s just business. It’s for the brand. Don’t take it seriously.” Then, the hook. “Be a good boy and delete the posts. Don’t make this difficult for me.” I wasn’t surprised she was blaming me for the leak. She’d done it before. Years ago, when Parker lost a high-profile competition and the internet turned on him, Helena told me I had to take the fall. When I said I couldn’t stop the internet, she had used AI to deepfake compromising photos of me—scandalous, career-ending images—to bury Parker’s bad press under my own. She called him a “client,” but every time he was in trouble, she threw me to the wolves to shield him. “I didn’t post it, Helena,” I said calmly. “I don’t have the password to take it down. Parker is a public figure. Maybe you should check if he’s offended someone else.” Helena didn’t speak. Instead, I heard Parker sobbing in the background. “But… but… Adrian is the only one who hates me! He’s the only one who would want to ruin me!” Hate? I didn’t hate him. I didn’t feel enough for him to hate him. “Parker,” I said into the phone, “you’ve misunderstood. I don’t hate you. I don’t even think about you.” The sobbing got louder. I sighed, looking at my phone. “Helena, just have your PR team deepfake some more photos of me. If I do something ‘worse’ in the public eye, they’ll stop yelling at him. Do what you have to do. I don’t care.” There was a loud crack on the other end, like something breaking. I waited for her next order. But Helena just hung up. I checked my phone an hour later. All the threads about Parker were gone. But there were no new scandals about me either. Even the old news from three years ago had vanished from the search results. It turned out that burying a scandal only required money and power. You didn’t actually have to destroy one person to save another. I smiled a cold, empty smile. I tucked my phone into my bag and walked into my mother’s hospital room. 6 I thought that was the end of it. But then, the real black-market footage of me leaked.

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The cabin door was seconds from hissing shut when the purser’s white-gloved hand clamped onto my suitcase like a vice, dragging me back toward the jet bridge. “Flight’s overbooked. You’re getting a two-hundred-dollar voucher. Get off, now!” His grip was so tight I thought he’d leave indentations in the leather. Behind him, a woman in a vintage Chanel suit was being ushered toward First Class with the kind of reverent bowing usually reserved for royalty. “I paid full price for this seat,” I said, wrenching my handle away. My heels clicked a sharp, defiant rhythm against the metal floor. “She’s thirty minutes late. Why does she get priority?” The man leaned in, his gold cufflink grazing my cheek as he sneered into my ear. “That is Madeline Sampson, heiress to the Sampson Biotech empire. She’s flying to recruit a world-class specialist to save her life. A nobody like you is a rounding error. If she dies because you took up space, you couldn’t pay the bill in ten lifetimes.” As four security guards grabbed my shoulders, I saw Madeline slide her oversized sunglasses down. On her wrist was a limited-edition emerald prayer strand—the one my mother had left me. Three months ago, her father had practically crawled to my clinic door, offering that very heirloom in exchange for his daughter’s life. As the engines began to roar, I pulled out my phone and blocked the contact labeled ‘Sampson Family.’ If they thought money could buy them a shortcut to the front of the line, they could enjoy the view from the ICU. In this world, some things can’t be fixed with a black card and a sense of entitlement. 1 I dragged my suitcase toward the customer service counter, my blood simmering just below the surface. “I want a refund,” I said, slapping my ID onto the marble. The agent glanced at the screen, gave me a once-over that lingered on my off-brand coat, and rolled her eyes. “Sorry, honey. This is a ‘voluntary’ denial of boarding due to a disturbance. We can only refund the taxes and fees. That’s about sixty bucks. No luck on the fare.” I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Voluntary?” “Your airline overbooked. You forcibly removed a paying passenger. How is that on me?” She tapped her keyboard with manicured nails, her face a mask of practiced indifference. “The report says you were disruptive and endangered the safety of the cabin.” “You’re lucky you’re getting the sixty bucks,” she added, her voice dropping to a condescending purr. “Don’t be ungrateful.” Just then, the sound of polished Oxfords echoed through the terminal. The purser from the gate marched over, his phone held up like a weapon, recording me. “Look at this,” he said to the camera, his voice dripping with theatrical disdain. “Another grifter trying to shake down the airline. She’s desperate for a payout.” He crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. “Two hundred wasn’t enough for you? Maybe if I post this, some ‘GoFundMe’ suckers will throw you a few cents out of pity.” I stared at his smug face, forcing my breathing to stay even. “You are going to regret every word that comes out of your mouth today.” He laughed so hard I thought he might choke. “Regret it? From a girl who can’t even afford a business class upgrade? Miss Sampson booked the entire First Class cabin. Her bodyguards are sitting in Premium. Who the hell are you supposed to be?” He spun around, shouting to the crowded terminal. “Hey, everyone! Check out the scammer! She blocked a life-saving flight for a terminal patient because she wanted to extort us for more money! This is what’s wrong with the world!” A few travelers stopped to stare, whispering. “She looks decent, too. What a shame.” “Just take the voucher and go, lady. Stop holding up the line.” “Total trash.” I ignored the gallery. I looked at the agent. “Fine. Give me the refund. But you will write it in black and white on the receipt: Denied boarding due to overbooking.” I wasn’t about to let the Sampsons think I’d intentionally breached our contract. I wouldn’t carry that cross for them. The purser’s face darkened. He slammed his hand on the counter. “In your dreams! You refused our solution. Security! Why are you just standing there? Throw this lunatic out!” The guards grabbed my arms again, more roughly this time. “Let go!” I struggled, but they dragged me toward the sliding glass doors of the exit. As we passed the purser, I looked him dead in the eye. “Remember my face. Remember what you said. Because very soon, you’ll be the one begging.” He didn’t blink. Instead, he kicked my suitcase. The latch, already stressed, snapped open. Clothes, journals, and several vials of amber liquid spilled across the concrete. He stepped forward and ground his heel into the glass vials, crushing them into a fine powder. My heart stopped. That was the stabilizing serum I’d spent months synthesizing for Madeline Sampson. It was the only batch in existence. Without it, she wouldn’t survive the post-op recovery phase. “Oops,” the purser mocked. “My bad.” Cell phone cameras captured my shock, the laughter of the crowd ringing in my ears like a funeral dirge. I was shoved out onto the sidewalk, my broken suitcase tossed onto my lap like trash. “Get lost, loser. If you come back, we’re calling the cops for trespassing.” My phone vibrated violently in my pocket. I answered. “Where the hell are you?” a voice barked. It was the Sampson family’s estate manager, his tone thick with aristocratic arrogance. “The flight took off. I checked the manifest. Your name isn’t on it.” “We spent a fortune to secure your time. We even wired the deposit. And you choose now to play prima donna?” “You think you’re special? You’re a hired hand. If your surgical record wasn’t flawless, you wouldn’t be allowed to breathe the same air as Miss Madeline.” I tried to explain the airline’s “overbooking,” but he cut me off. “Listen to me carefully. Our mistress doesn’t have time for your excuses. If you aren’t in the surgical theater at Mercy General by sunset, the Sampson family will ensure you never practice medicine in this country again. You took our money. Now do your job, or we’ll ruin you.” The line went dead. 2 I felt a cold, sharp clarity settle over me. I dialed back. The manager picked up, sounding even more annoyed. “What now? Figure out how to charter a private jet on your own dime?” “Don’t bother with the jet,” I said, my voice as flat as a heartline. “If you want to know why I missed that flight, ask the purser on Miss Sampson’s plane.” “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means you’re looking for a savior in the wrong place.” I hung up. I opened my banking app, found the three-million-dollar “good faith” deposit the Sampsons had sent, and hit Refund. In the memo line, I typed four words: Find someone else. Good luck. Three million might be life-changing money for most, but it wasn’t enough to buy back my dignity. I blocked every number associated with the family. I looked down at the crushed powder on the pavement—the medicine that was supposed to keep Madeline Sampson’s heart beating. I felt a grim smile touch my lips. Madeline, you’re on your own. I hailed a cab and went straight back to my private practice. I hadn’t even sat down before my desk phone started screaming. It was the Chief of Medicine at the hospital where I held my surgical privileges. “Dr. West! What in God’s name are you doing?” he roared. “The Sampsons just called. They said you started a riot at the airport and tried to physically assault Miss Madeline! They said a purser had to intervene to protect her!” The purser’s lies were traveling fast. To cover up a routine overbooking error, he’d painted me as a violent lunatic. And the Sampsons, in their infinite arrogance, had swallowed it whole without checking a single fact. “Mrs. Sampson Senior is demanding you get on a plane to San Francisco right now to apologize on your knees and start the surgery! If you don’t go, consider your license revoked!” I didn’t argue. I pulled a piece of stationery from my drawer and wrote a single sentence. Then I walked upstairs to his office. Thud. I slapped my resignation on his desk. “You don’t have to fire me. I quit.” The Chief stared at the paper, his mouth agape. “You’re insane. You think quitting protects you from them?” I leaned over his desk, looming over him. “I’m tired, Bill. I think I’ll take a long vacation. If the Sampsons want to try and ‘blacklist’ me, tell them to join the line. I’m done.” I turned and walked out. “Get back here! West!” I didn’t look back. I knew the clock. Madeline’s condition relied entirely on the serum I’d developed. Without it, the flight at thirty thousand feet would put too much pressure on her vascular system. The symptoms should be starting right about… now. 3 I went home, shut the blinds, and slept for the first time in weeks. The next morning, I woke up to a hundred missed calls. One local number kept buzzing. I finally picked up. “Dr. West! Please, you have to come to the airport! Miss Madeline started hemorrhaging mid-flight! She’s in a coma!” It was the purser. I could hear the sheer terror in his voice. “The airline has authorized a private transport for you! Business class, whatever you want! Just get to the terminal!” I leaned back against my headboard. “A private transport? I thought I was ‘trash’ who only deserved to be kicked out?” “Please!” he screamed. “The Sampsons are threatening to sue the airline into the ground. If I lose my job because of you, I’ll kill you! Just get over here!” I hung up and blocked him. Less than thirty minutes later, someone began hammering on my front door. Bang. Bang. Bang. Then, the sharp, acrid scent of paint fumes wafted through the cracks. “West! You hack! Get out here!” I threw the door open. A bucket of red paint had been splashed across my porch, dripping like fresh blood. The purser was there, backed by three airport security guards in full uniform. My neighbors were already peeking out of their windows, whispering and pointing. “Look at him,” the purser shouted to the street. “This is the ‘doctor’ who took a dying girl’s money and then sabotaged her treatment out of spite! He’s a murderer in a white coat!” He was desperate. The Sampsons had clearly pinned the blame on the airline, and he was trying to use me as a human shield to save his career. “You think you can hide? You’re going to that hospital if I have to drag your corpse there!” I was reaching for my phone to call the police when a black Escalade screeched to a halt at the curb. Two men in suits stepped out, shoving the neighbors aside. The Sampson estate manager walked up the path, stepping over the red paint. The purser scurried toward him. “Sir! I found him! He won’t escape this time!” The manager didn’t even look at him. He walked straight up to me and held out a check. He flicked it with his finger. “Six million. Double the original fee. Get in the car, and we forget this ever happened.” I didn’t look at the check. “Not interested.” “Don’t be a fool,” the manager hissed, his voice dropping to a deadly, low vibration. “You think you can win against us? If you won’t walk to that OR, we will carry you. And if you won’t use a scalpel, we have ways of making you reconsider.” He leaned in closer. “I know your father is at the Evergreen Memory Care center. It would be a shame if his funding… vanished. Or if the facility decided he was too ‘difficult’ to keep.” My heart hammered against my ribs. They had targeted my father. “Touch him,” I whispered, “and I promise you, Madeline never wakes up.” “She’s already dying,” the manager sneered. “What have we got to lose? Pack your bags, Doctor. Now. Or your father is on the street by noon.” The security guards moved in, pinning my arms. The purser grinned from the sidelines. “See? Told you. Nobody says no to the Sampsons.” I looked at their smug, ugly faces, and suddenly, I started to laugh. The manager’s brow furrowed. “What’s so funny?” “You’re all so incredibly stupid,” I said, my laughter dying into a cold stare. I looked at the purser. “You think I’m refusing out of spite?” “Even if I go there now, she’s a dead woman walking.” The manager grabbed my collar. “What did you say?”

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We were hunched over a single bowl of cheap takeout noodles in our cramped studio apartment when I started venting. Between slurps, I told him about the billionaire drama I’d overheard while doing a closet clean-out that morning. “Can you even believe it? This tech mogul—some new-money prick—lives in a penthouse but acts like he’s ‘slumming it’ for the experience. Word is, he’s leading a double life. He’s got a devoted girl at home while he’s out here spoiling a twenty-something socialite on the side.” I stabbed at the bottom of the plastic container with my chopsticks. “The rich are truly another species. To them, loyalty is just a commodity, like a stock they can trade when they get bored.” His hand, which had been reaching for the last piece of braised egg, jerked violently. The egg tumbled onto the linoleum floor with a dull thud. I gasped, mourning the loss of our only protein, completely missing the way the blood had drained from his face, leaving him ghost-white. The next day, I was back at it, scouting for a client. Her walk-in closet was a mountain of limited-edition labels and unworn silk. “Your husband certainly adores you,” I remarked, pulling on my white gloves to inspect a vintage Birkin. The mistress of the house—a girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two—was curled on a velvet chaise, swirling a glass of expensive Pinot. “He says I’m his little lucky charm. Every time we… well, every time he stays the night, he leaves a ‘thank you’ gift.” She suddenly kicked off a heel. “These got a water spot on the suede. I don’t want them. He’ll just buy me the new season’s collection anyway.” My eyes lit up. The resale value on those shoes could net me an extra fifty bucks—enough for a real steak dinner tonight. I knelt to help her slide the other one off, but as I reached for her ankle, a voice drifted down from the top of the stairs—a voice so familiar it made my scalp crawl. “Is my girl throwing away my gifts again?” I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked up, slowly. There stood Sebastian. The man who was supposed to be out delivering Uber Eats until 3:00 AM to pay our rent was standing on a gilded staircase, wearing a bespoke three-piece suit, framed by a seven-figure crystal chandelier. 01 In the split second our eyes met, a thousand accusations rushed to my throat. But they were instantly extinguished by the girl’s playful pout. “Hmph. Don’t let the suit fool you,” she joked, looking at me. “He acts like a gentleman, but he’s a total beast behind closed doors.” Sebastian shifted his gaze away from me without a flicker of recognition. He stepped down and pulled the silk robe tighter around her shoulders, covering a cluster of faint, bruised-red marks on her collarbone. “Madison, honey,” he said, his voice a low, smooth purr. “Cover up. We have company.” It wasn’t hard to imagine. The way he would have pressed his face into the crook of her neck, leaving those marks with the same devotion he used to show me. Then, I noticed their pajamas. They were matching sets—Italian silk, five thousand dollars a pop. A few days ago, I’d shown him a picture of those exact pajamas on my phone. “Can you believe people spend a year’s rent on something to sleep in?” I’d laughed. “I hate the rich.” He had kissed the corner of my mouth then. “Joanna, one day we’ll have that. I’m going to make sure you’re the wealthiest woman in the city.” I’d taken it as a sweet, empty promise. I didn’t realize he’d already bought them—just for someone else. In that silk, he looked regal, untouchable. He looked like a stranger. Madison giggled, playfully hitting his chest. “You’re so possessive! Last week he fired a junior analyst just for looking at me too long. He thinks he’s in some Hallmark movie. It’s a bit much, honestly.” She had the glowing, effortless skin of someone who had never known a day of stress. That was the source of her confidence. I stood there, paralyzed, before forcing my voice to work. It sounded like sandpaper. “Do you… do you two run the company together?” Madison blew a bubble with her gum. “Oh, it’s all Seb’s. He started it a few years back. He landed this massive Series A funding right after I joined as an intern. He calls me his ‘Lucky Rabbit’s Foot.’ He went all out to get me.” The words felt like a bucket of ice water over my head. Three years ago, Sebastian told me he’d used all our savings to start a business. Later, he told me it had failed spectacularly. He’d “grieved” for months, and I had worked three jobs to keep us afloat while he “found himself.” He hadn’t failed. He had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. He just didn’t want me in the winner’s circle. The seat he promised me was already taken. Madison looked at me with faux-concern. “Hey, are you okay? You look a little pale. If you’re struggling for work, I can get you a spot in the mailroom.” She patted her chest. “Besides Seb, I’m basically the boss around here.” Sebastian let out a soft, condescending chuckle, pinching her nose. “Stop being a brat, Maddie. We don’t just hire anyone off the street. The firm only takes Ivy League grads now.” I felt a hollow ache in my chest. We had both graduated from a mid-tier state school. We had spent years being looked down upon by recruiters. Now that he was at the top, he was pulling up the ladder behind him, sneering at people exactly like the woman who had helped him get there. I forced myself to look away from their flirting. I surveyed the room. This villa… I couldn’t even have imagined this level of luxury in my dreams. The apartment we’d shared for eight years was smaller than the bathroom I was standing in. We had spent nearly a decade cramped on a sagging queen mattress, watching the ceiling leak every time it rained. We were “poor but happy.” Or so I thought. Why? Why was he willing to share the struggle, but not the prize? Ten minutes later, I hauled the heavy bags of designer cast-offs toward the door. The plastic handles dug into my palms like dull knives. It hurt, but it was nothing compared to the slow-motion shattering of my soul. Sebastian had his arm around Madison, his thumb tapping a rhythm on his phone. It was an old signal of ours. Wait for me. I’ll call you later. I pretended not to see. I gave them a polite, professional bow and walked out into the sun. 02 It’s a two-hour commute from the hills to my neighborhood. Usually, I’d take the bus to save the five dollars. Today, I called an Uber. The money I’d been painstakingly saving for a wedding—a wedding that was never going to happen—suddenly felt like Monopoly money. Worthless. I stared out the window as memories clawed at my brain. In college, I was the one who noticed Sebastian—the gorgeous, brooding guy in the back of the lecture hall—was living on nothing but five-dollar meal vouchers. I’d secretly applied for grants on his behalf, found him tutoring gigs, and took care of him in a dozen ways that wouldn’t bruise his ego. When he found out, he’d broken down in tears and promised me the world. Then, his mother got the diagnosis. Stage IV. We pulled our first fifty thousand dollars—every cent we’d ever earned—out of the bank. On the way to the hospital, we were cornered in a dark alley by three guys with pipes. I remember my voice being strangely calm. “Let him go. I have the money.” I’d whispered in Sebastian’s ear: “This is for your mom’s surgery. Go. Now. I know these guys from the neighborhood. I can talk them down.” Sebastian still doesn’t know. That was the biggest lie of my life. I didn’t know them. And I didn’t “talk them down.” I tried to lie to myself, too. I tried to pretend that night never happened. When the Uber dropped me off, my hands were shaking so hard I could barely turn the key. I barely made it to the bathroom before I started retching. I threw up my lunch, my dinner, and ten years of wasted trust. I scrubbed my hands until the skin was raw. But the shame… the memory of those men… you can’t wash that off. I looked in the mirror. My skin was dull, tired. Fine lines were starting to map out the stress around my eyes. How could I compete with a girl like Madison? I started laughing. A jagged, ugly sound that turned into heaving sobs. He had promised me everything and gave me nothing. I had promised him nothing and gave him everything I was. Hours later, Sebastian came home. He didn’t even bother with the “delivery guy” act anymore. He walked in wearing that charcoal-gray suit, looking like he owned the building. His first words weren’t an apology. They were a demand. “Why are you still doing these side gigs, Jo? It’s embarrassing.” If it hadn’t been for today, I would have died believing his lies. I looked him dead in the eye. “The delivery job was a lie, Sebastian. But my three jobs? Those were real.” He grabbed my wrist, his grip tight and commanding. “Joanna, have I ever let you go hungry? Why are you playing the martyr now?” I studied his face. “I wanted to save enough so you wouldn’t feel pressured. So we could finally get married. Was that my mistake?” My voice was a ghost of a whisper. “But I guess that’s off the table now.” His grip faltered. He looked around our bedroom—the tiny bed where we’d spent nights counting on our fingers who we’d invite to our wedding, how we’d decorate. Those dreams had been my oxygen. Now, the air was gone. “Ten years,” I said. “What am I to you, Sebastian? Really?” He rubbed his temples, looking more annoyed than guilty. “Look, I had a business dinner. I got drunk. One thing led to another with Madison, and… I have to take care of her. She’s just a kid, Jo. She’s soft. She needs me.” He looked at me with a cold, piercing judgment. “And you… let’s be honest. Before we got together, who knows how many men you’d been with? You’re tough. You’ve always been able to handle yourself.” The words felt like a venomous snake biting into my heart. I thought about our “first time.” The way he’d paused, sensing something was wrong, and I—not wanting to open the wound of the alleyway—had just whispered, “Do you mind? If you mind, we can stop…” He had shaken his head then, his palm warm against my cheek. “Silly girl. I only want to protect you. I wish I’d met you sooner, so you never had to hurt.” He actually thought I’d just been “experienced.” He mistook my trauma for a lack of purity, and used it as an excuse to betray me. I didn’t argue. I just started throwing his clothes out the door. “Jo, don’t do this…” he began, reaching for me. SMACK. The door burst open. Madison was standing there. She must have followed him. She looked around the ten-square-foot room with pure disgust before her hand connected with my face. She looked at her reddened palm. Her hands were soft, pampered. Mine were calloused from the work that had funded Sebastian’s first prototype. I bit my lip, refusing to cry. I looked at Sebastian. He watched my face swell with a chilling indifference. The boy who used to cry at the thought of me being hurt was dead. “I knew something was up at the house,” Madison spat. “I said those things to make you back off, but you’re just a persistent little parasite, aren’t you?” She sneered. “You live in this dump, and I live in a ten-million-dollar estate. Do you really need a map to figure out who he loves more?” Sebastian’s brow furrowed. He caught Madison’s hand before she could swing again. “Enough,” he said, his voice deep. “Let’s go home.” He picked her up in a bridal carry. She whimpered and clung to his neck, playing the role of the victim perfectly. “He’s such a bad boy,” she cooed as they left. “I can’t believe you even have the stomach for a woman like that…” 03 The roar of a black Bentley echoed through the alley as it sped away from the slums. I lay on the floor for a long time, until the chill of the linoleum seeped into my bones. My phone buzzed on the table. Madison had sent me a link to her Instagram. She was a “lifestyle influencer” with a million followers. In her videos, Sebastian was the perfect man. Patiently doing TikTok challenges, looking at her with a steady, adoring gaze. Every time he told me he was on a “business trip,” he was actually taking her to see blue whales in Antarctica, or kissing her under the Eiffel Tower. And I was here. Wearing a mascot suit to hand out flyers in 90-degree heat. Sorting packages in a freezing warehouse. Checking my bank balance every night like a fool, counting down to a wedding that was a ghost. I wondered… when he pressed her into those expensive Egyptian cotton sheets, did he ever think of the shared spicy soup we ate in this dump? Did he remember the winters we couldn’t afford heat, when he’d hold me tight just to keep us both from shivering? Madison’s latest post was from their company gala. Sebastian had his arm around her, speaking into a microphone. “For the next sixty seconds, for every person who calls her ‘The Boss,’ I’m giving out a hundred-dollar bonus. No cap.” The room erupted in cheers. Madison was radiant. A single tear hit my screen. Ten years, Sebastian. This is all it was worth? The bitterness tasted like bile. I wiped my eyes until they were raw, then I looked up the company address. 19 Ocean View Drive. I grabbed an old, yellowed envelope from under the floorboards and headed out. The CBD was a different world. I felt the old, familiar sting of inadequacy as I stepped into the glass-and-steel lobby. “I’m here to see Sebastian,” I told the receptionist. She didn’t even look up from her nails. “Do you have an appointment?” I shook my head. She pointed toward the exit with a polished finger. “Mr. Wayne doesn’t see ‘random women.’ He’s very devoted to his fiancée. You’re wasting your time.” He’d given Madison all the loyalty he’d stolen from me. I didn’t leave. I waited for a group of couriers to walk in and slipped in behind them. I saw the sprawling offices. Hundreds of elite employees. In this building, they made more in an hour than I made in a week. Their futures were so bright it hurt to look at them. I stopped in front of a heavy mahogany door. The gold plaque read: CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER. Through the crack in the door, I heard his voice. Sebastian was sitting in his leather chair, Madison perched on his lap. He was rubbing her calf with a slow, possessive stroke. “Maddie, what do I have to do to make you forgive me for that scene earlier?” 04 She tugged on his tie, giggling. “Let’s have a baby. I want a little ‘us’ to tie you down forever.” He laughed, a low, melodic sound, and leaned in for a deep kiss. “Whatever you want, honey.” He stood up, unbuttoning his shirt as he carried her toward the private rest area behind the office. My vision blurred. I remembered the twenty-year-old Sebastian swearing he’d never love anyone but me. Congratulations, Sebastian. You got everything you wanted. And it only cost you your soul. I walked back to the front desk and left the yellowed envelope there. Then, I sent him a text. I’m leaving, Sebastian. Goodbye. A second later, my phone rang. “Jo, don’t be dramatic,” he said, sounding bored. “Now that you know about me and Madison, you can stop working those pathetic jobs. I bought a penthouse downtown. It’s yours. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” “No,” I said. He paused. His voice softened, turning manipulative. “I’m a sentimental guy, Jo. We’ve been together a long time. As long as you stay in your place, I’ll keep you for as long as you want.” I shook my head, though he couldn’t see me. How could I ever eat a meal he provided, knowing his lips had just been on hers? I’m not interested in leftovers. I hung up, took out my SIM card, and snapped it in half. New number. New city. New life. Aside from my name, Sebastian, you don’t know a thing about me. Sebastian was walking out of his office when his secretary stopped him. “Sir, a woman left this for you.” He opened the envelope. Inside was a faded, yellowed police report from ten years ago.

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