During a department dinner, my wife, Delia, suddenly pulled a lighter from her pocket and handed it to the new intern, who had just fished out a cigarette. I sat across from them, my fork frozen in midair. We had been married for seven years. Because of her Asperger’s, she had always operated strictly on instructions, like a machine running on a fixed code. If I didn’t ask, she didn’t act. Even the last time I sliced my finger open, blood pooling on the kitchen counter, I had to physically ask her to pass me a paper towel before she would move. But tonight, no one had given her an instruction. I slowly lowered my fork, watching the intern take the lighter from her hand. A single, quiet thought bloomed in my chest. My marriage is over. … I pushed back my chair and stepped out of the private dining room. My chest felt tight, a dull, heavy ache settling behind my ribs. Seven years. I had never seen Delia do something for someone else out of her own initiative. Her condition made her a creature of absolute precision. I inputted the command; she executed it. If I remained silent, she stayed still. When the restaurant’s AC was too cold and I muttered that I was freezing, she wouldn’t understand the implication. But if I told her, Give me your jacket, she would strip it off immediately. When my ulcer flared up and I groaned that my stomach hurt, she would look at me blankly. But if I said, Pour me a glass of warm water, she’d be in the kitchen in a heartbeat. Yet there she was, offering a lighter to an intern without a single word from him. As I washed my hands and stepped out of the restroom, I nearly collided with someone at the corner of the hallway. “Oh, sorry about that.” It was the intern. Seeing me, he didn’t look surprised at all. He smirked slightly, adjusting his collar. “You’re Elliot, right? Ms. Caldwell’s husband?” I didn’t answer. I just quietly sized him up. His ID badge read Dustin Cross. “You’re a lucky guy,” Dustin said, his tone entirely too familiar. “Having a wife who’s so… attentive.” Attentive. The word didn’t belong in the same universe as Delia. Why would Dustin use it? The only logical explanation was that she behaved entirely differently around him. A version of her I had never seen. A tenderness she had never offered me. “Is there something you need?” I asked, finding my voice. He was still standing in my path, showing no intention of moving. Dustin leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, right against my ear. “Actually, Elliot, I’m more jealous of her skin. It’s incredibly soft. Like silk.” My entire body went rigid. I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. He wore a smug, provocative grin, and seeing my reaction, he decided to press harder. “Last Thursday, after the client dinner, Ms. Caldwell and I both drank too much. We got a room at the Ritz. She was the one who suggested it.” He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. “It was just an accident, Elliot. You won’t hold it against me, right?” My mind went entirely blank, save for one phrase repeating like a broken record. She suggested it. But she never suggested anything. She never initiated. I remembered our first Valentine’s Day. She worked until past midnight, coming home with no flowers, no cake, no card. I had spent the evening watching couples hold hands on the streets, and by the time she walked through the door, I collapsed into a childish, desperate tantrum. At midnight, I demanded, Go buy me a cake. I want it right now. Delia didn’t argue. She got back in her car and drove through a torrential downpour, scouring the city until she found a bakery that hadn’t closed its doors yet. When she returned, her hair was plastered to her forehead, the cuffs of her jeans soaked. But she didn’t complain. She just handed me the box. Then there was the time we planned to hike up Mt. Rainier over the weekend. I had packed the gear, eager for a quiet escape. But that morning, she got a call from the office. An emergency. Furious, I took my pack and left alone. Sitting at the trailhead, the resentment festered until I couldn’t take it anymore. I called her. “Delia, you need to get up here right now. I’m waiting for you.” There was a three-second silence on the line. “Okay,” she said. An hour later, she appeared. She hadn’t even changed out of her work clothes. Within twenty minutes of walking the gravel trail in her designer heels, her feet were bleeding, leaving her limping painfully. Only later did I find out she had walked away from an eight-figure contract negotiation just because I told her to come. It was those moments that had kept me in this marriage for seven years. I had never regretted marrying her. I thought that was just her way of loving me. She couldn’t say the words, she couldn’t take the first step, but if I asked, she would tear her own world apart to give me what I wanted. The only time Delia had ever initiated anything was one quiet evening when she turned to me and said, “We should get married.” I had been stunned, blinking back tears of joy. “Why the sudden proposal?” Her face was completely expressionless. “We are dating. Dating leads to marriage. It is the logical next step.” Even then, I was moved. I convinced myself she wasn’t cold; she was just different. She loved me in her own silent, structured way. But now, a simple plastic lighter had shattered every excuse I had ever built for her. The motion-activated lights in the hallway clicked off, plunging us into shadow. In the dark, I felt a hollow ache open up in my chest, as if someone had cleanly scooped out my heart, leaving a void where the cold draft could whistle through. “What are you two doing?” The lights flickered back on. Delia stood at the end of the hall. She looked at me, then at Dustin. Her expression was as blank and unreadable as ever. “The food is getting cold. Are we going back?” I looked at her, and when I spoke, my voice sounded like dry gravel. “Delia, last Thursday. You didn’t come home. Where were you, really?” Her composure cracked, just for a fraction of a second. Then, she pinched the bridge of her nose, a flicker of irritation passing over her features. “I told you, Elliot. I had too much to drink. I fell asleep on the couch in the executive lounge at the office.” “I already explained this. Do you not trust me?” I stared into her eyes. There wasn’t a trace of guilt, not a hint of a lie. But that was her condition—she didn’t register deceit the way normal people did. And I didn’t believe a single word. A couple walked past us down the hall, casting curious glances. I took a deep, shaky breath, blinking back the hot sting of tears, and forced my voice to remain steady. “Let’s talk about this at home.” But deep down, I knew there was nothing left to say. Outside the restaurant, a summer storm was turning the streets into rivers. I got into the passenger seat first. Out of habit, I looked at the center console screen. The navigation system was still active, displaying our recent history. Thursday, 11:42 PM. Destination: The Ritz-Carlton Downtown. Vehicle parked until Friday, 8:15 AM. I stared at the screen, my fingers slowly tightening around the hem of my jacket until my knuckles turned white. She had lied to me. Through the rain-streaked window, I saw her walk over to Dustin, who was hovering near the restaurant’s revolving doors. They spoke for a brief moment. Then, holding her umbrella high, she guided him toward our car. “The weather is terrible. We’re dropping him off first,” she said, pulling open the door. Her tone was completely matter-of-fact, leaving no room for argument. I watched Dustin slide into the backseat. In the rearview mirror, his smirk was victorious—a blatant, mocking challenge. Delia leaned over the console, reaching back to adjust the rear AC vents, pointing them away from Dustin so the cold air wouldn’t hit him directly. I sat in the passenger seat, rainwater dripping from the ends of my hair onto my collar. She hadn’t cast a single glance my way. She hadn’t asked if I was cold. My mind drifted back to a storm just like this one the previous summer. I had been stuck at the office until nine in the evening. When I finally walked out, the rain was a solid wall of gray. I had no umbrella. I called her three times, but she didn’t pick up. I stood under the awning for forty minutes while the rideshare apps showed endless waiting times. Eventually, I gave up and ran to the subway station, getting thoroughly soaked. When I finally pushed open our apartment door, dripping wet and shivering, she was sitting on the couch with her laptop. She looked up once, her eyes sliding over my drenched clothes without a hint of concern, before returning to her work emails. The next day, my temperature spiked to 104. I lay in bed, shaking so hard my teeth chattered. She got dressed, grabbed her bag, and left for work right on schedule. She didn’t offer to drive me to the clinic. She didn’t even leave a glass of water on the nightstand. The car’s AC was blowing cold air directly onto my forehead, starting a dull throb. I looked in the side mirror. Dustin’s hair was barely damp. In the short walk from the restaurant lobby to the car, Delia had made sure the umbrella covered him completely. I wondered how she had even remembered to bring an umbrella. She never checked the weather forecast; usually, I was the one slipping a compact umbrella into her bag before she left for work. Finally, the car pulled up to Dustin’s apartment building. Before getting out, he leaned forward with a smooth smile. “Thanks for the ride, Ms. Caldwell. Goodnight, Elliot.” That smile belonged to a winner. The heavy door clicked shut, and the sound of the rain outside seemed to double in volume. Under the cover of the downpour, my voice cracked. “Delia, let’s get a divorce.” Delia’s brows knit together. She didn’t answer immediately. As the silence stretched, thick and suffocating in the cabin, I spoke again. “I checked the navigation logs. Thursday night. You were at the Ritz with him, wasn’t you?” She finally turned her head to look at me, a rare flash of panic and confusion crossing her face. Face-to-face with undeniable proof, she had no logical defense left. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I lied to you because I didn’t want you to be angry.” “I promise you, it was only that one time. It was an accident. I was drunk.” She paused, her hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Our vow renewal is in two days. Let’s just put this behind us. Don’t let it ruin our ceremony, okay?” I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the headrest. I remembered how she had brought up the idea of a vow renewal a few months ago. Because of her condition and our rushed marriage, we had only registered the paperwork at City Hall seven years ago without a proper wedding. With our seventh anniversary approaching, she had told me she wanted to do this to make up for what we missed. At the time, I had been incredibly touched. I thought she was finally understanding my emotional needs, trying to heal the quiet ache of our simple, uncelebrated beginning. Now, the truth tasted like ash. It wasn’t love or a sudden emotional awakening. It was guilt. She was tangled up with her intern at the office, doing things behind my back, and this ceremony was her logical attempt to balance the ledger. And her promise that it would never happen again? I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. The moment she chose to lie, the fragile trust I had spent seven years building evaporated completely. The car lurched forward again. I opened my eyes to stare out at the rain-soaked, pitch-black night. The warning signs had been there all along. Three months ago, I had stepped into the shower only to realize I’d forgotten a towel. Leaving the door cracked, I called out to her twice, asking her to bring me one. She never came. I had to shiver, dripping wet, as I walked out into the cold bedroom to fetch it myself. As I passed the study, I heard her on the phone with Dustin, patiently explaining how to handle a client deck. I hadn’t thought much of it then, assuming she was just mentoring a new hire. But looking back, Delia never called her subordinates after hours. And that was the very first time she had simply ignored a direct request from me. And a week ago, the night she didn’t come home, she had gone to a client dinner and taken only Dustin. Delia hated drinking. If she had alcohol in her system that night, she had undoubtedly been matching glasses to shield him. When the engine finally cut out in our building’s parking garage, the silence was absolute. I snapped out of my thoughts, realizing we were home. I walked straight to the bedroom. Delia went to her study. As always, there were no words between us. I sat down at my desk, opened my laptop, and stared at a blank document. My fingers hovered over the keys for a long moment. Then, I began to type: MARITAL DISSOLUTION AGREEMENT I printed it out, signed my name in clear, steady ink, and placed the pages inside the nightstand drawer. When I finished, I looked at the desk calendar. The date of our vow renewal, just two days away, was circled in thick red ink. I had looked forward to it for months. Now, I took a black pen and drew a heavy line straight through it. There would be no ceremony. I had already booked a one-way ticket to Switzerland for tomorrow evening. Once I left, I was never coming back. The next morning, the sharp buzz of the doorbell woke me. I opened the door to find Dustin standing in the hallway. Behind him, two delivery couriers in uniforms were holding stacks of luxury shopping bags. “Morning, Elliot. Ms. Caldwell asked me to drop these off.” “She said you seemed upset last night. She hoped these might cheer you up.” It was Delia’s clumsy attempt at an apology. If this had happened a year ago, I would have been thrilled to see her trying to make amends. But as I looked at the designer logos, I noticed two of the brands only made menswear. She hadn’t even bothered to curate them. She had probably just instructed her assistant to purchase a standard luxury package to placate me. Even when trying to save our marriage, she couldn’t be burdened to care. “Put them in the utility closet,” I said flatly. The delivery men deposited the bags and left, but Dustin remained in the doorway. He leaned against the frame, crossing his arms as he ran an arrogant gaze over me. “You know, Elliot, women—no matter their age—always prefer someone younger, someone with a bit of life in them.” “You’re losing your edge. You shouldn’t be surprised that she’s looking elsewhere.” “Are you finished?” I asked, keeping my voice completely devoid of emotion. “If you are, get out.” I had no desire to trade barbs with him. My marriage was already over. If he wanted to climb his way into her bed permanently, that was his business now. Dustin’s smirk faltered, clearly caught off guard by my lack of anger. He scoffed, his tone turning sharp. “Ms. Caldwell wants me to drive you to the tailor for your final fitting. You’re a lucky man, Elliot. After all these years, she’s still willing to give you your little dream wedding.” I didn’t argue. I grabbed my keys and walked past him. I was leaving tonight, and I didn’t want to cause any scene that might complicate my departure. He drove, and I sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the passing streets. We were only one intersection away from the bridal boutique. Suddenly, there was a violent shudder. The world spun sideways. My body was thrown violently against the passenger door, the seatbelt cutting deep into my chest with a sickening jolt. The sound of shattering glass filled the air. Then, a warm, thick trickle of blood began to slide down my forehead. I forced my eyes open through the haze. The white fabric of the airbag was deflated before me. Dustin was slumped over the steering wheel, cradling his arm, his face stark white. In the distance, the wail of sirens began to rise. Within minutes, Delia’s sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb. She threw her door open and ran toward the wreckage, her face pale with terror. But as she reached the passenger side, she didn’t stop. She ran right past my window, rounded the hood, and yanked open the driver’s side door, desperately pulling Dustin out into the open air. My hand, which had been weakly reaching out to tap on the cracked glass, froze in midair. Slowly, I let it drop back to my lap. My vision began to blur. I couldn’t tell if it was the blood in my eyes or the tears. The world went dark, and I let myself slide into the quiet. When I woke, the ceiling was a sterile, glaring white, and the sharp scent of antiseptic filled my nose. “Just a mild concussion. You need some rest, but you’re going to be fine,” a doctor’s voice said from nearby. I turned my head slightly. Delia was sitting in the chair beside my bed. There was a faint smear of dried blood on her white silk dress. “Since there are no major injuries,” she said, her voice steady and logical, “the ceremony tomorrow will proceed as planned.” She opened her mouth as if to say more, but her phone suddenly buzzed on the nightstand. I caught the name on the screen. It was Dustin. She answered, listened for a second, and then looked at me. “I need to step out for a moment.” The second the heavy door clicked shut behind her, I threw back the thin hospital blanket. I reached down and pulled the IV needle from the back of my hand. A small bead of dark blood welled up; I pressed a stray tissue against it until it stopped. I grabbed my jacket from the small closet. My phone, ID, and wallet were all in the pockets. It was everything I needed. I walked out of the hospital, hailed a cab to the airport, and finally turned my phone back on to send one last message to Delia: From now on, you don’t have to follow my instructions anymore. Follow Dustin’s. The signed divorce papers are in the nightstand drawer. Please sign them. I tapped send, shut the phone off, slid the SIM card out, and snapped it in half. As the cab merged onto the highway, I tossed the broken pieces of plastic out the window. Goodbye, Delia. I hope we never meet again.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “461689”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was my second year deep undercover when my fiancée’s childhood best friend, Tyler, let his arrogance get the better of him. He crossed a dangerous local kingpin and ended up trapped in a private VIP lounge, being beaten within an inch of his life. When he saw me through the cracked door, his bloody eyes lit up with desperate recognition. He screamed my name, begging me to save him. But I couldn’t break character. I couldn’t risk the entire operation. So, I looked right through him, my face a mask of cold, unbothered indifference, and walked away. That night, they shattered his right knee, leaving him with a permanent limp. The next morning, Freda found me. Before I could even say hello, her hand cracked across my face. “Why didn’t you help him?” she screamed, her eyes red with fury. “If you had just said you knew him, they would have let him go! They would have respected you enough to stop!” The federal sting operation was still active. Lives were on the line. I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t tell her anything. I fully expected her to pack her bags and leave me. Instead, she just let out a long, heavy sigh, her anger deflating into a quiet, disappointed exhaustion. “Forget it,” she whispered, turning away. “I love you too much to lose you over this. Just… never let it happen again.” Once the sting was wrapped up and the arrests were made, I finally had the clearance to speak. I was planning to take her out, to sit her down, and lay all my cards on the table. But before I could call her, my phone rang. It was my mother, her voice trembling and breathless with terror. “Danny, please… you have to help me.” “What’s wrong, Mom?” “Freda… she took me out to this fancy French restaurant downtown. But when the bill came, it was tens of thousands of dollars. And then she… she just vanished. The manager won’t let me leave. They’re holding me here.” When I burst through the heavy glass doors of the restaurant, the scene made my blood run cold. My mother was huddled in a plush leather chair, looking incredibly small and frail, surrounded by staff. The moment her eyes met mine, a sob of pure relief escaped her lips, as if I were her only lifeline in the world. … “Danny, you’re here,” she gasped, starting to rise. But a heavy hand slammed down on her shoulder, forcing her back into the seat. “So, this is the son?” a voice drawled. A man stepped forward, his suit immaculate, his eyes entirely devoid of warmth. “Good. You’re just in time. Your mother here not only ran up an astronomical tab she can’t pay, but she also managed to shatter a rare glass sculpture I acquired at auction for over a million dollars.” His tone was chillingly calm, as if the loss of a million-dollar artifact was nothing more than an inconvenient chore he was ready to settle with blood. I stepped closer, my eyes dropping to the glittering, jagged shards littering the marble floor. Before I could speak, my mother looked up at me, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. “Danny, I didn’t mean to, I swear. Freda… she shoved past me so hard. I lost my balance and tripped into the pedestal, and then…” Her voice broke, dissolved by a quiet, helpless sob. “Freda shoved you?” A cold, sickening dread crept up my spine. A horrifying realization began to take shape in my mind, but I fought desperately against it. I didn’t want to believe it. To me, Freda had always been the supportive, reasonable woman who understood the pressures of my life, even when she didn’t know the details. “Mom, breathe. Don’t be scared,” I whispered, kneeling beside her. “If it was an accident, we’ll figure it out. I’ll take care of the money.” I pulled out my phone and dialed Freda’s number. It rang out, straight to voicemail. The restaurant manager crossed his arms, his patience wearing thin, his expression curdling into disgust. “Alright, buddy, you’ve been staring at your screen for ten minutes now. Are we done playing games?” At his signal, the restaurant’s security guards and waitstaff closed in, forming a tight, claustrophobic circle around my mother and me. “That sculpture is valued at exactly 1.3 million. You look like ordinary, working-class folks. How on earth do you plan to pay me back?” The owner wasn’t just angry; he was terrified we would try to slip away, and he was treating us like common thieves. I lowered my phone, keeping my voice as steady as possible. “Mom, who ordered all of this?” “She did, of course.” The voice cut through the tense air of the dining room. It was the voice I had been trying to reach. Freda. I turned toward the entrance. She was standing there, supporting Tyler—who was leaning heavily on a cane—and staring at me with a completely blank, detached expression. “Your mother insisted on treating me to dinner,” Freda said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “She handed me the menu and told me to order whatever I wanted. If you don’t believe me, you can ask the staff. Or check the security footage.” “That’s exactly what happened,” the manager interjected smoothly. “This lady explicitly stated she was footing the bill for the young miss. The charge is entirely on her. It has nothing to do with this lady.” My mother’s face fell even further, crushed by a wave of guilt. “Danny… I did say that. I told Freda I wanted to buy her dinner. I knew you two were fighting because of what happened to Tyler. I wanted to clear the air, to apologize to her on your behalf. But she said she wanted French food and brought me here. I couldn’t read a single word on the menu—it was all in French. Freda told me not to worry, that she would handle it. She ordered the dishes, she ordered several bottles of expensive wine… I had no idea. I didn’t know a dinner could cost this much. The wine alone…” Hearing her words, the puzzle pieces fell into place with a brutal, sickening snap. This wasn’t an accident. Freda had orchestrated the entire thing. She had set a trap for my mother, forcing me to feel the exact, helpless agony of watching someone I loved get hurt while I stood by, powerless to stop it. “Freda, we need to talk. Please,” I said, stepping toward her. I reached out, hoping to lead her to a quieter hallway where I could finally explain the truth of that night. But the moment my fingers brushed her wrist, she let out a sharp, mocking laugh and coldly brushed my hand away. As I stood there, utterly lost, I looked into her eyes and saw only cold, calculated malice. “We have absolutely nothing left to say to each other, Daniel,” she said, her voice quiet but lethal. “The night you stood by and let Tyler’s leg get ruined, you and I became strangers. If you have explanations to make, save them for the manager and the owner of that sculpture.” It was exactly as I feared. Freda had used my mother as a pawn to avenge Tyler. I could scrape together enough money to pay off a dining tab, even an outrageous one. But over a million dollars for a shattered piece of art? I didn’t have that kind of money. Nobody in my family did. “Tyler, honey, come sit over here,” Freda said, pulling out a chair at a nearby table. “This is the best seat in the house to watch the show.” Tyler’s face flushed with a sick, vindictive excitement. He sank into the chair, glaring at me with raw, unfiltered hatred. “You watched me drown that night, Daniel,” he sneered. “You didn’t lift a finger to save me. Now, we’re just returning the favor.” His friends, who had lingered near the entrance, sneered at me with self-righteous anger. “Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?” one of them spat. “You stood there like a coward while Tyler’s leg was shattered. You have no soul. Now it’s your turn. If you can’t pay up, I hope they break both of your legs and throw you out like trash.” My hands clenched into tight fists, a white-hot fury roaring to life in my chest. If only they knew the truth. That night, I had actually worked out a quiet way to get Tyler out safely. But the idiot couldn’t keep his mouth shut; he had marched right back into the room, screaming threats and insults at the kingpin. If I hadn’t shut him up with a punch to the jaw, his big mouth would have compromised my entire undercover identity—and gotten us both killed on the spot. Even so, the syndicate wouldn’t let him walk away untouched; they dragged him out and broke his leg anyway. With Tyler’s bottomless arrogance, it was only a matter of time before he ran into someone who would ruin him, with or without my involvement. “Hey! I don’t have all night,” the wealthy owner of the sculpture barked, snapping me back to reality. “My flight leaves in two hours. Pay me for my piece, or we’re going to have a serious problem.” Over a million dollars. The sheer weight of that number crushed the air from my lungs. There was simply no way to get it. My mother saw the sheer panic flitting across my face, and the guilt eating away at her seemed to double. “Danny… I’m so sorry. This is all my fault,” she wept, her small frame trembling violently. “If only I hadn’t asked her out, if only I hadn’t trusted her to order… I shouldn’t have come.” I knelt beside her, pulling her close. “Mom, stop. Do not blame yourself,” I murmured, my voice cracking. “This isn’t your fault. When someone you trust decides to drive a knife into your back, there’s no way to guard against it.” “But the money, Danny… how can we ever pay that back?” Her face was slick with tears, and suddenly, she gasped, her hand flying to her chest. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, erratic pants, her face turning a terrifying shade of gray. I grabbed her shoulders, panic seizing me. “Mom? Mom, what’s wrong? Is it your heart?” “Oh, cut the theatrical crap,” the manager growled, taking a menacing step forward. “Are you two finished with the soap opera? Pay the bill.” He spat on the floor right next to us. “Unbelievable. Broke losers acting like they belong in a place like this. In all my years running this joint, I’ve never seen a pair of more pathetic grifters.” Watching us endure the insults of the staff, Tyler looked positively ecstatic. The smirk on his face was wide and ugly. Freda watched me with a cold, triumphant satisfaction. She patted Tyler’s hand and murmured, “Don’t worry, Tyler. The best part is yet to come. I’m going to teach Daniel a lesson he will never forget. He needs to understand that cold-hearted apathy has consequences. Otherwise, how could I ever marry him? I won’t spend the rest of my life tied to a man who doesn’t care about anyone.” She still thought we were going to get married? The thought felt absurd, almost laughable. I would never marry her now. Years ago, because of the classified nature of my undercover work, I knew I had no right to drag a normal person into my chaotic, dangerous life. But Freda had fallen for me instantly. She pursued me with a relentless, fierce passion. No matter how many times I pushed her away or told her I couldn’t be the man she wanted, she refused to back down. It was only after she literally saved my mother’s life twice—getting hospitalized herself after protecting Mom from a retaliatory attack—that my defenses finally crumbled. I still remembered her holding my hand in that hospital room, tears streaming down her face as she laughed, “You’re stuck with me now, Daniel. There’s no escaping.” To see a woman of her high-society stature weep so sincerely for me had melted the last icy barrier around my heart. The memory was beautiful, but the reality was a nightmare. Freda’s lips curled into a cold sneer. “Daniel, if you can’t settle this tab and pay for the sculpture, the owner and the manager are going to strip your mother of her dignity, break your legs, and throw you both out onto the street.” A murmur of anticipation ran through the restaurant. Everyone stared at us as if we were street performers about to be executed. “He’s finished,” someone whispered from a nearby table. “How could a guy like him ever pay that? He’s just a nobody from a working-class family. He was always out of Freda’s league anyway. Thank God she finally opened her eyes.” The sculpture owner’s eyes traveled over my mother’s shaking form, a crude, menacing grin spreading across his face. “If I don’t get my money, I don’t mind humiliating this old lady myself. I’ll tear her clothes off and throw her into the freezing alley. The leg-breaking? I’ll leave that to the manager.” Hearing this, the last remaining color drained from my mother’s face. The sheer terror triggered her chronic heart condition. Clutching her chest, she collapsed off the chair, crashing onto the floor. As she fell, her arm caught the edge of a table, knocking over a half-empty glass of red wine. The dark liquid splashed directly across the owner’s expensive leather shoes and trousers. “You miserable bitch!” the man roared. “First you shatter my art, and now you ruin my custom shoes? I have a flight to catch, and you do this? You’re asking for it!” Before I could even register his movement, his foot came down, kicking my mother hard in the stomach. “Stop! Get your hands off her!” I screamed. Freda flinched and half-rose from her seat, but Tyler quickly grabbed her wrist, wincing dramatically. “Ah! Freda, my leg… it hurts so bad.” Freda looked down at Tyler’s bandaged leg. The momentary flicker of worry on her face transitioned to deep pity for him, and then froze into icy indifference toward us. “Sit down, Tyler. Don’t strain yourself,” she said softly. “Are you… are you really going to let them do this?” Tyler asked, his eyes wide with a manufactured, tearful vulnerability. Freda looked back at me, her expression hardening. “Yes. I am.” On the other side of the room, a wall of security guards threw themselves in front of me, physically blocking me from reaching my mother. She was curled on the floor, clutching her stomach, letting out weak, agonizing whimpers. “Mom! Mom, talk to me!” I thrashed against the hands grabbing my jacket, desperation clawing at my throat. “Let me through! She has a heart condition! I told you, I’ll pay for the damn sculpture! I’ll get you the money!” But they only held on tighter, more guards joining the fray to pin me down. “Pay? With what?” the owner sneered. “My flight leaves in less than two hours. I’m moving out of this state tonight and never coming back. Where are you going to send the money? Under a bridge?” “Give me your account number, your bank details!” I pleaded, my voice hoarse. “As soon as I have it, I’ll wire—” “Bullshit!” he interrupted. “You think I was born yesterday? The world is full of deadbeats like you. If I let you walk out of here, I’ll never see a dime.” To emphasize his point, he raised his foot and kicked my mother in the ribs again. “Ah!” A sharp, guttural scream tore from her throat. Her frail body curled into a tight, agonizing ball, and a dark stain of blood spilled from her lips, staining the pristine marble floor. Panic turned into raw survival instinct. I threw my weight forward, using my tactical training to break the grip of the two guards holding me, sending one crashing into a dining table. “Watch out! He knows how to fight!” Tyler yelled from his safe vantage point, his voice filled with venomous excitement. “If you want your money, don’t let him near her! Keep the old lady as leverage! He’ll bleed cash if you hold her hostage!” The owner and the manager nodded, instantly taking Tyler’s advice. “Get more security in here! Pin him down!” the manager roared. Desperate, my eyes locked onto Freda. “Freda! My mother is having a heart attack! He’s kicking her!” I screamed, my voice cracking with a vulnerability I had never shown anyone. “I am begging you. Use your family’s name. Tell them you know me, tell them I’m good for the money! Please, just get her an ambulance!” For a fraction of a second, Freda’s cold facade cracked. In the years we had been together, she had never heard me beg. But Tyler was quick to react. “Ah! Oh my god, my knee is bleeding again!” Tyler cried out, clutching his leg dramatically. “The doctor said if the joint bleeds, the nerve damage will be permanent. I’ll be a cripple forever. If Daniel hadn’t stood there like a monster and watched them beat me, I’d be walking fine today! He gets a little scare, and he expects a free pass? What about my life? What about my leg?” Tyler’s whining completely erased any trace of sympathy in Freda’s eyes. “Freda, look at her!” I shouted, desperation tearing at my throat. “She’s spitting blood! You know she has a weak heart!” “Oh, please,” Tyler mocked, rolling his eyes. “She was perfectly fine five minutes ago. Suddenly she has to pay up, and she’s practically dying? It’s an act. Don’t buy it.” Tyler’s words added fuel to the fire, completely blinding the manager and the owner to my mother’s actual medical emergency. Freda believed him. She sat back down in her chair, crossed her legs, and uttered the words that would forever sever whatever bond we had left. “I might be a Donald, but I have no association with this man,” she said, her voice clear and carrying across the quieted room. “You don’t need to show him any leniency on my account. In fact, if you let people like him get away with this, it’ll only encourage more grifters to scam honest establishments.” I stared at her, utterly hollowed out. My mother looked up at Freda, her eyes glazed with pain and betrayal. “F… Freda…” she breathed, but the effort was too much, her face twisting in pure agony as another spasm of chest pain racked her body. I couldn’t waste another second. I threw myself into the crowd of guards, my fists flying, channeling every ounce of my combat training. But the sheer volume of security was overwhelming. For every guard I knocked down, two more took his place. My muscles burned, my breaths coming in ragged gasps, until a heavy boot caught me squarely in the spine from behind. I crashed to the floor, and three guards immediately threw themselves onto my back, pinning my arms behind me. I thrashed wildly, but my strength was spent. “Now, you broke piece of trash,” the owner said, walking over and kicking my shoulder. “Where is my money? And who is paying the restaurant tab?” “I told you, I will pay!” I snarled, my face pressed against the cold floor. “I just don’t have that kind of cash on me right now—” “Oh, so you don’t have it,” the man sneered, his face contorting with rage. He looked around and spotted a pair of heavy shears on the bartender’s counter, used for cutting floral arrangements. He snatched them up, stepping toward my mother, and violently sheared through the fabric of her blouse. The tearing sound echoed, exposing her frail skin to the room. Several men in the restaurant let out low, cruel jeers. Terrified and humiliated, my mother tried to crawl away, but the man grabbed her by the ankle and violently dragged her back. “Stop it! Leave her alone!” I screamed, tears finally spilling over my eyes. My mother was weeping, her vision blurred by tears. She looked at me one last time, a strange, calm resolve washing over her face. Suddenly, she lunged forward, her frail hands gripping the man’s wrist, redirecting the heavy shears. “I broke the sculpture,” she gasped out, her voice suddenly strong. “My son… he has important things to do. He is a good man… a hero. He doesn’t deserve to be ruined by this.” “No! Mom, don’t!” I shrieked. She looked at me, a soft, heartbreaking smile touching her lips. With the last of her failing strength, she plunged the sharp shears directly into her own chest. A dark spray of blood splattered across the owner’s face. The metallic, heavy scent of copper immediately filled the air. For a second, the entire restaurant went dead silent, as if time itself had frozen. Adrenaline surged through my veins like a tidal wave. With a guttural roar, I shattered the grip of the guards holding me, throwing them off with a burst of desperate strength. I lunged forward, throwing a vicious right hook that sent the horrified owner crashing into a table, and caught my mother before she hit the floor. “Mom! Oh god, Mom!” I cried, trying to stem the heavy flow of blood with my bare hands. She was barely breathing, her eyes fluttering as she struggled to hold onto the last thread of life. “Danny… it’s okay,” she whispered, her voice a faint rustle. “My heart… was giving out anyway. I’m going… to see your dad. You… you made us so proud. You’re a hero, Danny. Never forget that…” Because of the classified nature of my work, I had barely been able to spend any time with her. I had endured her misunderstandings, the loneliness, the quiet whispers from neighbors who thought I was a deadbeat. I had never been allowed to defend myself or tell her the truth. I had often asked myself if the sacrifice was worth it. But from the day I took my oath, I knew I would do it all over again. I scooped her frail, blood-soaked body into my arms and ran out of the restaurant like a madman, screaming for help. Behind me, the paralyzed silence of the dining room finally shattered into chaotic panic. “Oh my god, she’s dead! She actually did it!” “We need to go, now!” Freda stumbled backward, her face losing all color as she stared at the trail of blood I left behind. “Dan… Daniel…” she whispered, her voice shaking. Just then, her personal assistant rushed into the restaurant, pale and clutching a secure laptop. “Freda, oh my god, you need to see this,” the assistant whispered, her voice trembling. “You got Daniel all wrong. He didn’t abandon Tyler that night. He couldn’t help him!” “What are you talking about?” Freda gasped. “Daniel had actually set up a backdoor deal to get Tyler out safely. But Tyler went back inside, started throwing insults at the kingpin, and nearly compromised Daniel’s entire operation!” “Operation?” Freda’s voice cracked. “What operation?” The assistant spun the laptop screen around, showing her a highly classified database file. As Freda read the words on the screen, her eyes widened in sheer horror. She staggered backward, her knees buckling as her entire world collapsed around her.

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On the day of my engagement to the city’s most eligible billionaire, my mother stood on the stage, smiled warmly into the microphone, and delivered her toast. “To be honest, my daughter used to sell amateur adult videos online. A different man in every clip. I’m just glad she finally found a sucker to take her off my hands.” I stared at her, frozen, unable to process the words leaving her mouth. Beside me, Daniel immediately pulled me behind his back, shielding me from the sudden, suffocating silence of the ballroom. “Ethel,” he said, his voice tight but controlled. “Please don’t make those kinds of jokes.” Later that evening, in the quiet of the bridal suite, my mother offered a breezy, half-hearted apology. “I only did it because I wanted to see if he actually loved you. A little test, Winnie. That’s all.” But on the night before the wedding, I took a single bite of the dinner my mother had lovingly prepared for me. When I next opened my eyes, the silk sheets of my bed felt different. Heavy. And I wasn’t alone. I was lying next to Jared, my younger sister’s boyfriend. Before the panic could fully set in, the door clicked open. Daniel stood in the doorway, holding my bridal bouquet. The color drained from his face, and his eyes rimmed with a sudden, furious red. “So,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Your mother wasn’t lying after all.” My sister, Felicity, pushed past him, letting out a shattered sob before slapping Jared across the face. “How could you do this to me! With my own sister!” The wedding went on. Only the bride was changed. Felicity wore my gown. She walked down the aisle to Daniel. Afterward, Jared gathered every piece of clothing I had touched, threw them into a metal bin in the courtyard, and lit a match. “I’ve never met a woman as pathetic as you,” he spat, watching the fabric ash. “Trying to steal your own brother-in-law.” Tears streaming down my face, I looked at my mother, silently begging for her to speak, to explain, to save me. She didn’t even look up from her champagne glass. “Your sister is simply better suited to be the wife of a billionaire, Winnie.” Twenty years later. My son, Zack, the newly crowned prince of the tech industry, brought his girlfriend home to meet me. “Mom,” he said, his eyes shining with youthful hope. “If you approve, we’re getting engaged next week.” I looked at the girl standing beside him. She had the exact same delicate jawline, the same upturned eyes, the same fragile, manipulative gaze as Felicity. “I don’t approve,” I said. … The words “I don’t approve” fell like lead in the middle of the high-society gala. A murmur rippled through the ballroom. Guests paused mid-sip, their eyes darting between me and the young woman standing before my son. Debby Chester. A prestigious graduate of Juilliard. Statuesque, striking, effortlessly poised. Her mother was Felicity, a legendary fixture of the social registry. Her father was Daniel, the former titan of Wall Street. And her grandmother, Ethel, was a globally recognized philanthropist whose name was carved into the facades of half the libraries in the state. Even my own son, Zack, looked stunned. “Mom…” he began, his voice dropping to a hurried whisper. “When I told you about Debby before, you seemed so happy for us.” “I had only heard about her then,” I replied, taking a slow sip of my tea. “Now, I am looking at her.” The whispers intensified. Debby’s face was a carbon copy of her mother’s, a face that had graced the covers of society magazines for decades. She was a girl who had never known the sting of rejection. Her cheeks flushed a deep, humiliated red. “Mrs. Ashford, if my etiquette is lacking, or if my dress is inappropriate, please just tell me. I can change. I want to make this right.” “You don’t need to change anything,” I said, putting my teacup down with a soft, decisive click. “But you will never marry into the Ashford family.” “Mrs. Ashford,” an older woman in diamonds muttered from a nearby table, unable to hold her tongue. “Perhaps you don’t realize who Debby’s grandmother is. Ethel Mitchell is a saint. She has funded orphanages and hospitals worldwide. She raised this girl herself. There is no question of character here.” “Exactly,” another guest chimed in. “A family like that doesn’t produce bad seed.” I offered a thin, humorless smile. So, my mother had poured all that maternal devotion into Felicity’s child, too. Zack looked at me, his brow furrowing. “Mom… did Debby do something to offend you?” “It has nothing to do with what she did,” I said quietly. Debby’s composure finally fractured. “Then why? On what grounds are you banning me from this family? Tell me what is wrong with me! You can’t just say no without a reason! I… I…” I looked up, meeting her frantic gaze. “You what?” “I won’t accept this!” she cried out. I narrowed my eyes. The warmth of the room seemed to drop by ten degrees. “I am the sole chairperson of the Ashford Group. If I decide a girl is not fit to be my daughter-in-law, do you truly believe I owe you an itemized report?” “You—” Debby choked on her own breath. She pressed a hand over her mouth, turned on her heel, and fled the ballroom, slamming the double doors behind her. I picked up my tea again, entirely untroubled. The gala resumed. In my house, under my roof, no one dared to cross me. Zack, whom I had raised single-handedly while building an empire, stood by my chair. Though hurt, his loyalty to me was ingrained. “Mom,” he murmured, crouching beside my seat. “If she or her family did something to hurt you in the past, don’t keep it bottled up. It’s not worth your health.” I patted his hand but said nothing. As the evening wound down and the last of the guests began to stream toward the valet, the heavy oak doors of the foyer were thrown open once more. “Where is Gwen Ashford?” Twenty years ago, I legally cut ties with the Mitchell family and changed my name. My sister, Felicity, stood in the doorway. She looked remarkably like she did two decades ago, though her waist-length hair was now pinned back in an elegant, mature chignon, and fine lines etched the corners of her eyes. When her gaze landed on me, she froze. A slow, bitter smile crept onto her lips. “The elusive head of the Ashford Group… is you?” I didn’t bother to stand. “Dear sister,” Felicity said, her tone dripping with mock pity. “They said you spent the last twenty years alone, building a business. I didn’t realize you had time to squeeze out a son, too.” “Do you have business here, Mrs. Chester?” I asked. The reminder of her married name seemed to snap her back to her anger. Her eyes turned cold. “Debby came home in tears. She’s locked herself in her room.” “And?” “Don’t you think you’re being incredibly pathetic?” Felicity stepped closer, her heels clicking sharply against the marble. “You couldn’t beat me twenty years ago, so now you’re punishing an innocent girl?” I let out a soft, dry laugh. “Gwen,” Felicity warned, her voice dropping. “Don’t think that because you’re a billionaire now, you can do whatever you want. My husband was a billionaire before your company even had an office. And Debby’s grandmother is a household name. We are not people you can walk over.” I leaned back in my chair. “And yet, here you are, crashing my private event to force me to accept your daughter. Tell me, Felicity, who is walking over whom?” Felicity’s hand gripped her designer clutch so tightly her knuckles turned white. She was used to getting her way. In our social circles, everyone gave her a wide berth out of respect for Daniel and our mother. But her charms had no currency with me. I caught the eye of the head of my security detail and gave a slight nod. Two large men immediately stepped forward, flanking her. “Gwen! How dare you have your thugs touch me!” Felicity hissed as they took her by the arms. I didn’t look up as they marched her out. Her screeching voice echoed down the hall until the heavy front doors clicked shut, cutting her off. I took a napkin, wiped my hands, and stood up to address the remaining staff and close friends. “I apologize for the disruption,” I said with a slight bow. “My butler has prepared gift bags for everyone at the door. Please, have a safe drive home.” With that, I retired to my study. Zack followed close behind. The next morning, before I had even finished my first cup of coffee, the housekeeper announced another visitor. When the study door opened, my eyes met Daniel’s. Twenty years. “I’m here about Felicity and Debby,” Daniel said, bypassing any pleasantries. He looked around the soaring ceilings of my estate, a flicker of genuine admiration in his eyes. “So, you really did all of this on your own?” “Did you think someone was going to help me?” I asked. He looked at me, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. “What happened back then… I was young. I was impulsive. I reacted poorly.” “And which of your ladies are you here to defend today, Daniel?” His breath hitched. Perhaps he was remembering the girl who used to cling to his arm, calling him her whole world. That girl was long dead. “I’ve spoiled them,” Daniel admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know how much my mother-in-law and I dote on Felicity and Debby. Your display yesterday was brutal, Gwen. Neither of them has eaten a bite since last night.” “Brutal?” I set my coffee cup down. “Since when do I need permission to manage my own family affairs?” “It’s not that,” Daniel said, taking a step closer. “But everyone in our circle can see what this is. It’s revenge.” “If you want to call it that, go ahead. I won’t deny it.” “But your anger is with me! With what happened twenty years ago!” Daniel’s voice rose, a note of desperation creeping in. “It’s done. It’s in the past. If you want to punish someone, punish me. Don’t take it out on an innocent girl who just wants to marry the boy she loves. Tell me what you want. What’s the price? If you let Debby marry Zack, I will sign over half my assets to you. I’m not joking.” I stared at him, genuinely amused. “Daniel,” I said softly. “You built your empire from nothing.” He paused, looking away. “You swore you would never be poor again. And now you’re willing to throw away half your life’s work? For them?” Daniel let out a long, weary sigh. “Some things… some people are more important than money.” A bitter taste rose in my mouth. He had said those exact words to me once. “Get out, Daniel.” He hesitated at the door, looking back at me. “Can we really not negotiate this? I’ll give you whatever you want, Gwen. Please. They are heartbroken.” I turned my back to him and looked out the window at the manicured lawns. Who had cared when I was kneeling on the floor twenty years ago, sobbing, begging them to believe I had been drugged? Who had cared about my broken heart? Shortly after Daniel left, the housekeeper returned. “Another guest, ma’am.” When the door opened this time, I felt a brief shock of recognition. Jared. The man who had been my sister’s boyfriend. The man I had woken up next to in that godforsaken bed. Like me, he had never married. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said. Jared sat in the chair opposite mine. He looked around my home, his expression unreadable, before settling his gaze on me. “I didn’t realize how stubborn you were,” he said. “Meaning?” “Zack. I only found out yesterday that he’s your son.” I remained silent. “That night…” Jared began, his voice dropping. “Was it really your doing?” “No,” I said, my voice deadpan. “And you know it wasn’t.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You don’t have to keep lying to me, Gwen. I get it. But you should know… the reason I’ve stayed single all these years is because of you.” I took a slow sip of my coffee, feeling absolutely nothing. “You’re being too hard on Felicity and Debby,” he continued. “It’s getting out of hand.” “Are you trying to manage my household now, too?” “Strictly speaking,” Jared said, leaning forward, “Zack is my son. That makes this my business, too.” “I have told you before, Jared. He is not your son.” “Gwen, I have eyes. The boy looks like me. He has my build.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Jared was a handsome man with a sharp, angular jawline. Zack had a similar bone structure, but so did millions of other men. “You have a very high opinion of your genes. He isn’t yours.” Jared let out a frustrated breath. “Fine. It doesn’t matter. I’ll take the blame. I’ll marry you.” I froze, staring at him. “If this is what you wanted all along,” Jared said, as if making a great sacrifice, “I can accept it. We can go to the courthouse today. What do you say?” For a moment, I was entirely speechless. The sheer, unadulterated arrogance of it. “My heart might never fully belong to you,” he added, “but I will do my duty as a husband and a father.” I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache coming on. “Show him out.” “Gwen!” Jared stood up, scowling. “Does your bitterness have to ruin everyone’s life? You’re destroying Debby’s future just to spite Felicity!” “Get him out of my sight,” I told the guards. Jared muttered something about me being utterly unreasonable as he was escorted from the property. “If anyone else shows up,” I told my assistant, “tell them I’m dead.” But the next afternoon, she returned with a pale face. “Mrs. Ashford… there’s an elderly woman outside. She says she’s your mother.” Twenty years had passed, but the cold, critical look in my mother’s eyes hadn’t changed at all. She walked into my study, evaluated the artwork, the molding, the view, and let out a soft, mocking hum. “You’ve certainly spent the last twenty years harboring a lot of spite.” “If you have something to say, Ethel, say it.” She turned to face me. “You went into hiding for two decades just to wait for this moment, didn’t you?” I frowned. She took two steps toward me, her joints stiff with age, and then, without a word, she sank directly onto her knees on the hardwood floor. I stared at her, stunned. “Mother?” “If it makes you feel better, I will kneel to you, Winnie,” she said, using the childhood nickname I had discarded a lifetime ago. I reached out to pull her up, but my hands hovered in the air, paralyzed. “What happened back then was my choice,” she said, looking up at me with watery, stubborn eyes. “I don’t regret it, but I will take responsibility. I am sorry.” I let my hands drop back to my sides, a cold laugh escaping my throat. “To think, you would actually kneel to me. All for Felicity.” “Yes.” “I have a question,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “Just one, and I want the truth.” “Ask.” “You are a world-renowned philanthropist,” I said, a tear finally slipping down my cheek. “You have saved thousands of starving children. You have built schools and clinics. Why is it that you could love the entire world, but you couldn’t find a single ounce of fairness for me?” She flinched. “I even had a DNA test done when I was younger,” I whispered. “I wanted to prove I wasn’t a stray you picked up. I am your biological daughter. So why?” She lowered her head, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.” “Look at me and tell me why.” “Because,” she sobbed, “I couldn’t bear to see Felicity unhappy.” I smiled. She couldn’t bear to see Felicity unhappy. So she decided I would bear the weight of it instead. “Get up,” I said, my voice turning to ice. “I am not forgiving any of you.” “Winnie!” I turned my back to her. “Gwen…” she pleaded, her voice cracking with age. When I didn’t move, her sorrow slowly curdled into frustration, and then into the familiar bitterness I remembered from my youth. She pushed herself up from the floor, her joints popping, and marched out, slamming the door. I stood by the window, watching her frail form walk toward her town car. “Organize a matchmaking event for Zack,” I told my assistant. “Invite every eligible young woman from respectable families. No financial restrictions. Just good character. Except Debby Chester.” “Yes, ma’am.” The event was organized within the week. Zack arrived looking impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, though his eyes were heavy. “Do you hate me for doing this?” I asked him as we stood near the entrance. “Forcing you into this kind of arrangement?” “No,” Zack said, looking out over the crowd of beautiful, accomplished young women. “I remember who raised me. I know what you sacrificed to get us here. I want to do what’s best for the family.” I smiled, patting his shoulder. “If you find someone you truly like, her background doesn’t matter. I don’t care about money.” He looked at me. “Anyone I like?” “Yes.” “Truly?” “Of course. Even if she isn’t in this room tonight.” “In that case,” Zack said, his face suddenly hardening. He stood up, reached out, and slammed his hand into the center of the two-story champagne tower beside us. The crystal shattered, raining down in a loud, violent cascade. Shards of glass and sparkling wine flew everywhere, sending the guests screaming backward in terror. The front of my silk dress was instantly soaked. I looked up, stunned. Zack was standing there, his hand gripped tightly around Debby’s. She had just walked through the front doors, looking smugly satisfied. “I’m sorry, Mom,” Zack said, his voice echoing in the ruined silence of the room. “I know you hate her. But I’m marrying her anyway.” Debby stepped forward, leaning her head against his shoulder, looking down at me with a sweet, venomous smile. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Ashford. It looks like you don’t always get the final say.”

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Forty-seven days before the wedding, I realized Gavin had changed my contact name on his phone. I had gone from “Peanut” to “Nina.” I laughed and asked him why. He paused, just for a fraction of a second, before reaching out to ruffle my hair. His tone was as warm and indulgent as it had always been. “We’re getting married, babe. ‘Peanut’ is a little juvenile, don’t you think? You’re going to be Mrs. Foster soon. You need a proper title.” To prove his point, he unlocked his phone right in front of me, opened his contacts, and changed my name to “Wifey,” complete with a little crown emoji. I teased him, nudging him with my elbow, telling myself I was just being paranoid. Until the afternoon I had to forward a work PDF from his phone. He had handed it to me with the screen still glowing. As my thumb swiped across the glass, my eyes caught the pinned conversation at the very top of his chat app. The contact name was “Peanut.” The profile picture was a girl I didn’t recognize. Their latest exchange had ended at 1:23 AM the previous night. “Are you asleep, Peanut?” That was exactly twenty minutes after he had texted me: “Exhausted, heading to sleep now. Night, babe.” My hand didn’t shake as I held his phone. But in that quiet kitchen, a cold realization settled deep in my chest. He didn’t think the nickname was childish at all. He just knew that showering two different women with the exact same terms of endearment was sloppy. It was too easy to make a mistake, too easy to get caught. So he took mine away. And he gave it to her. 1 I forwarded the file and handed the phone back to him. I didn’t say a word. Gavin took it, casually locked the screen, and glanced at the notification. “Did it go through?” “Yeah.” Sensing nothing out of the ordinary, he turned toward the fridge to grab a pitcher of water. “What do you want for dinner tonight?” “Whatever. You choose.” I sat back on the sofa, the sound of running water from the kitchen fading into a dull hum. In my mind, the image of that pinned chat refused to dissolve. 1:23 AM. “Are you asleep, Peanut?” I pulled out my own phone, opened my messaging app, and typed “Peanut” into the search bar. No results. He had set up a hidden folder or a separate, password-protected messaging app. He had buried it deep. I took a slow, deep breath and locked my screen. That evening, we sat under the warm light of the dining room lamp and went over the wedding timeline. Gavin was meticulous. He checked every single item, even asking me twice about the color of the hydrangeas for the reception desk, terrified that some tiny detail wouldn’t be exactly what I wanted. I sat there, looking at him. I smiled. I nodded. I said everything was perfect. But the other half of my brain was obsessing over the girl in that profile picture. The photo had been taken in a restaurant with soft, amber lighting. She was laughing, her eyes crinkling into perfect crescents. She looked younger than me. I didn’t know her name. I didn’t know if she knew I existed. I didn’t know if Gavin was the exact same way with her—attentive, gentle, caring for her with the same exhausting devotion he showed me. “Nina?” His voice pulled me back. “Sorry,” I murmured, rubbing my temples. “What were you saying?” “I was asking about the rehearsal dinner menu.” “Oh.” I looked down at the spreadsheet. “Whatever you think is best. I don’t really have a preference.” Gavin frowned, leaning over to press the back of his hand against my forehead. “Are you feeling okay? You look incredibly pale.” “Just tired,” I said, pulling away slightly. “There’s just been so much to do lately.” He sighed, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me against his chest. “I’ll handle the venue coordinator from here on out. Stop stressing.” I rested my cheek against his shirt, breathing in his scent. It was the same sandalwood body wash he had used for the last four years. It was familiar. It was home. But then, a memory slipped through the cracks. Last week, when he had come home late from a “networking event,” I had leaned in to kiss him and caught the faintest trace of something else. A dry, woodsy fragrance. Cedar and expensive musk. At the time, I had assumed he had brushed past someone on the train. I hadn’t thought twice about it. Now, that scent felt incredibly concrete. It clung to the memory of that pinned chat like a shadow. Gavin fell asleep quickly that night. I lay beside him in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady, rhythmic sound of his breathing. We had been together for seven years. His phone passcode was my birthday. His wallet still held the faded ticket stub from our very first movie date. His mother had a shared photo album on her phone that was almost entirely pictures of me. In seven years, I had never experienced a single moment of real insecurity. So when the first tiny, discordant notes began to play, my instinct hadn’t been suspicion. It had been self-blame. I had told myself that the stress of planning a wedding was making me lose my mind. I quietly reached out and took his phone off the nightstand. The passcode was still my birthday. It unlocked instantly. His call logs were filled with work contacts. His text threads were boring discussions with colleagues about quarterly projects. His camera roll held nothing but screenshots of meeting notes and photos from the art exhibition we had gone to last weekend. I searched every folder. I found absolutely nothing. For a second, a wave of relief washed over me. I felt ashamed for doubting him. And then I checked his Google Maps search history. Recently, he had searched for a restaurant called The Hearth & Vine. I had never heard of the place, but the name was intimately familiar. In the background of the girl’s profile photo, hanging on the brick wall behind her head, was a rustic wooden sign. The Hearth & Vine. I set the phone back down on the nightstand, slowly, making sure it didn’t make a sound. The streetlights outside filtered through the slats of the blinds, casting thin, cage-like bars of light across our framed engagement portrait on the dresser. We were both laughing in the photo, holding onto each other so tightly. We looked like two people who believed, with absolute certainty, that we would always be exactly like that. I stared at the picture until my eyes burned. But I didn’t let myself cry. 2 I began to look for the things I had spent years ignoring. Gavin had never been a man who kept secrets. He used to leave his phone lying around anywhere, text me his coordinates without prompting, and retell every stupid joke his friends made the second he walked through the door. Suspicion required a leap of faith I had never had to make. But things were changing. He started placing his phone screen-down on the counter. At first, I told myself it was just a random habit. I ignored it. Then came the evening his phone rang, and instead of answering it at the kitchen island, he stood up and walked out onto the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him. I sat on the sofa, watching his back through the glass. His voice was a low murmur, completely muffled. The call lasted ten minutes. When he came back inside, his face was perfectly composed. “Just work,” he said. I nodded and didn’t press. But I watched him slide the phone directly into his front pocket. Then there was his schedule. Over the last two months, his “late nights at the office” had doubled. One evening, when he told me he was stuck at his desk, I happened to be driving back from a bridal fitting near his building. I pulled over and sent him a quick text: “I’m right downstairs. Want to grab a quick bite?” His reply came almost instantly: “In a brutal meeting that’s going to run late. Head home, sweetie. Don’t wait up.” I parked across the street and looked up at the glass tower. The windows of his office floor were dark. I didn’t go inside. I put the car in drive and went home. But I wrote down the date in my calendar. A week later, I was looking through his dry-cleaning pile to find a parking receipt, and my fingers brushed against a small slip of paper in his suit jacket pocket. It was a restaurant receipt. The date matched the night of his “brutal meeting.” The timestamp read 8:17 PM. The restaurant was The Hearth & Vine. It was miles away from his office. I slipped the receipt back into the pocket, smoothing the fabric down so it looked untouched. The insomnia started then. It wasn’t the kind where you toss and turn; it was a cold, clinical wakefulness. I would snap awake in the dead of night, my mind incredibly sharp, running through every detail, every date, every shift in his tone, feeling a slow frost settle over my bones. Gavin noticed the exhaustion on my face one morning. “Have you been sleeping okay?” he asked over coffee. “Just wedding planning,” I lied. “It’s fine.” He frowned, setting his mug down. “Do you want to push the date back? We can postpone if it’s too much.” I shook my head. “No. Everything is booked. We aren’t changing it.” He stared at me for a long beat, then reached across the table to touch my cheek. “Nina, you’ve been off lately. Is something wrong?” “What could be wrong?” I managed a small, empty smile. “I’m just tired. Everyone gets stressed before their wedding.” He watched me for a few more seconds, then let out a slow sigh and dropped his hand. He didn’t ask again. And I didn’t volunteer anything. A strange, glassy silence began to settle between us. On the surface, we were the same happy couple we had always been, but we both knew the air had grown thin. We were like a sheet of ice over a deep lake—solid to the eye, but one sharp stomp away from a shattering collapse. A few days later, he went out for a guy’s night, leaving me alone in the apartment. I sat in our living room for hours, surrounded by the furniture we had picked out together, the curtains we had argued over, and the dry-erase calendar on the fridge with the wedding countdown. Twenty-three days. I pulled up the screenshot of the girl’s profile picture and zoomed in. She was radiant, her smile effortless. She looked like someone who hadn’t yet learned how easily a life can be dismantled. I wondered what she thought she was to him. I wondered what lies Gavin told her when he was holding her hand. I deleted the image, locked my phone, and went to the kitchen to pour a glass of water. It was ice-cold, chilling me from my throat down to my stomach. I couldn’t do this anymore. I couldn’t keep suffocating in the dark. I needed to see it. 3 I looked up the address for The Hearth & Vine. It was a twenty-minute drive, tucked away on a quiet, tree-lined street in a neighborhood where nobody from our social circle ever went. It was small, unassuming, and dim—the kind of place designed for quiet conversations and people who desperately did not want to be recognized. I didn’t rush over there. Instead, I cropped the profile picture and sent it to my best friend, Rachel. Rachel worked in corporate recruiting; finding out everything about a person’s life was practically her sport. I sent her a single sentence: “Find out who she is. Everything you can.” Rachel didn’t reply for two minutes. Then: “Give me forty-eight hours.” Two days later, a document landed in my inbox. “Her name is Zoe Kelly. Freelance graphic designer. She’s twenty-five—three years younger than you.” “I managed to get her number too. Sent it below.” Then came a third text, sent several minutes later: “Nina. What are you going to do?” I stared at the screen. I saved the number to my contacts under a simple, cold label: Zoe Kelly. I didn’t reply to Rachel. I only had half a plan. The other half required visual confirmation. The opportunity presented itself on Thursday. Gavin told me he had a dinner with an out-of-town client and asked if I wanted to join. I told him I had a splitting headache and needed to rest. The moment the front door clicked shut behind him, I waited exactly twenty minutes. I put on a heavy winter coat he had never seen, wrapped a thick wool scarf around my face, called an Uber, and gave the driver the address of a coffee shop down the street from The Hearth & Vine. I wasn’t looking for a confrontation. I was just going to watch. The driver dropped me off a half-block away. I walked into a quiet 24-hour convenience store, bought a black coffee, and took a seat at the high counter facing the window. From where I sat, I had a perfect view of the restaurant’s entrance. I waited for forty minutes. My phone buzzed on the counter. It was Gavin. “Client had to cancel at the last minute. On my way home now. Do you want me to pick up takeout from that Thai place you like?” I stared at the words, my thumb hovering over the glass. I let a full minute pass before typing: “Sure. Whatever you want.” I flipped the phone face-down and looked back out the window. Ten minutes later, the door to the restaurant opened. A girl walked out. Her scarf was pulled high, her head bent over her phone as she stood under the awning, waiting for a ride. I recognized her instantly. It was Zoe. I set my coffee down, pushed open the glass door of the convenience store, and walked out into the cold air. I kept my head down, moving toward her like any other pedestrian on a chilly evening. When I was about ten feet away, I stopped, pretending to look at my phone. A rideshare car pulled up to the curb. Zoe stepped forward and opened the passenger door. As she bent down to get in, her scarf slipped slightly, exposing her collarbone. The streetlight caught something shiny. It was a thin gold chain. Hanging from it was a tiny, delicate initial pendant. Z. The car door slammed shut, and the vehicle pulled away, its red taillights disappearing into the city traffic. I stood on the empty sidewalk, the wind biting at my face. The paper cup in my hand had gone cold. I pulled out my phone, opened my contacts, and stared at the name Zoe Kelly for a long time. Then I locked the screen and put it back in my pocket. I had seen enough. I called another car and went home. When I walked through the door, Gavin was already there. He had set out the containers of pad thai and spring rolls, along with a bottle of coconut water. The moment he saw me, he walked over and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “Feeling any better?” “A little,” I said, slipping out of my coat. “Thanks for the food.” I went to the kitchen to grab plates. Gavin sat on the couch, pulling out his phone to check his emails. I stood by the kitchen counter, watching the profile of his face. Seven years. I knew every line, every micro-expression on that face. I knew the tiny crinkle at the corner of his left eye when he was genuinely happy. I knew the way he bit the inside of his right cheek when he was concentrating. And I knew the subtle clearing of his throat that always preceded a lie. I took the gold necklace, the letter Z, and the image of her getting into that car, and I filed them away. I added them to the ledger I had been keeping in my head. “Nina?” he called out. “You ready? I’m starving.” “Yeah,” I said, carrying the plates into the living room. “Let’s eat.” After dinner, he insisted on doing the dishes. I sat on the sofa, opened the Notes app on my phone, and went through the digital list of dates, receipts, and lies I had gathered. I looked at it once. Then twice. Then I closed it, pulled up Zoe’s contact information, and stared at her number. Not yet. What I had was enough to break my own heart, but it wasn’t enough to strip him of his excuses. I needed the final piece of the puzzle. 4 The final piece fell into place at our wedding planner’s office. We were finalizing the day-of timeline. Gavin was incredibly cooperative, nodding at all the right places, signing the vendor contracts without hesitation. When the planner asked if he had any specific requests for the bar, he smiled and said, “Whatever Nina wants. I’m just here to make her happy.” I sat beside him, watching him turn the pages of the packet. And then I noticed his coffee cup. He was drinking an oat milk latte. It was a small detail, but it sat heavy in my mind. For seven years, Gavin’s morning routine had been a double shot of black espresso. No milk, no sugar, rain or shine. Last month, he had brought home a latte. When I asked about it, he said black coffee was starting to upset his stomach, so he was trying to cut back. But I remembered the background of Zoe’s profile picture. On the table in front of her, next to a small candle, sat a heavily foamed latte. When the meeting ended, we walked out to the parking garage. Gavin realized he had left his phone on the planner’s desk and went back to grab it. As I stood by the passenger door, his smart-watch—which he had left in the cup holder—buzzed against the plastic. The screen lit up with a text preview. The sender’s name was hidden, but the message was clear: “Have you thought about what we talked about today?” I stared at the screen for three seconds. Then I grabbed his phone when he walked back, tapping the screen before handing it to him. “You forgot this too.” “Oh, thanks, babe,” he said, tossing it onto the console. “Hop in.” I got into the car and buckled my seatbelt. He rested one hand on the steering wheel, his other hand resting on the gear shift, only inches from mine. I didn’t reach for it. And he didn’t notice. “What are we thinking for dinner?” he asked as we cleared the parking garage. “Want to try that new Italian spot downtown?” “Sure,” I said. “You should make a reservation.” He picked up his phone, unlocking it with one hand while keeping his eyes on the road. I watched his thumb slide across the screen. It was a quick, practiced motion. A swipe to the left on a specific thread, followed by a tap. Mute notifications. It was a reflex, over in a fraction of a second. But I saw it. The Italian restaurant was cozy, lit by low, flickering candles. Gavin was attentive, putting a portion of the truffle pasta onto my plate. “You have to try this. It’s supposed to be their best dish.” I took a bite. “It’s wonderful.” My fingers gripped the edge of the table beneath the white linen cloth, my knuckles turning white. I had everything now. The dates, the receipts, the shift in his coffee order, the gold necklace, the muted texts. The picture was complete. I just had to say the words. But I knew that once I spoke them, the life we had spent seven years building would be gone forever. I thought about the cold, lonely nights when we were long-distance. I thought about the time he stood outside my office in the pouring rain with a bouquet of sunflowers after we had our worst fight. Suddenly, all of those memories felt like a foreign language I no longer spoke. “Nina,” he said softly. I looked up. “Yeah?” There was a fleeting look in his eyes—something that resembled guilt, or perhaps just a profound, exhausting weariness. “You’ve been working so hard on all of this. Once the wedding is over, let’s take a real vacation. Anywhere you want.” I looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, the tension in my chest dissipated. It was replaced by a strange, hollow peace. If he didn’t want to belong to me anymore, I wasn’t going to beg him to stay. “That sounds perfect,” I said. “Actually, Gavin, a friend of mine is going through a really rough patch. I wanted to take her out for dinner tomorrow night. Why don’t you join us?” He didn’t hesitate. “Of course. Where are you guys going?” “That place you searched for a while ago,” I said, keeping my voice light. “The Hearth & Vine. I’ve heard the atmosphere is lovely.” Gavin’s hand froze over his wine glass. It was so fast, so subtle, but I caught the slight tremor in his fingers. He cleared his throat. “Sure. Sounds good.” I booked a private booth for the following evening. Then, I opened my contacts, pulled up Zoe’s number, and sent her a text: “Hi Zoe, this is Nina, Gavin’s fiancée. I’d like to invite you to dinner tomorrow night. Here’s the address. 7:00 PM. I think we have a lot to talk about.” She didn’t reply for nearly ten minutes. Then, two words: “I’ll be there.” The next night, Gavin and I arrived fifteen minutes early. The private booth was bathed in a soft, amber glow. On the dark wood table, three place settings had been laid out. Gavin looked at the third plate, then at me. “What’s your friend’s name? Do I know her?” “Maybe,” I said, opening my menu. “Why don’t you look at the wine list?” He sat across from me, taking the leather-bound folder. I picked up my water glass, taking a slow sip as I watched him. Seven years. I knew every habit. Including the way he cleared his throat right before he was about to lie. “Nina,” he said, looking up from the menu. “What does this friend of yours do for work?” “She’s a freelancer,” I said. “A designer. She’s young—three years younger than me.” Gavin’s fingers tightened against the leather cover of the menu, his knuckles turning slightly white. Before he could say another word, the heavy velvet curtain of the private booth was pulled back. A girl stood in the entryway. Her coat was unbuttoned, her hair perfectly styled, her eyes wide. She looked exactly like her profile picture, only more real. More fragile. She looked at me first. Then her gaze shifted to the man sitting across from me. She froze. The air in the small, enclosed booth turned to solid ice.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “461686”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was the day my parents were vetting prospective husbands for my sister—the girl who had spent eighteen years living the life that should have been mine. I had spent the entire night hand-washing dozens of her delicate couture silk gowns. Exhausted and running on empty, my hand trembled as I reached across the table, knocking over a cup of boiling tea. The scalding water drenched the back of my hand, turning the skin a violent, angry red. I foolishly thought my biological parents might show a sliver of concern. Instead, my mother shoved me aside in front of all our wealthy relatives, her face twisted in utter disgust. “You can’t even serve a simple cup of tea without ruining it. You almost burned Virginia! Honestly, we should just find any decent bidder to marry you off to and take whatever dowry we can get.” She sneered, looking down her nose at me. “And stop looking so pathetic, trying to play the victim. I am sick to death of your low-class, country-bumpkin act.” I was a good girl. I always did what I was told. So that night, I went to the pile of discarded bachelor cards left over from the matchmaking gala—the ones everyone else had rejected. I picked one at random. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number printed on the back. “My parents want me out of the house,” I whispered into the receiver. “They want me married. Your card says you’re looking for a girl named Maisie. Is that true?” … On the day of the matchmaking salon, Virginia wore a pastel yellow couture dress. My mother, Doris, held her hand, guiding her through the crowd of high-society matriarchs and eligible bachelors, introducing her with pride. Everyone showered her with praise. “Virginia is growing into such a stunning young woman.” “Look at her poise. You can tell she’s the true princess of the Sunset family.” “Whoever marries her will be the luckiest man in the city.” Virginia kept her chin tucked, offering a shy, perfectly practiced smile as she murmured her thanks. Every movement was flawless, calculated to charm. Meanwhile, I was tucked away in the humid laundry room in the basement, kneeling on the cold tile, scrubbing her delicate silk garments by hand. One after another. The night before, Virginia had pushed open my bedroom door. Her eyes were rimmed with red as she claimed the laundry maid had ruined several of her dresses, leaving her with nothing to wear for the gala. The maid hadn’t ruined anything. But the moment Doris heard Virginia cry, she stormed into my room. “Maisie, go wash your sister’s dresses. You grew up in the sticks anyway; your hands are rough enough to handle the scrubbing.” There were dozens of them. All pure silk. They couldn’t be wrung out or spun in a machine. I had to submerge them in lukewarm water, gently working out the imaginary stains with my bare fingers. I scrubbed until four in the morning. By the time I finished, my fingers were shriveled and pruned, and my wrists shook at the slightest movement. At the gala the next afternoon, the sleep deprivation caught up to me. I could barely keep my footing. Doris ordered me to help in the pantry, claiming the caterers were short-staffed and needed an extra pair of hands to serve tea. I loaded a silver tray and carried it into the main parlor. My hand gave a sudden, violent spasm. The boiling water splashed directly onto the back of my right hand. The pain was immediate, a searing white-hot flash that made my entire arm shake. But I didn’t have time to process the pain. My instinct, honed by a lifetime of survival, was to crouch down and pick up the shattered porcelain. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” I whispered, desperately trying to gather the pieces. When Doris rushed over, she didn’t look at my hand. She grabbed Virginia, checking her up and down, ensuring not a single drop of hot water had touched her precious dress. Only then did she turn her furious glare on me. “You can’t even serve a simple cup of tea! You almost burned Virginia!” The parlor fell into a dead silence. Every relative and guest turned to look at me. I stood in the center of the room, my right hand swelling and red, my left hand still clutching the silver tray. Doris gave me a harsh shove. “Honestly, we should just find any decent bidder to marry you off to and take whatever dowry we can get.” She didn’t care who heard. “And stop looking so pathetic, trying to play the victim. I am sick to death of your low-class, country-bumpkin act.” My father, Lawrence, sat in the high-backed armchair, frowning deeply. “That’s enough. Stop embarrassing us. Get out of here.” Virginia stood behind Doris, gently tugging at her mother’s sleeve. “Mom, please don’t yell at her. She didn’t mean to…” Her voice was sweet, dripping with sisterly concern. But when she looked up at me, there was a quiet, malicious triumph in her eyes. It was a look reserved only for me, unseen by anyone else. I kept my head down and retreated to the laundry room. I shut the door, turned on the tap, and thrust my hand under the freezing water. The cold bit into the burned skin, making my entire body shudder. But I didn’t cry. I had been back with the Sunset family for a year. In that year, I had learned never to cry in front of them. Because every time I did, Doris would accuse me of “manipulating them with my tears.” The party dragged on late into the night. Before the guests departed, I overheard them speaking to Doris in the foyer. “That eldest girl of yours… she really doesn’t fit in with the Sunsets. No wonder you prefer Virginia.” Doris didn’t defend me. She simply smiled. I squatted by the door, clearing away empty glasses, swallowing their words one by one. By the time I returned to my room, it was past eleven. I had applied a layer of cheap burn ointment to my hand, something I had scavenged from the housekeepers’ supply closet. The family’s medicine cabinet was stocked with expensive imported burn sprays, but those were reserved for Virginia. I didn’t dare touch them. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring into the dark, Doris’s words echoing in my mind. “Since you can’t be useful, we’ll just marry you off to someone. A decent dowry is the only contribution you’ll ever make to this family.” I was a good girl. I had always been a good girl. I grew up in a quiet, forgotten town in Maine. My adoptive mother told me that sending me to school was a waste of money, so I stopped going when I was nine. When she fell ill, she told me I needed to find a way to bring in cash. So, I started working at a local bakery, earning fifty dollars a day. When both of my adoptive parents passed away, I rented a tiny room and washed dishes at a diner, surviving on scraps until the Sunsets finally tracked me down. On the day they brought me to the Sunset estate, I stood at the grand entrance and called Doris “Mom.” She had looked me up and down, her face entirely devoid of warmth. From that day on, she forced me to take etiquette classes, ordered me to cater to Virginia, and warned me never to mention my rural upbringing to outsiders. I kept my mouth shut. I did everything she asked. And now, she wanted me to marry. So, I would marry. I stood up and walked down the hall to the storage closet near the grand ballroom. It was filled with leftover party favors, floral arrangements, and miscellaneous junk from the gala. In the corner lay a discarded deck of “blind-match bachelor cards.” It was a trend among the young elite—wealthy bachelors would print their credentials and contact info on custom cards, leaving them at high-society events for prospective matches to find. Virginia had flipped through a few, deemed them boring, and tossed them onto the floor. The cards were covered in exaggerated text: Eight-figure salary. Private island wedding. Choice of supercars. Five properties as dowry. They were the leftovers. The rejects. No one knew if the claims were even real. They were just like me. I knelt on the floor, sorting through them with my trembling hand, until my fingers brushed against a thick, heavy card at the very bottom. It was matte black with gold lettering, sturdier than the rest. It bore only a single line: “I am looking for a girl named Maisie. If you are her, please call me.” Below it was a phone number. I stared at the words, a cold sense of absurdity washing over me. It felt like a joke. But then again, nothing could be more absurd than my own parents trying to sell me off. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number. The line rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Then, someone picked up. The background was dead silent. I gripped my phone tightly, my sweaty palms slipping against the screen. “Hello,” I started, my voice shaking. “My parents… they want me to marry someone. Your card says you’re looking for a girl named Maisie. Is that true?” There was a long silence on the other end. It lasted so long that my cheeks began to burn with embarrassment. I was being stupid. Of course the card wasn’t real. It was probably a prank. Just as I was about to hang up, a voice came through the line. It was deep, resonant, and incredibly steady. “What is your name?” I blinked, momentarily lost. “Maisie. Maisie Sunset.” A sharp, sudden intake of breath sounded from the receiver. A few seconds of absolute silence followed. When he spoke again, his voice had softened into something unrecognizable. “Maisie.” He said my name. No one had ever said my name like that before. It wasn’t dismissive, it wasn’t burdened with disappointment. It carried a weight of something I couldn’t quite identify. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Don’t hang up.” “I’m coming to get you.” I thought the phone call was nothing more than a midnight hallucination. But twenty minutes later, the low rumble of multiple high-performance engines echoed outside the Sunset estate. A flustered housekeeper ran into the living room, her face pale. “Sir, Ma’am, there are over a dozen black luxury SUVs parked outside. They all have restricted municipal plates, and some of them are models I’ve never even seen…” Lawrence and Doris were in the study, discussing Virginia’s potential match with a wealthy heir. Hearing the commotion, they rushed out. I stood at the corner of the second-floor landing, looking down as the grand double doors swept open. A man in a long, tailored black wool coat stepped out from the center of the convoy. Behind him followed a small entourage of assistants, legal aides carrying leather briefcases, and security personnel. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a sharp, commanding presence. The hallway lights caught the clean, severe angles of his face. He walked at a measured pace, but with every step, his security detail automatically cleared a path. Lawrence recognized him instantly. The color drained from his face. “Mr…. Mr. Marshall?” Adrian Marshall. The undisputed head of the Marshall Group. The Sunsets were, at best, second-tier players in the city’s social registry, occasionally receiving courtesy invitations to large galas. But the Marshalls were different. They didn’t need invitations. They owned the venues. Virginia stepped into the hall, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the security convoy. She instinctively smoothed her hair. Doris recovered first, quickly nudging Virginia and whispering, “Stand up straight. Mind your manners.” Adrian stepped into the foyer. Lawrence rushed forward to greet him, while Doris and Virginia stood to the side, presenting their most polished, welcoming smiles. Virginia offered a delicate tilt of her head. “Good evening, Mr. Marshall—” Adrian didn’t even look at her. His gaze swept past Lawrence, past Doris, past Virginia, and past the lingering guests, landing squarely on the shadowed corner of the staircase. I stood there, wearing the faded cotton dress I had ruined while doing laundry. My hair was a messy nest, my face bare of makeup, and my right hand was tucked defensively into my sleeve to hide the burn. He walked past the sofas, past the tea tables, and past the stunned silence of my family, stepping toward me. He stopped at the foot of the stairs. He looked up, his gaze dropping to my hidden right hand. Without a word, he reached out, gently took my wrist, and drew my hand out from the sleeve. When he saw the blistered, angry burn across my skin, his expression didn’t change. But the grip on my wrist tightened ever so slightly. He looked into my eyes and asked a single question. “Does it hurt?” I froze. I had waited all day. Through the laundry, the tea service, the boiling water, and my mother’s harsh words—I had waited for someone to notice. No one had asked. Yet this stranger, whom I had spoken to for less than a minute on the phone, looked at me and asked if it hurt. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in my chest. Doris rushed over, inserting herself between us. The room was dead silent. My relatives exchanged bewildered glances, and Lawrence forced a strained, deferential smile. “Mr. Marshall, surely there’s been a misunderstanding. Did you call the wrong name?” He spoke with extreme caution, terrified of causing offense. “Maisie just returned from the country. She’s… unrefined. She doesn’t know our ways. Virginia is the daughter we are presenting today. If you are looking for an alliance with the Sunset family, Virginia is—” He nudged Virginia forward. Doris chimed in immediately. “Yes, Mr. Marshall. Virginia is the one we raised. She is trained in the arts, she’s attended the finest preparatory schools, and she is well-acquainted with the city’s prominent families. She would represent the Marshall name flawlessly.” Virginia stood beside them, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she bit her lip. She looked vulnerable and incredibly graceful. “Father, Mother, please don’t speak of my sister that way,” she murmured, playing the peacemaker. “She’s just adjusting. She didn’t grow up with much, but she means well.” She turned her soft gaze to Adrian. “Mr. Marshall, my sister is tired. Perhaps she should go rest. If you’d like, I can brew you a fresh cup of tea.” Adrian remained silent, standing before me, letting them finish their speeches. Then, he finally spoke. “Are you finished?” Lawrence blinked, taken aback. Doris’s smile faltered. Adrian’s gaze brushed past Virginia without a second of hesitation. He looked back up at me. “Maisie.” I met his eyes. His voice was steady and absolute. “I came here tonight for you. Only you.” The room plunged into a suffocating quiet. Lawrence’s face turned pale. “Mr. Marshall, please consider this carefully. Virginia is far more suited—” “Was I unclear?” Adrian interrupted. His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried an undeniable weight that cut Lawrence off instantly. “I was looking for Maisie Sunset.” “I am marrying Maisie Sunset.” “This has nothing to do with Virginia.” The color drained from Virginia’s face. Doris, desperate, tried one last time. “But Mr. Marshall, Maisie knows nothing of high society. How could she possibly manage the expectations of a family like yours?” Adrian looked at her coldly. “She doesn’t need to support the Marshall family.” “The Marshall family supports her.” My fingers trembled in his grasp. I didn’t know how to process those words. It felt like I had been standing in the dark for so long that I had forgotten what it was like to be seen. And suddenly, someone had stepped into the light, placing himself between me and the cold. Adrian’s assistant stepped forward, opening a leather portfolio. “The prenuptial assets registered under Miss Maisie Sunset’s name are as follows.” Lawrence’s eyes widened. Doris straightened up. But the assistant’s next words shattered their expectations. “All assets are strictly registered under Miss Maisie Sunset’s sole name. The Sunset family has no claim, no right of transfer, and no authority over any of these holdings.” Silence blanketed the room. The assistant continued reading. “A private estate in the Hamptons.” “A five percent equity stake in Marshall Tech.” “An independent offshore trust.” “Assorted jewelry, historical estates, and liquid capital, all of which have undergone independent title transfers.” With every item read, Lawrence’s expression grew grimmer. When the assistant closed the folder, Lawrence couldn’t help but speak up. “Mr. Marshall, we are a family. Isn’t this division a bit extreme? Maisie is our daughter, so the dowry should naturally—” “A family?” Adrian remarked, his eyes locking onto Lawrence. “Didn’t you just say she was a country bumpkin who didn’t belong?” Lawrence’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Adrian’s voice grew colder. “If you refuse to give her respect, do not expect to receive her dowry.” Doris’s polite facade crumbled completely. Beside her, Virginia clutched her dress so hard her knuckles turned white. Adrian turned to me, offering his hand. “Maisie.” “Everything I said is true.” “If you are ready, come with me.” I looked at his open palm. I looked at the familiar, cold faces of the people who shared my blood. Then, slowly, I placed my hand in his. His palm was warm and dry. His grip was gentle, yet entirely secure. “I’m ready,” I whispered. Adrian closed his fingers around mine. He led me toward the door, walking past Lawrence, past Doris, past Virginia, and past every relative who had spent the last year looking down on me. Someone called my name from behind. “Maisie—” I didn’t turn around. Not once. We had been driving for fifteen minutes when Adrian instructed the driver to pull into a private hospital. The clinic’s examination room was bright and sterile. The doctor set to work treating the burn on my hand—cleaning the wound, applying ointment, and wrapping it in clean gauze. The antiseptic stung sharply, making my arm twitch. But I kept my mouth shut, refusing to make a sound. Adrian sat in the chair beside me. He didn’t rush the doctor, nor did he offer empty platitudes. He simply held my other hand, his grip tightening whenever the doctor applied pressure. “You can cry if it hurts,” he said softly. I shook my head, my throat tight. “I don’t cry. My mother says crying is just playing the victim.” He didn’t reply, but I noticed his knuckles whitening as his hand clenched the armrest of the chair. By the time we arrived at his private residence, it was past two in the morning. The car moved through a quiet, gated neighborhood. Inside the house, an older housekeeper greeted us, speaking briefly with Adrian before leading me upstairs. The guest suite was vast. The sheets were a soft blue, and the comforter was thick and inviting. On the nightstand sat a glass of warm water and a small plate of pastries. When I opened the wardrobe, I found rows of brand-new clothes, all with tags attached, and all in my exact size. In the bathroom, a tube of high-end burn ointment sat on the counter—not the cheap brand I had scavenged from the housekeepers. I stood in the center of the massive room, unsure of what to do. Adrian leaned against the doorframe, watching me. I turned to face him. “Is there something you want me to do?” “No,” he said. I thought for a moment, trying to be helpful. “I know how to do laundry. I can clean, and I can cook. I don’t eat much. If you don’t have enough rooms, I can sleep on the couch.” He didn’t answer right away. After a few quiet seconds, he walked over, kneeling slightly to meet my eyes. “Maisie.” “You didn’t marry me to be a maid.” I blinked, confused. “Then… what am I here for?” He looked at me, his gaze incredibly soft. “To be loved.” The tears came before I could stop them. It wasn’t a loud, dramatic sob. My eyes simply filled, and the tears began to spill over, hot and silent down my cheeks. I couldn’t stop them. I didn’t even know why I was crying. He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t hurt me. His words weren’t sharp. But I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. “Why are you being so good to me?” I choked out. Adrian handed me a tissue. “Do you believe in fate, Maisie?” “What do you mean?”

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I’m high-maintenance. I admit it. I only drink water from custom-etched Baccarat crystal tumblers, and I refuse to sign any contract unless it’s with a pastel-pink Montblanc pen. Everyone in the office, from the interns to the executives, had long since accepted my quirks. That was until a short-haired, steel-faced woman was parachuted in as our new Director of Sales. Rumor had it she’d spent fifteen bitter years clawing her way up from the absolute bottom of the corporate ladder, eating dirt and collecting scars just to survive. The very second she laid eyes on my workstation, she blew a fuse. “I cannot stand women like you,” she hissed, her voice vibrating with a decade of resentment. “Who exactly are you putting on a show for at work?” “Back in my day, I drank until my stomach bled just to close my first major contract. And you? What do you do—just glide by on that face?” I didn’t even look up as I buffed my nails. “Don’t stress, Director. This princess has been the company’s top producer three years running.” The sneer on her face didn’t falter until she actually opened my performance report. The disbelief on her face was almost poetic. “You? Top producer? Are you sure you didn’t climb your way to these numbers by some… less-than-respectable means?” “A trophy is a trophy,” she scoffed, slamming the folder shut. “Keeping someone like you on the payroll is an insult to every single person in this industry who actually worked for their success. You’re fired.” I blew a speck of dust off my French manicure. “Oh, please. What’s wrong with being a princess? At least my contracts aren’t fragile.” If she wanted to kick me out of my own kingdom, she’d have to go through the king first. … “My name is Diane,” she announced, standing at the head of the conference room. Her voice had the booming, unyielding gravel of a drill sergeant. She swept her gaze across the bullpen, looking at us as if we were recruits failing basic training. “Let’s establish some ground rules. Effective immediately, no personal decorations on your desks. No loud, distracting clothing. No non-standard beverage containers in the workspace.” She paused, letting the silence heavy up the room. “When I was an associate, I was out on construction sites in sub-zero weather. I didn’t have time to stop for a sip of warm water, let alone curate an aesthetic. Young people today treat their offices like boudoirs. Your mind isn’t on the work.” The female associates exchanged uneasy glances, shrinking back into their ergonomic chairs. No one dared to make a sound. Except for the soft, melodic clink of my crystal tumbler. I was currently sipping an iced lavender latte through a reusable pink glass straw. Diane’s eyes locked onto me like a heat-seeking missile. She marched over to my desk and came to a dead stop. She stared down at the Baccarat tumbler, the matching set of pink leather desk organizers, my mini white-tea diffuser, and the neat row of shimmering, high-end nail polishes lining my monitor riser. Her brow knitted into a tight, disgusted knot. “What is your name?” I looked up, moving with deliberate, unhurried grace. “Gwen.” “Gwen,” she repeated, tasting the name like it was spoiled milk. “Figures. It matches the attitude.” Without warning, she snatched my crystal glass off its coaster and threw it straight into the trash can. Clack. The heavy crystal hit the metal bin, ringing loudly through the quiet office. Every head in the bullpen snapped in our direction. “From now on, you use the company-branded paper cups. Nobody gets a hall pass under my watch.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t even blink. I simply opened my bottom drawer, pulled out an identical backup Baccarat tumbler, inserted a fresh pink straw, and took another slow sip. Diane’s chest rose and fell in sharp, angry hitches. “Are you mocking me?” I blinked up at her, my expression utterly innocent. “A princess always has a backup plan, Diane. What are you going to do about it?” A few desks away, someone stifled a laugh. Diane threw a lethal glare toward the noise, instantly silencing the room. My assistant, Molly, kept her head down but slipped me a silent thumbs-up beneath the edge of her desk. Diane took a deep, trembling breath, turned on her heel, and marched back to the front of the room. She flipped open the quarterly sales ledger, trying to channel her fury into authority. “Fine. If you want to be difficult, let’s see if your numbers justify your arrogance.” She started reading the rankings from the bottom up, pairing each woman’s name with a sharp, public dig. “Tiffany, third from the bottom. Maybe if you spent less time on your makeup and more time on cold calls, you wouldn’t be drowning.” “Megan, fifth from the bottom. When I was your age, I was hospitalized with a bleeding ulcer from wining and dining clients to secure my first account. And what are you doing? Posting selfies on Instagram?” Megan’s cheeks burned crimson as she stared at her lap. The other women in the room instinctively pulled their shoulders in, trying to make themselves invisible. The men in the department, however, received a pass. Diane’s tone softened significantly when she hit their names. “Tyler, upper-middle tier. Good work. I can tell you’re a grinder.” Tyler was Diane’s golden boy, a junior associate she had brought over from her previous firm. He was a perfect, mini-me version of her: humorless, cheap suits, and a permanent scowl. Finally, she reached the top of the list. “Gwen—top producer, three years running?” She stopped, looking up as if she’d read a typo in a serious document. “You? You’re telling me you have the highest volume in the department?” She looked down at the paper, then back at me, as if trying to reconcile the pastel-pink stationery and glittery nail polish with the massive, seven-figure revenue numbers on the page. “You treat this office like a boutique. Your nails are more detailed than most people’s slide decks. How exactly are you closing these deals?” She flipped the page, her eyes scanning the data points. “Three consecutive years at number one? Your annual volume is double the rest of the team combined?” “Yep,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Math doesn’t lie.” She slammed the ledger onto the podium, the loud bang echoing off the glass walls. “I don’t buy it. A trophy is a trophy. Good numbers don’t always mean good business practices.” She looked out at the rest of the room, raising her voice to address the entire team. “I’ve seen this story a hundred times. A young woman uses her… aesthetic assets to charm clients, coasting on luck and brief infatuations. But beauty fades, clients get bored, and then you’re left with absolutely nothing.” I ignored her, picking up my pink rollerball to doodle a tiny, perfect crown in the margin of my notepad. Diane’s mouth twitched with anger, but she forced herself to maintain a cold, professional composure. She took a slow breath and delivered her strike. “Starting today, we are restructuring the accounts.” “Gwen’s top three clients—Matthew Enterprises, Evergreen Industries, and Vesper Technologies—are being reassigned to Tyler.” The silence in the room became absolute. Those three accounts alone made up forty percent of our department’s annual revenue. Diane looked around the room, entirely self-assured. “Enterprise accounts require grit and endurance. Tyler works until midnight, never takes a weekend off, and knows how to grind. That is the kind of dedication our legacy clients deserve.” She looked back at me, her lip curling slightly. “We cannot risk our most valuable relationships on someone who might be in the middle of a manicure when a client has an emergency.” The room remained dead silent. A few of the girls shot me looks of deep sympathy, but fear kept them quiet. I set my pink pen down and looked Diane dead in the eye. “Director, reassigning enterprise-level accounts requires a formal audit and approval from our CEO, Douglas. You don’t have the authority to make that call unilaterally.” Diane let out a harsh, dry laugh. “Authority?” She pulled out her phone, dialed a number on speakerphone, and let it ring in front of everyone. “Philip, it’s Diane. I’m restructuring the sales assignments to optimize our high-value accounts.” A deep, smooth male voice came through the speaker. Philip, the Executive VP. “Go right ahead, Diane. You have my full support. Let me know if anyone gives you any pushback.” Diane hung up, her face glowing with triumph. “Any other questions, Gwen?” Behind me, Molly gently tugged at my sleeve, whispering anxiously. “Gwen, Philip is her old mentor from her previous company. He’ll always side with her. Be careful.” I looked down at my freshly manicured nails, letting the light catch the subtle shimmer. Then I looked up and smiled. “Honestly? This princess doesn’t mind a little vacation.” The next morning, Philip himself showed up in the sales department. He stood at the entrance of the bullpen, adjusting his tie, and cleared his throat. “I brought Diane into this company because of her proven track record. Her structural decisions represent the direction of this firm. If you have objections, you can file them, but the execution of her directives is non-negotiable.” With the executive VP backing her up, Diane didn’t waste any time. She walked straight to my desk, picked up a cardboard box, and swept everything on my desk into it with one swift, violent motion. It was clean, efficient, and brutal—like a sanitation worker clearing a sidewalk. Finally, she noticed the small hand-drawn crown sticker I’d put on the corner of my monitor. She peeled it off, crumpled it into a tiny ball in her palm, and tossed it into the box. “This is a place of business, not your personal playhouse.” She carried the box to the hallway and dumped it onto the carpet. “Being top producer for three years doesn’t make you untouchable. Under my leadership, nobody gets special treatment. If you want to work here, you play by my rules.” She looked back at the bullpen. “I’ve run teams for fifteen years, and I’ve never tolerated a diva. You’re the first, and you’ll be the last.” Philip stood beside her, his arms crossed, his silent presence offering her absolute immunity. A few of the newer associates, sensing where the power lay, quickly chimed in. “Honestly, it’s about time. The desk was getting a bit ridiculous.” “Yeah, some of us are working eighty-hour weeks while others are getting blowouts. How is that fair?” “I always wondered how she landed those accounts anyway. The clients are all men, right?” That last comment cut through the air like a knife. Several of the female associates winced, their faces turning pale. But no one spoke up. Because Philip was standing right there, and his silence was as good as an endorsement. I didn’t say a word. I looked at my empty desk, then calmly picked up my phone. “Director, those items you just threw into the hall weren’t cheap. I hope you’re prepared to cover the cost.” Diane didn’t even look at me. “If they’re so precious, you shouldn’t have brought them to work.” Philip stepped forward, delivering the final blow. “Gwen, you are on a one-week administrative suspension for insubordination. Your accounts will be managed by Tyler in the interim.” “When you return, you will fall in line. If not, you can hand in your resignation.” Suspension. The word fell like an anvil. The only sound left in the room was the low, electric hum of the air conditioner. I stood up, slung my pink leather tote over my shoulder, and smoothed down my skirt. I wasn’t angry. I actually smiled. A suspension? Perfect. I had been working on a ten-million-dollar strategic partnership with Matthew Enterprises for the last six months. Next week, the CEO, Mr. Matthew, was scheduled to come in person to finalize the terms. He had personally requested that I handle the closing. And they were sending Tyler? Tyler didn’t even know that Mr. Matthew liked to spend the first ten minutes of every meeting talking about his daughter’s equestrian competitions. I adjusted my collar and let my voice drop into its sweetest, softest register. “Of course, Philip. This princess is going home to rest. My hands were getting dreadfully dry from all this office dust anyway.” Without a backward glance, I walked out. I didn’t care about their little triumph. I was happy to let them celebrate. For now. The minute I left, Diane completely erased my presence from the desk. The Baccarat glass was replaced with a generic gray paper cup. My pink desk pad was swapped for stacks of manila client folders. She even took the plush pink velvet cushion from my chair and threw it in the breakroom trash. She gestured for Tyler to take the seat. “From this point on, Gwen’s portfolio is entirely yours.” Tyler nodded eagerly, opening the folders and picking up the desk phone. He dialed the first number on the list: Mr. Matthew. “Mr. Matthew, hello. This is Tyler. I’m taking over the account from Gwen, and I’ll be your primary point of contact moving forward—” Click. Mr. Matthew hung up before Tyler could even finish his sentence. Tyler’s smile froze. He cleared his throat and dialed the second number: Evergreen Industries. “Hi, this is Tyler—” Click. Another dial tone. The third call went to Apex Solutions. This time, someone actually stayed on the line, but their voice was freezing. “Where is Gwen? We’ve partnered with your firm for three years because of her. You expect us to just accept a random replacement without notice?” Tyler’s face flushed a deep, blotchy red. He opened his mouth to reply, but the line went dead. His hand was trembling slightly as he set the receiver down. Diane patted his shoulder, her voice steady. “Don’t let it get to you. Clients don’t buy from people; they buy from the brand. Your work ethic is what matters. Call them back. Show them what real grit looks like.” Tyler swallowed hard and nodded. “Thanks, Diane. I’ll get them.” A couple of the male associates cheered him on. “You got this, Tyler! Gwen just coddled them. Once they realize we mean business, they’ll fall in line.” “Exactly. The world keeps turning without her.” Diane smiled warmly, turning back to address the room. “You see that? That is what real salesmanship looks like.” “No shortcuts, no vanity. Just hard work and resilience.” “When I was starting out, I carried a thirty-pound sample case on a three-day train ride to meet a client. I couldn’t afford bottled water, so I drank from the station tap.” Her voice rose, filling with a practiced, dramatic passion. “Don’t fall for the easy path like Gwen did. Relationships built on… superficial charm are fragile. They shatter at the first sign of trouble.” “But relationships forged through sweat and grit? Those are ironclad.” She scanned the room, satisfied by the compliant nods of the staff. “Tyler is going to be pulling some late nights to get these accounts sorted. Anyone who stays to help him tonight gets dinner on my tab.” Silence met her offer. Just then, the elevator doors chimed open. Douglas, the CEO, stepped out. Beside him was a tall, distinguished man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. Mr. Matthew. Douglas was practically beaming, gesturing warmly as he guided Mr. Matthew toward the bullpen. “Mr. Matthew, it’s an absolute honor to have you visit our offices. Right this way to our premier sales suite.” Mr. Matthew offered a polite nod. “Douglas, after reviewing the numbers, we’ve decided to move forward with the ten-million-dollar strategic partnership.” He stopped, his eyes scanning the busy bullpen. “But I have one condition. I will only sign the agreement with Gwen. The girl with the pink pen. She’s the only one I trust with our business.” Douglas didn’t hesitate. “Of course! Let me get her for you.” He turned to the bullpen, his voice booming cheerily. “Gwen? Mr. Matthew is here to see you!” The entire sales floor fell into a sudden, icy silence. Diane and Philip locked eyes, panic flitting across their faces. Philip recovered first, forcing a wide, artificial smile as he hurried forward to greet them. “Mr. Matthew! Douglas! What a wonderful surprise. Unfortunately, Gwen is… out on sick leave today. She’s been feeling under the weather.” Diane nodded rapidly in agreement, her voice losing its usual gravelly edge. “Yes, she had a terrible fever. I insisted she go home to rest so she wouldn’t expose the rest of the team.” Mr. Matthew’s warm expression vanished instantly. “Sick? That’s unfortunate. I came here specifically to finalize this with her.” He looked at Douglas, his tone turning serious. “Douglas, this partnership requires a deep understanding of our custom infrastructure. Gwen’s tailored proposal was brilliant—our board approved it unanimously.” “In fact, I came today to discuss expanding our initial commitment. We want to double the scope of the contract.” Double the scope. A ten-million-dollar deal was already massive. Twenty million was unprecedented. A quiet gasp rippled through the bullpen. Douglas’s eyes lit up, but his smile lasted only a fraction of a second. His gaze drifted to my old desk. He saw the gray paper cup. He saw the cold, black pens, the stacks of generic manila folders. It looked completely different from the vibrant, pink, sparkling workstation he knew. Then he saw Tyler sitting in my chair, sweating through his polyester suit. Douglas’s face darkened. “Gwen has never taken a sick day in three years,” Douglas said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. “She once walked into a pitch with a hundred-and-three-degree fever and still closed the deal.” “Why would she suddenly be sick today?” Just then, a voice spoke up from the corner of the room.

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Right before I went under the knife, my best friend asked me: “You and Regina are practically married. Why the sudden breakup?” I handed him my phone. “Because of a text.” The chat history ended around noon. I had sent Regina a photo of my sad-looking lunch, complaining about how terrible the DoorDash place was. Four hours later, she replied with a single word: “K.” But on my Instagram feed, I saw she had liked a picture of the lunch Wayne posted. Her comment read: Eating takeout is so bad for you. I’ll cook for you every day from now on, just like today. Underneath was a thread of their inside jokes, a lively, back-and-forth banter that seemed to go on forever. I stared at that post for a long time. Then, I deleted the unsent text in our chatbox: What did you have for lunch? I scrolled up through our message history. Over the last seven years, I loved sharing the tiniest details of my day with Regina. I’d send her pictures of weird flowers, overgrown lawns, the stray cat behind our apartment. In the beginning, Regina would match my excitement, typing out paragraphs. Lately, it had dwindled to dry, one-word replies. Because Wayne was back in town. Love is entirely about the desire to share. If she wasn’t talking to me, she was talking to someone else. “Logan, they’re ready for you in the OR.” The nurse called my name. I glanced out the window at the sky, then stood up and walked toward the doors. Regina, the sunset is beautiful today. But I don’t want to take a picture for you anymore. 1 I didn’t get back from the hospital until past eight in the evening. Standing in the entryway, before I could even kick off my shoes, I heard Regina’s laughter filtering down the hall. She was on the phone with Wayne, her voice bright and animated. “I know, right? That movie was incredible. We definitely have to see it in theaters again. That ending scene was just wild, especially when…” Regina looked up and saw me standing by the door, pale and exhausted. Her expression didn’t flicker. She simply covered the microphone with her hand and said over her shoulder: “I’m talking to Wayne right now. I’m going into the study. I was too tired to cook today, so just order yourself some UberEats.” “Your stomach is a mess, and isn’t your surgery in a couple of days? Make sure you order from a chain so it’s clean.” Before I could even answer, she put the phone back to her ear. “Anyway, Wayne, there’s this other documentary you have to see. Have you heard of…” She turned on her heel and walked straight into the study, clicking the door shut behind her. I stared at the empty hallway, then looked down at the post-op discharge papers crumpled in my hand. A bitter, quiet laugh slipped past my lips. I shook my head. I had wanted to sit down and have a real conversation with her. To explain the breakup, to give our seven years the decent, respectful ending they deserved. I hadn’t expected that she wouldn’t even have five minutes to spare for me. Fresh out of surgery, my body felt hollow, aching and spent. I had absolutely no appetite. Instead of ordering food, I took a long, hot shower, hoping that once she finished her call, we could finally talk. But I waited. And waited. I had booked my flight out of the city before her voice in the study finally quieted down. She was still deep in her marathon catch-up with Wayne. It made me think of when we first started dating. We used to talk for hours about a single commercial we saw on TV. Now, I couldn’t even remember the last time we’d spoken more than five sentences to each other. Actually, I could. It was last week, when we were choosing the menu for our wedding rehearsal dinner. It was a rare moment where we actually talked—until it devolved into a screaming match over the lobster tail. I had insisted on taking it off the menu. “Regina, I have a severe shellfish allergy. I can’t even be around steam from lobster!” Regina had rolled her eyes, her voice dripping with irritation. “Then just don’t eat it. Wayne loves lobster. Why do you have to be so selfish?” Her words left me stunned. I couldn’t comprehend how wanting to remove a dish that could literally kill me from my own wedding menu made me selfish. Naturally, the night ended in cold silence. The menu was never finalized. Looking back, I should have walked away that very night. But I was holding on, stubborn and desperate, waiting until today—waiting until she completely forgot I was even having surgery—to finally let the hope die. At 1:30 in the morning, Regina finally crawled into bed. The heavy drowsiness that had been pulling at my eyelids instantly cleared. I sat up, leaning against the headboard, and looked at her in the dim light. “Regina, we need to talk.” 2 Regina sat on the edge of the mattress, glancing at my solemn face. She let out a long, exhausted sigh. “Logan, I’ve had a brutal day at work. I really don’t have the energy for your endless daily dramas right now.” “Let’s just sleep. Whatever it is, we can talk tomorrow.” She pulled the blanket over her shoulders, turned her back to me, and closed her eyes. The silence in the room became heavy, almost suffocating. All I could hear was the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing. The words I wanted to scream remained trapped in my throat, aching like a physical bruise. Silent tears slipped down my cheeks, soaking into the pillowcase. It was the soft buzz of my phone that finally broke the trance. A confirmation text from the airline. My flight was booked for tomorrow night, just after midnight. I was going to leave Regina, and the last seven years of my life, behind in this city. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, curled beneath the sheets, and eventually fell into a dreamless sleep. The next morning, Regina was up surprisingly early, bustling around the kitchen in her apron. When she saw me walk out, she gave me a warm, rare smile. “Morning.” “I made breakfast. Eat it while it’s hot.” For a second, I was disoriented. I managed a small, tentative smile. “Thanks. I’ll eat every bite.” “What did you—” The words died in my throat. Sitting on the kitchen island were two hard-boiled eggs with the yolks neatly scooped out, a pile of dry, burnt sourdough crusts, and a few wilted pieces of romaine lettuce. Regina untied her apron, talking quickly. “Wayne said he wanted one of my breakfast sandwiches, so I whipped some up since we had the ingredients. He loves egg yolks and the soft part of the brioche, so I saved those for him.” She pointed to the plate of scraps. “I know your stomach is sensitive right now, but you shouldn’t be picky. Just eat the rest of this.” As she spoke, she grabbed two bottles of the high-calcium milk I had specifically bought for my post-op recovery and stuffed them into her tote bag. “Looks like we’re almost out of milk, so I’m taking these. Remember to grab some more later. Oh, and do you mind doing the dishes? I have to drop Wayne off at work or he’ll be late.” The front door slammed shut. I stood by the dining table, staring at the pile of scraps on the plate. Maybe it was a complication from yesterday’s surgery, but a sudden, sharp pain flared in my chest, making it hard to breathe. I sank into a chair, crying with a raw, agonizing grief. When my eyes were swollen and dry, I finally stood up. Without touching a single bite, I scraped the plate into the trash. I went back to the bedroom to pack. I didn’t own much. When you strip away seven years of history, your life fits quite easily into two large suitcases. By noon, a dull hunger finally set in. After debating with myself, I sent Regina a text. [Are you free for lunch?] [I’ll come to your office. We can grab a bite, I have something really important to tell you.] Predictably, there was no reply. I opened Instagram. She had commented on one of Wayne’s posts literally three minutes ago. Gritting my teeth, I copied my text and pasted it directly into her public comment section. Regina replied instantly. [Busy. No time.] A bitter ache spread through my chest. I didn’t bother replying on the app. Instead, I dialed her number. “Logan, I told you—” “Twelve-thirty. I’ll be at the Italian bistro across from your office.” I hung up before she could argue. I didn’t want to give her a chance to back out, nor did I want to give myself a chance to hesitate. I sat in the bistro until 1:10 PM. She still hadn’t shown. Just as I assumed she was ghosting me and reached for my phone to call her, Regina finally walked through the door. But before I could speak, Wayne popped out from behind her shoulder. “Hey, Logan! I saw your comment on Regina’s post, so I decided to crash. You don’t mind, right?” 3 I didn’t say a word. I just stared at Regina, waiting for her to say something. Sensing my coldness, she offered a dismissive explanation. “I had to pick Wayne up, that’s why I’m late.” “Sorry.” “It’s fine,” I said, my voice flat as I opened the menu. Regina looked at me, slightly taken aback. She had clearly expected a fight, but I had let it slide without a word. I raised my hand to wave down the waiter. “I’ll have the lunch combo A. Just swap the white wine for warm water, please.” Across the table, Wayne leaned forward, pointing at a section of the menu with a pout. “Oh, this couples’ tasting menu looks amazing! Too bad Logan can’t eat seafood, but Regina and I love it. Why don’t we get the couples’ menu instead?” “Is that okay, Logan?” Regina frowned. After our massive blowout over the rehearsal dinner menu, even she knew this was crossing a line. No matter how close she was to Wayne, this was inappropriate. “Wayne, maybe we shouldn’t—” “Go ahead,” I interrupted, not even looking up. Regina’s gaze grew even stranger. In the end, she didn’t let Wayne order the couples’ menu, and she kept stealing glances at me, trying to gauge my reaction. But I didn’t have one. I wasn’t pretending. I genuinely just didn’t care anymore. Throughout the entire meal, Regina looked like she wanted to say something to me, but her attempts were constantly drowned out by Wayne’s endless chatter. I ate my food in silence, listening to them talk about movies, work, and recent jokes. Their easy, warm banter looked exactly like how Regina and I used to be seven years ago. It wasn’t until we were getting ready to leave that Regina finally remembered to ask: “So, Logan, what was that important thing you wanted to talk about?” I wiped my mouth with a napkin and grabbed my bag. “It’s a private matter. We should talk about it alone.” “Go on, you should get back to the office.” Guilt flickered in her eyes, and she looked at me sheepishly. “About that… Wayne’s office is pretty far, and it’s hard to get an Uber around here right now. I have to drop him off first, so…” I understood exactly what she was trying to say. I held up my phone screen to show her my active ride-hailing app. “I already booked a ride. It was easy.” “Go ahead and take him.” A wave of remorse seemed to hit Regina. She stepped closer, reaching out to hold my hand, probably wanting to offer some sweet reassurance. I quietly stepped back, letting her hand fall through the air. “My ride is here.” I turned and walked out the door. Regina followed me for a couple of steps, calling out: “Logan, I promise I’ll leave work early today. I’ll come straight home to be with you.” I nodded. It was the last time I would choose to believe her. When I got home, I finished packing the remaining essentials. My suitcases were lined up neatly in the entryway. They were impossible to miss, ready to be grabbed at a moment’s notice. At five o’clock, the front door clicked open. It was Regina. I was surprised. She usually didn’t get off work until 5:30. Coming home this early meant she had left ahead of schedule. Had she actually come home early for me? 4 I stepped out of the bedroom, but before I could even find my footing, Regina rushed past like a whirlwind, slamming hard into my shoulder. The impact knocked me back against the wall, a sharp pain radiating through my spine. She didn’t even look back. She sprinted straight into the master bedroom, frantically throwing open drawers and closets. I braced myself against the wall and stood up. “Regina, what are you looking for?” Without looking up, she snapped impatiently: “Wayne’s at the clinic getting an IV. I need to go over and keep him company.” “The AC in there is freezing, and I need to grab a blanket. Where did we put the throw blankets?” I didn’t answer her. Instead, I asked, “Didn’t you say you were coming home early to spend time with me today?” Regina finally pulled out a blanket and began searching through another cabinet, her tone growing increasingly frustrated. “What is wrong with your ears? Are you still out of it from the anesthesia?” “I just told you Wayne is hooked up to an IV. I don’t have time today. We’ll do it another time.” But Regina, we don’t have another time. The resentment and heartbreak I had been suffocating finally broke free. I raised my voice, my throat tight. “What if I want it to be today?” “Wayne is sick, but he has parents. He has coworkers, friends. Regina, who are you to him? Why are you abandoning your own fiancé to run to his side?” Regina froze. She turned to me, her eyes filled with disgust, looking at me as if I were a hysterical child. “Wayne and I grew up together. He calls my mother his godmother. Is it really that awful of me to take care of a friend?” “Logan, can you grow up and be reasonable for once?” “Stop letting a little stomach bug make you completely paranoid!” She stuffed the items she had gathered into a duffel bag and turned toward the door. I couldn’t stop myself from stepping into her path. “Regina, please don’t go.” “Just stay and talk to me. Please. I’m begging you.” Regina looked at my bloodshot eyes. She hesitated for a second, but there was no pity in her gaze—only the sheer annoyance of being held back. She brushed past me, her foot kicking one of my suitcases out of the way. With an irritated wave of her hand, she muttered: “I don’t know what kind of tantrum you’re throwing…” “Fine, fine. I’ll be back early, okay?” The door slammed shut. Bang! The apartment fell into a heavy, dead silence, save for the sound of someone crying. It was me. I sat on the couch, waiting for her to return. An hour passed. I sent her a text: [Are you coming home?] — Read. She didn’t reply. Two hours passed. I sent another: [I really have something important to say to you.] — Read. Three hours passed: [This is the last time. Are you coming back?] This time, the message didn’t even go through. Regina had blocked or deleted me, tired of the notifications. Looking at the bright red exclamation mark, I felt like the punchline of a cruel joke. My tears had already dried. At the four-hour mark, I sent her a final SMS: [Regina, let’s break up.] The moment I hit send, the red exclamation mark popped up again. It didn’t matter. I grabbed my suitcases and walked out the door. By the fifth hour, as I was boarding my flight, I received a follow request from Regina on Instagram. I hit decline and posted a single text post to my feed: [Regina and I are over. Just wanted to let everyone know.] I flipped my phone to airplane mode, leaned back in my seat, and closed my eyes. As the plane lifted off the tarmac, I drifted into a deep sleep. When the sun rose tomorrow, it would be a fresh start.

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I scrolled past a post. “What’s the most thrilling thing couples do?” I paused for a moment, about to type: “We both grew up in the foster care system, and at 18…” But a shocking comment suddenly caught my eye. “I’m his intern, and now I’m his mistress.” “We’re true love. He’d do anything for me…” “The most thrilling thing, you ask? His wife has a unique condition. Whenever she gets emotional and feverish, cherry blossom-like red marks appear on her skin.” “He always says he loves watching her ‘bloom’ for him, but he’s actually making bets with me on how long those marks will take to fade.” “The most exciting part is, whenever his wife is most emotional, her skin covered in the fullest ‘bloom,’ he’ll quietly pull back the curtains, letting me watch everything clearly from outside the window.” I looked down at the cherry blossom-like red marks still visible on my own skin. My blood instantly froze. The comments section exploded with outrage, netizens expressing their condemnation. But the woman remained completely unfazed, her replies brimming with blatant pride. Someone asked, “Watching from outside? Aren’t you afraid of being discovered?” She instantly replied, “His penthouse apartment has floor-to-ceiling windows leading out to a small balcony. No one goes out there but him. His wife thinks it’s reflective glass and that you can’t see anything from outside, tee hee.” “Haha, she looks so pathetic and funny crying and calling his name when she’s emotional.” “Can’t chat anymore, I’m going to put on his favorite white T-shirt now. He said it’s a reward for me guessing correctly how long the marks would take to fade last night.” My fingers clutched the phone until they were white, a cold dread seizing my heart. Last night, Ethan said a company project was wrapping up and we should celebrate. He prepared a candlelit dinner, uncorked an expensive red wine. In the throes of passion, he carried me to the giant floor-to-ceiling window. Outside were the city’s dazzling lights. He whispered, “Mia, look at all these city lights. They don’t hold a candle to even a fraction of the cherry blossoms blooming on your skin for me.” I was so touched I couldn’t think straight. Now, remembering it, my stomach churned with nausea. All those words of love I thought were for me were actually meant for someone else outside that window. Calming myself, I followed the woman’s account, then sent Ethan a message. “Ethan, are you still working late tonight?” He replied almost immediately: “Yeah, still some loose ends to tie up with the project. What’s up?” I didn’t reply again, instead heading straight downstairs to the security office. Our years of shared history couldn’t be dismissed by a single anonymous post. The security guard on duty, Carl, looked surprised when he saw me. “Mrs. Ethan, what brings you down so late?” I forced a stiff smile. “I suspect someone might have tried to climb onto our balcony last night. Could you help me pull up the surveillance footage from outside our balcony between ten and twelve last night?” Carl nodded, immediately bringing up the footage. “Of course.” But I caught a flicker of something in his eyes. Just as I expected. On the monitor, everything appeared normal. “Could you also pull up the footage from the main entrance?” I asked. His hand trembled slightly, but after a moment’s hesitation, he clicked. A slender figure, dressed in a white shirt and short skirt, furtively appeared at the main entrance. That face, I knew all too well. It was Chloe, the intern Ethan had hired six months ago. The tension that had coiled in me finally snapped. A tidal wave of hurt, anger, and disgust instantly washed over me. My first instinct was to confront him. But my feet were rooted to the spot. “Don’t do anything rash.” A deep male voice came from behind me. I spun around. Liam was standing there, a box of medicine in his hand. I hadn’t even noticed him. “You have a sensitive stomach. Don’t drink cold water this late.” He handed me the medicine and a glass of warm water, his eyes full of concern. I fought desperately to suppress my trembling, just to keep the tears from falling. “I’m fine, just feeling a little unwell. I should go.” Without waiting for Liam’s reaction, I turned and ran. Back home, I locked myself in the bathroom. I turned on the shower, letting the ice-cold water pour over my head. My phone buzzed. It was a new post from Chloe.

She posted a selfie. The caption read: “My man is amazing, my legs are shaking.” In the photo, she was wearing Ethan’s shirt, the collar wide open, her collarbone bearing ambiguous hickeys. I bit down hard on my lip. A sharp pain and nausea twisted in my stomach. I rushed to the toilet, vomiting until I saw stars. Ethan and I both grew up in the foster care system. I’ve always had a weak constitution, especially with this unusual condition of mine. When I get emotional or feverish, cherry blossom-like red marks appear on my skin. The other kids used to call me a freak. Only Ethan would carefully cup my face and say, “Mia, you’re not a monster. This is a gift from God. It’s so beautiful.” To help me with my condition, he worked his fingers to the bone to earn money. In the early days of his startup, he once drank himself to a perforated stomach for a project. Lying in the hospital bed, he still held my hand and said, “Mia, when we have money, we’ll buy a big house with the best glass, so you can see the most beautiful scenery every day.” Now, those vows felt like the most cynical joke. I hugged the toilet, laughing and crying like a lunatic. After I’d vented, I wiped my tears and lay on the bed, scrolling through Chloe’s account. She hadn’t created the account long ago, and most of her posts were about luxury goods. Only a few posts were related to Ethan. One was from six months ago. She showed off her job offer from Ethan’s company, with the caption: “Now I can see my crush every day!” Another was from a month ago. That day was my birthday. Ethan said he had to work late and ordered takeout for me. But I saw in Chloe’s post that he had taken her to the mountaintop restaurant I’d always dreamed of, for a candlelit dinner. The screen went dark, reflecting my bloodless face. Ethan came home very late. “Why aren’t you asleep yet? You look terrible.” His hand had just brushed my forehead when I flinched away. He paused, then frowned, a hint of impatience in his voice. “I’ve had a long day. I’m not in the mood to guess what’s on your mind. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.” After he fell asleep, I picked up his phone. Instinctively, I typed in my birthday. Incorrect password. I didn’t give up, trying our anniversary next. Still wrong. Finally, on a strange impulse, I typed in the date Chloe started her internship. It unlocked. The pinned chat was with Chloe. I opened it, revealing sickening messages. “Playing flight attendant tonight, Master. When are you coming?” “On my way. Make sure you put on your toys like a good girl.” “Got it, Master.” I scrolled through every one of their messages. My jaw clenched tight, but tears still flowed uncontrollably. Ethan, sleeping beside me, seemed to sense it. He instinctively pulled me into his arms, gently stroking my back. “Mia, don’t be scared, your husband’s here.” His embrace was still warm, his voice as gentle as ever. In a daze, my mind drifted back to when I was eighteen. I had a high fever, and the cherry blossom marks on my body erupted in a large area for the first time. I was completely delirious. The staff at the children’s home were at a loss. It was teenage Ethan who carried me on his back for several miles, taking me to the hospital. The road was bumpy, and he fell several times, bruising and bleeding his knees and elbows. But he didn’t say a word, just kept whispering in my ear, “Mia, don’t fall asleep, please don’t fall asleep. We’re almost there.” “If you dare to fall asleep, I’ll never buy you your favorite chocolate again.” Back then, he truly loved me with his whole being. I lay stiffly in his arms, wide awake until dawn. The next day, after Ethan left for work, I contacted a private investigator. The detective was efficient. Three days later, I received the first batch of information. Among them was an audio recording.

“Ethan, what do you even like about Mia? She’s always so cold, like a statue.” Ethan chuckled softly, his voice laced with the familiar tenderness I knew so well. “I like the way she blooms beneath me, like a living painting.” “But even the most captivating painting eventually loses its charm if you stare at it every day.” The recording ended with their unbearable lewd laughter. I clutched my phone, but not a single tear fell. That evening, Ethan came home with my favorite cake. He lit the candles, gazing at me with deep affection. “Mia, this is our twentieth year. Thank you for being with me.” I looked at his face and suddenly smiled. Yes, from six to twenty-eight, we had been through so much. “Ethan, do you remember? You used to say the marks on my skin were a gift from God.” He paused, then nodded. His eyes overflowed with tenderness. “Of course, I remember. In my heart, they’re more beautiful than any star.” “Are they?” I picked up the red wine from the table and walked to the giant floor-to-ceiling window. “But lately, I keep having nightmares. I dream that someone is watching me from outside this window.” I turned back, staring into his eyes. A flicker of panic crossed Ethan’s face. He frowned, walked over, and pulled me into a hug. His voice held both pity and reproach. “What are you thinking?” But then, his tone shifted, and he chuckled softly. His fingers idly twirled my hair, a smile spreading in his eyes. “Mia, actually, there’s something I’ve been keeping from you for a while.” “Six months ago, at a party, someone drugged me, and I ended up sleeping with an intern.” “The girl was quite something, but I hurt her. She cried all night.” He withdrew his hand, patting my head. “She’s different from other women who only wanted something from me, so I kept her around.” “Lately, the girl got insistent. She really wanted to know my secret, so I told her about the cherry blossom marks.” “She didn’t believe me and insisted on seeing it with her own eyes. So that day, I let her watch from outside.” Even though I already knew the truth, hearing him say it with his own lips, a piercing pain spread through my entire body. My nails dug into my palms, and I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood. I grabbed Ethan’s collar, slapped him across the face with all my strength, my voice trembling. “How could you be so disgusting?” Unconsciously, tears streamed down my face. Ethan’s face darkened. He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “If you’re still upset, I can show you a video of us.” “You can learn a thing or two. She’s got quite a few tricks up her sleeve.” I looked at him, my eyes burning with unshed tears. “Let’s get a divorce.” Ethan’s entire body stiffened, his eyes instantly filled with rage. “Because of this? In our circle, who doesn’t have a few on the side?” “I’ve been good enough to you. All these years, it’s only been you.” “Besides, the girl knows her place. She won’t threaten your position. Can’t you stop being so selfish?” “Don’t forget who risked everything to get your condition under control!” With that, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him. I collapsed onto the floor, a sharp, twisting pain in my chest. My condition. That was the deepest thorn in my heart. Over the years, to control my symptoms, I had taken countless medications, suffered immeasurable pain. Ethan was the one who had walked me through those darkest days. I thought he was my savior. I never imagined that the boy who had pulled me from the abyss would now personally push me back into hell. And then use my most painful scar to torture my heart. I wiped my tears, walked into the study, and began drafting the divorce papers.

This time, no one could save him. I didn’t intend to get too entangled. But some people just had to provoke me. Chloe sent me a friend request. The verification message contained only four words. “Let’s talk about the baby.” I accepted. Immediately, she sent an ultrasound report. It was a pregnancy test. “I’m pregnant, six weeks. The doctor says the baby is very healthy.” “Mia, you know, with your unique condition, it’ll be hard for you to ever have your own children.” “Ethan really loves kids. We can’t let him be without an heir, can we?” “Ethan said that once the baby’s born, you can raise it.” “Tomorrow, he’s hosting a celebration party for me at the company, where he’ll officially announce my identity.” “It’s in the top-floor ballroom, at 8 PM. You’re welcome to come, Mia.” She sent another photo. Ethan was gently stroking her belly, his eyes filled with a tenderness and anticipation I had never seen before. I clenched my fists, hatred spreading through every fiber of my being. I remembered when Ethan and I got married, we didn’t even have a proper ceremony. He said, once the company was stable, he’d give me the grandest wedding in the world. I swallowed the bitter taste in my throat. That night, I called Liam. He answered instantly. After hanging up, I sat in the living room all night. I didn’t leave until 8 PM the next evening, heading to his top-floor restaurant. In the ballroom, Chloe wore a custom gown, her arm linked with Ethan’s, smiling brightly and radiantly. They looked like the perfect couple, a match made in heaven. In that moment, the emotions I had suppressed for days finally exploded. I rushed onto the stage, and in Ethan’s shocked gaze, I slapped Chloe across the face with all my might. “Mia, are you insane?!” Ethan reacted, shoving me hard, then turning to shield Chloe in his arms. I fell to the floor, ignoring the sharp pain of glass shards digging into my palms. I scrambled back up and rushed forward again, slapping him across the face. I laughed. “What? Does it hurt?” “Everyone, look closely! This woman is Chloe! She stole my husband and is pregnant with a bas—” Slap— I was struck, falling to the ground, my ears ringing. “Mia, shut up!” Ethan’s hand was still raised in the air, his other hand clenched, veins bulging, as he roared at me. “What the hell are you doing?! This is my project celebration party, what kind of nonsense are you spouting here?” Ethan grabbed my arm, forcing me to kneel on the shattered glass. A searing pain shot through my knees. Chloe cowered timidly in his arms, but when she looked at me, her eyes were filled with undisguised triumph. Someone must have called the police, and when they arrived, Ethan glanced at me coldly. “Officers, she’s my wife, but today she intentionally caused a scene and ruined my celebration. I won’t protect her.” “Please handle it according to regulations. Whatever fines or compensation are due, they should be paid.” “Oh, and she seems emotionally unstable. After you’re done, it might be best to contact a mental institution.” I was led away in handcuffs by two police officers. The people around me were pointing and whispering, their faces full of disdain and mockery. I didn’t struggle. I just stared fixedly at Ethan. Watching him gently wipe away Chloe’s tears. Watching him carefully protect her. I let out a bitter laugh. “Ethan, your surprise will be delivered soon.” The game has just begun.

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I never worried about any suitors circling my fiancée, Antoine. Everyone in our social circle knew who she was connected to, and no one dared cross that line. But after six months studying abroad, I returned to find a young man sitting in Antoine’s front passenger seat as she pulled up to the office. I didn’t confront them then. Instead, I had my secretary arrange a dinner, inviting Antoine and all her close confidantes. How can I put it? A woman who betrays me is easily disposable. But anyone who dares to tempt her, even just thinking about it, will pay the price. “Mr. Williams, Antoine has arrived with seven guests, but there’s one more… not on the list.” Sarah, my secretary, lowered her voice, subtly glancing towards the VIP private dining room. “Who?” I put my phone in my pocket and gestured for her to lead the way. “It’s… the man from the passenger seat.” I let out a soft laugh. It was exactly what I expected. Seven or eight people sat along the long table. When I walked in, they all stood up in unison. Antoine was seated in the middle. She looked startled when she saw me, then instinctively slid one seat over. The young man next to her looked to be in his early twenties, dressed meticulously but plainly. Everyone at the table was silent, the atmosphere thick with tension. Yet the young man, seemingly oblivious, picked up the glass in front of Antoine and took a sip. He even smiled playfully at her. “Antoine, aren’t you going to eat anything tonight? No way, I’m keeping an eye on you.” I stood by the doorway, unmoving. Noticing the unusual tension in the room, he finally noticed me. He tilted his head, gave me a quick look, then surveyed the silent, terrified people in the room before turning back to Antoine. “Who’s this guy? Shows up so late without a word. Antoine, the rules around here are way too lax, aren’t they?” Seeing no one respond, he spoke again, his tone innocent yet self-righteous. “No matter how high your position, basic manners are still required, right? Antoine, you spoil everyone too much; this dinner feels so awkward because of it.” Mark, Antoine’s assistant, went completely white with horror. He finally couldn’t hold back and tugged on the young man’s sleeve. “Chris, this is Mr. Williams. He’s Antoine’s fiancé, and also… the actual power behind the entire corporation.” The private dining room fell silent for a long moment. Chris’s hand, holding the glass, froze mid-air. The playful smile on his face slowly solidified. He put the glass back down. Before Antoine could speak, he piped up. “Oh, her fiancé. Well, you should have come earlier then. Everyone’s been waiting for you.” I sat down, my gaze fixed on Antoine. “Antoine, your intern is quite… interesting.” She finally looked at me, her expression utterly cold. “He’s just a kid, Alexander. Don’t mind him.” “Since when do I concern myself with those who ‘don’t know any better’?” I picked up the menu and turned a page. “Go scrap that car. Get a new one.” Her brow immediately furrowed. “What?” “I don’t want a car that’s had someone else in the passenger seat.” Chris muttered something under his breath. I didn’t catch it, and I didn’t need to. “And,” I closed the menu and looked at her. “Chris needs to be terminated by tomorrow. You’ll personally inform all our partners in the industry: he’s never to be hired again.” Chris’s face finally changed. He abruptly looked up at me. “How dare you!?” “Because I’m Alexander Williams.” Antoine’s face tightened as she started to speak, but she bit back whatever she was going to say. Everyone at the table breathed a collective sigh of relief. I stood up and patted Antoine on the shoulder. “Antoine, you’d better remember why you’re in the position you are today.” Her voice came from behind me, clearly laced with suppressed rage. “Alexander, why do you have to be so ruthless?” “Ruthless?” I pushed the door open, and a gust of wind swept into the corridor. “Seems you still don’t know me well enough.”

It was nearly eleven when I got home. I leaned back on the sofa. Not long after, Antoine returned. “Why are you sitting here by yourself?” “Waiting for you.” She walked over, loosening her cuffs, a barely suppressed irritation in her voice. “You went too far tonight, Alexander. Chris is just an intern, a twenty-two-year-old kid who doesn’t know any better. Was all that really necessary?” “He’s ‘naive,’ and you’re just as naive?” I looked at her, slowly lowering my legs from the sofa. “Antoine, you know what kind of man I am, don’t you?” “Of course I do.” She tugged at her collar, then her voice slowly rose. “You’re just too controlling. An intern sat in my car, and you react like this? What will people outside think?” “Do you think I care what people outside think?” She paused. “I have to take people with me for many things at the company. Giving him a ride when it’s ‘on the way,’ what’s wrong with that?” “On the way?” I chuckled. “Our villa stands on its own private estate; everyone around here knows it. Antoine, what ‘convenient route’ are you talking about?” Her face fell. She didn’t speak for a long time. After a good while, she finally spoke in a low voice. “I’ll take care of the car tomorrow. About Chris… can’t you reconsider? He just graduated.” “What I’ve said stands.” “Alexander!” “If you feel so bad for him,” I interrupted her, getting up and walking towards the bedroom. “You can go comfort him right now. But if you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back.” A long silence followed behind me. When I woke up the next morning, there was a vehicle disposal receipt on the coffee table, next to a copy of Chris’s termination paperwork. The signature block bore Antoine’s handwriting. I picked it up, glanced at it, then put it back down. She wasn’t foolish enough to directly defy me. A short voice message came through on my SnapChat from Sarah. “Mr. Williams, Chris’s termination paperwork is finalized. Antoine signed it herself. But he cried for half an hour at reception when he left, though. Said you’d regret this eventually.” I replied: “Noted.” I’d heard words like that too many times. Not a single person who said them had ever made me regret anything. I’m not someone who enjoys utterly destroying people. But I have one flaw: the harder someone tries to hit me, the harder I hit back. I’ll make sure they know regret will never be mine. During lunch, I received a SnapChat from Antoine. “Car’s replaced, Chris is gone. Is that enough?” I typed a few words back: “Depends on your performance.” She didn’t reply again, and the matter seemed to be over. But a month later, I realized something was off. Antoine had been too quiet lately, uncharacteristically so. That night, lying in bed, I scrolled through my company’s project records for the past six months, focusing on projects she had overseen. I found a new supplier I didn’t recognize, took a screenshot, and sent it to Sarah. “What’s the story with this company?” Sarah’s SnapChat reply came three minutes later. It was long, but one sentence was all I needed to see: “Mr. Williams, I need to check further. The registered legal information for this company is a bit strange.” I stared at the company name for a long time, then placed my phone screen down on the pillow. Before I went to sleep, I sent Antoine a SnapChat: “Breakfast together tomorrow.” She replied quickly: “Okay.” I turned off my phone, closed my eyes, and muttered, “Antoine, you’d better not disappoint me.”

“Mr. Williams, Antoine has been spending a lot of time with a particular company recently. The projects aren’t that significant, but she’s there at least twice a week, not even counting video calls.” Sarah handed me her tablet, showing Antoine’s schedule for the past month. I took it, scanned through, and said, “Continue.” “There’s one more thing…” Sarah hesitated. “After Chris was fired, he started working for *this* company. His position? Assistant to the Business Development Director.” My hand, scrolling the tablet, stopped. “A fresh graduate, blacklisted from the entire industry, suddenly becomes an Assistant Business Development Director?” “That company isn’t on our core partners list; they’re a second-tier supplier. So… we don’t usually pay much attention to smaller operations like that.” I put the tablet down and leaned back in my chair, silent. Sarah stood nearby, not daring to move. After about two minutes, I finally spoke. “How many active projects does that company have with us right now?” “Three. Two are still under contract, and one was just signed.” “Terminate all of them.” Sarah’s pen froze mid-air. “All of them? Mr. Williams, one project already received an advance payment…” “Forget the advance payment. I recall the breach clauses in the contract are in our favor. Have Legal send out the official notice today.” “Okay, anything else?” I picked up my phone, scrolled through my contacts one by one. “Get me a list of all suppliers who work with that company. You call them yourself. Every single company connected to our corporation in this industry will cut ties with them.” “Mr. Williams, isn’t that too big a move?” “This isn’t ‘too big a move’ at all.” I tossed the tablet onto the desk. “When I make someone disappear, I don’t expect them to resurface under a new name. Anyone who built him a bridge will see it immediately torn down. And if it can’t be torn down, I’ll bury the bridge and everyone on it.” Sarah took a deep breath, nodded, and left. That afternoon, Sarah was on the phone non-stop. She later reported back that not a single person dared to refuse. When Antoine returned that evening, her face was grim. Her phone wouldn’t stop ringing. She hung up countless times, only to answer another call, her voice now barely containing her frustration: “I get it! Just don’t panic!” I sat at the dining table, eating. She hung up and looked at me. “Did you do this?” “Yes.” “Do you know that project also impacts us?” “I know.” “Then why?” “Antoine.” I put down my silverware and looked at her. “I told you to fire him and scrap the car, and you did. But then you immediately found him a new spot, using company business as a cover. Did you think I was stupid?” She opened her mouth, but no words came out. “You can call me jealous, controlling, or heartless. But you can’t treat me like an idiot.” I stood up and walked over to her. “This is my last reminder to you: no more petty games.” Antoine stared at me for a long time, complex emotions swirling in her eyes. She finally looked away, her voice raw. “Alexander, can’t you just let people live?” I chuckled. “Who are these ‘people’ you’re talking about?” She didn’t answer. I turned and went into my study. Before closing the door, I dropped one last line. “Antoine Loris, if you defend him one more time, next time it won’t be this simple.”

The news reached Georgina Loris, the family matriarch, faster than I expected. That afternoon, I was in a meeting when Sarah urgently whispered in my ear. “Georgina threw a major fit at the Loris estate. She’s planning to ground Antoine and make her reflect on her actions.” I showed no emotion after hearing that and continued the meeting. Afterwards, Sarah came back. “Antoine… she slammed the door and stormed out. Her father, Christopher, couldn’t even stop her.” “Understood.” “However, Christopher himself issued a Loris family-wide industry blacklist, firing Chris on the spot. This time, the Loris family acted directly, and their methods were even more severe than ours.” I nodded, but I wasn’t worried about the Loris family’s attitude. I was worried about Antoine. Sure enough, Antoine returned at ten that night. The door swung open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. “Alexander.” Her collar was loose, and her eyes were bloodshot. I expected her to come find me tonight, but her disheveled appearance genuinely disappointed me. “Did you go tell my mom?” “I wouldn’t do that.” I didn’t even bother to open my eyes. “Then how did she know?” “You’ve done too much, Antoine. Someone was bound to find out.” She walked up to me, barely suppressing the urge to strike me. “My mom wants to ground me. Are you enjoying this?” “I think you deserved it.” She scoffed, then suddenly slapped her palm on the back of the sofa. “Alexander, what do you want from me? Is an intern really worth all this? You fired him, had every industry connected to you blacklist him, and now even my dad is helping you! He’s just a twenty-two-year-old kid. Can’t you just leave him alone?” I put my teacup down and slowly stood up. “Leave him alone? Antoine, the Loris family’s annual revenue doesn’t even amount to a fraction of my company’s quarterly earnings. Do you honestly think I, Alexander Williams, can’t ‘tolerate’ an intern?” Her expression froze for a moment. “You think I’m jealous?” I took a step forward, and her resolve weakened. “I’m giving you one last chance to maintain your dignity. You know better than anyone how you got where you are. If you dare to throw that dignity away, I’ll flip the whole damn table.” Her throat moved, but she didn’t step back, her hands clenched tightly into fists. “You only ever threaten me.” “I’m not threatening you. I’m reminding you not to lose sight of reality.” The air thickened. She suddenly turned, grabbed the car keys from the coffee table, and headed for the door. “Where are you going?” “Don’t ask.” She didn’t look back. The door slammed shut behind her. I stood there, sighing. Then I sent Antoine one last SnapChat: “Antoine, my patience has run out.”

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My husband Kian’s female graduate student Lila sent me a photo. In the picture, my Alpha lay naked beside her, with a message that screamed defiance: “Luna Elara, Professor Kian was so passionate, he’s tired and asleep. He asked me to tell you he won’t be home tonight.” I stared at the photo for three seconds, then lightly tapped my screen, taking a screenshot of the photo and chat history. I immediately sent it to both the Blackspire Pack’s Council SnapChat group and the entire Chicago University faculty and student SnapChat group. “Congratulations, Lila, on successfully claiming your spot by Alpha Kian’s side.” Sent, powered off, all in one swift motion. When I switched my phone back on two days later, the entire North American werewolf community was already in an uproar. 0In the photo, Kian lay naked, sinking into the hotel’s down pillows, with Lila, equally unclothed, sleeping beside him. I zoomed in on the picture, my gaze falling on the red marks on his neck, and a smile touched my lips. No reply, just a screenshot saved. Then I tapped into the two most active group chats and sent it with one click. “Congratulations, Lila, on successfully claiming your spot by Alpha Kian’s side.” The moment the message popped up, I silenced all notifications and placed my phone screen-down on the table. The world outside abruptly fell silent. Beyond the apartment’s floor-to-ceiling windows, Chicago’s city lights stretched out like a silent, endless sea. I walked to the liquor cabinet, pulled out an unopened bottle of whiskey, and poured myself half a glass. The amber liquid clung to the glass, leaving slow, tear-like trails. Today was Kian’s and my third wedding anniversary. Kian had sent a voice message via FaceTime that afternoon, saying the closing dinner for the academic conference was unavoidable, with several elder researchers attending, so he had to be there. He said he’d try to come home early to “make up” for tonight. So, his “dinner” was this. His “make up” was this kind of make up. I carried my glass to the dining table. The black wolf figurine on the cake stood with its head held high, proud and solitary. I reached out a finger and gently pushed it. The black wolf toppled into the cream, its head snapping off. What a shame. I drained the glass in one gulp, the pungent liquid burning my throat. Good. Years ago, the Blackspire Pack was severely hit by a winter blizzard. Our supply lines completely collapsed, so we proactively sought an alliance marriage with the Frostveil Pack, hoping to use their resources to overcome the crisis. My father had planned to pick just any Omega, but I’d seen Kian once at a Pack summit and was drawn to him. I personally canceled a territory cooperation agreement with the Ironclaw Pack that had been in discussion for six months. For three consecutive months, I flew to the Blackspire Pack’s territory three times, pulling all-nighters to rework their winter supply chain plan, helping them reduce winter losses by thirty percent. I proved to all the Elders that I wasn’t just there to be a figurehead Luna. Kian had held my hands then, swearing before the Elders, “Elara, I’ll protect you for life. We’ll govern the Pack together.” Vows, the more solemnly they’re made, the more cheaply they’re broken. Since he broke our pact first, this marriage, bound by Pack interests and youthful infatuation, should end here. I didn’t cry or make a scene. I pressed the intercom and called Ethan, my guard captain, whom I’d brought from the Frostveil Pack. “Organize and load all my personal belongings and research data,” I instructed, pointing to the study and walk-in closet. “Leave Kian’s personal items untouched. Register all the gifts he gave me and place them in the living room storage. They’ll be returned to the main villa tomorrow.” I walked into the study myself, collecting my authored papers and the original alliance documents into a fireproof safe. The photos from our Rocky Mountains expeditions, our picture from when he became a tenured professor – I simply placed them neatly in a file box. No need to destroy anything, just as there was no need to be hysterical over a relationship that had turned sour. The break needed to be clean, dignified, and absolute. Two hours later, everything was loaded into the SUV convoy. I took one last look at the villa. Our wedding photo still hung on the wall, him holding my hand, his gaze earnest and passionate. I nodded to Ethan: “Let’s go.” The cars drove out of the community, merging into the late-night traffic. I didn’t look back. My new residence was a secluded cabin I’d bought long ago on the edge of the Blackspire Pack territory, always left empty. One always needed a fallback. Now, it seemed, that decision was absolutely correct. By the time we arrived at the cabin, the sky was already growing light. Ethan and his team helped me settle my belongings. I sent them back to rest, keeping only one trusted aide for external liaison. I took a hot shower, then sat at the solid wood table and opened my laptop, quickly sorting through the entire situation in my mind. Lila, Kian’s second batch of graduate students, had been enrolled for a year and a half. Young, beautiful, always wearing sweet white peach perfume, impressive academic performance, and always knew how to work a room. That was everyone’s assessment of her in the department. Every time she saw me, she’d say, with just the right amount of reverence, “Luna Elara, your model is truly incredible. Professor Kian often says you’re the most talented ecologist he’s ever met.” Before, I’d simply taken it as a junior’s respect for a senior. Now, looking back, every seemingly casual consultation was a probe into Kian’s and my core research progress. Every act of thoughtfulness in front of Kian subtly made me seem bossy and cold in comparison. 0

My friend Brynn had warned me then that Kian and Lila were getting too close, but at the time, I’d just laughed it off. I thought, “How much trouble could one girl stir up?” Now, I realize I was too naive, too confident, so confident that I ignored all the early warning signs. Like Kian coming home later and later from field research, his jacket occasionally carrying a faint, almost undetectable hint of white peach. Like him subconsciously starting to overturn my territory ecological plans, his tone familiar, as if repeating someone else’s words: “Elara, this migration corridor design is too idealistic. Lila’s model data is more reliable.” “Lila checked it, the prey density in this forest area has discrepancies. We’d better observe it for another quarter.” Lila, Lila, Lila. Her name appeared in his mouth with abnormal frequency. And I, foolishly, kept attributing all this to normal teacher-student communication and academic discussion. Until that photo, like a poisoned dagger, tore through all the fabricated peace. I closed my eyes, and that image reappeared in my mind. Kian’s sleeping face, and Lila’s provocative caption. Why did she dare to do it? She was certain I wouldn’t make a fuss. She calculated that as Luna, I valued the Pack’s reputation above all else and would never air our dirty laundry publicly. She calculated that I cherished my academic reputation and wouldn’t let private matters affect the core cooperative projects between our Packs. She calculated that I would confront her privately, or cry and argue with Kian, and in the end accept a perfunctory explanation of “lost control after drinking, merely being cared for.” Then she would play the innocent victim, gaining Kian’s sympathy and making me appear jealous and overbearing, slowly eroding my position. Too bad. She miscalculated. I, Elara, was never one to grit my teeth and bear it. If she wanted to play dirty, I’d play with my cards face up. Let the entire Pack, and all the faculty and students, bear witness to your “love.” I don’t know when I fell asleep, only that it was an unusually deep sleep. Two days later, I woke naturally. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting dappled shadows on the wooden floor. A new room, but the air was filled with my usual pine incense, a familiar sense of calm. I sat up and picked up the phone beside my pillow. Two days off, it was time to turn it on and see how far the storm had escalated. Taking a deep breath, I pressed the power button. The phone vibrated, and the screen lit up. The next second, it vibrated wildly, “Buzz—buzz—buzz—” almost flying out of my hand. Hundreds of missed calls, dozens of unread messages. I scanned the call list; Kian was at the top, with 99 missed calls. Below him were Pack Elders, colleagues from the department, my friends, and some unfamiliar numbers. I silenced my phone and tossed it aside. I got up and went to the kitchen, making myself a simple breakfast: fried eggs, toasted whole wheat bread, and a cup of hot cocoa. I ate slowly, methodically, as if the world-shaking storm outside had nothing to do with me. After breakfast and washing the dishes, I picked up the hot phone again. I ignored all of Kian’s messages and first clicked into the Blackspire Pack’s Council SnapChat group. Two days was enough for many things to ferment. The group messages had exploded. My congratulatory message was like a bomb. Below it was several minutes of dead silence, then the first to jump out was an Elder, posting a shocked emoji. Immediately after, various whispers began to flood the screen. “What the hell? What’s going on?” “Has Luna been hacked?” “Is that Alpha Kian in the photo?” “Oh my god, the information is overwhelming.” “Did that student go too far?” 0

Public opinion quickly split into several factions. Most people adopted a wait-and-see attitude, waiting for more definitive proof, while a few added fuel to the fire, eager for drama. A few Pack members who were usually close to Lila were the first to jump in and defend her. “Everyone, let’s not spread rumors. I’ve known Lila for almost a year; she’s not that kind of person. There must be some misunderstanding.” Someone immediately echoed: “Exactly. Alpha Kian and Luna Elara’s relationship has always been stable, and with the Pack alliance in place, how could something like this happen?” “Maybe it’s someone maliciously Photoshopping or spreading rumors to intentionally sow discord between the Packs.” Such flimsy defenses didn’t last long, quickly buried by a flood of emerging details. “Rumors? A hotel room photo has leaked, and it’s still rumors?” “The person above hasn’t looked closely, have they? The post even shows her pearl hairpin left on the bedside table. Can that be fake?” “I’ve always thought something was off with her. She’s always holed up in her professor’s office, her mind not on experiment data at all.” “During the last territory expedition, she kept trying to shield Alpha Kian from drinks, getting completely drunk herself. Kian even had to take her home!” Once the tide turned, everyone piled on. Lila’s carefully cultivated “pure academic” image was shattered in that moment. After nearly an hour of the incident fermenting, Lila, as the other party involved, finally appeared. She posted a lengthy message simultaneously in the Pack Council channel and the department-wide email list, full of tearful indignation. “To all my Pack members, teachers, and classmates, I apologize for occupying public resources with my private matters.” “Last night at the academic closing dinner, Professor Kian was plied with a lot of strong liquor by several colleagues from a neighboring university and ended up too drunk to stand.” “As his student, I had a responsibility to ensure his safety, so I took a taxi and brought him to a nearby hotel to rest.” “The professor vomited all over himself, so I helped him change out of his dirty clothes.” “After settling him in, I left. I originally wanted to call Alpha Kian’s Beta to inform them, but the phone was unanswered. In a panic, I messaged Luna Elara to explain the situation.” “My message might have been ambiguously worded, causing everyone to misunderstand. It truly wasn’t what everyone thinks.” “I’m still shaking with fright, not knowing who would want to ruin my reputation like this.” “Professor Kian and I are completely innocent, just a pure teacher-student relationship. Please stop spreading rumors.” “Luna Elara, if you see this message, could you please explain the situation? As a young Omega, if my reputation is ruined, I truly don’t know how I’ll be able to survive in academia and the Pack.” Finally, she specifically @-mentioned me. What a fragile, innocent-looking manipulator. This PR statement was watertight, portraying herself as a dutiful but innocently wronged victim, shifting all the blame onto me, saying I misunderstood, that I made a mountain out of a molehill, ruining a young woman’s reputation. As expected, after her statement, the mood in the channel quietly shifted. Several well-meaning but naive individuals immediately stepped forward to mediate. “So that’s what happened. I knew there must be a misunderstanding.” “I wonder who was so heartless, taking things out of context to ruin a young girl’s reputation.” “Luna Elara did seem a bit impatient this time. She should have at least clarified things before letting the message spread. It’s truly damaging to Lila.” “Exactly, she’s a young Omega. How will she face people now?” “Poor Lila, she’s so innocent.” I looked at these words, and the cold sneer on my lips grew wider. Playing a public opinion war? Lila, you’re still too green. Just then, a call came in. The name flashing on the screen made my eyes turn cold. It wasn’t Kian; it was Kian’s mother, Mara. I let it ring for a long time, picking it up only in the last second before it would automatically hang up. “Hello.” My voice betrayed no emotion. On the other end, Mara’s sharp, furious roar immediately erupted. “Elara! You finally picked up! Are you insane! What exactly are you trying to do!” 0

“Are you trying to ruin Kian?!” Mara’s voice was hoarse and cracked with rage, mixed with the crisp sound of porcelain shattering in the background. I could feel her hysteria even through the phone. I twirled a pen between my fingers, my phone flat on the desk on speakerphone, without even a flicker of an eyebrow. After she finished her tirade, I slowly spoke, my tone as calm as if discussing the weather: “Mom, please speak slowly, I’m listening. I just don’t understand what I’ve done to make you so angry.” “You’re still playing dumb with me!” Mara’s volume shot up another eight octaves, making the speaker vibrate slightly. “Look at the post you sent! Now it’s spread throughout the Pack, even to several neighboring Packs! Where does Kian put his face? Where do we Blackspire Pack put our face?!” I didn’t interrupt, casually flipping open the book on my desk, patiently waiting for her to vent. Her reaction was entirely within my expectations. Valuing reputation over right and wrong, and fiercely protecting her own to the point of irrationality—this was the disposition I’d figured out on my first day of marriage. When she finally stopped, breathing heavily, I slowly began: “Mom, instead of questioning me, why don’t you first ask your precious son if he had me in mind while he was lying next to another woman.” “An Alpha out socializing, getting drunk and being looked after—isn’t that perfectly normal?” Mara’s tone was self-righteous. “Lila, a young girl, kindly took care of his safety. You don’t appreciate it, and you’re letting rumors fly around, ruining her reputation! Where are your manners? Where is your graciousness as Luna?” I gently tapped the desk with my fingertips, a cold sneer in my heart, but my face remained calm: “My manners dictate that my mate does not sleep in another woman’s hotel room on our wedding anniversary.” “And certainly not that the woman has sex with my man and then sends me photos to flaunt it.” There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone. Then, Mara’s tone shifted from anger to righteous favoritism: “So what! Which Alpha doesn’t have a female confidante outside? Do you have to make such a public spectacle of it? Can’t you just tolerate it for Kian’s future, for the sake of the Pack?” “Tolerate?” I sounded as if I’d heard the biggest joke. “Mom, a Luna of the werewolf Pack never tolerates such things.” “You! What kind of attitude is that!” Mara was clearly choked by my words. “Elara, I’m telling you, we Blackspire Pack will absolutely not tolerate a jealous Luna!” “You immediately go to the Pack Council SnapChat group, and to Kian’s department group, and explain clearly that it was a joke you made! Apologize to Lila, and this matter will be over!” “Apologize?” The curve of my lips grew colder. “Does she even deserve it?” “You ungrateful woman! Don’t think Kian can’t live without you! I’m telling you, there are plenty of women who want to be Luna!” “That’s wonderful,” I replied casually. “Have him replace me immediately; I certainly won’t stand in his way.” “You just wait! I’ll make Kian divorce you right now! Women like you should be cast out with nothing, sent back to your Frostveil Pack!” “Fine,” I said. “I’ll wait for the subpoena.” With that, I hung up the phone and blocked her. All in one swift motion. Muddying the waters, twisting the truth, and always, always defending her precious son. That was my dear mother-in-law. I had experienced it before. My phone vibrated again; this time it was Brynn, my best friend and the Pack’s chief physician. I answered. “Elara! You finally turned your phone on! Are you okay?” Brynn’s anxious voice came through. “I’m fine.” Hearing her voice, my taut nerves relaxed slightly. “Good, you scared me to death! That move of yours was brilliant! Now the entire Northern werewolf community is talking about it.” “Kian’s department probably can’t even get any experiments done today; everyone’s too busy gossiping.” Brynn’s voice held a hint of gleeful excitement. “I’m fine, and I’m doing great.” “The more attention, the better. I want it to be a spectacle.” 0

“Well done!” Brynn didn’t hide her support. “You can’t be soft on a muddle-headed man like that and a scheming homewrecker!” “But what are you going to do next? I heard that Lila is no easy opponent.” Her tone became somber. “She’s telling everyone she was wrongly accused, that you can’t tolerate her as a junior, making many unsuspecting people think you’re a jealous, evil Luna.” “I know, I read her long post.” I picked up the organized file folder from the table. “Don’t rush, let her perform for now.” The biggest mistake in a public opinion war is to let the opponent control the narrative. She wants to play the victim and gain sympathy, so I’ll give her enough stage to perform. The harder she plays the victim now, the more innocent she portrays herself, the harder she’ll fall when the undeniable proof comes out. “I’m never interested in just a war of words with her,” I tapped the file folder. “What I want is for her academic qualifications to be revoked, for her to be completely blacklisted from the North American werewolf research community, with no chance of even touching core projects.” “So, what are your plans for today? Just staying in the cabin?” Brynn asked. I looked at the bright sunshine outside the window and slowly said: “No. I’m going to the university. There are some things I need to retrieve personally. And, it’s time to meet the two main characters.” “Alright!” Brynn’s voice was excited. “Do you need me to come with you? To back you up! I’m free today and can come anytime.” “No need,” I declined her kind offer. “This is my battle, and I’ll fight it myself.” Hanging up the phone, I walked into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. I chose a charcoal-gray suit skirt, sharp in its cut and full of presence, paired with black ankle boots. Then I sat at the vanity and applied sophisticated, sharp makeup. Looking at the radiant woman with cold eyes in the mirror, I smiled with satisfaction. Elara, welcome back. This show has just begun. I grabbed my car keys and left, my destination the Chicago University administration building. I wanted to see just how far they’d taken this act without me, the “vicious shrew,” present. My car was a black Land Rover, a gift from the Blackspire Pack Elders to us the year Kian became Alpha. Thinking about it now, it was ironic. The car drove steadily towards the campus, where I had shared a research lab with him, and where a veritable trap awaited me. The Land Rover pulled into the exclusive faculty parking spot. I turned off the engine but didn’t immediately get out. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror: lips red as blood, eyes cold as ice. Good, this was the battle attire I needed. I pushed the door open and stepped out, my boots clicking crisply on the polished floor, the sound amplified in the empty garage like war drums. Entering the elevator, I pressed the top floor directly; the department head’s and Kian’s offices were both on this level. The elevator doors opened to a familiar hallway, familiar lab signs. But today’s atmosphere was entirely different. The usually quiet and orderly office area was now filled with an eerie silence. Everyone sat at their workstations, pretending to read literature or conduct experiments, but their wandering eyes, perked ears, and occasional furtive taps on their keyboards betrayed them. The air was thick with gossip and speculation, mingled with a faint, almost imperceptible trace of white peach perfume. When I appeared in their field of vision in a striking black suit skirt, the entire office area seemed to be paused. All eyes simultaneously fixated on me. Shock, curiosity, sympathy, schadenfreude… a complex web of emotions converged, enveloping me. I walked straight ahead, chin slightly raised, my pace unwavering, heading directly towards the end of the hallway. There was no need to care about the onlookers’ gazes. My objective was clear, and had been all along: to retrieve what was rightfully mine. 0

The sound of my boots was the only noise in the oppressive silence, each step landing like a strike on everyone’s raw nerves. They watched me as if I were the leading lady making a grand entrance in an annual drama. I walked past them expressionlessly. The closer I got to the office, the clearer the whispers became. “Oh my god, Luna Elara is really here!” “Dressed like that… is she here to declare war?” “This is going to be good. Quick, open a SnapChat group and start a live stream!” “Lila’s still in Professor Kian’s office. I saw her go in crying this morning, and she hasn’t come out since.” I heard these voices, and a cold sneer flickered across my lips. Excellent, the audience was all in place. I reached the tightly closed wooden door. The door’s soundproofing was good, but I could still faintly hear suppressed, intermittent sobbing from inside. It was Lila’s voice. I didn’t knock. Under everyone’s gaze, I simply turned the doorknob and pushed the door open forcefully. The moment the door swung open, the scene inside clearly reflected in my eyes, and in the countless peeking eyes in the hallway. Inside the office, Kian stood by the sofa. And Lila sat on the guest sofa, crying piteously, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Kian held a tissue in his hand, leaning slightly forward, about to offer it to her. His face was filled with annoyance and reluctance. Hearing the door open, both of them simultaneously looked towards the entrance. Lila saw me, and her crying ceased abruptly, like a cat whose throat had been squeezed. A fleeting look of panic flashed in her eyes, quickly replaced by deeper grievance and tears. The moment Kian recognized me, his whole body froze. His outstretched hand remained suspended in mid-air, the tissue hovering, creating an almost comical awkwardness. I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, observing the “deeply moving” scene before me. I smiled, breaking the silence. “Professor Kian, busy, are we? I hope I’m not interrupting.”

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