I was reborn on the day I got buried in a sand pit. My wife of seven years leaned over the edge of the hole and screamed down at me. “The rope is down. Tie it around Stellan first. You’re strong. You can hold on another five minutes.” In my last life, I grabbed it first. Stellan ended up brain-damaged from oxygen deprivation. She forced me to work sixteen-hour days to pay off the debt. “Stellan is your fault. You did this. Why don’t you just die?” In the end, my leg bone rotted away. She threw me out of the hospital. I died alone in a basement that leaked when it rained. This time, I said only one word: “Okay.” I fastened the rope around Stellan’s harness. It pulled taut, and he was yanked up. Then the roar of the SUV’s engine faded fast. She drove away in the only vehicle, taking him with her without a single look back. I leaned against the wall of flowing sand and closed my eyes. This time, I wasn’t going to fight for it. But Mandy, why did you end up regretting it? “Ethan! The rope is down. Hook yourself in, now. The car can’t pull two people through this sand. We can only bring up one at a time. Do you hear me?” The sand had already swallowed me up to my chest when Amanda’s sharp voice crackled through the walkie-talkie, riding a wave of harsh static. I tilted my head up. The windstorm hit my goggles like gravel being hurled by a fist. Less than a yard away from me, Stellan had sunk halfway into the quicksand. He was clinging to a dead branch that was about to snap, his face streaked with sand and tears, screaming up at the surface in pure desperation. “Mandy! Help me! I can’t breathe! I don’t want to die out here!” Watching the scene in front of me, I felt nothing but cold emptiness inside. So I actually got a second chance. This moment was exactly the same as before. In my last life, Amanda and I had been married three years, both of us working out here in this wasteland. When the sand collapsed without warning, I’d been buried in the quicksand just like this. Back then, driven by survival instinct and by my trust in the woman I’d just married, I grabbed the lifeline. But I never could have imagined that one desperate choice would become the beginning of a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. Because Stellan spent ten extra minutes under the sand, he was oxygen-deprived long enough to cause brain damage by the time they pulled him out. His mental capacity dropped to that of a ten-year-old. From that day on, the look Amanda gave me held nothing but a hatred that cut all the way to the bone. She drove me to work sixteen hours a day. Every dollar I earned, salary, bonuses, everything I had saved toward buying us a house, went straight to Stellan’s medical bills. “This is the consequence of what you did. If you hadn’t saved yourself first, Stellan would never have ended up like this. You have to take responsibility.” Then, after years of grueling work in brutal conditions, the bone in my thigh deteriorated so badly I could barely walk. At the moment I needed surgery money most desperately, Amanda quietly drained every cent from our account. She stood over me where I lay in the hospital bed, her voice stripped of any warmth. “Stellan needs new physical therapy equipment, and that costs a lot. Your leg is already ruined anyway. There’s no point wasting money on it.” In the end, she kicked me out of the hospital without mercy. I died alone, in a basement with no heat. Every bone in my body rotted. I died in agony, drowning in regret that had nowhere to go. “Ethan! Are you deaf? Why aren’t you saying anything?” Amanda’s voice came through the walkie-talkie again, edged with fury she could no longer hold back. “Stellan has severe asthma. Inhaling all this sand could kill him. You’re in good shape. You can last another five minutes down there. Clip the safety hook onto Stellan. Do it now.” She didn’t even ask, not once, whether I was also about to be swallowed alive. Whether I might die too. In her mind, my strength and my obedience had become the very reasons it was acceptable to abandon me. I looked at Stellan sobbing beside me, and suddenly I thought my past self was the world’s biggest joke. I’d nearly killed myself trying to prove I mattered more to her than her best friend. And all I got in return was a rotted leg and a cold corpse. This time, I wasn’t going to fight for it. “Okay.” I spoke into the walkie-talkie, calm, my mouth full of grit. Then I reached out with both hands, pulled the rope toward me, and clipped it directly onto Stellan’s safety harness. “Ethan… thank you. Don’t worry. I’m sending the guys down with equipment right now. Give me five minutes!” A thread of relief slipped into Amanda’s voice, along with something that tried to pass itself off as gratitude. I didn’t respond. I just reached over and switched off the walkie-talkie. All I could hear now was the soft scraping of sand against Stellan’s body as he was pulled upward. The rope went taut fast. It jerked Stellan out of the pit in one rough motion. He wailed like a rescued child in midair, flailing his arms and legs as they hauled him up. I stood in the tightening sand and watched his shape disappear into the blinding light above. Then came the muffled growl of the SUV’s engine from somewhere overhead. The tires spun furiously in the sand, throwing out a sharp, grinding shriek. One hard rev of the engine, and then the sound moved away fast. She drove off in the only vehicle. Took Stellan, the one she treated like he was everything, and left without looking back. In this scorching wasteland where the sun could peel the skin right off you, she drove away the only vehicle that could save my life and told me to wait. I leaned back against the tightening quicksand wall and closed my eyes. There was no rage in me. Only a stillness, deep and dead, like water that had forgotten how to move. The Ethan who had spent his whole life revolving around Amanda died in that moment, buried beneath the dry, drifting sand.

The vibration from Amanda driving away triggered a second collapse. A falling boulder slammed into my left leg and snapped it clean. The quicksand surged up to my neck in seconds. To survive, I pried my leg free from the rock with an entrenching tool, forcing the bone loose through sheer will, spitting blood as I dragged myself out of the pit. In fifty-degree heat, I walked on that mangled leg. One step, then another. I don’t know how long I moved. When my mind started to blur, I finally saw the cluster of red tents and the high-end climate-controlled trailer sitting on the edge of the horizon. That was our base camp. Running almost entirely on instinct, I crawled on my hands and knees to the door of the climate-controlled trailer. I reached up with a hand caked in blood and sand and pulled at the door handle. It didn’t move. Someone had locked it from the inside. Cold air seeped through the gap in the metal door, a faint, maddening whisper against my skin. Through the sand-resistant window, I could hear Stellan’s weak moaning, and Amanda’s gentle, soothing voice. “Take it slow, Stellan. It’s ice-cold lemonade, best thing for heat exhaustion.” My hand hung in midair. The grime under my fingernails was dark with the blood I had dug through the sand with. I clenched my jaw and knocked on the window with the wooden handle of the entrenching tool. Hard. “What is wrong with you? Ethan, seriously!” Amanda’s voice came through the trailer’s external speaker almost immediately, dripping with irritation and barely restrained fury. “Stellan just had a severe panic attack down there. His airway is badly inflamed right now. You’re covered in filth and you smell. If you bring germs in here and something happens to Stellan, are you going to take responsibility for that?” “You walked back on your own two feet, which means you’re fine. Go wait in the supply tent. There are sleeping pads in there. Once Stellan falls asleep tonight, I’ll come out and bring you something to eat.” The speaker cut out. Silence settled over everything like a burial. I leaned against the scorching metal side of the trailer and slowly slid down to the ground. My left thigh had swollen to the size of a bucket. The skin had turned a sickly blue-black. I was losing sensation fast. My wife, knowing full well I’d just survived a life-threatening collapse, wouldn’t even unlock the door. Because she found my smell offensive. I stared at that sealed door, and then I dropped my head and laughed. I laughed until something dry stung the corner of my eye, something that evaporated instantly in the desert heat before it could even fall. I didn’t knock again. I didn’t say another word. I pressed my hands to the ground, dragged my useless left leg behind me, and inched my way toward the tent. I lay down beside the cold, hard metal of the equipment cases, closed my eyes, and let the darkness take me.

The supply tent was stifling. I lay beside the cold metal equipment cases, every inch of my skin crawling like it was being eaten alive. The dehydration had pushed my body into a high fever. My forehead burned to the touch. The cracks in my lips wept tiny beads of blood. My left leg had gone completely numb. The thigh had swollen so badly it was straining against the fabric of my pants. The skin had taken on a taut, glossy sheen, the look of severe internal bleeding and muscle death beneath the surface. I could feel it. My body was failing, slowly but steadily, giving out from the dehydration and the damage. “Ethan! Oh God, what are you doing on the ground?” The tent flap was yanked open. Dr. Sam Pearce, the survey team’s medic, burst in with his kit. One look at me, and the color drained out of his face. He dropped to his knees beside me, hands trembling as he tore open my pant leg, and sucked in a sharp breath. “The muscle tissue is severely necrotic. It’s already losing blood supply. Ethan, are you out of your mind?” Sam’s eyes went red with panic. He was already rummaging frantically through his kit, pulling out the last saline bag, getting it ready to run an IV. “No good. His kidneys are starting to fail. He needs fluids right now, and then he needs surgery at a county hospital immediately. If we wait any longer, that leg is coming off. He could lose his life.” He was still talking as he struggled to find a vein in my arm. Amanda pulled the tent flap aside and walked in. She was holding a stack of recovered survey documents, brow furrowed. When she saw Sam putting the needle in, her expression went flat. “Sam, what are you doing in here? I told you to stay with Stellan in the trailer. His ice packs have melted. He’s dizzy again. Go get him fresh ones, now.” Sam shot to his feet, pointing at my leg, furious. “Mandy! Ethan has a broken leg, he’s severely dehydrated, and he’s running a high fever. If he doesn’t get fluids and surgery, that leg is done.” Amanda’s gaze finally moved to my left leg. When she saw how swollen and darkened it was, something flickered in her eyes, a brief tightening of the pupils. But it lasted less than a second. Then it was gone, replaced by cold indifference and suspicion. “Sam, don’t let him fool you. You know what kind of shape Ethan is in. The man carries forty pounds of gear across miles of rough terrain on a normal day. You’re telling me a little time in a sand pit broke his leg?” She walked over and gave my lower leg a light nudge with the toe of her boot, voice thick with impatience. “Ethan, is this your way of guilting me for pulling Stellan out first? Stellan actually has asthma. Inhaling all that sand could have suffocated him. You’re perfectly healthy. Can’t you just be a little less selfish about this?” I lay on the hard ground and listened to her. I didn’t even bother opening my eyes. In my last life, every time Stellan got so much as a scratch, she would make sure the whole team heard about it, turning me into the brute who was too rough and too simple to understand suffering. In her mind, men like me didn’t deserve to hurt. Men like me were made of stone. “Mandy, have you lost it?” Sam shook with rage, pulling the saline bag close to his chest. “I’m the doctor here. I’m going off the test results. Ethan’s body is at its absolute limit. This IV needs to go in right now.” “No.” Amanda snatched the saline bag out of Sam’s hands and set it back in the kit without a second thought. “Stellan’s been vomiting. He’s critically dehydrated. We’re out of resupply. That’s the last saline bag, and it needs to go to Stellan. Ethan’s tough. He can drink from the water barrel outside.” She looked at me, and her voice took on a hard edge. “Stop being dramatic. Get up and clean yourself off. Lying there like that, it’s disgusting.” She dropped those words, picked up the med kit, and walked out without turning back. Sam stood there staring at his empty hands, eyes red, tears threatening to spill. “Ethan… how can she do this to you? You’re her husband. You’ve been married three years.” My cracked lips moved slightly. My voice came out as a dry rasp, barely a sound. “Sam. Don’t go back to her.” I paused. “Just get me a bowl of plain cold water. That’s all. Thank you.” My heart had gone cold a long time ago. Now the only thing I wanted was to stay alive. And then get far, far away from her.

Evening came. The desert wind picked up, carrying a dry rustling sound, and the temperature finally dropped a little, but my fever climbed higher. Sam did everything he could. In the end, all he managed to get down my throat was a few mouthfuls of water that tasted of grit and salt. My thoughts were starting to blur at the edges. A violent, twisting pain tore through my lower back. “That’s it. We have to move. We need to get to the county hospital right now!” Sam kicked the supply tent flap open and shouted at Amanda, who was outside directing the team as they packed up gear. “Ethan’s starting to talk out of his head! Mandy, give me the keys to the Land Cruiser. I’m driving him out of here myself!” The survey team had two SUVs. One had been totaled in yesterday’s collapse. The only vehicle still running was the Land Cruiser, the best one they had. Amanda was helping Stellan into the passenger seat. Stellan had a damp cloth draped over his face and a blanket pulled around his shoulders, moaning softly with that look he always wore, like the world owed him a gentleness it had never given him. When he heard Sam, Amanda’s hands paused. Then she turned around, her face set. “I’m not giving you the keys. I’m taking Stellan to the hospital myself.” “His skin blistered in the sun. He’s severely on edge. The therapist at the hospital is already booked. If we don’t get there today, Stellan could be left with serious psychological trauma. His career can’t take that hit.” Sam looked like he was about to explode. “Stellan has a sunburn. Ethan is dying. Look at his leg. It’s completely black. The back seats are wide open. Just put Ethan in the back and drop him at the hospital on the way. Is that so impossible?” Amanda glanced at me, pale, motionless on the stretcher, and something shifted in her eyes. Distaste, and something careful. “Stellan is traumatized. Seeing Ethan triggers his anxiety attacks. He can’t breathe when Ethan’s nearby.” “The supply truck comes in tomorrow morning. Ethan can ride out in that. The cargo bed is big enough for him to lie flat.” Tomorrow morning. That was more than twelve hours away. In my condition, dehydrated, with a leg that was already dying, lying in this supply tent for twelve more hours with no medical equipment. By the time the truck showed up, I would probably be a stiff. Amanda turned back to the door and reached for the handle. “Mandy.” I was flat on the stretcher. I dug up everything I had left and rasped her full name. Her hand froze on the handle. She turned and looked at me, surprised, off-balance. In three years, I had always called her by her nickname, the soft way. This was the first time I’d said her name in full, without a single degree of warmth in it. “You’re not giving me the keys.” I looked at her. My eyes were as cold as the desert at three in the morning. “That’s your answer?” Something in Amanda’s expression cracked. She covered it quickly, pulling herself up, throwing the words back at me with a sharp, almost panicked edge. “Ethan, what is your problem? I’m making the best call for the whole team and for Stellan’s health. If you’re so capable, walk yourself out. Don’t just lie there glaring at me.” “Fine.” I let out a short, humorless laugh and closed my eyes. “Sam. Stop asking her. Help me up.” And then, from somewhere far out along the horizon, there came a deep, heavy rumble. A large truck was moving along the dirt road beside the camp, its high beams cutting bright lines through the dark. It was a mining truck from a nearby site. It ran a nightly haul into town. “Sam. Flag it down.” I pointed at the truck. With my left hand braced against the edge of the stretcher, gritting through the grinding agony of broken bone against bone, I forced myself upright. Sam’s eyes were wet. He ran straight to the roadside and started waving his red wind jacket over his head with both arms. The truck let out a long pneumatic hiss and slowed to a stop. A weathered, middle-aged driver leaned out. “What’s going on? You need help?” “Please, my colleague has a broken leg, severe dehydration. We need to get to the county hospital. Can you take us?” Sam was crying as he shouted it. “Get in. I’ll get you there fast. She’s rough on the road but she moves.” The driver didn’t hesitate. He reached over and swung the passenger door open. Between Sam and the driver, they got me up and into the passenger seat. As I climbed in, I turned and looked back at Amanda one last time. She was staring at me. Both hands still gripping the keys to the SUV. Her face was frozen, stunned, unable to process what she was seeing. She couldn’t seem to understand it. The man who had always bent to whatever she wanted, without question, without complaint, he was leaving. And he wasn’t stopping. “Ethan! Are you insane? That truck is going to shake you apart. Your leg can’t handle that.” She was shouting from below, sharp and rising. I didn’t answer. I reached up and pulled the door shut, cutting her voice off, sealing it out there in the wind and the grit and the dark. “Drive.” I looked out at the long, black road ahead of me. “Let’s go.” The truck pulled away from the camp and didn’t look back.

Sam held onto me the entire ride, steadily wiping the cracking skin of my lips. “Stay with me, Ethan! We’re almost at the county line!” I don’t know how long it took. The truck finally stopped in front of the county hospital. Sam and the driver carried me out together. The ER team came rushing. “Comminuted fracture of the femur, severe ischemia in the affected tissue. Prep for emergency surgery immediately.” The ER doctor’s voice rang through the corridor. The consent form was handed to Sam. The doctor looked at him urgently. “Where’s his family? Why is there only a coworker? We need a signature right now. We can’t delay any further!” “I’m just his colleague. His family isn’t here.” Sam was wiping his face with the back of his hand. I was lying on the gurney, fighting the vertigo that came in waves with the fever. With my right hand shaking, I reached for the pen. “Doctor. I’ll sign it myself. I’m an adult. Whatever happens, that’s on me.” I said it one word at a time and wrote my name at the bottom of the form: Ethan Cole. The anesthetic moved through me slowly, and then the world softened. In the last second before everything went dark, I thought about the helplessness of lying in that hospital bed in my last life. This time, I had taken the first step back. When I opened my eyes again, sharp sunlight was pouring through the window. The ward was quiet. The air carried the faint, clean bite of antiseptic. My left leg was elevated and wrapped in thick white bandaging. It still ached distantly, but the burning was gone. Sam was slumped over the edge of my bed, asleep. “You’re awake?” The door opened. My attending physician walked in with a glasses and a thick stack of charts. He looked at my leg, then at me, and let out a slow breath. “Surgery went well. You’re alive. The leg is still there.” His tone was even, but what came next hit the quiet ward like something heavy dropped from a height. “That said, the fracture was severe. More critically, you were dehydrated for too long in extreme heat. The muscle and vascular tissue in that leg were compressed under that rock for too long. A significant portion of the tissue was completely necrotic. We had no choice but to remove it.” “Going forward, that leg will never function the way it did. You’ll walk with a limp. You’ll need a cane permanently. And you absolutely cannot return to any kind of high-intensity fieldwork. You need to prepare yourself for that.” Inside, I was surprisingly calm. Sam had woken when the doctor started talking. He sat there, stricken, unable to hide the grief in his face. “You’re twenty-eight years old. You love being out there in the field. What are you going to do now?” I looked at my bandaged leg. The corner of my mouth lifted, just slightly. “Sam. Don’t cry.” I put my hand on his trembling shoulder. My voice was quiet, but there was nothing unsteady in it. “I made it out of the wilderness alive. That’s more than enough. If I can’t go back to the desert, then I won’t go back.” In my last life, I left everything in that desert. My health, my time, my life. All of it spent for Amanda and Stellan. This time, I traded one leg for my life back. That was the best deal I had ever made.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “414986”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

I woke up and found myself convicted of a hit-and-run killing. On the day I was sent to prison, my fiancé Brandon suddenly confessed to me: “Actually, it was your sister Freya who did the hit-and-run. I fabricated the evidence to make you take the fall for her.” Seeing me frozen in shock, he said it like it was nothing: “I’ve been seeing her behind your back for a while now. She’s pregnant with my child.” “Your whole family knows.” My body went stiff. My mind went completely blank. He continued: “Don’t worry. When you get out, my child with her will be your child too.” Except I never made it out. I was beaten to death in prison. After I died, my soul drifted to Brandon and Freya’s wedding. Without meaning to, I possessed Freya’s body. The officiant was holding the microphone, asking the bride if she took this man to be her husband. I controlled Freya’s body, ran a hand over her slightly swollen belly, and smiled with her face — smug and satisfied: “I absolutely do!” “After all, I’ve been sleeping around with multiple men. Not only did I pick up an STD, I’m also carrying some random guy’s baby.” “So after I ran someone over drunk driving, I deliberately let Caitlin take the fall and go to prison, then stole her fiancé.” “If I don’t marry Brandon, where else am I going to find a loaded idiot willing to take me in?” I turned to Brandon, whose face had gone a sickly shade of green. I patted his cheek and smiled with cold contempt: “Baby, don’t worry. The child might not be yours, but I’m still yours, aren’t I?” ⋯⋯

The moment those words left my mouth, the entire banquet hall froze like someone had hit pause. The silence was so complete you could hear a pin drop. This was a union between the Western Brown family and the Andre family. Every guest here was somebody. The bride had just detonated a scandal with her own lips. The media in the room descended like sharks smelling blood, cameras surging toward me from every direction. After a brief silence, the room erupted into furious whispers. Brandon’s brow twisted. He shoved the reporters back, seized my hand in an iron grip, and dropped his voice: “Freya, what exactly did you just mean by that?” “Wasn’t it Caitlin who had the STD and got knocked up by some other guy?” I looked at this man I’d loved for five years and felt a sharp, gutting pain move through me. Three months ago, Freya had used one AI-generated fake photo to make Brandon completely convinced that I was sleeping around behind his back — that I had an STD, that the baby I was carrying belonged to some unknown man. I had begged him to believe me. The photo was fake. It was Freya who had the STD. But he shoved me to the ground, loomed over me, and screamed: “Freya is pure and kind. Why would she ever frame you?” “You’ve always resented her for taking your place as the Brown family’s daughter. You just can’t stand her!” I hit the floor. The pain in my lower abdomen was so severe I broke into a cold sweat all over my body. I curled into myself and begged him to take me to the hospital. To save our baby. He stared at the pool of blood spreading beneath me, his voice soft and brutal at the same time: “Caitlin, as long as that bastard in your belly is gone and you get your STD treated, I’ll still marry you.” I crawled through the blood to reach the table, grabbed my phone, and called 911. By the time I got to the hospital, the baby was already gone. He had killed our child with his own hands. I dragged my broken body home, only to find Brandon and Freya tangled together in my bed. When I fell apart and confronted them, Brandon sneered: “You’ve been with so many men. You were carrying some stranger’s kid.” “I’m just fooling around with one person. If anything, you’re getting the better end of the deal.”

My thoughts snapped back to the present. I looked at Brandon through Freya’s eyes and gave him the worst smile I could manage: “You idiot. I was obviously lying to you!” “Those photos of Caitlin were AI fakes I made myself. I’m the one carrying some random guy’s baby!” “I made you kill your own child with your own hands, and then handed you someone else’s kid to raise without any of the pain.” “If you think about it, you’re actually getting a pretty good deal!” Brandon’s face cycled from pale to dark. The veins at his temples bulged. His eyes took on something terrifying. At that moment, Freya’s soul started fighting to reclaim her body. She screamed inside my head like something unhinged: “Caitlin! You disgusting piece of trash! Get out of my body right now!” Since this was my first time possessing someone, my hold on her soul was unstable. The world spun violently and I was forced out. Freya, freshly back in control of her own body, burst into tears — the kind that looked beautiful and heartbreaking. She grabbed Brandon’s arm and rushed to explain: “Brandon, none of those words were mine!” “It was Caitlin — that awful woman — she died but she still…” She caught herself mid-sentence, seemed to remember something, and quickly changed her story: “She’s taking revenge on me. I don’t know what kind of dark trick she used to take over my body and make me say those things.” She took Brandon’s hand and pressed it against her small round belly: “She’s jealous that I’m carrying your child. She’s trying to tear us apart on purpose!” The mention of the baby smoothed out Brandon’s furrowed brow immediately: “I knew it. You’re too good and too sweet for any of that. Of course it’s my child. It has to be Caitlin stirring things up!” Seeing Brandon buy the story, Freya let out a deep, quiet breath of relief. Her brother John, sitting in his wheelchair, clenched his fist and spat: “Even locked up, she’s still scheming against people. And here we were, spending a fortune to make sure the guards treated her well — practically turning her prison sentence into a vacation. She doesn’t know how good she had it!” “I want nothing to do with a sister this vicious!” “She should have died in that prison!” I floated there above them, feeling nothing but a dark, hollow absurdity. They had conspired together to put me behind bars with fabricated evidence. And yet they expected me to bow down in gratitude to the very people who destroyed my life. It had only been a few days after my miscarriage when Freya, drunk behind the wheel, ran someone over — then deliberately reversed and ran over the body again before fleeing the scene. When it all came to light, she cried and sobbed and said it wasn’t her fault. The victim had stepped in front of her on purpose, trying to extort money from her. She was scared. She couldn’t go to prison. And just like that, without a second thought, the whole family pointed their finger at me. My parents wrapped their arms around Freya and acted like it was the most natural thing in the world: “Freya was raised to be pampered. She couldn’t survive prison.” “Caitlin, your sister has spent over twenty years being devoted to this family in your place. You owe her everything.” “Going to prison for her is the least you can do to repay that debt.” My brother John hated me for what he believed I’d done — hiring someone to break both his legs, leaving him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He wanted me to suffer, so he supported sending me to prison without hesitation. And Brandon — he used the gentlest voice to say the cruelest things: “Caitlin, you’re already damaged. A little more damage doesn’t matter. I won’t think less of you for it.” “But if Freya goes to prison, her whole life is ruined.” Even now, even dead, there was still a gaping hole where my heart should have been. The hatred was so overwhelming it launched me straight back into Freya. I shoved her soul out and took back control of her body. I wiped away the tears Freya had just been crying, drew back my foot, and kicked hard enough to nearly send John’s wheelchair toppling. I laughed through the tears still clinging to my face: “You are so irreparably stupid!” “Use that tiny little brain of yours and think! Caitlin had no grudge against you. She had no money. Why would she ever hire someone to break your legs?”

“Obviously it was me. I hired them to break your legs and pin it on Caitlin. I needed you to hate her — really hate her — so I could drive a wedge between you two, steal the shares that were rightfully hers, and force her to take my fall.” I looked a lot like John. He’d run into me by chance one day, started to suspect something, had DNA testing done in secret, and then brought me back into the Brown family. When I first came home, both he and my parents wanted to make up for the twenty-two years of family I’d missed. They were planning to announce my identity as the true Brown family daughter at the company’s anniversary celebration half a month away. And to transfer my rightful shares into my name. But just a few days later, John was dragged into an alley and had both his legs broken. He’d be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Based on the fake evidence the attackers had deliberately planted, he didn’t even look into it. He decided I was responsible and hated me for it with everything he had. My parents, nudged along by Freya’s manipulation, grew colder toward me with every passing day. John stared at the sister he’d cherished and spoiled for twenty-two years. His lips trembled: “Freya… is that true?” Now that I was in Freya’s body, I had full access to her memories. That’s how I knew all these details. I laughed coldly: “The guy who led the attack was named Jason. His number is… but you don’t have to take my word for it. Look it up yourself.” John’s face drained white, then darkened. He barked at his assistant over the phone, demanding they investigate immediately. He made it clear — if Freya really was behind what happened to him, he would not let it go. I clapped Freya’s hands together with exaggerated delight: “Good! Please, don’t let me off the hook!” “Send me to prison. Have me torn apart. Make it count — for your real sister.” He grabbed my wrist hard: “What are you saying? What do you mean, torn apart? What do you mean, make it count?” In order to put me behind bars and cover for Freya, they had falsified dashcam footage, altered surveillance recordings, and bribed everyone involved. They’d successfully gotten me convicted and thrown in prison. But then they’d also spent a small fortune bribing the guards and other inmates to look after me — to ease their own guilt, and so they could tell themselves I was fine and ought to be grateful. What they hadn’t counted on was Freya. Using the Brown family name, she had issued her own orders, overriding all of that — commanding those same people to beat me, humiliate me, and work me until I died. I was laughing so hard my eyes burned with tears: “Of course I was the one who paid them off. I had them beat Caitlin every single day until she was dead.” “Now no one can ever take the Brown family name away from me again.” John’s brow furrowed. He seemed to be weighing whether to believe it. Brandon shoved through the crowd and grabbed my arm: “What the hell are you saying? How could Caitlin be dead?” “Didn’t you say just yesterday that Caitlin complained about the food in there and asked you to get three million from me?” The situation was spinning out of control. Freya went frantic inside me — cursing me, clawing at the edges of her own mind, trying to force me out of her body. No one else could see the two souls fighting for control. From the outside, Freya just looked like she was losing her mind — one moment sobbing: “John, please don’t believe any of this! How could I ever want to hurt you?” “It was Caitlin — she used some kind of witchcraft on me and made me say those things!” “Brandon! I’m carrying your child! This is all Caitlin’s doing, she’s trying to destroy me…” And the next second, slapping herself hard across the face, calling herself worthless — saying she had stolen someone else’s life and deserved every terrible thing coming to her. She even pulled out her phone to call the police and turn herself in. Mrs. Brown rushed forward, knocked the phone out of my hand, pressed her palm over my mouth, and pulled me into her arms.

She turned to the guests with an embarrassed smile and explained that ever since I had come home, I’d been unable to accept Freya as an adopted daughter and had been bullying her relentlessly. Freya’s breakdown today, she said, was clearly my fault. I seized the moment and wrestled back control, shoved her to the floor, and turned to Mr. Brown with a cold, flat stare: “Dad. When exactly are you planning to finish moving the company assets? When are you going to get rid of this old woman so you can bring my real mom home and finally have the family you actually want?” Mrs. Brown hadn’t expected the daughter she’d adored to push her to the ground. It took her a long moment to process it. She pressed a hand to her chest and stared at me, her lips moving: “Freya… what did you just…” Freya was fighting me with everything she had. I bore down and held her back, took control of her hands, and cast the contents of her phone onto the big screen at the front of the hall. Mrs. Brown stared at the image on that screen — Mr. Brown with his arm around another woman, the three of them posed like a perfect little family — and the blood drained from her face. “Honestly, you’ve only got yourself to blame for being so easy to use. If you weren’t loaded, why would my dad have stayed with you this long?” “The one my dad has always loved is my mother, Laura.” “To give me a better life, my dad deliberately switched me and Caitlin at birth. He had her abandoned out in the woods.” I let myself laugh until I nearly doubled over: “The precious daughter you’ve been raising and spoiling for twenty-two years is your husband’s illegitimate child. She’s his mistress’s daughter.” “And you — you went and sent your own biological daughter to prison. For her.” “You killed your own flesh and blood with your own hands.” Every word landed like a hammer blow directly to her chest. She turned to look at Mr. Brown, whose face had gone the color of ash. She murmured to herself, barely audible: “That can’t be real… none of this is real…” She pulled herself up from the floor and latched onto my wrist with both hands: “Freya, tell me. Tell me right now that everything you just said was a lie.” “It was Caitlin, wasn’t it? That vicious girl did something to you, made you say all of that!” No one answered her. Because the answer was staring everyone in the face — Freya looked almost identical to the woman Mr. Brown had his arm around in that photo. I didn’t bother engaging with any of them. I just kept casting more files from Freya’s phone onto the big screen. Photos of her with various men. A hospital report confirming her STD diagnosis. A message thread showing her ordering the guards to have me beaten to death. And then — Brandon’s recent medical report confirming a diagnosis of low sperm count. One bombshell after another. The media in the room were ecstatic, cameras clicking and flashing in a relentless barrage. Brandon snapped at the staff to kill the screen, then grabbed my wrist: “Freya, Caitlin did something to you, right? She’s the one behind all of this?” John and Mrs. Brown both chimed in — saying I had always been vicious, that all of this so-called evidence was obviously something I had fabricated. I looked at the three of them, cold and still. Even with everything laid out in front of them, they still chose to believe in Freya. Still chose to call me the villain. It was almost funny. I controlled Freya’s body and laughed until the tears nearly came. I pointed at them and screamed: “Caitlin is already dead!” “You people killed her. Every single one of you.” Mrs. Brown fired back immediately: “She’s just spiteful. She resents her own family, so she’s been pulling strings behind the scenes, setting all of this up to humiliate us!” John added: “Exactly. We made sure she was well taken care of in there. Prison was practically a vacation for her—” He stopped himself. He’d said too much. Every guest in that room was sharp enough to know when something didn’t add up. The next moment, a hesitant voice rose from somewhere in the crowd: “I heard there was a bullying death at that prison last week. That wasn’t… Caitlin Brown, was it? Is she actually dead? Does that mean all of this is real?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “414985”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

The night the dam broke, I was trapped on the rooftop with my one-month-old son in my arms. I pressed the radio to my lips and called out to my husband. “Ethan, the water is rising. We’re up here on the roof. Please come get us.” His voice came through the receiver, but he wasn’t talking to me. “Don’t be scared, Mandy. I’m on my way.” The next second, the green light on our private channel went dark. He had blocked me. I tried to reconnect like a madwoman. Once. Then again. The motor of a rescue boat roared in the distance, growing closer. A searchlight swept across my face, then slid away without mercy. I pressed the radio to my lips, my voice raw and bleeding. “Ethan. You don’t have to save me. But please, take the baby. He’s only a month old. He’s never even seen your face.” The only answer was the fading growl of that engine. I looked down at the child in my arms, his warmth slipping away. Then I looked at the GPS bracelet he had fastened on my wrist with his own hands. So when everything fell apart, the one he chose to save was someone else.

Sophie’s POV The moment the dam broke, I held my one-month-old son with everything I had. I kicked the rooftop door open with the last of my strength. My newborn’s little face had gone blue from the cold. His cries were so faint they barely existed. I pressed the call button and reached out to my husband. “The baby and I are trapped. The water keeps rising. Bring the boat around and grab a can of formula on your way. Please. Save our son.” Nothing came through the radio but static. I bent my head and pressed my cheek against his cold little face, trying to warm him with what little heat I had left. This was our child. One month old. Ethan hadn’t even held him once. “Ethan, it’s me. Sophie.” I ran my thumb desperately over the ridges of the radio, tears and rainwater streaming together. “The baby’s with me. He’s so cold. Please, just say something.” The channel went quiet for half a second. Then came the sound of low, urgent breathing. Ethan. I nearly cried out with relief. I knew that breathing anywhere. Five years ago, after the old dam collapse, Ethan had dug me out of the rubble with his bare hands, gasping just like that. That day, he had clasped this GPS bracelet around my wrist himself and looked me in the eye. “This frequency is yours alone. Even if the whole city loses power. Even if the sky falls. I will dig you out from whatever has buried you.” “Ethan, you can hear me, right…” Before I could finish, a sharp voice cut through the channel, shrill and trembling, wet with tears, drowning me out completely. “Ethan! I’m so scared! The water is at the window. I’m really scared!” Mandy. The girl Ethan always kept close, his so-called “goddaughter,” though they shared no blood. Every drop of warmth left in my body turned to ice. I didn’t even get the chance to speak. Through the radio came Ethan’s voice, steady and gentle.”Don’t be scared, Mandy. I’m almost there.” I opened my mouth. Cold rain poured down my throat, and the pain choked off every sound. A sharp beep. The green light on the private channel, the one meant only for me, blinked out and went gray. I hammered the reconnect button. Failed. Again. Still nothing. Ethan had cut my signal. While our baby was freezing to death, my husband had severed my only lifeline to go save another woman. “Ethan!” I raised the radio into the downpour and screamed until my throat tore. “Ethan, our baby is up here!” The dead gray screen didn’t move. Then I heard it, the sound of a motorboat in the distance. I snapped my head up. A blinding searchlight swept past a half-collapsed billboard and cut straight toward the rooftop edge where I was standing. That was Ethan’s rescue boat. I lurched to my feet, wading through waist-deep floodwater, waving both arms at the beam of light. “Over here! Ethan! We’re over here!” The cold light swept across my face. Then moved on without a second’s pause. The boat carved a clean arc through the water, spun around, and sped toward the far bank where Mandy was waiting. My arm froze in midair. A wave of brown water slammed into my lower back. I stumbled and went down, and the baby let out a sound so faint it barely registered. I clapped my hand over the back of his head, pulling him close. But the last of his warmth inside the wrappings was draining away fast. I pressed the radio hard against my lips and hit the emergency backup channel for the last time. My voice came out in shreds: “Ethan… I’m not asking you to save me first. Just take the baby. Please. He’s only a month old. He’s never even seen his dad.” The only answer was the engine fading into the distance, and the dead silence of a radio that would never connect again. I let my head fall. On my wrist, the GPS bracelet I’d worn for five years blinked blue. Still sending. Still doing its job. But the person on the other end had blocked me. I unzipped my rescue jacket and lashed the baby’s wrappings against my chest. My fingers were so frozen I couldn’t grip. I bent my head and used my teeth to pull the cloth strips tight, biting down until they held. When it was done, I lifted my wrist and put the bracelet’s clasp in my mouth. A hard click. The clasp cut into my lip. I tasted blood, but it gave way. The bracelet, the one that was supposed to mean I will always find you, slipped off the wrist it had circled for five years. I closed my fingers around the cracked screen and held on. I pressed my back against the rooftop exhaust pipe, pulled my son against my chest, and slid slowly down into the water. The cold rose inch by inch past my knees. Over my chest. I lowered my chin until it rested on the still bundle wrapped against me. I had nothing left to shout.

Sophie’s POV At four in the morning, a rescue helicopter winched me up from the water. The baby in my arms had stopped breathing. By the time the upriver rescue team reached the Riverside District, the rooftop of Building Three was completely submerged. Only a few inches of exhaust pipe still broke the surface. The searchlight swept across it and found my hand first, fingers locked white around the metal pipe. Then it found my face, bloated and pale, completely still. Against my chest, tied in place with the ruins of my rescue jacket, was a small bundle. A rescue swimmer dropped down on a rope to free the knot. He found my fingers frozen solid. He had to force them apart twice before the wrappings came loose. The moment the medic took the bundle, his arm stopped. Too light. Like holding a roll of cold cotton. “Move. Get the baby to trauma first.” “The mother’s alive. Pull her up.” The helicopter blades tore through the rain. I was lifted onto the stretcher unconscious, my lips purple, water dripping from my clothes. But my right hand was clenched in a fist so tight no one could open it. The medic cut my sleeve open and saw a ring of deep marks pressed into my wrist, the imprint of something worn there for a long time. Now there was nothing there. “Got it!” Another rescuer pulled something from the water: a cracked bracelet caked with mud. The GPS light was still blinking. Faint. Stubborn. He wiped it clean and plugged it into the team’s terminal. My ID came up instantly, and the last recorded coordinates were locked to the rooftop of Building Three, Riverside District. He scrolled down to the transmission log. Every two seconds. From the moment the dam broke, right up until the helicopter arrived. I had never stopped sending. He checked the receiver log. One line. Cold and clear: Blocked. The rescuer stared at it. His face changed. He knew exactly what that meant. They all did. This was deliberate. He shoved the bracelet to the team recorder, his voice flat as ice.”Photograph it. Log it. Seal it in an evidence bag and don’t let anyone touch it.” The helicopter set down at the Memorial Hermann Hospital helipad. I was rushed into trauma, blood pressure so low the monitors screamed the whole way. In the room next to mine, they laid my baby on a table. The medics unwrapped him from his soaked bundle and worked on that tiny chest. One compression. Another. Again. That small body, one month old, did not move. I tried to say something, but the nurses were already pushing me through a different door. Ethan still didn’t know any of this. He didn’t know I was lying in a trauma bay with my life hanging by a thread. He didn’t know that his son, the one who never got a name, had been covered with a white sheet. And the bracelet he had clasped on my wrist was sitting in a clear evidence bag, its cracked screen still blinking its dim, bitter light. Near dawn, the door to the neonatal trauma room opened slowly. The doctor pulled off his mask. He looked at the chart in his hands and spoke in a voice too tired to soften it. “Unidentified infant male. Approximately one month of age. Hypothermia from immersion. Non-responsive to resuscitation.” The nurse’s eyes were red. She lowered her head and filled in the time of death. In the room next door, I lay buried under tubes and wires, my face as white as the walls. A nurse came in and told me everything. The shock was too much. I lost consciousness.

Sophie’s POV When I came to, the hospital room was empty. I opened my eyes and saw the IV stand first, then my own bare wrist. The mark from five years of wearing the bracelet was still pressed into my skin. The bracelet was gone. The nurse stood at the bedside with a clipboard, keeping her voice low. “Ms. Gray, don’t try to move yet.” My throat was dry enough to crack. “Where’s the baby?” She didn’t answer right away. That pause landed harder than anything she could have said. I looked up at her. The veins in the back of my IV hand went taut. “I’m asking you. Where is my baby?” I wanted so badly for what I’d heard before losing consciousness to be wrong. The nurse’s eyes filled. She gripped her clipboard. “When they brought him in, he wasn’t breathing on his own. They worked on him for a long time.” She stopped. “He didn’t make it.” I didn’t cry. I stared at the ceiling. My lips were cracked. Under the bandages and tubes, my chest rose and fell in small, slow movements. Yesterday he had been pressed against me. His tiny fingers curled around the edge of his wrappings. When he went still, I told myself he was just tired. Now the words came down again, and everything in the room fell away. The doctor arrived shortly after, two nurses behind him. He set the charts at the foot of the bed and kept his voice as level as he could. “The infection from your delivery wound is severe. Combined with extended exposure in cold floodwater, your condition deteriorated past the critical threshold. We performed emergency surgery, but…” He paused. “We weren’t able to save your uterus.” I turned my head and looked at him. He held the pause a moment longer. “We’ll continue monitoring the infection. The fact that you’re alive at all is not a small thing.” My fingers moved. “It’s gone?” He nodded. I looked back at the ceiling. Something inside me went hollow in that moment. Not pain, exactly. Pain has a location. This had none. A nurse brought over a clear sealed bag. Inside was the swaddling cloth, washed clean. The mud was gone, but the fabric was old and worn, and there was a small stain at one corner, a faint yellow patch that hadn’t come out no matter how many times it was washed. “This came in with the baby. We cleaned it.” I pushed myself upright against the bed frame. The nurse moved to help. I shifted away. I took the bag and ran my thumb over the cloth through the plastic. He had lain in this. Last night I’d tied it against my chest so all the wind and water hit my back first. I thought that was enough to protect him. I opened the seal. Took the cloth out. Laid it flat. Folded one corner to the opposite. Then again. Slowly. The IV pulled at the back of my hand with every movement. I didn’t stop. When it was folded, I slipped it back into the bag and pressed the seal closed. I set it on the pillow beside me. That bag was all that was left of him in the world. That afternoon, the door to the room wasn’t fully shut. The TV at the nurses’ station down the hall was running disaster coverage, the anchor’s voice rising and falling. I wasn’t paying attention, until I heard a name I knew. “Mandy.” I turned my head. Through the gap in the door, the screen had just cut to a replay. Mandy was propped up in a hospital bed, face pale but hair neatly brushed, a small cake on the tray beside her. A candle burned on top. She smiled for the camera, eyes faintly red. A caption rolled across the bottom. So glad you’re still here. The camera shifted and caught a jacket draped over the chair beside the bed. Ethan’s rescue team patch was visible on the sleeve. The comments scrolled past. He stayed with her on the night of the flood to celebrate her birthday? That’s the sweetest thing. Your boyfriend is everything. That’s real security right there. I stared at the jacket. That same night, my son had been cooling against my chest while I called Ethan’s name over and over, begging him to come, to bring formula, to get the baby out. During that same stretch of hours, Ethan had draped his jacket over Mandy’s shoulders. The candle on the cake was still lit. I reached over and pulled the sealed bag into my arms. The plastic was cold and stiff against my hospital gown. On the screen, Mandy bit into the cake and smiled. “Ethan said as long as I’m alive, that’s all that matters.” My arms tightened slowly. The seal made a faint sound under my hands. I didn’t get up. I didn’t call for the nurse to turn it off. I sat there, looking through that gap in the door, and watched Mandy finish every last bite.

Sophie’s POV By the time the lawyer came to the room, I was already getting out of bed on my own. I sat by the window in my hospital gown, the sealed bag on my knees. Outside, the temporary helipad was still up. Rescue vehicles moved past one after another. None of them were Ethan’s. The lawyer set his document folder on the small table and looked at me first. “Ms. Gray. Everything you asked for over the phone is ready.” I nodded. “Read it to me.” He opened the folder. The first document was a voluntary waiver of marital assets. The apartment, the savings, Ethan’s stake in the rescue company, I was taking none of it. The second was a power of attorney authorizing the lawyer to handle all legal matters between Ethan and me. The divorce. The asset separation. Any future correspondence. All of it would go through him. The third was a donation inventory. A set of equipment at the New York rescue station, a generator, life vests, a medical supply kit, a satellite terminal, had been purchased with my own savings after the marriage. I wasn’t taking them. I was donating everything to the upriver rescue team. The lawyer looked up from that page. “The market value of this equipment isn’t trivial. Are you sure you don’t want compensation?” I set the bag down on the bed. “I’m sure.” “If Mr. Shaw doesn’t agree, the process could drag out.” “Then we sue.” The lawyer’s pen paused. The room was quiet for a moment. I picked up the first document and turned to the signature page. My hand hadn’t fully recovered. My wrist was stiff, and my name came out slow. Sophie Gray. Watching the letters land on the page, my hand trembled slightly. I signed the second document. Then the third. After each page, the lawyer pressed a sticky note with instructions for notarization and delivery. I didn’t ask questions. I just signed where he indicated and pressed my thumb where the ink pad was. The red ink stayed on the pad of my finger. I wiped it twice and it didn’t come off. The lawyer gathered the documents and pressed them into a hard-shell folder. “From this point forward, all contact from Mr. Shaw will come to me first. I’ll also file a privacy request with the hospital on your behalf.” I looked up. “Don’t tell him my condition.” “Understood.” “And don’t be the one to tell him about the baby.” He watched me. “Are you sure?” I picked up the sealed bag from the bed and set it back on my knees. “He has his own channel.” The lawyer didn’t push. He closed the folder and left. After the door shut, all that was left in the room was the smell of antiseptic. I sat for a while. Then I pulled back the covers, got out of bed, and walked to the end of the hallway. There was a payphone near the wall, old, with tape wrapped around the receiver. I dropped in coins and dialed a number I hadn’t called in a long time. It rang six times. Then someone picked up. “Hello?” “Hannah. It’s me.” A pause on the other end. “Sophie?” I leaned against the wall. The puncture wound on the back of my hand hadn’t closed yet. Pressing the receiver against it stung. “I don’t have anywhere to go. Can you find me a place to rent in Houston?” Hannah didn’t ask why. I heard her chair scrape back. Then her voice dropped. “Just you?” I looked down at the loose hem of my hospital gown. “Just me.” A long silence. “Okay. Do you want it close to a hospital?” “Close.” “South-facing?” I closed my eyes. “Doesn’t matter.” “I’ll look at places today,” Hannah said. “Call me when you get in.” I held the receiver, and my throat moved. “Thank you.” “Don’t. Just get yourself to Houston in one piece.” The call ended. I put the receiver back and walked slowly along the wall back to my room. There was a photo tucked under my pillow. I pulled it out. Five years ago, after the old dam collapse. Ethan and I stood outside the rescue tent, both of us covered in mud. His hand was resting on my shoulder, his smile exhausted. I was smiling too, and on my wrist was the GPS bracelet, freshly clasped. The corners of the photo had started to curl. I looked at it for a long time. Then I turned it over, held it against my chest, and tucked it into the inner pocket of my hospital gown. I didn’t want anything else. Only this. Outside, another rescue vehicle drove past, its tires crashing through standing water. I walked to the bed, set the sealed bag on the pillow, pulled open the drawer, and took out the hospital discharge form.

Sophie’s POV The day I left the hospital, it was still raining in New York. I didn’t wait for the nurse to change my dressing, and I didn’t wait for the lawyer’s car. The moment the light came through the window, I undid my hospital gown button by button, exposing the bruising across my chest that hadn’t faded yet. There was only one thing in the locker: an old rescue jacket, washed clean. The one I’d been wearing in the photo, five years ago. The cuffs were worn pale, the shoulders had gone stiff from being waterlogged, and the threads at the edge of the team patch were fraying. I shook it out and put it on slowly. Halfway through zipping it up, the incision across my abdomen pulled, and I had to stop and breathe through the pain before I could pull the zipper all the way to the top. The photo was under the pillow. I slid it out and looked at it once. In the picture, Ethan stood beside me, hand resting on my shoulder. He had just finished clasping the GPS bracelet on my wrist. His face was smudged with mud, but his eyes were bright. I folded the photo in half. The crease pressed flat across Ethan’s face. I slipped it into the inner pocket of my jacket, next to the post-surgery bandaging, where it made a small firm shape against my side. On the bed, I laid out the hospital gown and folded it, sleeves over sleeves, collar aligned, until it was neat and square. I put the sealed bag on top of it. The cloth inside had dried. The edges were still crinkled. That small stain in the corner was still there, pale yellow, caught behind the plastic, the last thing he had left behind. I pressed my thumb against the seal for a moment. It gave a soft sound. I looked down at the bare mark on my wrist where the bracelet used to be. The cracked GPS unit was in the drawer. The nurse had said the rescue team had logged it and I could take it with me. I picked it up. The screen was dark. The frame had mud in the seams. The clasp had a deep groove where I’d bitten into it. I’d assumed it was broken. Broken was fine. If it still lit up, the promise it carried would only look worse by contrast. I set it on top of the sealed bag. One old promise pressing down on the only thing left of my son. That felt about right. Footsteps passed the door, a nurse, light and quick. I didn’t look up. I took my discharge papers and walked to the nurses’ station. The nurse saw me dressed and stopped. “Ms. Gray, you can’t be walking around yet.” I set the papers on the counter. “I need to check out.” “Your infection markers still need to be rechecked.” “I’ll follow up somewhere else.” She looked at my face, pale and hollowed out, and started to say something else. I was already picking up the pen. On the last page of the hospital records, there was a privacy disclosure section. Authorize disclosure of medical information to family members. I checked a box. No. Authorize disclosure of patient whereabouts to family members. I checked another box. No. Authorize legal spouse to receive future medical correspondence. I didn’t pause. Third check. No. The pen tore slightly into the paper. The nurse took the form back, her voice quieter now. “Do you need us to call you a car?” “No.” I signed the last page, put the pen down, and walked out through the main entrance with nothing in my hands, just the folded photo pressing into my chest through the inner pocket. Wind pushed through the doors. The rescue jacket was thin, and it didn’t stop the cold. The train station was nearly empty. Trains had only just resumed running after the flood. The waiting area was scattered with wet umbrellas and muddy footprints. I stood at the edge of the platform, and my phone buzzed. A message from Hannah. Found a place. South-facing, close to a hospital. Text me when you land and I’ll come get you. I read it, then turned my phone off. The arrival tone sounded down the track. The rails began to hum. I looked down at the top button of my rescue jacket. In the photo from five years ago, this same button was there, bright and sharp. Ethan had done it up for me once. Told me to wear the jacket properly and stop leaving the collar open. I reached up and pulled. The thread snapped. The button dropped into my palm. I stepped to the yellow line at the platform edge and opened my fingers. The button fell, hit the gravel between the rails, rolled twice, and disappeared into a crack in the dark. The train came in on a wall of wind. The doors opened. I stepped on, found a seat by the window, and sat down. The platform lights slid past my face one by one. I didn’t look back. Back in the hospital room, the cracked bracelet still rested on the sealed bag. Deep inside its shattered screen, the local memory held a complete record of every GPS ping from the night of the flood until the morning I walked out. In the receiver field, that one line remained. Blocked.

Ethan’s POV I reached Memorial Hermann a week after the flood. That week, I had been handling the aftermath, giving interviews, managing the press, keeping Mandy calm in front of the cameras. I assumed Sophie and the baby were recovering in the hospital. That the baby had caught a chill. That Sophie was angry with me. I figured I would come when she had cooled down and bring them both home. I even stopped at the gift shop downstairs and picked up a can of baby formula and a bunch of white roses that were entirely wrong for the occasion. The elevator doors opened and I saw the lawyer first. He was standing at the end of the hallway, black document bag in hand. When he saw me, nothing on his face changed. I stopped walking. “Why are you here?” He reached into the bag and pulled out a folder, holding it out toward me. “Mr. Shaw. Ms. Gray asked me to deliver these.” I didn’t take it. “Where is she?” “The documents explain everything.” I looked at him steadily. “I asked you where she is.” He extended the folder another inch. “Ms. Gray has authorized me to handle all legal matters between the two of you. The waiver of marital assets, the power of attorney, the equipment donation list, all signed and in effect.” The color drained from my face slowly. “She just had a baby. You let her sign all of that?” The lawyer met my eyes. His tone didn’t move. “She requested it.” “Get out of my way.” I pushed past him and went straight to the room. The door wasn’t locked. I pushed it open and saw the empty bed first. The sheets were tucked smooth. The pillow was centered. The chair had been pushed back under the desk. On the nightstand, a hospital gown was folded in a neat square, white and cold-looking. On top of the gown was a clear sealed bag. On top of the bag was a cracked bracelet. I stood in the doorway. The formula hit the floor. The white roses scattered, stems rolling to the foot of the bed. I walked over and picked up the bracelet. There was a bite mark on the clasp. Deep. I recognized it. This was the bracelet I had put on Sophie’s wrist myself. The day the old dam gave way, she had been sitting in the rescue tent with her arm in bandages. I had knelt and clasped it for her, and told her: even if the sky came down, I would find her. Now the screen was cracked. She had left it behind. My fingers locked up. My eyes moved down to the sealed bag beneath. Inside, folded small, was a swaddling cloth. It was very small. Clean in a way that felt wrong. I reached for it, and the moment my fingertips touched the plastic, I pulled back. The weight was off. Too light to press against. The seal had been pressed down very firmly. I tore it open after two tries. The cloth came free. There was a small stain at one corner, faint yellow, the kind that doesn’t wash out. It smelled like hospital antiseptic and, very faintly, like mud and floodwater. My throat tightened. I had never held that baby. The day he turned one month old, Sophie sent me a text asking if I had time to come home and see him. I told her I was busy. After that, I never heard from her again. I pressed the cloth back into the bag, but my hands were shaking too badly to get the seal to line up. The nurse took the bag from me. Sophie had left a belongings transfer form before discharge, and handed it to the lawyer to take with him. I held the bracelet and pressed the power button. The screen flickered twice, then lit up in a patchwork of broken blue. The local log opened automatically. Line after line of GPS transmissions. The night of the flood. Building Three, Riverside District. Every two seconds. For hours. My breathing went wrong all at once. I kept scrolling. Half the receiver log had been corrupted by water damage. But the last field was perfectly legible. Blocked. My thumb stopped on the screen. The cracked glass made it hard to read clearly. The room was quiet. The lawyer was still outside the door. He hadn’t come in. I sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, the bracelet in my hands. The hospital gown crumpled under me. The sealed bag slid onto my knee. I looked at the cloth in my hands. Then at the bracelet. A baby had died the night I crossed the river to the other bank. A woman had sent me her location every two seconds from a rooftop. I never received it. My receiver had blocked her. I snapped my head up. My eyes were shot through with red. “Who touched my account?” The lawyer didn’t answer. From the hallway came the sound of a nurse’s cart, wheels rolling over tile, stopping outside the door. The nurse glanced at the empty bed, then at what I was holding, and looked away. I tightened my grip on the bracelet. The cracked frame dug into my palm. Blood seeped between my fingers and dripped onto the clear sealed bag.

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George’s first love, Eve, was back. She’d fallen so far that even her villa was up for auction. I asked him if he still had feelings for her. He frowned and said that was all in the past. I believed him. Until his phone lit up in the middle of the night. A bank transfer notification. Eight hundred thousand dollars. That money was used to buy Eve’s villa. He used our joint marital assets to buy back another woman’s home. I sat there holding my phone, waiting for him to wake up. Then I saw Eve’s latest Instagram post: “Some people say goodbye with their lips, but hold up the sky for you in secret.” The photo was of the villa’s garden. I suddenly remembered what George said when he proposed to me: “I’m the kind of man who only loves once in his lifetime.” Turns out he meant every word. It’s just that the one he loved was always Eve. — George’s phone lit up again. Eve had posted a second Instagram story. A photo of a front door, with the caption: “Home.” I stared at that door. Last year George had taken me to see that villa. It was built by Eve’s grandfather, over a hundred years old. He said the house had history. A shame, he said, that Eve’s family had lost everything. I didn’t think much of it then. Now I understood why he knew so much about it. The living room lights were off. The glow from the phone screen fell across my face. I pulled up the transfer record. Eight hundred thousand, clean. The recipient was a private auction house. The memo field was filled in clearly: “Final payment — villa.” He’d never been that careful when buying anything for us. I heard movement from the bedroom. George woke up and shuffled out in his slippers. He saw me sitting on the couch and stopped. “Why aren’t you in bed?” I turned the phone screen toward him. George went still. He walked over and reached for the phone. I pulled it back. “Eve’s villa. You bought it?” He didn’t answer. “I’m talking to you.” “Yes.” His voice was quiet. “Her place was going to auction. I helped her get it back. Don’t worry — I’ll cover the money from somewhere else. It won’t affect us.” I almost laughed. “Won’t affect us.” We’d been married three years. His money and my money had long since blurred together. Now he was saying this “wouldn’t affect us” — like it was a shared decision? Eight hundred thousand dollars, and he just did it. Without asking me once. “When did you decide to do this?” “Just… recently.” “Recently?” I checked the transfer date again. “Ten days ago. For ten days you ate dinner with me, slept next to me, and said nothing.” George frowned. “I didn’t want you overthinking it.” “Overthinking what, exactly?” He looked at me for a moment, then sighed. “Karen, Eve and I are history. She’s in a tough spot and I helped her out. That’s all. Don’t read into it.” “That’s all.” Then why did you write “Eve’s villa” in the transfer memo? Why did you like every Instagram post she put up the second she uploaded it? How did you even know her family villa was going to auction the moment she got back? None of that happens without effort. I didn’t say any of that. I only said one thing: “You helping her — I have no problem with that. But you used our joint money to do it without even mentioning it to me. Do you think that’s okay?” George’s expression shifted. He sat down across from me, hands folded over his knees, voice softer now. “You’re right, I should have talked to you first. I just wanted to lock in the bid before someone else got it. That house means everything to her family.” “It means a lot to you too, doesn’t it?” —

He didn’t respond. Eve posted another Instagram story. Nine photos this time. The living room, the study, the garden, and one of herself — no makeup, wearing a white dress, standing in front of a carved wooden door. She looked distant and untouched. The caption read: “Thank you for being the one who stayed when everyone else walked away.” I almost laughed out loud. That post was clearly meant for George. “What exactly is going on between you and her right now?” “Nothing.” George looked at me. “I told you, I was just helping her.” “Then what does that post mean?” “How should I know what she means.” He was getting impatient. “Can you stop being so sensitive?” “Sensitive.” The first time he called me sensitive was the day Eve left the country. He’d had a lot to drink that night. I asked what was wrong. He said nothing. I pressed and asked if it was about Eve. He said I was being sensitive. The second time was when we ran into one of Eve’s friends at the mall. The woman smiled and told George that Eve was back. George said he knew. On the way home, I asked when they’d been in touch. Sensitive again. This was the third time. I stood up from the couch and handed him his phone. “If you want to be there for her that badly, I’ll step aside.” George’s head snapped up. “What does that mean?” “Exactly what I said.” I looked at him. “You two were always supposed to be together. If she hadn’t insisted on leaving, you never would have married me. Now she’s back and she’s struggling, and you feel guilty. I get it.” “Karen —” “I’m tired. We can talk tomorrow.” I walked into the bedroom and closed the door. My hands were shaking. Not from anger. It was because I knew I was right. The day George proposed, I asked him why he chose me. He said, “You make sense.” I thought that was just how he was — not the type to say romantic things. Now I understood. He genuinely meant it. I “made sense”. Practical. Suitable. Nothing like Eve, who had never left his mind. My phone buzzed. A message from George. “I only see Eve as a friend. If it bothers you, I’ll cut off contact.” I didn’t reply. He sent another: “The eight hundred thousand was my mistake. Tomorrow I’ll transfer it back into our joint account. Consider it a loan from me to myself.” Still nothing. When the third message came in, I turned off my phone. It had started raining outside at some point. I lay down and stared at the ceiling. Three years ago on our wedding day, I thought I was the luckiest woman in the world. George was good-looking, successful, and thoughtful in his own way. He promised not to keep flowers in the house because I’m allergic to pollen. He said he didn’t like cats, but he helped me take care of three. He remembered everything about me. I thought it was because he loved me. Looking back now, maybe he was just someone who knew how to take care of people. A habit, not a feeling. It didn’t really matter who that person was. I couldn’t sleep. A little past two in the morning, I got up to get some water and found the living room light still on. George was awake. He was sitting on the couch, phone in hand, screen still lit. I walked closer and saw the name at the top of the screen. Eve’s messages. The last one was from her: “George, thank you for today. When do you want to come pick up the spare key to the villa?” Time stamp: one minute ago. He hadn’t replied yet. I stood behind him for a long time without him noticing. Finally I spoke first. “If you want to go see her, just go. You don’t have to hide it from me.” —

George spun around. His phone slipped from his hand and hit the floor. “When did you get up?” “Right when you were about to reply to her.” He bent down to grab the phone and pressed the power button before he’d even straightened up. Screen went dark. “I wasn’t planning to go see her.” “Then why haven’t you replied?” “I was figuring out what to say.” “Figuring out how to keep me from finding out?” George looked at me, eyes shot through with red. “Do you have to talk like that, Karen?” “How do you want me to talk?” I set my glass on the table. “You say there’s nothing going on, but she’s texting you at two in the morning and you can’t even answer her with me standing right here. You say the eight hundred thousand was just a favor, but every post she puts up is thanking you. What am I supposed to think?” George stood up and kept his voice low. “Three years of marriage. When have I ever lied to you?” “You’re lying to me right now.” He said nothing. I looked him in the eye. “George. Do you still have feelings for her?” A long silence. Long enough that I thought he wasn’t going to answer. “I’m not the type to be led around by my emotions,” he said. I almost smiled. What a careful answer. Not “I don’t love her” — just “I’m not that sentimental.” Which meant: yes, there was something there, but maybe not anymore. Or maybe just not as much. But if you spend eight hundred thousand on a villa for a woman you claim not to love, if you sit up past midnight waiting on her texts — is that what “not being led around” looks like? I didn’t say any of that. I picked up my water glass and went back to the bedroom. I lay there listening to the sounds from the living room. He was on the phone, voice pressed low, but I still caught pieces of it. “…keep the key. I’m not coming.” “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” “Get some rest.” After he hung up, the living room was quiet for a long time. Then I heard his footsteps. He came to the bedroom door, paused, and walked away. He never came in. I barely slept. Just before dawn, I heard the front door. I got up and looked out. His car was gone. Where did he go? I picked up my phone. Eve had posted a voice note on Instagram. I pressed play. Her voice was thick, like she’d been crying. “George, you’re really not coming? I want to see you.” Posted fifteen minutes ago. George had left fifteen minutes ago. I sat on the edge of the bed and felt something almost absurd settle over me. Three years of marriage. He never left the house in the morning without telling me. Every single thing that had been off about him traced straight back to Eve. Then his other phone buzzed. The one he’d left at home. I picked it up. Twenty-something unread messages on the screen. All from Eve. The newest was a voice note. I pressed play. “George, I was wrong back then. I never should have left. I regret it so much — I really do. You still care about me, don’t you? You wouldn’t have bought the villa if you didn’t. You told me once that the biggest regret of your life was not being able to make me stay. I’m back now. Can you… give me another chance?” The voice note ended. A text came in right after. “You said it yourself — the one thing you regret most is losing me. I’m here now. Can’t we try again?” I set the phone down. “The biggest regret of his life.” On our wedding night, during the toast, he’d smiled and said: “I have nothing left to regret.” That wasn’t the truth, was it. The doorbell rang. I went to answer it. A woman stood outside. White dress, long hair, red-rimmed eyes. Eve. She saw me and blinked, then forced a small smile. “Karen, is George home?” —

“No.” “He promised to come by today and help me go over the renovation plans for the villa. I’ve been waiting and he’s not answering his phone.” She peered past me into the apartment. “Can I come in and wait?” I stepped aside. When she walked in, her eyes swept the entryway. George’s shoes were there. His jacket. His car key fob. “George hasn’t gone out today?” “He has.” “But all his things are still here.” I didn’t answer. I watched her settle onto the couch — the exact spot where George had been sitting last night. Eve seemed to sense something. She looked down and started fiddling with her fingers. “Karen, please don’t get the wrong idea. There’s nothing going on between George and me. He’s just been helping me deal with some things related to the villa.” “I know.” “I just got back and I don’t really know anyone here anymore. He was the only person I could ask.” “Sure.” She looked up at me, something unreadable in her expression. “George is such a good person. I wish I’d never left.” She said it so lightly. But I understood perfectly. She was telling me that if she had stayed, I would never have been standing in this home. I didn’t respond. The sound of a key in the lock. George walked in and went completely still when he saw Eve on the couch. Eve stood up, eyes already going glassy. “George.” He glanced at me, then back at her. “What are you doing here?” “I couldn’t reach you, so I came myself.” Her voice had a slight catch in it. “I wanted to look at the renovation plans. You said you’d show me today.” George pulled a folder from his bag and held it out to her. “The plans are here. Take them home with you.” Eve took the folder but didn’t move. She stood there, looking between the two of us, and bit her lip. “Did you two have a fight? Because of me?” Before George could speak, I answered first. “No. We never fight.” That was the truth. Three years and we’d never once raised our voices at each other. I used to think that was proof of how solid we were. Now I realized it was because he never cared enough to. After Eve left, the silence in the living room was suffocating. George stood with his hands in his pockets, not moving. Eventually I was the one who spoke. “You left your other phone here. Eve had sent messages. I saw them by accident.” His fingers twitched. He said nothing. “Why did you two break up back then?” A long silence. “Her family sent her abroad. They didn’t approve.” “Did she say anything to you before she left?” “Yes.” His voice dropped. “She told me to wait for her.” “You didn’t.” “I waited two years. She never came back.” “So you settled for me.” I didn’t say it. George looked at me. “Karen, that chapter is closed. I’ll talk to her and make it clear. We won’t be in contact anymore.” I looked him in the eye. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” “I’m sure.” “Then tell me something. When you bought that villa — were you doing it to help her, or were you holding on to something you couldn’t let go of?” George opened his mouth. Nothing came out. I had my answer. “I want a divorce.” George froze. “What did you just say?” “A divorce.” He stared at me for a few seconds, then gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re joking.” “Do I look like I’m joking?” He put down what he was holding and walked toward me. “Because of Eve?” “Not because of her.” I looked up at him. “Because of you.”

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It was my daughter’s tenth birthday. The cake had ten candles on it. But in front of thirty family members and friends, my daughter pointed at me and said, ” Vivian, I want my mom.” My husband laughed it off, said kids say the darndest things. I laughed too, and handed her a slice of cake. Late that night, I stood at the sink washing dishes while my husband stepped out to the balcony to take a call. I heard him say, “Baby, just hold on a little longer.” A second later, his phone lit up. One unread message: Does she actually think the girl is hers? I dried my hands and walked to the safe in the bedroom. Inside was the paternity test I’d had done five years ago — this child shared no blood with me, or with him. The combination was his birthday. I typed it in. Then deleted it. Changed it to my daughter’s birth date. Beep. The safe clicked open. The cake knife stuck in the frosting. My hand was trembling slightly. The relatives around me murmured among themselves. My mother’s face had gone pale. My father looked down at the floor. “Lily, Mommy’s right here.” I bent down and forced a smile. “Look — it’s strawberry flavor, your favorite.” She took a step back and hid behind my husband’s mother, her little face full of suspicion. “You’re not my mom. You’re Vivian. I want my real mom.” Something detonated in my chest. For ten years, I had quit my job to make her breakfast every morning, walked her to school, sat beside her through every fever in the night, held her hands as she learned to walk, celebrated the first time she called me Mom. But what she wrote in her school essay was: Vivian is like a mother to me. My husband, Ethan, stood up with a laugh and clapped me on the shoulder. “Kids say crazy stuff — she was watching cartoons yesterday, got some weird ideas.” He turned to Lily. “Come on, sweetheart. Vivian got you so many gifts. Don’t you want to say thank you?” “I don’t want them.” Lily turned her face away. Ethan’s mother clicked her tongue and looked at me the way you look at a stranger. His sister muttered under her breath, “She’s not actually hers. Of course they can’t bond.” I gripped the knife handle tighter. “It’s fine.” I passed the cake to the relative beside me, my voice somehow steady. “She’s young. Let her be.” She wasn’t young. She was ten. She understood everything. The relatives quickly moved on to other topics, and the room filled with noise again. Lily curled up in Ethan’s mother’s lap to open her presents. When she got to the LEGO set I had picked out for her, she didn’t even look at it — just tossed it aside. “Where’s the dress Mom got me?” She tugged at Ethan’s sleeve. “Dad, you said she was coming. She said she’d bring me a doll.” A flash of panic crossed Ethan’s face. “Baby, that — that doll was sold out, so Dad got you something else —” “You’re lying! Mom said she bought one!” Lily suddenly burst into tears and knocked over a tin container, sending it crashing to the floor. “Everyone’s lying! I want my mom! I don’t want Vivian!” The room went silent. Every eye turned to me. The smile I’d been holding on my face cracked like dried plaster, but I kept it there. “I’ll go check on the soup.” I turned and walked away, my steps steadier than I felt. Behind me, I heard Ethan’s mother sigh. “What are we supposed to do about this? That woman calls every other day. She’s got Lily’s heart all twisted up.” “Mom, drop it.” “How can I drop it? Haven’t we done right by her? If it weren’t for her back then —” The door closed, cutting off the rest. I stood in the kitchen, looking at the beef broth I’d spent all afternoon making. A thin film of oil had settled across the top. A ladle handle stuck out from the pot — I pulled it out, and the heat turned my palm red. I didn’t feel a thing. So this was what it was. All these years, the “home” I thought I had was a one-woman show. I was the only one who believed it was real. My phone buzzed. Ethan had posted something on Instagram — a photo of Lily cutting her birthday cake. The caption read: Birthday girl’s special day. I was in the corner of the frame. Just half a hand. The bracelet on my wrist was one he’d given me two years ago. He said it was a belated anniversary gift. Right. The party went on outside. I turned on the faucet and started washing dishes. Through the sound of the running water, I could just make out Ethan stepping onto the balcony, his voice dropped low. “Baby, just hold on a little longer… she’s still young… I can’t blow this up with her right now…” When he said “her,” I knew he meant me. Not “my wife.” Not “Lily’s mom.” Just “her.” I slowly turned off the water. A dish cracked in my hands. My finger caught the edge, and a bead of blood spread across the white porcelain. Ethan hung up and pushed open the kitchen door. “Why are you still in here? My dad’s about to leave — you should come say —” “I chipped a dish.” I kept my back to him and tucked my hand into my apron pocket. “Give me a second to wash up.” He didn’t come in. Just said, impatiently, “Hurry up. Don’t embarrass us.” I stared at the broken piece in the sink. I thought of the last time — the family dinner last year, when Lily called me ” Vivian ” at the table and Ethan said, “Kids say what they want.” Later, he had too much to drink and grabbed my arm and told me, “You’ll always be her mom. Don’t let it bother you.” I believed him then. Looking back now — what did he mean by “always”? His footsteps retreated. Lily’s laughter floated in from the other room. The sound of it ached, because it was Ethan himself who’d sent her a voice message saying Mommy’s coming tomorrow. I’d seen it on his phone. We’d been talking for a long time. Every night, once he thought I was asleep, he’d go out to the balcony and switch to a second account. Three years of whispered messages — all sent to another woman. I touched my cut finger with my tongue. The taste of blood spread across my tongue, salt and iron. Outside, Lily called, “Daddy, why is Vivian still not coming out? I want to go to sleep.” “Tell her to come.” “No. She’s not my mom.” “Baby, be good. Your mom said once we get the house —” I stopped listening. I walked to the bedroom, pulled open the second drawer, lifted the false bottom, and found the steel door of the safe. The combination used to be his birthday. Not anymore. I typed in my daughter’s birth date. It was the number I knew best. Because I was the one standing outside the delivery room, waiting to hear her first cry. Even though she wasn’t mine. Beep. The safe opened.

The safe held a few items, neatly arranged. I reached in, and the first thing my fingers touched was the paternity test report. I didn’t take it out yet. I reached further back and felt another document — the property deed. When we bought this apartment, I had put in two hundred thousand as the down payment, and both our names were on the title. He had said, We’re family, babe. Why keep score? I believed him. Looking back now, I believed a lot of things. At the very bottom was a thick manila envelope. I pulled it out and opened it. A stack of photographs slid out. The woman in them was in her early thirties, with long hair down her shoulders, smiling warmly. She was holding a baby wrapped in the pink blanket I had bought for Lily. On the back of one photo, in neat handwriting: Lily’s 100-Day Celebration. Mommy loves you forever. Mommy. I stared at that word. My fingers were shaking. Footsteps in the hallway outside. I quickly pushed everything back into the safe, shut it, slid the drawer closed, and moved to stand by the window. “Babe?” Ethan pushed open the door. I kept my back to him. “Yeah?” “What are you doing standing there? Aren’t you cold?” “Just getting some air.” He came over and wrapped his arms around me from behind. His hands rested on my waist. He nuzzled his face into my hair. That smell — laundry detergent and cigarettes — was what I fell asleep to every night. Right now it turned my stomach. “You must be tired. Lily didn’t mean anything by it today. Don’t take it to heart.” “I’m not.” I was lying. My mind was full of the photographs I’d just seen. And that message: Baby misses you so much. “Good.” He rested his chin on my shoulder. “It’s the weekend tomorrow. Want to take Lily to the amusement park?” “Sure.” He kissed my cheek, satisfied, and left the room. I heard him tell Lily, “Mom said yes. She’ll take you tomorrow.” “She’s not my mom.” “Stop saying that, or I’m going to be upset.” “But Mommy said she’s not —” The voice cut off. He’d covered her mouth. I closed my eyes and breathed slowly. At our wedding three years ago, he had walked up to me holding Lily’s hand, and asked her to call me Mom. She was barely two, still stumbling over words, but she managed a small “Mama,” and I almost cried. I found out later that his ex-wife had spent an entire month coaching her to say it. One end of the plan was to lower my guard. The other end was to make the lie feel real. I opened my phone and scrolled through his call history. For the past three months, every night between ten and eleven, he made a call. Thirty to sixty minutes each time. Always him dialing out. The contact was saved as “Ms. Lee.” I clicked on the social media profile linked to that number. The profile photo was a woman. Her username was “Mia.” Mia. Lily. I tapped on her page. Her most recent post was from thirty minutes ago. A photo of a cake — pink piggies drawn in frosting. The caption read: My baby is ten today. Mommy loves you always. Can’t wait to have you back. I clicked on the comments. Someone asked: Isn’t she with her dad? Mia replied: Not for much longer. I pressed my phone face-down against my thigh. In the dark, I could hear my own heartbeat. Thud. Thud. Thud. Like something about to burst. Outside, Lily called, “Daddy, I want water.” “Ask your mom.” “She’s not my —” “Enough!” Ethan’s voice snapped, sharp with anger. Lily started crying. I heard him drop his voice to soothe her. “Be good, sweetheart. Just a little longer. Your mom said once we get the house sorted, we can —” The rest was too quiet to make out. But I caught one word clearly. House. They wanted the house. I felt a slow smile pull at my mouth, even as tears slid down my face. So it had been a setup from the very beginning. Three years ago. From day one. He wanted my money. She wanted my home. Their daughter wanted my love. And I, like a fool, had given everything I had for three years. In the safe, the paternity test report waited quietly. I had it done six months ago, in secret, because Lily had asked me something out of nowhere: ” Vivian, why are you so nice to me?” I thought at the time it was just a child being careless with words. Now I understood. Her mother had taught her to say it. She said Vivian so naturally. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Footsteps near the door. I quickly wiped my face. The door opened. Lily stood in the doorway holding a stuffed bear, tilting her head at me. ” Vivian, Daddy said to come give you a kiss.” I crouched down and waited. She leaned in and gave me a quick peck on the cheek, then spun around and ran. At the door, she stopped and looked back. In a small voice, she said, “My mom told me. Once Daddy gets your money, she’s taking me to Disney World.” I stayed frozen where I was. She flashed me a little smile, and ran off.

I sat in front of the safe, my fingers tracing the edges of the paternity test report. Six months ago, Lily had a high fever and needed a blood transfusion. Ethan’s blood type didn’t match. I assumed it was just a biological coincidence. The doctor said Lily had an unusual constitution and needed a full work-up, and I secretly kept a few strands of her hair. The result: 99.99% — no biological relationship. I had assumed Lily was Ethan’s with his ex-wife, since he never let Lily see her birth mother. Every time I asked, he brushed it off. “Her mom’s overseas. She doesn’t want to disturb what we have.” A perfect excuse. But now the test in my hands told me Lily shared no blood with Ethan either. I opened the bottom layer of the safe. There was an older report underneath. I had it done three years ago, just after I married him, because something hadn’t felt right — he never let me see the marriage certificate from his first marriage, only the divorce papers. The report was clear: he and his ex-wife had never legally been married. There was no first marriage. My hands were shaking badly. I pulled out the document folder at the very bottom. Inside were ownership records for his company, a stack of IOUs, and a signed agreement between him and his ex. Party A shall provide financial support. Party B shall, through marriage, obtain the female party’s assets. Party A shall receive seventy percent of all proceeds. Every line, documented in full. How much had I paid off for him? A car. This apartment. The renovation of his office. All of it together — at least two hundred thousand dollars, easily. What was going through his mind when Lily called me Vivian? He turned my daughter against me, then let me pay to raise her. Footsteps at the door again. This time it was Ethan. He pushed open the door, saw me sitting in front of the safe, and his expression shifted instantly. “What are you doing?” I held up the paternity test. “Explain this.” He lunged for it. I stepped aside. His face drained of color. “You were going through my things?” “Should I not have?” I stood and looked at him. “You’ve been lying to me for three years. Lily isn’t your biological daughter. You adopted her. Didn’t you.” He said nothing. “You and your ex teamed up to take my money. Didn’t you.” He swallowed. “Let me explain —” “Explain what?” I threw the agreement at him. “How you and your ex planned all of this? Or what Lily meant when she said your plan is to take my money and then take her to Disney World?” He froze. “Lily said that?” “She said her mom told her. Once you got my money, she’d take her to Disney World.” I laughed, even though I was crying. “You’re using a child to pull this off. Aren’t you afraid she’ll hate you for it when she grows up?” He slumped to the floor without a word. I crouched down in front of him. “I raised her for three years. I gave her the best of everything — the best school, piano lessons, art classes, every single thing she needed.” “And she called me Vivian.” I stood up and took everything out of the safe. “Did you think I was an idiot? I saw through this a long time ago.” “I just wanted to know how long you planned to keep going.” His head snapped up. “What do you mean?” “I mean I knew something was wrong from the start.” My voice was calm. “A man who remarries and asks for nothing except for his new wife to love his child? That doesn’t exist.” “I pulled your bank statements. I went through your company’s accounts. I found your ex’s social media.” “You thought you had it all locked down, didn’t you?” I picked up my phone and dialed a number. My lawyer. I had the divorce papers ready, along with everything I’d gathered on their fraud. His voice came through the line. “Everything is in order. We’ll be at the courthouse whenever you’re ready.” I hung up and looked at Ethan. He had gone pale. His lips were trembling. “You can’t — what about Lily —” “I’ll be taking Lily.” I said it quietly. “Neither of you deserve to be her parents.” He threw himself toward me. The security guard I’d called earlier stepped in from the hallway and blocked him. I walked out of the room, and passed Lily’s door. She was asleep, holding her stuffed bear, a small smile on her lips. I pulled her door gently closed. She was innocent in all of this. But I couldn’t keep being called Vivian by her anymore.

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“Ethan, I’m scared of fire…” Zara curled into Ethan’s arms, trembling. I stared at the back of my own hand — skin split and raw from the scalding soup — and heard only his cold, flat voice. “Claire, you knew Zara was terrified of fire. Why the hell did you light candles? You just can’t stand to see her happy, can you?” Three years of marriage. Because of his fallen comrade, I had become the villain of our own story. My passion, my company, even my child — all became bargaining chips for his debt of gratitude. Until the truth came out. The fragile little sister he’d shielded with his life was the real killer all along. Later, Ethan knelt in the pouring rain, begging me to come back. I smiled. “Ethan, trash belongs in the trash can.” “I don’t make a habit of picking it back up.” The blisters on the back of my hand had merged into one angry patch of red, swollen flesh — like overcooked meat left too long on the stove. The pain sent tremors through my whole body. I bit down hard on my lower lip just to keep from crying out. And my husband, Ethan Cole, was busy holding tight to the one responsible for knocking that scalding pot of soup all over me — Zara White. “Ethan,” Zara whimpered, face buried against his chest, shaking like a frightened fawn, tears rolling down in streams. “Fire… there’s fire. I’m so scared. Is my brother in the fire…?” Ethan’s eyes were full of tenderness. His large hands moved slowly up and down her back, his voice so soft it could melt. “It’s okay. You’re okay, Zara. The fire’s out. I’m right here. I’ve got you.” Once she was calm, he turned to look at me — and his expression went cold as stone. “Claire, have you lost your mind? You knew she was terrified of fire, and you still lit candles? What is wrong with you? Are you trying to push her over the edge?” I looked at the mess scattered across the floor. Today was our third wedding anniversary. I had cleared my entire schedule — cancelled every executive meeting — and gone to the market myself to pick out the freshest ingredients. I’d spent four hours in the kitchen coaxing out his favorite mushroom and seafood broth. I lit the pair of vintage silver candlesticks he’d bid on for me at an auction years ago. I wanted to give him something special. Instead of a surprise, I got Zara’s scream and a pot of boiling soup straight to the hand. “Ethan, today is our third anniversary.” I forced the words out through the searing pain, my voice rough. “I just wanted to have dinner with you.” “You need all this for a simple dinner?” Ethan cut me off without mercy, disgust plain in his eyes. “Zara’s brother died in a fire saving my life. She can’t handle anything that reminds her of it. You’re my wife — can’t you show even a little compassion?” Compassion. The word dragged across my chest like a dull blade. Zara’s brother, Daniel White, had been Ethan’s fire captain. Three years ago, during a warehouse blaze, Daniel ran back in to pull Ethan out and never made it. After Ethan left the service, he took over his family’s business, and together we built Vela Jewelry from the ground up. Six months ago, he tracked down Zara, who had been drifting on her own. “Claire,” he said, “Daniel died because of me. Zara developed severe depression after the fire — she’s terrified of flames now. I have to take care of her. For the rest of my life.” I said yes. I brought her into our downtown apartment, found her the best therapist in the city, and treated her like my own sister. But every step I gave, she took two more. She’d knock on our bedroom door at midnight in a slip dress, saying she was scared, insisting Ethan sleep in the guest room with her. She’d ruin my late-night jewelry sketches and then cry, claiming she hadn’t meant to — she said the lines made her dizzy. During what little time Ethan and I had alone, she’d have an episode on cue — cutting herself or refusing to eat. And every single time, Ethan would drop everything and run to her. “Ethan, don’t be mad at Claire. It’s my fault. I’m the problem — I can’t even handle one little candle…” Zara tugged at his sleeve, crying prettily, but her eyes slipped past his shoulder and landed on me — sharp and provocative. In that moment, I felt a bone-deep exhaustion settle over me. “Fine. If fire scares her that much, I won’t light anything in this house again.” I stood, walked straight toward the door without looking at either of them. “Where are you going?” Ethan frowned. “The hospital.” I held up my ruined right hand. “Ethan, I’m a jewelry designer. If my hand is out of commission, who’s going to deliver next season’s collection — Zara?” He hesitated. His eyes dropped to my swollen, blistered hand, and something flickered behind them. He let go of Zara and moved toward me. “I’ll take you.” “Don’t bother.” I stepped back from his outstretched hand. “Stay here and look after your precious little sister. We wouldn’t want her getting startled by thin air.” I pushed open the front door and walked out into the early autumn chill. Just before it clicked shut, I heard Zara’s soft, plaintive voice behind me. “Ethan, is Claire upset with me? Maybe I should move out…” He didn’t answer. But I already knew — he’d find a way to make her stay. Because in this house, obligation always outweighed love.

I had my injuries treated in the emergency room. The doctor examined the burn and frowned. “Second-degree. Even with proper care, there’ll be scarring. You absolutely cannot get this hand wet for the foreseeable future, and no gripping a pen for extended periods.” I stared at my hand wrapped in white gauze, and felt something sink in my chest. The submission deadline for the International Jewelry Design Awards — the Crown Prize — was next month. It was Vela’s shot at the global stage. I had been working toward it for a full year. Now my hand was out. I sat on a hard bench in the hospital corridor through the entire night. Not a single call. Not a single message. Ethan had simply ceased to exist. The next morning I dragged myself into the office, exhausted — and found someone in the design department who had absolutely no business being there. Zara. She was dressed in a tailored Chanel suit, makeup flawless, leaning back in my director’s chair like she owned it, twirling my crystal paperweight between her fingers. Ethan stood beside her, watching her with soft, indulgent eyes. “What is this?” I walked in, my expression flat. Ethan caught sight of the bandage on my hand and looked away briefly, then reset to cool indifference. “Good timing, Claire.” He cleared his throat. “Your hand is injured — you’re not in any condition for high-intensity work right now. I’ve decided to have Zara step in as acting design director and take point on the Crown Prize submission.” I was sure I’d heard him wrong. “What did you just say?” I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Ethan, are you serious? Zara studied early childhood education. She can’t tell a brilliant cut from a cushion cut. You want her to take my position? What do you think this company is — a game?” Zara’s eyes went red. She stood up, voice soft and wounded. “Claire, I know you don’t respect me. But I’ve been teaching myself jewelry design for the past six months. Ethan says I have real talent. I just wanted to take some of the pressure off you — look at your hand, how are you supposed to draw anything like this?” “Stay out of it.” My voice came out sharp. “This is my office. Who gave you permission to walk in here? Get out.” “Claire!” Ethan stepped in front of Zara, fury in his eyes. “Can you stop acting like this? Zara is trying to help. And for the record — this is my company too. As majority shareholder, I have every right to make personnel decisions.” Majority shareholder. I stared at the man in front of me like he was a stranger. When we started out, we had nothing. I had poured in every cent my parents had left me. I even sold the emerald necklace my grandmother had given me, just to scrape together the startup capital. When we registered the company, he said it would be easier for him to hold the larger share for business purposes. I agreed without hesitation. Because I trusted him. I trusted the boy who had stood in the rain waiting for me all night. I trusted the man who swore he would love me for the rest of his life. And now he was using the power I had given him to strip away everything I had built. “Ethan.” I walked to my desk, shielding my drafts with my uninjured left hand. “The Crown Prize submission is eighty percent done. That is my work. Nobody is touching it.” “Claire, stop being difficult.” His tone softened — but it wasn’t warmth, it was condescension. “The doctor said you need to rest. Zara would just be a figurehead — the design team would handle the actual execution. Think of it as giving her something to focus on. It would be good for her recovery.” Using my life’s work as therapy for her depression. “And if I say no?” I said through gritted teeth. His face hardened. “Don’t push me on this. If you insist on making a scene, I’ll put you on mandatory leave.” He turned to my assistant. “Pack up Director Claire’s things and have them sent home.” “You’ll regret this, Ethan.” I didn’t let them touch anything. I grabbed the core sketches with my left hand, shoved them into my bag, and walked out. Stepping outside, the morning sun hit me full in the face. I turned back and looked up at the Vela logo gleaming gold above the entrance. Once, it had been proof of what we built together. Now it felt like the punchline of a very bad joke.

I spent the next two weeks recovering at home. Every day, Ethan left early and came back late — and when he did come home, Zara was always with him. They moved through the apartment like a couple, talking about work over the dining table, laughing about what they’d had for lunch. I hid in the bedroom like a ghost no one wanted to see, training my left hand to hold a pencil, relearning how to draw. The Crown Prize deadline was closing in. I couldn’t walk away from it. It was my dream. Late one night, I came out to get some water. Passing the study, I noticed the door was slightly ajar. Voices drifted out — Zara’s and Ethan’s. “Ethan, do you like this pendant I designed?” Zara’s voice was light and coy. “It’s beautiful. You’re a natural — you just get it.” Ethan’s tone was full of admiration. I peered through the gap. Zara was sitting in Ethan’s lap, holding a sketch. One look at that sketch, and my blood ran cold. It was one of my discarded drafts — the ones I’d left in my office drawer. Yes, it was a throwaway. But the core concept was still mine. And she was using it to impress him. I shoved the door open. The bang made them both jump. Zara yelped and scrambled off Ethan’s lap. “What the hell, Claire?” Ethan’s brow furrowed. A flash of caught-out guilt crossed his face. I crossed the room and snatched the sketch from Zara’s hand. “You drew this?” I said coldly. Zara shrank back behind Ethan. “Y-yes, I drew it. What’s the problem?” I slapped the paper against her face without hesitating. “You’ve got some nerve, Zara. This is a draft I scrapped six months ago. My revision marks are still in the corner. And you have the audacity to pass it off as yours?” Ethan picked up the sketch, studied it, and his expression shifted. “Claire, you’re misunderstanding,” Zara said, tears already flowing freely. “I just found it in your drawer and thought it was beautiful, so I copied it. I wasn’t trying to claim it — I only wanted to show Ethan how much I’ve been practicing…” She cried like she was heartbroken, as if she were the one being wronged. “You copied it? You can’t even get the perspective right. Is that what you’re calling practice?” I stepped closer. “Enough!” Ethan shoved me aside and pulled Zara behind him. “Claire, why do you always have to go for the throat? She told you it was a copy. Why are you making it into such a big deal?” The shove sent me stumbling into the edge of the desk. Pain shot through my side. But the physical pain was nothing next to the other kind. “Ethan, are you blind? She plagiarized my work and you’re defending her?” “It’s a discarded draft,” he said with a dismissive shrug. “Who cares? Your hand is wrecked anyway — you can’t produce anything new right now. Zara wants to learn. You could just guide her a little. Isn’t that what family does?” A discarded draft. Who cares. In his eyes, my craft, my pride, my professionalism — all of it weighed less than one of Zara’s tears. I looked at this man and felt genuinely sick. “Fine,” I said, dragging in a slow breath, pushing back the wave of tears threatening to break through. “If you love her plagiarized garbage so much, Ethan, then the two of you can have each other.” I walked out of the study, went to the bedroom, and started packing. I couldn’t stay in this house another minute. Ethan followed me in, watching me throw clothes into a suitcase, his frown deepening. “What now? It’s the middle of the night. Where are you even going?” “Divorce.” I said it without looking up. He went still — then let out a cold laugh. “Claire, don’t use divorce as a weapon. You’re seriously doing this over something this minor?” “Minor?” I stopped packing and looked at him. “You let her ruin our anniversary. She burned my hand. She took my position. And now you’re covering for her plagiarism. Any one of those things would be enough — all four together and you’re calling it minor?” “Because I owe Daniel!” Ethan’s voice rose, his eyes going red. “If it weren’t for him, I’d have died in that fire. I made him a promise — I would look after Zara. I can’t go back on that!” “Then go be with her!” I hurled the clothes in my hands at him. “You owe Daniel — fine. Pay that debt yourself. Why should my life be the price? I don’t owe the White family anything, Ethan. Not a single thing.” He stood there, stunned into silence. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out without looking back. The night air was cold, but for the first time in a long time, my head felt completely clear. This broken thing we called a marriage — it was time to end it.

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On the 3,600th day of my relationship with Ethan Sinclair, his parents came to inspect the company. I handled the reception personally. Every detail, from the tour schedule to the welcome refreshments. I had stayed up through the night revising the reception plan eight times over. But on the day of the visit, Ethan gave me a last-minute notice. A new intern would be taking over everything in my place. Mia grabbed my plan and ran with it. She won his parents over without breaking a sweat. His mother, Helen, even asked Ethan in front of everyone: “Is this the girl you’ve been dating for almost ten years?” “She’s sharp, thoughtful, and she even switched out the desserts for sugar-free options for me and your father.” “No wonder you like her.” Ethan just smiled and said nothing. Back in the office, I was in tears, demanding to know why. He answered coldly: “It was just a reception. Was it really that big a deal?” “We’re not even engaged yet, and you’re already this desperate to be the lady of the house?” “Vivian, show a little dignity.” I froze. On our tenth anniversary, he stepped in front of my wedding car. “Didn’t you say you’d never marry anyone but me? Why are you marrying someone else?” I smiled. “Didn’t you say I had no dignity, Mr. Sinclair? Don’t worry. He doesn’t seem to mind.”

Ethan left his warning and walked away. I stood alone in the office for a long time, unable to speak. By the time I came out, his father, Richard, had already finished his speech. Mia was right there beside him. His mother, Helen, looked at her with undisguised affection. “Sweetheart, this is our first time meeting, and I didn’t even prepare anything for you.” “Here, take this family heirloom ring. I want you to have it.” My heart jumped into my throat. A family heirloom ring. That was something the Sinclairs only brought out for a daughter-in-law. And Helen was just going to take it off and hand it to Mia? Mia reached out to stop her. “Oh, I couldn’t, Mrs. Sinclair! It’s far too precious! I can’t accept this!” “Still calling me Mrs. Sinclair?” Helen smiled warmly. Mia’s cheeks flushed pink. “But…” “Come on, sweetheart.” Helen took her by the wrist. “We’re family now. Why be so formal with your own mom?” Mia’s face went even redder. She glanced shyly over at Ethan. I stood in the crowd below. My fists trembled at my sides. Ethan’s gaze passed over my face. A faint smile crossed his lips. “Mom’s giving it to you. Just take it.” Mia looked up at him through her lashes, then back at Helen, cheeks still burning. Richard laughed. “She’s too shy. Put it on her yourself.” Helen didn’t hesitate. Smiling, she took Mia’s hand and slid the ring onto her finger. Mia lowered her head, looking bashful. She didn’t pull away. Someone set off a confetti popper, and the crowd erupted. “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair!” “Mia, you’ve been holding out on us! We had no idea your boyfriend was Mr. Sinclair!” “Right? We all thought it was Vivian!” “She’s been so attentive to him, and then today with all the effort she put into this visit. If you didn’t know better, you’d really think they were the couple!” I got up. And walked out. Every part of the event was going exactly according to my plan. Today had originally been Helen’s birthday. The surprise I had arranged for her after the speech was now, under Helen’s own direction, turned into a celebration for the two of them. A cake taller than a person was wheeled in. I watched as Ethan was nudged over to stand beside Mia. Helen gently steered Mia to the front of the cake.

The two of them stood there shoulder to shoulder. Mia’s face was red all the way to the tips of her ears. Ethan was perfectly composed. He glanced at her and picked up the cake knife. “Do you want more of the sweet layers or the less sweet ones?” Mia murmured, “Whichever you cut for me… I like it all.” “Awww~” The teasing from the crowd was immediate. Helen covered her mouth, laughing. “Look at these two.” Ethan cut her a slice himself. “You like grapes, right? I saved this piece for you.” As he said it, he glanced briefly in my direction. I turned away. And walked back to the conference room without looking back. I was sorting through documents when Mia pushed open the door, humming to herself. She saw me. Her smile vanished instantly. “Vivian.” I didn’t respond. I closed the folder and stood up to leave. “Vivian, wait!” She rushed over and grabbed my arm. “I never expected things to go this far!” “I was put in an impossible position. I couldn’t say no!” “I’ll give the ring back right now!” She began tugging at the ring with real effort. But the band was clearly bigger than her finger. She tried several times. It wouldn’t come off. “Stop pretending.” I said flatly. “Keep it.” “Vivian!” She grabbed me again. “I’m serious, I didn’t mean for any of this. Just give me a second, I can get it off!” “What’s going on in here?” Helen pushed open the door. She took one look at the two of us, Mia holding my arm, me pulling away, and her brow furrowed immediately. “You must be the one who’s always been difficult with Mia. Miss Hayes, is it?” I blinked. That was how Helen saw me? I looked at Mia. She quickly averted her gaze. Now I understood who had said what. “I’ve heard about you, Vivian.” Helen’s tone was cold. “You run a tight ship. All your subordinates are afraid to step out of line.” “Tell me, do you think this company belongs to you? Or do you already see yourself as the lady of this house?” My breath caught. Mia had only just met Helen for the first time today. So where had she heard all of this? Unless… I clenched my fist. No. Had it really been Ethan? The door opened again. Ethan appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on?” Helen looked at her son. “The people in your company need some serious managing.” “She was trying to take the ring I gave Mia.” Ethan looked at me. I gritted my teeth. “I was not.” At that moment, Mia finally worked the ring off her finger. She grabbed my wrist and slid it onto my hand. “Vivian, please don’t be upset. I’m giving it back to you.” Helen gasped. “Mia, what are you doing! You can’t just give that to someone else!” Mia’s eyes went pink at the corners. “But… Vivian has loved Ethan for so long.” “That gives her the right to take things from you? She’s been walking all over you this whole time, and you’re going to let her have this too?” Helen pulled Mia firmly to her side. “Don’t worry. This time, Ethan and I have your back.” “But… I’m just an intern. How could I possibly wear a ring like that…” “Who says you can’t?” My wrist was seized. Ethan took the ring off my hand effortlessly and held it out to Mia. “I say you can. So you can.”

“As for Vivian.” Ethan looked at me. “Your position is officially being transferred to Mia, effective immediately.” I stared at him in disbelief. He frowned. For just a moment, something reluctant flickered in his expression. Then it was gone. He said, “Vivian, stop making things difficult for people.” Helen beamed. “There we go, Mia. She’ll be answering to you now.” Mia looked down at the ring, now back on her finger. A faint flush rose in her cheeks. She glanced at me, and for just a second, a small, barely concealed smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. I watched the three of them perform in front of me. Suddenly, I felt almost ridiculous. I looked at Ethan. “That’s fine, Mr. Sinclair. Honestly, I’ve been more than ready to step down from that director position.” Then I walked past him and headed out. In the parking garage, I had just unlocked my car when a hand caught me from behind. “In a little while, I’ll move you up to VP, directly under me. Mia will still report to you. Don’t read too much into any of this.” “Mom loves her. In that moment, I couldn’t embarrass her in front of everyone.” It was always like this. After every fight. He could always pull me back with explanations and just enough softness. I clenched my jaw. And shook off his hand. He went still. I got in the car and drove away without looking back. When I got home, I found that Ethan had sent me over a dozen messages. The first ones were more explanations. But then, in a move completely out of character, he sent me a travel booking confirmation. A seaside town. The ocean. 【Vivian, don’t worry. While you’re on this forced break, I’m taking time off too.】 【You’ve always wanted to see the ocean. I’ll take you. Call it our late honeymoon.】 I couldn’t even imagine. If he had sent me that even a month ago. How happy I would have been. But this time, I typed back a simple reply. 【No thanks.】 He responded almost immediately. 【Don’t be like that. I already booked tickets for eight tomorrow morning. I’ll work late tonight and get everything cleared. Don’t wait up for dinner.】 He added a little heart emoji. I stared at the screen for a moment. Then put my phone down. Fine. I’d wait for him to come home and say what needed to be said. I had already agreed to go on a blind date that my family had set up. This relationship. I was done with it. But I waited an entire night. By the time morning light came through the windows, he stumbled home smelling faintly of alcohol. And eight o’clock had long since passed. “Didn’t you say we had tickets at eight? To go to the beach?” I couldn’t help asking. He squinted, trying to place the memory. Then laughed. “Oh, right. I canceled those. Took Mia instead.” I stared at him. “You’ve seen the ocean plenty of times. How many trips have you planned for that?” He collapsed onto the couch, clearly having not slept. “After I finished work last night, I was going to come home and pack with you. But Mia just got promoted, and the team threw her a little celebration. I had a few too many drinks.” “She mentioned she’d never seen the ocean.” “So I changed the itinerary last minute.” Even without any real hope left. Still, in that moment. I heard myself say: “You made a promise.” The alcohol slowed him down for a second. Then he smiled. That easy, unconcerned smile. “Vivian, we’ve been together for how long now? Almost ten years. Basically an old married couple at this point.” “Why are you holding onto something so small?” “And you’ve been to the beach three times already. Don’t be greedy.”

Then he leaned back against the couch. And closed his eyes. I sat there looking at him. A dull pressure building in my chest. Yes, I had planned three beach trips. But I had never made it to the water. Not once. The first time, Ethan came down with a sudden fever the night before we left. I canceled on my best friend and spent three days at his side taking care of him. The second time, he was in the middle of a major pitch. I gave up my ticket and stayed up night after night rewriting the proposal from scratch. The third time, a scheduling conflict meant an important client had no one to meet them. I canceled without a second thought, put on my heels, and went to the meeting myself. Three times. I had never once actually left. But all he remembered was that I had booked three trips. I nudged his arm. “Then I’ll go with someone else.” He answered without opening his eyes. “Yeah, go with your friends.” “It’s not my friends.” He kept his eyes closed. I listened to his breathing slow and even out. I didn’t wake him. I texted the guy I was set up with and arranged to meet at the lakeside resort in two days. Before I left, I had a few files to hand off to a colleague. But the moment I walked into the office, Mia appeared in front of me dressed in the director’s blazer. “Oh, Vivian! You’re here?” “Perfect timing. These need to be printed, two copies each. Leave them on my desk when you’re done.” “You know where that is, right? It used to be your office.” I looked at the stack of documents being held out toward my chest. Then shook my head. “I’m here to drop something off. Not to run errands.” “Vivian.” Mia smiled. “Mr. Sinclair gave me this position. Have you forgotten?” “I’m on leave.” “Did I approve that?” All traces of the awkward girl from before were gone. She stood there with her arms crossed, already carrying herself like she’d been in charge for years. “A leave of absence requires a signed approval from your direct supervisor. Did you submit a request?” I looked her over slowly. “Do I answer to you?” She frowned. I let out a short, humorless laugh. Didn’t spare the documents so much as a glance. Turned and walked out. “Vivian Hayes.” From the CEO’s office, Ethan had just caught the whole exchange. Mia turned toward him immediately. Then hugged the entire pile of documents to her chest. “It’s fine, Mr. Sinclair. Vivian was my supervisor. I can’t ask her to do that.” “I’ll take care of the printing myself.” She gathered the stack, which came up to her chin. It looked like it weighed a ton the moment she lifted it. She had barely picked it up before she was already gritting her teeth. Ethan’s voice was flat. “If she can’t be asked to carry it, what makes you think a director should be doing it?” I felt a flicker of irritation. Mia quickly said, “Really, Mr. Sinclair, I’ve got it, just let me—ah!” She stumbled. And went down, taking the entire pile with her. Ethan crossed the room and grabbed her arm. “Careful!” “I’m okay, I’m fine, Mr. Sinclair…” Mia pressed a hand to her ankle. Her eyes were glistening as they drifted over to me. Ethan’s expression hardened. “Vivian Hayes.” “You’re not the director anymore.” “If you want to throw your weight around, do it somewhere else.” “If you don’t want to be here, fine.” He looked at me. “Go collect your final paycheck from HR. We don’t need you anymore.” Everyone in the room was watching. I looked back at him, quietly surprised. “Go ahead.” Ethan said it without a flinch. I hesitated for a moment. Then said nothing. After all, he hadn’t said anything I wasn’t already planning to do myself.

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The AC broke down during a heat wave, so I asked if I could stay at my girlfriend Ronnie’s place for the night. She said no without hesitation. “We agreed — no living together before marriage. Hernandez, can’t you respect my beliefs?” I apologized and let it go. Ronnie was traditional. I’d always respected that, and this time was no different. But that night, too hot to sleep, I was mindlessly scrolling and stumbled across my company intern Nick’s Instagram. Landlord kicked me out last minute — thank god my boss took me in, otherwise I’d be sleeping on the street. The background in the photo was familiar. It was Ronnie’s apartment. I stared at my phone screen and lit a cigarette. So my conservative girlfriend was only conservative with me. Ronnie only said one thing to me. “Are you a princess? You can’t sleep without AC?” “God, that’s pathetic. Can guys stop being so dramatic?” I closed my eyes. That photo wouldn’t leave my head. Nick had posted a shot of his lower half and a suitcase. He was wearing my slippers, dressed in pajamas, standing in Ronnie’s apartment. I had barely walked out her door before he walked in. And the whole time, Ronnie had been rushing me out. “Hernandez, don’t you have things to do? You’re so clingy, you know that?” “Go home. I’ve got an emergency at work coming up.” Turns out there was no work emergency. The emergency was Nick. He was a new intern at my company, and we hadn’t exactly hit it off. I’d mentioned it to Ronnie once. She didn’t seem to care, or even really listen. I had no idea she knew him. She never brought it up. But clearly, Nick was spending the night at her place. Nick posted again on Instagram: Met the most kind-hearted woman when I needed it most. This time, Ronnie was in the photo. She was smiling — that soft, indulgent smile I knew well. Two bowls of bolognese pasta sat on the table. Her favorite. When we spent weekends together, that was the dinner I made for her all the time. I’d taught her how to cook it. She made it for Nick. Then a comment appeared under the post. Nick was showing off. $200 rent, utilities included, no deposit. Best landlord ever. Landlord. Ronnie let Nick move in? A dull, suffocating ache spread through my chest. I could barely breathe. Ronnie rented an apartment near the office for convenience. Nice place — two bedrooms, one living room. She used to have a roommate, but after the girl moved out, no one suitable came along. Worried about the rent pressure, I’d offered to help cover it. Kind of funny, looking back. The monthly rent was $2,500, and I was the one paying it. She wouldn’t let me stay. But Nick moved in for $200. I remember the first time I asked to stay over at Ronnie’s. We were deep in the honeymoon phase. She turned me down firmly. I respected it. The second time was after I helped her move furniture and came down with a sudden fever. She sent me home, told me not to get her sick. There was a third time too, though Ronnie had probably forgotten. My landlord evicted me on short notice. He barged in in the middle of the night and threw my stuff out the door. Furious and panicked, I dragged my suitcase and called Ronnie. She ripped into me. “Hernandez, are you insane?” “You’re a grown man. You could sleep on the street if you had to. Why are you waking me up at this hour?” Four years. I never once got through her door. Nick walked right in. I had to admit — her old-fashioned boundaries only applied to me. My phone buzzed. Ronnie sent a message: Good night. No explanation. No mention of anything. By the way, found a new roommate. Moving in tomorrow, kind of last minute. Hernandez, it’ll be a little awkward for you to come by after this. I stared at that last line and almost laughed. But the tears came first, dropping onto the screen before I could stop them. I wiped my eyes and didn’t reply. Nick posted a third time on Instagram. One photo was of him and Ronnie clinking glasses. In the other, their cheeks were practically touching. Celebrating the new place. Ronnie, thanks for everything — looking forward to what’s ahead. Night. A man and a woman. Alone together. I’d once found a craft beer I thought Ronnie would like and brought her a bottle. She accused me of trying to get her drunk and said she never touched alcohol. Now she was drinking with Nick. In that moment, whatever feeling I’d been holding onto finally let go. There was nothing left to hold.

Two days passed. I didn’t send Ronnie a single message, and she didn’t seem to notice. Then one evening after work, a downpour hit. I was waiting under the awning outside the office for a ride. Nick was standing next to me, phone in hand, smiling to himself. “Ronnie, pull up a little closer — I’m right by the entrance…” A car pulled up. I recognized it immediately. Sure enough, the window rolled down. Ronnie was in the driver’s seat. That car was something Ronnie had wanted. I helped her pay for it so her commute would be easier. But in the middle of a rainstorm, she hadn’t thought to check on me once. She drove my car to pick up Nick. She saw me and hesitated. “Hernandez, you’re…” Nick folded his umbrella and climbed into the passenger seat. “Ronnie, you know Hernandez?” He looked at me through the window, a barely-there smirk on his face. “Hernandez, why don’t you hop in? Let Ronnie drop you off. Hard to get a ride in this rain.” Ronnie said nothing. She just looked at me too. I kept my face flat and shook my head. “I’m good.” I’d already called a car. Three minutes out. I wasn’t going to squeeze in there and ruin my own night. Nick nodded and rolled the window back up. The car sat there for a few seconds, then drove off. By the time I got home and stepped out of the shower, Ronnie was already there. She had my door code. “Hernandez, are you mad at me?” “You didn’t get in the car, and I figured you were busy — but the more I thought about it, something felt off. You’ve barely been texting me lately.” Ronnie reached for my arm. I stepped aside. “Is this about me picking up Nick? Or about the other night when I wouldn’t let you stay over?” She looked more exasperated than anything. “Don’t be like that. Nick is an old classmate. I gave him a ride because I was already passing by — hard to say no when someone asks directly.” “And the reason I don’t let you stay is because a girl has to have standards…” “Ronnie. Let’s break up.” She froze. Her expression cooled. “Hernandez. Seriously?” “Seriously.” I held her gaze. “I can’t stay at your place, but Nick can. You don’t think that’s a little ridiculous?” She never planned on telling me. She knew exactly how I’d react. “You… just hear me out.” She hadn’t expected me to find out. That much was clear from her face. “Nick came here on his own to make it in the city. I’m the only person he knows.” “His family doesn’t have much. It’s been hard for him, and then his landlord threw him out. If I didn’t help, he’d literally be on the street.” I stayed quiet. She sighed. “He’s just crashing temporarily. There’s nothing going on between us. It’s not that deep.” “Besides, he’s like a younger brother to me — and technically just a tenant…” “Just a tenant?” I almost laughed. “Ronnie, I told you about Nick. He’s a new intern in my department.” “He’s been here a week. Every lunch break, he’s on the phone in the break room. People teased him about it and he said it wasn’t a girlfriend — just an old classmate.” “That’s you, isn’t it?” Ronnie’s eyes shifted for just a moment. She didn’t deny it. I’m the kind of person who likes to share things. Whenever I had a free moment, I’d text her. She almost never texted back. We’d argued about it more than once. Back then, Ronnie always looked worn out when it came up. “Hernandez, we’re adults. Work is busy. Lunch breaks are for resting. Can you stop making this so hard?” With Nick, nothing was hard. “These past two days, Nick has been bringing lunch to the office. You made it for him, didn’t you.” I’d once complained about my stomach bothering me and asked if she could cook for me sometime. She told me coldly that she wasn’t my personal chef. The matching lunch containers I’d bought for us — left at her place — Nick had been using them. Ronnie frowned, clearly not following my logic. “Hernandez, don’t you think you’re being a little petty?” “Try not to judge Nick. He mentioned there was some misunderstanding between you two…” She hadn’t listened to a word I said. But she’d taken Nick’s word for it. I had nothing left to say. The silence stretched between us — until the doorbell rang. Ronnie turned and opened the door. Nick walked in and gave me a small smile. “Hernandez. Sorry to intrude.”

I looked at Ronnie. My expression didn’t change. “You called him here?” Nick couldn’t have known my address on his own. Ronnie stood beside him, avoiding my eyes. “Hernandez, Nick isn’t who you think he is.” “There’s been a misunderstanding. You two should talk it out.” I almost laughed despite myself. “I spent two weeks on that event proposal. He deliberately removed my name from it. That’s a misunderstanding?” The project was mine. Nick was just assisting. I’d worked late nights to finish it, and he’d deleted my version from the shared drive and submitted it as his own. I confronted him directly, but I couldn’t prove it. The whole thing blew up at the office. “Hernandez, you can’t just bully me because I’m new.” “That proposal was clearly mine…” Nick trailed off and exhaled slowly. “Forget it. You’re Ronnie’s boyfriend. I don’t want to make things worse between you two. Don’t fight over me.” “I’ll just take the blame. I’m sorry.” Something visibly softened in Ronnie’s eyes. “Nick, I know who you are. Things are what they are.” “You don’t have to put yourself down just because of me.” She didn’t believe me. She believed Nick. She turned to me. “Hernandez, just apologize to Nick. No one’s going to think less of you.” The last trace of hurt in my chest went quiet. I felt completely calm. “Ronnie. I’ll say it one more time. We’re done.” “Now take your friend and get out of my apartment.” Nick flinched. He looked wounded, like he was holding something back. Ronnie stepped in front of him and took his hand. She turned to me, her gaze cold. “Hernandez, is that a threat? You think that’s going to make me back down?” “You’re being completely unreasonable.” She pulled Nick toward the door. It slammed shut behind them. I collapsed onto the couch, completely drained. My phone rang. It was my mom. “Hernandez, you’re really coming home? Did something happen?” “Nothing happened. I already put in my resignation. Once I finish the handoff in a couple days, I’m on my way.” “Did you and Ronnie have a fight?” “Not a fight. We broke up.” I’d already been thinking about moving on from that company. What happened with Nick made the decision easy. I turned in my notice. My boss practically signed it with a smile — apparently he thought he’d just landed Nick as some kind of prize. My mom was quiet for a moment. “Okay. As long as you’re sure.” “Come home. Your dad and I worry about you out there.” My throat tightened. “Mom, don’t worry about me.” “I’ve already been looking at other opportunities. There’s a lot of good stuff…” “I’m not worried. Just don’t push yourself too hard.” I couldn’t get another word out. I thought I’d be able to get through my last two days in peace. But Nick wasn’t done with me. The afternoon before I left, the company group chat blew up. Nick had posted a video. The person in the video was Ronnie. Her expression was serious. She wasn’t joking around. “Regarding the proposal incident — on behalf of Hernandez, I’m issuing a formal apology to Nick.”

She introduced herself as my girlfriend of four years. I stared at the chat, and the blood rushed straight to my head. I knew. Nobody was going to take my side after this. Nick was charming, well-liked. The whole group chat was rallying behind him. I heard about this. I never believed Nick would do something like that. Hernandez really went too far — even his own girlfriend came out against him. That’s actually his girlfriend. Her Instagram is pinned on his profile. No wonder he quit. Probably felt guilty… Ronnie had publicly sided with Nick. Against me. This was the woman I had loved for four years. Made allowances for, for four years. She had gone this far for him. My hands were shaking when I called her. “Why did you do that? Why did you record that video?” “Because Nick hasn’t been sleeping over it.” “Hernandez, when you do something wrong, you own it. Real men don’t cry — but Nick has been so upset he actually broke down.” “I didn’t know what else to do. I just wanted to comfort him a little.” Her voice went softer. “Are you still upset? Hernandez, let’s meet in person and talk.” She sent me the address of a restaurant. I went. I was running on emotion at that point, barely thinking straight. All I wanted was for Ronnie to set the record straight in the group chat and apologize to me publicly. When I got to the restaurant, she wasn’t there yet. Minutes passed. I finished my first glass of water. It hit me suddenly — this was the restaurant where Ronnie and I had made it official. She’d been the one to confess. She’d made me a promise that night. “Hernandez, I mean it. I’m going to treat you right for the rest of my life. I’ll always have your back.” I refilled my glass and drank it down. The anger in my chest started going cold. I lost count of how many glasses of ice water I drank. Ronnie still hadn’t come. The restaurant was getting ready to close. I called her. It rang for a long time before someone picked up. “Hernandez. What do you need?” It was Nick. His voice was smug, sharp around the edges. “Ronnie’s busy. She’s been with me all night.” “She’s exhausted — fell asleep. If there’s something you need, you can tell me.” I gripped my phone. And just like that, my head was completely clear. “Nothing for her. Good thing, actually — I’ve got something for you.” I let out a quiet laugh. “Nick. You’re pretty disgusting, you know that?” “You like collecting other people’s garbage? Fine. Consider it a gift.” I hung up. I wasn’t going to waste a single word on explanations. I left the company group chat. The truth doesn’t need defending. This event was set to launch in ten days. Nick was now fully in charge. I wanted to see how he’d handle it. I opened Instagram and deleted everything connected to Ronnie. I’d already sorted out the move with my landlord weeks ago. I sent her a message letting her know I was leaving early. Then I grabbed my suitcase and headed to the airport. I changed my ticket to the earliest available flight home. The rent I’d been paying for Ronnie, the car payments — I let all of it go. Along with four years of my life. Everything ended the moment I walked through that gate. The plane took off. I powered off my phone and finally got some sleep. Four hours later, I landed. A real weight lifted off my chest. But the second I turned my phone back on, it started vibrating nonstop.

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My husband’s best friend has zero concept of boundaries. She would routinely drink from his water glass, claiming “real friends don’t care about germs.” She would knock on our bedroom door at two in the morning wearing nothing but a slip, claiming she needed her “bestie’s strong shoulder” to soothe her anxiety. But the most absurd part? Every time my husband and I wanted some intimacy, it felt like we had to submit a formal request and wait for her to sign off on it. I cried, I fought, I screamed. But every time, Zach would just smile with that easy, infuriating patience of his. “Tori saved my life, Gill. She’s family. We’re a package deal.” That was until the night his parents were kidnapped. I had to call him twenty times before I finally reached him at Tori’s birthday party. And when I did, he was completely out of patience. “Can you please stop making up these ridiculous stories to ruin the mood? I told you, it’s Tori’s birthday and I’m staying out with her tonight. Why do you always have to be so suffocating?” Through the receiver, amidst the loud music and laughter, Tori snatched the phone and giggled, “Hey Gill, our friendship isn’t something your little tears can break. Grow up and have some self-respect, okay?” As the line went dead, I stared at the phone, laughing until tears ran down my face. You want boundaries? Fine. I’ll give you all the boundaries you want. 1 Zach’s voice dropped, laced with that familiar, heavy exhaustion. “Gill, can you please stop throwing a tantrum?” “I told you, it’s Tori’s birthday. I’m staying out with her tonight. It’s barely eleven. You’re always paranoid, and frankly, everyone is exhausted.” Through the pounding bass of the music, I heard Tori’s voice filter through. “Is your wife checking your leash again, dummy?” My voice was shaking so violently I could barely speak, the sobs clawing their way up my throat. “It’s real… they cut off a finger, Zach. You have to come home! Send the money! The kidnappers said we have until morning to get the cash, or they’ll kill them!” “And it’s twenty million! They only want twenty million!” Five minutes ago, I had found a burner phone at our doorstep, next to a small, blood-soaked ziplock bag containing a severed finger. For Zach, twenty million was a sum he could authorize in seconds. I was screaming into the receiver, my voice cracking under the weight of the terror. There was a brief silence on the other end. Then, Zach let out a sharp, irritated sigh, his tone dripping with disgust. “Gill,” he said, using my full name. “Have you lost your mind? Where is your sense of boundaries?” “You’re always trying to wedge yourself between me and Tori, but using my parents to play these sick mind games? This is too far. You’re—” Before he could finish, Tori grabbed the phone, giggling loudly. “Hey Gill! We played this game already! Remember three months ago when you said you had ‘life-threatening emergency surgery’ and were practically on your deathbed? Zach rushed home in a panic, only to find you sitting on the couch eating chips and watching reality TV!” Roars of laughter erupted in the background. “Oh my god, she actually did that?” “Zach, your wife is a psycho!” My chest tightened. The “deathbed” emergency she was referring to was three months ago when my appendix had actually ruptured. I had been in so much pain I couldn’t stand, but Zach had walked out the door because Tori called crying about a bad day. In the end, it was his mom, Helen, who rushed over and got me to the ER. Zach didn’t come home until two days later, finding me recovering on the couch. But this wasn’t the time to explain. “Zach! It’s real! Please! Just trust me this once—” “Enough.” Realizing he was about to hang up, I shrieked into the phone. “Ten seconds! Give me ten seconds to prove it!” “The kidnapper is going to call this phone in ten seconds to check on the transfer. I’ll put him on speaker so you can hear him yourself! Please!” Ten seconds later, the burner phone rang. With trembling, sweaty hands, I pressed speaker. The kidnapper’s disguised, metallic voice echoed in the quiet room. “Ten million to bring your parents home. Is the money ready?” The line on Zach’s phone went quiet for a beat, followed by an even louder burst of laughter. “Oh my god! A voice changer? Gill went all out this time! Where did she hire these actors?” Zach scoffed. “Gill, you are truly beyond help…” Tori, laughing hysterically, snatched the phone again. “Zach, you are way too nice to your wife. Let me handle this.” She screamed into the receiver: “Hey, you absolute dumbass! Nice acting! If you’re going to kill them, just do it already! Do it clean! How much did my buddy’s wife pay you to put on this little show? Huh? Go to hell!” “Everyone knows Zach’s parents turn off their phones and go to sleep by nine! Kidnapped? In your dreams! Get a life!” Then she turned her voice back to me, her tone dripping with smug satisfaction. “Gill, our friendship isn’t something your little tears can break. Grow up and have some self-respect, okay? Stop bothering us!” The line went dead. For a few seconds, my mind went completely blank. Then, from the burner phone, came the kidnapper’s enraged roar, followed by a series of agonizing, blood-curdling screams. Helen’s weeping voice broke through. “Thomas! Thomas, please don’t! Oh god!” “Please! I beg you!” I fell to my knees, screaming into the burner phone, my words slurring together in panic. “They’re drunk! They didn’t mean it! I apologize for them! Please believe me, I will get the money! Just don’t hurt them! Please!” I begged and pleaded until the sounds of the beating finally stopped. The cold, disguised voice returned. “Fine. But I am highly pissed off now. Two new rules.” “One, the ransom is now thirty million.” “Two, your time is cut. You have exactly three hours to wire it to this account. One cent short, or one second late, and you can come collect their corpses.” 2 “Lastly, do not call the cops, or you won’t like what happens next.” The line clicked shut. I scrambled on the floor, frantically dialing Zach’s number again. “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is currently unavailable…” I tried texting him, sending photo after photo of the severed finger. But every message bounced back with a red exclamation mark. They had blocked me. Completely. The tears finally spilled over, hot and heavy. Zach’s disgusted sigh, Tori’s shrill laughter, the mocking jeers of their friends… it all swirled in my head. Is it worth it, Gill? The thought flickered for a brief second. But then I remembered Helen. Just two days ago, when I mentioned my stomach was acting up, she had driven through a snowstorm to bring me homemade chicken soup. And Thomas, a quiet, gentle man. Every time Zach and I had a fight and I sat in silence, he would clumsily pull out old photo albums of Zach’s childhood to try and make me laugh. He would slip me a credit card when Zach wasn’t looking. “Sweetheart, if you’re feeling down, go buy yourself something nice. Don’t let him get to you.” These were two living human beings who had given me nothing but warmth and kindness. I wiped my tears and called Greg, the CFO of Zach’s company. “Greg! It’s an emergency! I need to wire thirty million dollars from the company accounts immediately! I’ll take full responsibility!” Greg gasped. “Gill… it’s not that I don’t want to help. But Zach transferred the CFO position to Tori a year ago. She holds the secure keys. No transactions can be approved without her personal confirmation.” The shock of that betrayal didn’t even register. I begged him to contact Tori. Time ticked away, heavy and agonizing. Thirty minutes later, Greg called back, his voice thick with awkwardness. “I reached Tori… but she told me to play this voice memo for you.” Tori’s voice filled the speaker. “Gill, are you sick in the head? When will these pathetic stunts end?” “Let me tell you something. Zach’s money is my money. You’re just a paranoid, weeping housewife trying to stick your hands into my buddy’s corporate accounts. Do you have any concept of boundaries?” And the final sentence crushed my soul: “What Tori says goes.” It was Zach’s voice. Only two hours and twenty minutes left. Then my mom called, her voice trembling with anxiety. “Gill, your dad and I managed to report it to the police through a contact.” “The police are tracking them, but this is an experienced crew. It won’t be easy. But they think the kidnappers just want the money. They are coordinating an emergency wire with the bank to ensure a large transfer can go through instantly. But since the kidnappers threatened you not to involve the police, they have to remain undercover. The safest bet is still for you to find Zach and get him to authorize the funds.” “Sweetheart, we did everything we could. We scraped together two million dollars. It’s already in your account.” My parents, lifelong schoolteachers who hated asking for favors, had spent the last hour begging everyone they knew. My throat tightened, but I swallowed my tears. “Mom, I’m going to find Zach.” No matter what, I would save them. And then, I would divorce him. The address Greg gave me was Zach’s family cabin in the woods on the edge of the city. A one-hour drive up the mountain, plus thirty minutes for the transfer. It was enough. I didn’t even put on shoes. I ran straight to the garage. An hour later, I burst into the cabin. But the lights were off. The house was cold and empty. I stood frozen, the silence pressing in on me. I realized with a sickening dread that I had been played. Zach had lied to me. He gave me a fake address to teach me a lesson about “crashing his parties.” Before I could run back out, someone pushed me from behind, shoving me into a guest room. A housekeeper locked the door from the outside, her voice apologetic. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Robert. This was Mr. Robert and Ms. Tori’s instruction. They said you need to calm down and stop crashing their party. You’ll be safe here. Someone will let you out at seven tomorrow morning.” “No! Let me out! Zach’s parents are going to die!” I slammed against the door, hysterical. Then the burner phone rang. “Time’s up, Mrs. Robert. Where’s the money?” I grabbed a wooden chair and began smashing it against the window, screaming into the receiver. “Please! Give me more time! Just one hour! No, thirty minutes! I will get the money!” The kidnapper let out a cruel, soft chuckle. “Fine. In thirty minutes, go to the abandoned chemical plant on the west side. Tell your idiot husband to come collect the bodies.” A brief, horrifying shriek cut through the line, followed by Helen’s choked sob, abruptly silenced. The line went dead. I fell to my knees, the broken shards of glass cutting into my bare feet. The silence was deafening. They were dead. 3 I managed to climb out the broken window. By the time I reached the chemical plant, the flashing lights of ambulances illuminated the rusted metal structures. Thomas was already gone. Helen, using the last ounce of her strength, gripped my wrist, coughing up blood. “The money… our money… the house… the savings… all yours. Don’t give… don’t give that monster a single cent… He doesn’t deserve it…” With those final words, her grip went slack. Both of them lay there, eyes wide, staring at nothing. I sat between the two cold bodies, screaming until my chest felt like it would burst. When I finally got back to our apartment, the sun was high in the sky. I walked through the front door and immediately ran into Tori. She was wearing one of Zach’s button-down shirts, her bare legs peeking out as she stepped out of the master bedroom. She arched an eyebrow. “Oh, you’re back?” “Go make some hangover soup. We had a wild night, and Zach’s head is splitting.” I stood frozen. Looking at this grotesque scene, I felt absolutely nothing. The pain had burned itself out, leaving only ash. Zach, smelling of stale liquor and rubbing his temples, stepped out of the bedroom. Seeing my swollen eyes and disheveled clothes, he frowned. “Are you seriously still throwing a fit over being locked in for one night? Look at yourself.” “Gill, I’m tired of the paranoia and the crying. No man can put up with this. You brought this on yourself by trying to crash our party last night.” Tori leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Why do you even bother talking to her, babe? Women know women. She’s just doing this for attention.” “Trust me. Ignore her a few times, let her learn her lesson, and she’ll fall in line.” I didn’t answer. I walked over to the sofa and sat down in silence. I was simply too exhausted. Zach, unsettled by my quietness, looked around. “Where’s Mom? She said she was coming over first thing this morning to make chicken and dumplings. I’m starving, and I could really use her cooking right now.” A sharp sting hit my nose, and my dry eyes welled with tears again. “She’s… not coming.” Zach blinked. “What do you mean?” I looked up, my voice like gravel. “Zach, your mother is dead. Your father is dead too. They were murdered by the kidnappers last night.” “Their bodies are in the hospital morgue. You should go see them before they put them in the freezer.” For one second, the room was dead silent. Slap! The hangover evaporated from Zach’s face, replaced by pure, blinding rage. He lunged forward and struck me across the face. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” he roared, his chest heaving. “How dare you curse my parents like that?! Just because you’re mad about last night, you say something this sick? Do you even have a soul?!” “Those are my parents! The only people who actually care about me!” Tori gasped, covering her mouth, though a flicker of satisfaction danced in her eyes. She wrapped her arms around Zach’s neck, rubbing his chest. “Calm down, babe. Don’t let her get to you. I told you she was psycho.” She sneered at me. “Gill, you’ve really outdone yourself. Everyone knows how close Zach is with his parents. Using them for your little revenge plot is incredibly low.” Her words poured gasoline on the fire. The veins in Zach’s temples bulged. He snatched his jacket from the couch, threw his arm around Tori’s shoulder, and stormed out, slamming the door. “Come on, Tori. We’re going to my parents’ place for breakfast. Let’s leave this crazy bitch alone.” 4 That morning, they drove to his parents’ house and waited. The house was empty, and their phones were off. Naturally, they assumed I was playing along with his parents to teach him a lesson. Furious, Zach unblocked me on his phone and sent a barrage of angry voice notes. “Unbelievable, Gill! Real mature! You always manage to get my parents on your side to manipulate me. Well, it’s not going to work!” “Come on, Tori. Didn’t you want to go to that mountain resort? It’s only thirty grand. Consider it bought. Let’s go have some fun!” “Seriously? Oh my god, you’re the best!” Tori’s squeal of delight echoed in the message, followed by the wet sound of a kiss against his cheek. And then, he blocked me again. Over the next few days, Tori frequently updated her social media. Photos of steaming hot springs, gourmet dinners, the two of them wrapped in robes, clinking glasses. Caption: When you’re with someone who truly gets you, even the air feels lighter. So good to get away from all that suffocating negativity~ Zach was the first to like it. Agreed. Nothing beats relaxing with your bestie. Their entire friend group chimed in under the comments. Living the life, man! Tori to the rescue, saving our boy from the marriage grave! Isn’t the wife going to lose her mind? Exactly. Bros over hoes. Wives never understand. I saw none of this. I was too busy arranging the funeral services alone. Three days later, Zach and Tori finally returned, looking sun-kissed and relaxed. The moment they stepped through the door, Tori shrieked. “Gill! What the hell is wrong with you?!” The living room was filled with funeral wreaths. On a makeshift altar, two empty black-and-white picture frames sat quietly. “Gill!” Zach’s anger exploded like a volcano. “What the fuck are you doing?! What is all this garbage? Making the house look like a graveyard! Have you completely lost your mind?!” “Where are my parents?! Where are you hiding them?! Tell them to get out here! Have they gone senile, letting you pull a stunt like this?!” “I’ll help you clear this out, babe!” Tori yelled, rushing forward to sweep the altar table to the floor. “Stop!” I lunged to block her, but Zach shoved me hard. “Get away from her!” I crashed against the corner of the table, pain flaring in my lower back. Crash! The offerings scattered, the incense urn shattered, and the candles flickered out on the floor. The custom-made picture frames hit the hardwood, spiderweb cracks spreading across the glass. The room fell into a frustrating, frozen silence. I stared at the ruins. Even in death, their peace had been shattered by their own son. The final thread of my sanity snapped. Slap! I don’t know where the strength came from, but I stood up and struck Zach across the face with everything I had. The sound echoed in the quiet room. I stared into his stunned eyes. “You are going to regret this, Zach.” Before he could respond, I reached into my bag, pulled out the divorce papers I had drafted, and slammed them onto the table. “Sign it.” “I admit it. I have no boundaries. I shouldn’t have gotten in the way of your precious friendship with Tori. We are done.” A flicker of panic crossed Zach’s eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Tori cut him off, her face flushed with excitement. “Sign it, dummy! Do it! You’ve been wanting to rid yourself of this psycho for years! She’s nothing but a drag on our group. Who do you want, her or me?” “Fine! Gill, don’t you dare come crawling back!” Zach snatched the pen and scrawled his signature across the page. I felt a sudden, profound wash of relief. And then, from the street below, the somber, heavy wail of a funeral march began to play. Zach and Tori instinctively looked out the window. A formal funeral procession was marching toward the building, carrying two heavy, temperature-controlled glass caskets. At the front of the line, a man held up two large black-and-white portraits. Through the cracked glass of the frames, Thomas and Helen looked straight up at him.

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Eight years. Eight years of building a life together, and for the first time, my fiancé left me entirely alone on our anniversary. All because his new assistant had called him in tears, claiming she had gotten lost on her way home. But that was also the night I realized I was somehow sharing a physical connection with the Wesley of ten years ago. I stared into the vanity mirror, my eyes still swollen and rimmed with red. A dull, heavy ache swelled in my chest, rolling over me in waves. Just as I bent over the sink to splash cold water on my face, my reflection rippled like disturbed water. When it settled, it wasn’t my face staring back. It was a face I knew, yet hadn’t seen in a decade. It was Wesley. But he was eighteen. My breath caught. He was clutching his chest, his shirt bunched in his fist, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. Instantly, the old name slipped from my lips. “Wes? What’s wrong?” The boy in the glass jerked his head up. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, thin and ragged. “Felicity? Are you… are you hurting?” He gasped, his shoulders trembling. “If you aren’t, why does my heart feel like it’s being ripped apart?” … I stared blankly at the glass. I had owned this vanity mirror for five years; I knew every feature—the LED backlight, the anti-fog heater, the smart screen. But it was never supposed to show me a ghost from the past. Perhaps the shock on my face was too obvious, because the teenage Wesley spoke again. “Felicity, please, just calm down and listen to me.” He rubbed a hand through his messy hair—a nervous habit I knew better than my own reflection. “I begged an old man at a street market. He did something… a ritual, I guess, to connect my senses with yours, ten years in the future. He told me if you hurt a little, I’d feel it tenfold.” The pain in his chest seemed to ease slightly, and he let out a long, shaky breath. “I just… I wanted to know if you were happy in the future. I wanted to know if we made it. But it seems like I walked right into a disaster.” My throat felt tight, clogged with a lifetime of words. I opened my mouth, but only a whisper escaped. “You proposed. We’ve been together for eight years.” His face lit up, his eyes bright as stars. “I knew it! I knew we’d make it. We’re going to be happy forever.” I let my next words fall right over his excitement, cold and sharp. “But you’re sleeping with someone else.” He froze. His face flushed crimson with a mix of shock and indignation, his voice cracking. “Bullshit! I would never!” Instead of arguing, I looked down at my phone. A few minutes ago, I had received a series of messages from Lacey, his new assistant. The first was a photo. She and Wesley were sitting side-by-side at the impossibly exclusive omakase spot I had been begging him to take me to for months. On the table between them was a custom cake from a bakery with a six-month waiting list. Lacey was leaning against his shoulder, smiling radiantly. Beneath the photo was a short video. In it, Lacey looked up at him with wide, feigned-innocent eyes. “Wes, if Felicity finds out we’re here, won’t she be mad?” Hearing my name, Wesley’s brow furrowed slightly. I couldn’t tell if it was irritation or guilt. The next second, he dismissed it with a careless shrug. “Why would she be mad? Everything she has, I gave her. If it weren’t for me, she’d still be stuck in some backwater trailer park, pumping out kids for some older man who treats her like livestock. There wouldn’t be a Felicity. Just a miserable, broken girl named Patience.” My fingers trembled as I closed the video, but the name Patience lingered in the bathroom air, echoing in my ears. A sharp, stabbing sensation flared in my chest. I looked up and saw the boy in the mirror double over again, clutching his ribs. “Now do you believe me?” My voice was flat, hollowed out of all life. “Wes, we loved each other for eight years. But it only took you six months to turn into a monster.” Tears dripped onto the marble countertop. “I don’t care what kind of magic you used to get here. But don’t come back. I don’t want to look at your teenage self and feel a single shred of hope for the man you became.” I walked out of the bathroom without looking back at the boy who had once, truly, loved me. The next morning, a raging fever woke me. Whether it was the emotional shock of the previous night or some bizarre side effect of the sensory connection, my temperature had spiked to 103 degrees. My joints ached, and my vision swam. Without thinking, I called Wesley. He answered on the second ring, but his voice was like ice. “I’m in a meeting. Don’t call unless it’s an emergency.” Even through the fog in my mind, I felt a bitter twinge of irony. When a person stops loving you, even their greeting changes. The old Wesley would always answer with a laugh, asking, Miss me already? Now, I was just an interruption. “I have a fever, Wes. I need—” “Fine. I’ll have the driver pick you up.” Before the line went dead, I heard Lacey’s soft, giggling laugh in the background. She sounded so happy, so secure, as if she had already claimed everything that used to be mine. I didn’t wait for his driver. I dragged myself out of bed, threw on a coat, and stumbled to the hospital on my own. As the cold IV fluid finally began to drip into my vein, easing the fire under my skin, I opened my phone and saw Lacey’s latest Instagram post. It was a nine-photo grid. In every single shot, Wesley was by her side—holding her bags, opening her car door, looking at her with the attentiveness that used to belong to me. After the IV bag was empty, I took an Uber back to the empty apartment. I took a hot shower, trying to wash away the smell of the hospital, and when I stepped out, I found the eighteen-year-old Wesley waiting in the mirror. His face looked even worse than mine, pale and drawn. But he still managed a weak, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I can’t control when I appear.” I kept my eyes down, wrapping my towel tighter, and remained silent. I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to feel the warmth of his gaze. As I turned to leave, he called out. “Felicity!” I stopped. He didn’t look at my face; instead, his eyes traveled down to my exposed shoulder blade, his finger hovering near the glass. “Does it still hurt?” My hand went to my shoulder. Beneath my fingers was a long, jagged scar. My father had given me that scar when I was twelve, throwing a heavy garden spade at me. Back then, my name was still Patience. I had been crying, begging my parents to let me stay in school instead of dropping out to raise my newborn brother. I didn’t remember the exact trajectory of the spade. I only remembered the dirt porch, the feeling of my own blood soaking through my shirt, and the sudden arrival of the West family. They had been visiting the rural town to see their ancestral estate. Twelve-year-old Wesley had lunged forward like a feral little animal, throwing himself between me and my father. Later, his family took me with them back to the city. Years later, Wesley helped me legally change my name. I remembered him sitting under the sweet-scented osmanthus tree in his backyard, dappled sunlight warming his face. Patience is a terrible name, he had said. It sounds like you were only born to wait on someone else. You deserve your own name. A new life. Felicity. It means happiness. And last night, that same boy, now a man, had used my old name like a weapon to mock my pain to another woman. The boy in the mirror was bent double now, shivering from the phantom pain of my fever and my heartache. Yet, seeing me look at him, he forced another reassuring smile. “I’m sorry, Felicity,” he whispered. “I didn’t think I’d grow up to be so cruel. To make you hurt like this.” I turned my face away, shaking my head. Before I could speak, the apartment doorbell rang, loud and demanding. I didn’t expect it to be Lacey. The moment I opened the door, she stepped inside, casually kicked off her shoes, and slid into a pair of guest slippers. She looked at me with a soft, sweet smile. “Hi, Felicity. Long time no see. Wes sent me to grab some files from the study.” Without waiting for a response, she walked straight past me into the bedroom. I stood in the living room, too exhausted to fight, too drained to stand up for my own space. When she came out, my eyes locked onto her hand. On her ring finger was a delicate diamond ring. It was the custom piece Wesley had designed for me, the one he was supposed to use for our proposal. Lacey noticed my gaze. She raised her hand, stretching her fingers in the light, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Oh!” she gasped, feigning panic. “Felicity, please don’t get the wrong idea. Wes gave me this as a bonus for working late. It doesn’t mean anything.” She stepped closer, her eyes welling with tears. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll take it off right now. I’ll never wear it again.” Before she could touch the ring, my phone rang. It was Wesley. His voice was entirely devoid of the tenderness he had spent eight years building. It was cold enough to freeze the blood in my veins. “Felicity, don’t give Lacey a hard time. Let her leave. I need those files immediately.” I knew what he was doing. He was watching us through the home security cameras. When he first installed them, he told me he wanted to be able to look at me during a stressful workday to “recharge.” Now, he was using them to make sure I didn’t lay a finger on his mistress. The line went dead. The silence in the apartment returned, heavy and suffocating. Lacey looked at me, the fake tears vanishing instantly, replaced by a cold, victorious smile. She didn’t leave immediately. Instead, she unzipped her designer handbag just enough for me to see a box of condoms tucked inside. “Honestly, the files were just an excuse,” she murmured, leaning in close to pat my cheek. “Wes said these are his favorite. He was in such a hurry for them. I really don’t understand how a woman can let herself become as pathetic as you are, Felicity.” Something inside me snapped. I grabbed her arm, my grip tight and unyielding. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, Lacey. I promise you.” My grip left a dark red mark on her pale wrist. She shrieked, “Are you crazy? Let go of me!” In her struggle to pull away, she shoved me hard. My lower back collided violently with the sharp wooden corner of the coffee table. A white-hot pain flared through my spine. I collapsed onto the floor, curling into a ball as cold sweat broke out across my forehead. Lacey stood over me, looking down with utter disgust. “Look at you. A miserable charity case, actually thinking you could compete with me.” She turned on her heel and slammed the door behind her. By evening, the fever had returned with a vengeance. When Wesley finally came home hours later, I was still semi-conscious on the living room floor, shivering in the dark. Even through the delirium of the fever, his voice cut through the fog. “Are you still playing this dramatic game, Felicity? Lacey came by to help me pick up some files, and you put on this pathetic, tragic show.” He knelt down, his fingers pinching my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “A bad apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? You’re acting exactly like your white-trash mother back in the hills.” I tried to whisper that I hadn’t done anything, but my vision swam, and the world went completely black. I woke up in a private hospital room. The sky outside the window was pitch black, and the room was entirely silent. The dull ache in my back remained, and a tear slipped down into my hair. I thought of the eighteen-year-old Wesley. If I was in this much pain, he must be suffering terribly. I reached out and found a small compact mirror on the bedside table. He was there. But he was crying. In my memory, the Wesley of that age was fierce, proud, and stubborn. I had never seen him shed a single tear. But now, his eyes were red, and tears were streaming silently down his cheeks. “Do you need to see a doctor?” I whispered. He flinched, startled by my voice. He quickly wiped his face, trying to hide the dampness on his cheeks. “No,” he muttered, his voice thick. “I don’t have any physical injuries. The hospital can’t fix this. It’s just… a phantom pain.” He forced a weak, trembling smile. “Once you stop hurting, I will too.” I looked at his tear-stained face, but before I could speak, he interrupted me, his voice rising in panic. “But I’m not crying because of the pain, Felicity! I’m crying because of you.” He pointed to his chest. “Your back hurts, your head hurts… but this is where it hurts the most. And I’m the one who did this to you. I did this.” He looked around, finally realizing I was in a hospital bed. His eyes widened, and he grabbed his jacket, scrambling to his feet. “Why are you in the hospital? Stay there, I’m coming to—” He froze. His hands dropped to his sides, limp and useless. In that quiet moment, the harsh truth settled over him. He was only a shadow from the past, separated from me by a mirror and ten long years. He could feel every ounce of the misery his future self inflicted on me, but he could do absolutely nothing to stop it. We fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. The quiet was shattered when the door clicked open. The present-day Wesley walked in, holding Lacey’s hand. “You’re awake,” Wesley said, his voice slightly softer than before. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were actually sick.” I turned my head toward the wall, refusing to look at them. “Felicity,” Lacey said, her voice dripping with artificial sweet sympathy. “Wes and I came here today because we have some news. I’m pregnant.” Wesley took a step closer to the bed. “Lacey’s baby deserves a proper, stable family. We aren’t married yet, Felicity, and I won’t leave you empty-handed after all these years. Name your price.” I slowly turned my head back, staring at him. “What did you just say?” “I said, name your price. A condo, a trust fund, a ticket out of the city. Whatever it takes for you to move on and stop showing up in our lives.” My voice shook. “Is that all these eight years were to you, Wesley? A transaction?” Lacey began to sob softly, hiding her face against his shoulder, playing the victim perfectly. Wesley’s brow furrowed, his eyes hardening as he looked at me like I was a difficult child. “You’re too emotional right now,” he said, wrapping an arm around Lacey. “You’re going to stress her out. We’re going home. Call me when you’ve calmed down and are ready to talk like an adult.” They left, the door clicking shut behind them. In the quiet room, the boy in the mirror spoke. “Don’t call him.” I lifted the compact mirror. He was biting his lower lip so hard it was nearly bleeding. “I shouldn’t have loved you,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that the man I become doesn’t deserve you.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Two years from now, I won’t ask you out. I won’t let us happen. Felicity, remember this: I gave you your name, but your path is your own. Even without me, you will still be Felicity. You won’t ever have to be Patience again.” As he finished speaking, the surface of the mirror began to ripple violently, like water caught in a storm. When the glass cleared, there was only my own reflection staring back. The eighteen-year-old Wesley was gone.

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