Ten months. Ten months of being stranded on a barren, isolated island with my baby girl. I placed her fragile, fever-ravaged body onto a makeshift wooden raft. Then I plunged into the freezing ocean water, kicking with everything I had, pushing the raft forward through the swells. In the distance, the dark, triangular fins of sharks sliced through the waves, circling us, closing the gap. Despair, cold and absolute, washed over me. With one final, agonizing burst of strength, I gave the raft a massive push, sending her toward the outer boundary of the bay. I let go. My body sank into the weightless dark of the ocean floor. I closed my eyes, waiting for the teeth to tear me apart. But instead of pain, a blinding light flared through the water. Above, a massive theater curtain slowly rolled back. My husband, Thomas, stepped out onto the deck of a sleek yacht anchored just beyond the artificial reef. Clinging to his arm was Nancy, my former best friend. Thomas looked down at the water, his handsome face carrying an air of smug satisfaction. “Sweetheart,” Thomas said, his voice carrying over the water, “she slapped you once, so I put her out here for a year to teach her a lesson. Are you happy now?” He patted Nancy’s hand gently. “I’ll make her apologize to you, and then we’ll put this whole thing behind us.” He scanned the shoreline, his brow furrowing as he looked for our daughter. “Where is the baby? Where is Lucy? What kind of mother is she, starving her own child like this?” The surface of the water had already settled into a glassy, undisturbed calm. I was floating now, suspended in the air, watching my own blue, lifeless body drift down into the dark silt of the seabed. A hollow, broken laugh escaped my ghostly lips. Ten months of starvation, of desperate survival, of fighting to keep our daughter alive on a barren rock—it was nothing but a sick game to Thomas. A punishment. He had gotten his wish. But I was never coming back. … “Save Mommy… please save Mommy…” Lucy’s eyes fluttered, her voice a dry, papery whisper as tears tracked through the dirt on her face. Thomas felt a sharp pang of worry and scooped her up into his arms. He waited for a moment, looking around the empty shore, before his jaw tightened in anger. “Your mother must have run off the second she saw the yacht. I have never met a woman so incredibly petty.” Lucy wept harder, her tiny, cracked lips moving soundlessly as she pointed toward the dark water. But her strength failed her. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she went completely limp in his arms. My heart lunges into my throat. I screamed, throwing myself forward to catch her, but I passed straight through her tiny, fragile body. I froze, staring at my translucent hands. “Medic! Get a doctor over here now!” Thomas’s face drained of color as he ran toward the waiting ambulance parked on the mainland dock. During her emergency treatment, Thomas touched Lucy’s arm. She was nothing but skin and bones. Rage and terror shook his voice. “I had supplies dropped on that island every single month! Could Grace not even bother to look for them? To starve a child like this… no wonder she’s too ashamed to show her face!” Nancy dabs at her eyes, her tone dripping with mock sorrow. “Oh, Thomas… Grace is so spiteful. How could she abuse her own daughter just to get back at you?” Thomas’s face darkens with pure fury. He pulled out his phone and left me a voicemail: “Grace, you show your face right this second, or so help me God. What kind of mother does this?” He cursed under his breath, but his eyes lingered on our last call history. It was ten months ago. I had just returned from a short weekend trip with Lucy. Walking into our home, I found Nancy naked beneath Thomas on our living room sofa. My entire world shattered in a fraction of a second. I lost my mind, screaming, clawing at them in a blind panic. Thomas shielded Nancy, pushing me hard to the floor. “Stop being hysterical, Grace! I had too much to drink. Every man makes mistakes.” With bloodshot eyes, I grabbed Lucy and walked out. Thomas grabbed my wrist. “You don’t get to hit Nancy and just walk away. Apologize to her.” Nancy whimpered behind him like a delicate, wounded flower. Nausea rose in my throat. I wrenched my arm free. “In your dreams. You both will burn for this. I want a divorce, Thomas.” I slammed the door, holding my quiet, confused toddler. We stayed at a cheap motel that night. But the next morning, we woke up on a desolate, rocky island. No food, no phones, no way out. When I tried to swim out for help, sharks—mechanical or real, I couldn’t tell then—forced me back. Now I realize the wilderness was a controlled playground, the sharks a cruel deterrent. But I believed it. Before my final dive, I had sliced my finger and written a desperate final message on a piece of slate with my own blood, begging Thomas to take care of our daughter. Back at the hospital, the doctor hands Thomas a critical condition notice. His hand shakes as he signs it. Nancy weeps softly. “I just don’t understand how Grace could do this to her own flesh and blood.” Thomas stares at a silver guardian angel locket he took from Lucy’s neck. It’s covered in grime. It was a locket we got together. Years ago, when Lucy was desperately ill, we climbed a mountain trail to a small sanctuary, kneeling at every step. Thomas nearly fainted from low blood sugar near a steep drop; I grabbed him, pulling him up with raw strength, scraping my knees and elbows to the bone. Thomas had cried, holding my bleeding hands. “Don’t be so reckless. If you fell with me, Lucy would have no one.” I had smiled through the pain. “You and Lucy are my whole world. I’d die before I let go of either of you.” “It was all a lie,” Thomas whispers now, his voice trembling with a mixture of grief and mounting fury. He stands abruptly and flings the silver locket into the trash. His phone rings. It’s the site manager from the private island property. “What is it?” Thomas snaps. “Mr. Leonard… we found a note written on the island. It looks like a suicide note from your wife.” “A suicide note?” Thomas sneers. “She’s playing the victim now? Trying to manipulate me? She’s pathetic. There are no wild animals on that island. She’s hiding. Find her and bring her to me.” He hangs up, laughing coldly. “She loves her own life too much to actually end it. Let’s see how she explains this when she’s dragged back.” I float above him, watching him plan my humiliation. It’s almost funny. How can he find me on that island? I’m in the lake. The operating room light goes out. The doctor steps out, grave. “The child’s stomach was filled with nothing but grass and wild berries. Extreme, prolonged malnutrition has caused organ distress and compromised her immune system. We stabilized her, but she’s in a coma. We need to monitor her.” “Grass?” Thomas freezes, his voice cracking. “That’s impossible. I personally authorized crates of canned goods and fresh fruit to be delivered. How could she starve?” Ah. Only for the first three months did we find any crates. After that, nothing. We lived on bitter berries, roots, and insects. Sometimes, while Lucy slept, I would press a sharp stone to my arm and let her drink my blood to keep her hydrated. She was so good, never complaining, whispering, “Daddy will find us, Mommy.” A sharp, phantom pain pierces my chest. So Thomas’s “supplies” were a lie. I burn with hatred. But then I notice Nancy’s face pale. She bites her lip and whispers, “When things get tough, not every mother has the strength to protect her child. She probably kept the food for herself.” Thomas instantly swallows the poison. “Of course. Grace ate it all.” He believes her, missing the cruel spark of satisfaction in Nancy’s eyes. In the ICU, Lucy murmurs in her sleep, “Mommy… water… please.” Thomas tries to offer a cup, but Lucy doesn’t open her eyes. Tears just leak down her pale cheeks. The phone rings again. “Mr. Leonard, we’ve searched every inch. Your wife isn’t on the island.” Thomas’s grip tightens. He pales slightly, then scoffs. “She knows she’s been caught. She’s hiding. Let her rot out there. Let’s see how long she lasts.” The assistant hesitates. “Sir, the construction crew is ready to drain the central lake on the property. Should we proceed?” “Drain it,” Thomas says coldly, hanging up. He texts my number a photo of Lucy in her hospital bed. Lucy is in critical condition. If you have a single shred of decency left, come see your daughter. He throws the phone aside, his eyes wandering to the trash where he threw the locket. He reaches in and pulls it back out. But a sudden shriek breaks the silence. Nancy drops her phone, her face white with terror. Before she can grab it, Thomas picks it up. It’s a forged “suicide note” from me, sent from an anonymous number: I hope Thomas and Nancy burn in hell! I want the world to know what monsters you are! You forced me to starve Lucy. You deserve to die! Thomas’s veins bulge. He punches the drywall. “She’s trying to ruin me. A fake death to destroy my reputation!” Nancy whimpers, “It’s my fault. I’ll go beg her for forgiveness if she just comes back.” “No!” Thomas sneers, his last ounce of worry replaced by disgust. “She starved our child and staged a fake suicide to blackmail me. If she wants to play dead, let her. She’s dead to me.” In his rage, he doesn’t notice the handwriting isn’t mine. During our college years, we wrote over a hundred letters to each other. They are still sitting on our bookshelf at home. When we used to fight, he would read them aloud to tease me. Once, in a fit of anger, I tried to burn them. Thomas had extinguished the flames with his bare hands, his arms covered in blisters. He had cried, not from the pain, but from the fear of losing them: You wrote these to me, Grace. You have no right to destroy them. He used to boast: Even if you burn them, I can copy your handwriting perfectly. I know every curve of your letters. We had a real, beautiful love once. My ghostly eyes sting, but my heart remains cold. I am dead. My only wish is for my daughter to survive. The next morning, Lucy wakes up. But she is disoriented, traumatized. “Mommy… water…” Thomas frowns. Nancy covers her mouth. “Oh, the poor thing. Did your mother deny you water too?” Lucy cries, struggling to find words. “Daddy… don’t… don’t fight with Mommy…” She closes her eyes, tears soaking her face. “Lucy’s chest… hurts.” Thomas’s heart drops. He checks his phone. Still no reply from me. The door swings open. His mother, Helen, walks in, her expression pinched. “Still no sign of Grace? If you ask me, file a police report for desertion and divorce her. She couldn’t even give you a son, and she’s nothing but trouble. She has no family, no backing. Just cut her loose.” Thomas ignores her, his jaw set. “She wants a war of attrition? I’ll give her one. Divorcing her now just lets her off easy. I want her to look me in the eye and tell me she isn’t ashamed of what she did to our daughter.” Helen scoffs. “She probably ran off with another man. Nancy is right here, ready to be a real mother to Lucy.” Nancy blushes, staying silent. Thomas sneers. “Who says I’m waiting for her? I just want to see how long she can keep up this little game. The moment she shows her face, I’m throwing the divorce papers at her.” The door bursts open again. His personal assistant stands there, panting, face pale as a sheet. Thomas frowns. “Did you find her? Is she too cowardly to face me?” The assistant shakes his head, trembling. “Sir… they just drained the lake on the island. They found a woman’s body.”

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The board of directors’ room was suffocatingly quiet. Our primary intern, Ted, had just stood up to suggest serving Capri Suns and Goldfish crackers to our prospective multi-million dollar venture capitalists. My fiancée, Hailey, gave him a fond, indulgent smile before turning to the room and nodding her approval. The other shareholders quickly chimed in, murmuring their agreement. In my past life, I had fought them tooth and nail on this. This was our Series B funding round—the most critical milestone our company would ever face. If we failed to secure these investors, our cash flow would dry up, the company would collapse, and every single shareholder would be buried under mountains of personal debt. At the time, Hailey had sneered at me in front of everyone. “You’re just being petty, Zach. You’re jealous because he’s younger and actually has fresh, modern ideas.” The other board members had sighed, checking their watches with clear annoyance. “Capri Suns are quirky and nostalgic. Besides, investors care about our metrics, not what’s on the snack table.” But this firm was my sweat and blood. I couldn’t bear to watch everyone’s hard work go down the drain. Before the meeting started, I had quietly cleared away the juice pouches and cheap snacks, replacing them with artisanal cold brews, fine loose-leaf teas, fresh berry platters, and delicate pastries from the high-end bakery down the street. The investors were highly impressed. The round closed smoothly, we eventually went public, and our market valuation soared. But Ted? He ran out of the office crying, supposedly distraught over my “workplace bullying” and rejection of his idea, and ended up getting struck by a delivery truck that left him paralyzed from the waist down. Then came the live streams. Sobbing on camera, he accused me of severe harassment, claiming I had stolen his projects and, in a fit of jealousy, physically pushed him under the wheels of that truck. Hailey’s silence—her quiet, public complicity—was the match that lit the fire. I was doxxed, hunted, and ultimately doused in gasoline and burned alive by radical vigilantes. My mother suffered a fatal heart attack from the sheer terror of it all, dying alone. My father was run down in the street, his body left in the gutter. Now, the universe has spun backward. I am standing in the conference room again. I hear Ted’s whiny, victimized voice suggesting the Capri Suns. This time, I stay silent. If they want juice boxes, why stop there? Let’s throw in some Goldfish crackers too. It’s a match made in heaven. I reach into my pocket, pull out my phone, and dial a number. “Hey. Is that offer still open? The one with the executive salary and equity?” … 1 In my past life, Ted’s tearful live streams ruined me. He painted me as a monster who stole his hard work. Hailey had stepped forward as the self-sacrificing martyr, promising to “make amends” for my sins by marrying Ted in a lavish, highly publicized ceremony. As a wandering spirit, I saw my mother clutching her chest, dying of a heart attack while angry protesters blocked the ambulance right outside our driveway. She died in agony, just yards away from help. I saw my father, struck by a car on a rainy night, his body left on the pavement like roadkill. And there Ted and Hailey stood, watching coldly as stray dogs tore at his remains. “Zachary brought this upon his family,” Ted had murmured, his hand resting on Hailey’s waist. “They are only reaping what he sowed.” I had screamed, clawing at the air, trying to chase the dogs away, but my spectral hands passed through nothingness. Then, I blinked. And I heard Ted’s fragile, wounded voice again. “It’s just an investor meeting. What’s wrong with bringing a little nostalgic fun with the Capri Suns? Why does Zach have to be so mean about it?” “Yeah, Zach,” Hailey said, her eyes narrowing with irritation. “Capri Suns are charming. Maybe the VCs will appreciate the humor.” I looked around the room. Hailey and the other board members were staring at me, their faces tight with impatience. I pinched my thigh hard under the table. It stung sharply. I was back. The lead investors were in their late fifties. Two of them had severe diabetes; another was lactose intolerant and avoided artificial dyes like the plague. Serve them juice boxes? They’d think we were taking them for fools. I smiled, letting my hands rest flat on the glass table. “Actually, I think Ted’s idea is brilliant. I approve.” Hailey and I had built this firm from a dusty garage. The shareholders were our close friends, people who had mortgaged their homes to back us. To secure our early contracts, I had literally drunk myself into the ER twice, working eighty-hour weeks alongside Hailey, never daring to catch my breath. In my previous life, I changed the catering to save them. This time, I wanted to see how long this company would last when they served childhood drinks to ruthless venture capitalists. Ted launched into his presentation, puffing his chest out. I didn’t care to listen. I quietly slipped out of the back door. Finding an empty office down the hall, I dialed a number I knew by heart. “Well, Zach,” the voice on the other end said, rich and resonant. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Please tell me you’ve reconsidered my offer.” “I have,” I said, leaning against the window. “But I want absolute decision-making authority and veto power.” I heard the rustle of paper as Cassie sat up straight, her tone shifting from casual to intensely serious. “Whatever you want, Zach. It’s yours. Welcome aboard.” 2 As I stepped into the main corridor, I ran right into Hailey and Ted. “Zach, where did you disappear to?” Ted asked, his lower lip trembling slightly. “Is it because the board liked my proposal instead of yours? Did I ruin your spotlight? I’m so sorry, Zach… I didn’t mean to.” “It’s not your fault, Ted,” Hailey interrupted, her voice softening as she patted his shoulder. “You did great. It’s Zach who needs to grow up. He’s incredibly small-minded, and frankly, he owes you an apology.” I stared at her—the girl I had loved since we were children. I had been her shadow in school. She used to pretend to find me annoying, but she had always defended me. I remembered a time in high school when some older boys cornered me in an alley because they were jealous of our closeness. She had marched right in, small but fierce, throwing herself in front of me. “He’s my boyfriend!” she had yelled at them. “If any of you touch him, you’ll answer to me!” Now, her voice was cold and sharp. “Did you hear me, Zach? Apologize to Ted. For a senior executive, you have zero grace.” When I didn’t immediately answer, lost in the ghost of who she used to be, she lost her patience and shoved me. Caught off guard, I stumbled backward, my wrist slamming hard against the sharp corner of a heavy filing cabinet. A sickening pop echoed in the hallway, and agonizing pain shot up my arm. I gasped, clutching my swelling wrist, my face contorting. Hailey froze, a flicker of panic crossing her eyes. “Oh, please, Zach,” Ted sneered, rolling his eyes. “Nice performance. Hailey barely touched you. Anyone would think she just assaulted you.” The panic in Hailey’s eyes instantly vanished, replaced by disgust. “Get up, Zach. Stop making a scene.” Several board members began trickling out of the conference room, stopping when they saw us. “What’s going on here? Zach, did you upset Hailey again? You two are getting married soon—stop acting like a petulant teenager.” Ted immediately pivoted to his victim act, addressing the onlookers. “I’m sure Zach is just upset because my pitch was accepted. It’s okay. For the sake of the company, he can yell at me all he wants.” “Zach, why must you be so incredibly petty?” one shareholder scoffed. “You need to think about the bigger picture. Stop targeting the kid.” “Exactly. Ted’s proposal is fresh. It’s disruptive.” “Besides, we’re the top firm in our sector right now. So what if we serve them Capri Suns? Who else are they going to invest in if not us?” Listening to their arrogant chatter, I cradled my broken wrist and smiled inwardly. “I don’t have an issue with Ted’s presentation,” I said quietly. “In fact, I have some personal matters to attend to tomorrow. I won’t be attending the summit.” Hailey’s eyebrows knit together, her finger pointing sharply at my chest. “Zach, don’t you dare start throwing tantrums now. This is the most critical day of the fiscal year.” Oh, so you do know how critical it is. Without this funding, our accounts would be frozen by next month. “Seriously, Zach,” another board member chimed in. “Check your ego. Once we go public, Hailey’s net worth is going to skyrocket. If you keep acting like this, do you really think she’ll still want you?” “As a partner, you should be willing to sacrifice for the firm.” I looked at their smug faces. I was the one who negotiated every single major account. I was the one who drank until my stomach bled to seal those deals, and now I lived on prescription antacids. And because Hailey was insecure about her leadership, I had let her take all the credit. Now, they thought I was just a lucky tagalong living off her charity. Ted stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with opportunistic joy. “How about I handle the presentation tomorrow? Zach can just hand over his slides, and I’ll take it from there.” Hailey’s expression softened instantly. “Are you sure? That’s a lot of pressure, Ted.” “Anything for you and the company, Hailey. If Zach doesn’t want to do his job, I’m more than happy to step up.” “Do you hear him, Zach?” Hailey turned on me, her eyes burning with disappointment. “Look at Ted, then look at yourself. I am embarrassed to be associated with you. You’re fired. We don’t need you to keep this place running.” A few of the older board members looked slightly uneasy. 3 “Wait, is that wise?” one of them murmured. “The presentation is incredibly detailed. Zach is the only one who truly knows the numbers.” “Maybe Zach should still present. And if the Capri Suns are really a bad idea, we can just change them back.” “Yeah, let’s play it safe and use Zach’s original deck.” But Ted cut them off with absolute confidence. “Don’t worry, everyone. I’ve been shadowing Hailey on all major accounts. I know the business inside and out. It’ll be flawless.” Hailey nodded eagerly. “I trust him.” “And even if Ted misses a detail, I’ll be right there to back him up,” Hailey added, waving a dismissive hand. “Our metrics speak for themselves. Tomorrow is basically just a formality.” Her words acted like a soothing balm on the anxious shareholders, who began to nod in agreement. “Fine,” I said, my voice deadpan. “I’ll email you the slide deck.” I turned to leave, but Ted called out, his voice sharp and loud. “Wait, Zach can’t leave.” He turned to Hailey, putting on an anxious face. “Hailey, we can’t let him walk out like this. The summit is tomorrow. What if he tries to sabotage us? I don’t want to think the worst of people, but tomorrow is everything…” “He’s right,” a shareholder agreed, panic rising in his voice. “Zach clearly harbors resentment. What if he leaks our intellectual property to a competitor?” “We can’t let him leave. If the company goes under, I’ll lose everything. I’ll have to file for bankruptcy.” I stopped in my tracks, my jaw tightening. “I wouldn’t do that.” “Oh, and we’re just supposed to take your word for it?” Ted sneered. “We need to take his phone and lock him up until the meeting is over.” Before I could react, Hailey grabbed my arms from behind. She reached into my pocket, ripped my phone from my hand, and delivered a stinging slap across my face. Ted smirked down at me. “To make sure he doesn’t contact anyone, we should put him somewhere secure and quiet.” He snapped his fingers. “The cellar at Hailey’s townhouse. It’s got no cell service, and the walls are thick concrete.” At those words, the blood drained from my face. My body began to tremble violently. When I was five, my parents worked long hours, and our nanny would lock me in the dark basement of our old building so she could sneak out to play cards. One evening, a rabid stray dog squeezed through a broken window. I was trapped in the dark for hours, being mauled and bitten, before a seven-year-old Hailey heard my screams and ran in with a broom to chase it away. Ever since then, dark, enclosed spaces and dogs have been my ultimate, paralyzing terrors. “Hailey, please… not the basement,” I pleaded, my voice cracking. “I won’t sabotage you, I swear. Just don’t put me down there!” The townhouse was supposed to be our future home. She had promised me she would seal off the cellar entirely. Currently, the entrance was cluttered with construction materials. I clawed at the doorframe of the office as they dragged me toward the exit, tears streaming down my face. “Hailey, please! For the sake of everything we used to be, don’t do this to me! You know what’s down there!” One of the older board members looked uncomfortable. “Hailey, this seems a bit extreme. Why not just lock him in an upstairs bedroom?” I looked at her, hoping for a shred of humanity, but Ted stepped in. “An upstairs room has windows. He could easily escape or signal someone. Besides, it’s only for twenty-four hours. We’ll feed him. Why is he overacting like this unless he’s hiding something?” “No! Hailey, please, I’m begging you—” “Zach, stop lying,” Ted cut me off. “The cellar has lights. What’s there to be afraid of? Honestly, facing your childhood fears is supposed to be good for you anyway. If you keep fighting this, it only proves you want to ruin the deal.” The shareholders remained silent, looking away. Hailey gave me one final, cold shove, sending me tumbling down the stairs. 4 “We’ll let you out tomorrow after the contract is signed,” Hailey’s voice echoed from above. I scrambled back up, grabbing the edge of the heavy door. She didn’t hesitate; she slammed it shut. My fingers were caught in the jamb. A sickening crush of bone and flesh sent a wave of blinding pain straight to my chest. I screamed, instinctively pulling my hand back, and the heavy bolt clicked into place from the outside. The basement was pitch black. No light seeped through the cracks. Crying out in pain, I dragged my mangled fingers along the cold brick wall, searching for a light switch, but flipping it did nothing. The bulb was dead. The darkness pressed in on me like a physical weight. I curled into a tight ball in the corner, shaking uncontrollably as panic seized my lungs. I don’t know how many hours passed before I heard a heavy scraping sound outside. I dragged myself toward the door. It cracked open slightly, only to be slammed shut again instantly. But in that brief flash of light, I saw it. A massive, red-eyed mastiff had been shoved into the darkness with me. “No! Please!” The dark became a nightmare of snarling teeth and tearing flesh. I screamed, scrambling backward, but there was nowhere to hide. Sharp teeth sank deep into my thighs, my arms, my chest… As my vision began to fade into blackness, I hallucinated the sound of wood splintering, and a pair of strong hands lifting me out of the nightmare. When I finally opened my eyes, the smell of antiseptic filled my nose. I was in a hospital bed, wrapped tightly in heavy white bandages. Cassie was sitting in the chair beside me, her expression grim. “What on earth happened to you?” she asked, her voice tight with concern. “We had an appointment to sign the contract, but your phone went dead. I had to track your GPS signal to Hailey’s place. I could hear the dog barking and your screams from the street. Who did this to you, Zach?” I clenched my good hand into a fist, staring at the sunlight filtering through the blinds. “I’ll tell you everything later. Right now, help me find some clothes. I have a welcoming gift for your new firm.” They locked me up because they thought I’d ruin their investment. Well, now I was going to take it for myself. But when my car pulled up to our office building, my heart stopped. My mother was lying on the hot pavement near the entrance, foaming at the mouth, while a security guard callously threw a bucket of dirty water over her. “Get up, old lady!” the guard yelled. “We have cameras. You’re not getting a dime out of us with this fake heart attack routine!” “Seriously,” another guard laughed, nudging her with his boot. “Ted was right, these scammers are getting creative. It’s eighty-five degrees out here and she’s still playing dead.” “Maybe the water isn’t dirty enough. Let me go fetch some toilet water.” They laughed, completely oblivious to her gasps for air. Rage, pure and blinding, took over. I threw myself out of the car, slamming into the guards with all the strength I had left. “Get away from her! Get the hell away!” My mother’s lips were a terrifying shade of blue. She was in the middle of a massive cardiac arrest, and these monsters were torturing her. The guards stumbled back, shocked. “Wait… Zach? Is that your mom?” “We didn’t know! Hailey told us some crazy lady was trying to break into the building to harass Ted…” “Yeah, Ted told us to get rid of her by any means necessary…” Before I could strike them, they turned and ran inside. My hands shook violently as I knelt beside her. The memory of my past life—watching her die alone in that house—nearly choked me. “Call 911! Please, someone call an ambulance!” I screamed to the gathering crowd of onlookers, but they only stared, holding up their phones. “I’ve already called them,” Cassie said, running up behind me. She knelt down, gently wiping the dirty water from my mother’s face and placing a rolled-up jacket under her head. The sirens wailed in the distance. After an agonizing few minutes of CPR on the pavement, the paramedics managed to stabilize her heart rhythm. As they lifting her onto the gurney, her eyes fluttered open, tears spilling into her hair. “Zach… what’s happening with you and Hailey? I saw her… she was kissing another man in the lobby…” She gasped for air, clutching my hand. “That man… he told me you stole from the company and ran away. He said you were dead. I tried to ask Hailey, but he started screaming that I was attacking him…” My chest ached so deeply I could barely breathe. Hailey, whom my parents had raised like their own daughter when her own father abandoned her, had allowed this. “It’s okay, Mom,” I whispered, kissing her forehead. “I’m right here. Go to the hospital. I’m going to fix this.” Once the ambulance sped away, I went into the lobby bathroom, washed the blood and dirt off my face, straightened my clothes, and marched straight toward the executive boardroom. 5 Inside, the atmosphere was suffocating. The venture capitalists sat around the long mahogany table, their expressions sour. The projector was turned off. The room was hot because no one had bottled to turn on the AC beforehand. Files were scattered everywhere. Usually, I would have spent the morning preparing—setting the room temperature, testing the AV equipment, and arranging premium refreshments. Today, these multi-millionaire investors had been sitting in a stuffy room for forty-five minutes without so much as a glass of water. Just then, Ted strolled in, a smug grin on his face and a smear of red lipstick visibly smudged near his collar. “Apologies for the delay, everyone!” he chirped, placing his tray on the table. “I’ve personally prepared some nostalgic refreshments to break the ice!” He set down rows of juice boxes and bowls of Goldfish crackers. The investors’ faces turned as dark as thunder. One of the lead partners, a seasoned billionaire, slammed his heavy gold watch onto the table, the crack echoing like a gunshot. “What is the meaning of this circus?” he barked, turning to Hailey. “Is this a joke to you, Hailey? And where the hell is Zach?” Before Hailey could speak, Ted chimed in with a self-important grin. “Zachary has been terminated from the company.” “Terminated?” The investors exchanged incredulous glances. “Are you out of your mind? If Zach isn’t here, why are we even sitting in this room?”

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I ran into two of Ward’s childhood friends on the street—men I hadn’t seen in over two years. I was just about to step forward and wave when their voices drifted over, freezing me in my tracks. “So, Ward’s finally getting his happy ending,” one of them said, shaking his head. “Good for him. He deserves a fresh start.” “No kidding,” the other replied. “His first wife was such a tragedy. Dead so soon after they got married. It’s about time he moved on.” I stood there, the blood draining from my face. Dead? I’m standing right here, warm and breathing. How on earth am I dead? And what did they mean, remarrying? My son, Toby, is almost three. Ward and I had our wedding five years ago. Who exactly was he marrying? From their hushed gossiping, I caught a name: Cynthia. A woman I had never heard of in my life. I quietly noted the venue and the time of the wedding, then slipped away into the crowd. On Sunday, I drove to the luxury hotel downtown. The lobby was humming with noise, packed with dressed-up guests. I walked over to the reception desk for the bride’s side, pulled out two hundred-dollar bills, and slapped them onto the ledger table. The older gentleman holding the guest book looked up, pen poised. “Whose name should I put down, ma’am?” I bared my teeth in a cold, humorless smile. “Just write: ‘The Resurrected First Wife.’” ……………… 1 The gentleman gave me a sharp, annoyed look. “It’s a wedding day. Why say something so incredibly morbid?” I didn’t bother replying. I turned around and my eyes locked onto a massive, life-sized canvas print on an easel near the entrance. The man in the tuxedo was my husband. The woman in the cascading lace gown was a complete stranger. The photo was gorgeous—the kind of high-end editorial shoot that cost a small fortune. Years ago, I had suggested we do something similar. “Wedding photos are just a pointless formality,” Ward had said, brushing me off. “Paying that much is a waste of money.” “As long as we love each other and build a good life, that’s what matters.” So, we had gone to a dusty, budget studio in a strip mall down the street. We chose the cheapest package they offered. Looking around the foyer, I spotted several familiar faces. They were all Ward’s relatives. My stomach twisted. He was doing this right in front of them. He was openly, shamelessly celebrating a double life, and his entire family was in on it. I glanced toward the head table inside the ballroom, and the last of the warmth left my body. Sitting at the VIP table, dressed in their absolute best, were Ward’s parents—my mother and father-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Warren. Relatives were lining up to congratulate them. My mother-in-law’s face was flushed red with pride, her laughter ringing out across the room. Fragments of their conversation drifted through the open doors. “Cynthia is such a lovely girl. You can tell she’s going to bring so much prosperity to your family. You two are going to be so spoiled!” My mother-in-law beamed, her chest swelling. “Oh, absolutely! Ever since Ward met her, his career has just taken off. Every year is better than the last. She’s not like the first one—no luck, a short life, a total jinx on our household. But let’s not ruin such a beautiful day by talking about her…” Her words felt like a physical blow to my chest, a dull knife carving out my ribcage. For six years, I had treated them with nothing but respect and devotion. I had cleaned their house, cooked their meals, and anticipated their every need. And to them, I was nothing but a “jinx.” If I was truly a jinx, their graves would have been overgrown with weeds by now. My father-in-law nodded in agreement. “I told Ward from the very beginning that he shouldn’t marry her!” Who? Me? “Well, she didn’t ask for a single penny for a wedding gift or a down payment,” my mother-in-law snorted. “Otherwise, she never would have set foot in our house. You get what you pay for, after all. That’s why we were so careful this time. A hundred-thousand-dollar wedding gift! Now this is a daughter-in-law we are proud of.” So that was my crime. Because I had been considerate of their financial struggles, because I hadn’t demanded a lavish dowry or a massive house fund, I was cheap. I was a freebie they could look down on. Meanwhile, Cynthia had demanded a hundred thousand dollars, and they had practically tripped over themselves to give it to her. It was so profoundly unfair that my hands began to shake. I wanted to tear into the ballroom and scream at them, but I forced my fingers to unclench. I would settle that account soon enough. I turned on my heel and walked toward the bridal suite. The door was slightly ajar. The bride was standing in the center of the room, surrounded by her bridesmaids, putting the finishing touches on her veil. Cynthia noticed me stepping into the doorway. She offered me a warm, radiant smile. “Are you one of Ward’s colleagues from the office?” My blood boiled, but I forced a tight, polite nod. “Yes. Something like that.” One of the bridesmaids reached out, gently taking Cynthia’s hand, her eyes locked onto the sparkling diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist. “Cynthia, you are so incredibly lucky. Ward really spared no expense, did he? This bracelet must have cost six figures.” “He insisted,” Cynthia said, her fingers tracing the diamonds as a soft, dreamlike smile spread across her face. “He told me a wedding is once in a lifetime, and he wanted me to have the very best.” My heart felt hollow, like a cavern carved out by ice. When Ward and I got married, we had nothing. I had suggested buying simple wedding bands so we’d have something to show for our commitment. “Why waste money on something you can’t eat or wear?” he had said. “You’re not that kind of materialistic girl, Paige.” When he saw how deflated I was, he kissed my forehead and promised, “Once my salary goes up, I’ll buy you the biggest ring you’ve ever seen.” His career did take off. He got promotions, his pay increased, and every year at bonus time, he would buy me a single small gold bar, telling me it was a secure investment—our safety net for Toby and me. But wait. Where did he get the money for Cynthia’s six-figure bracelet? Ward’s salary was deposited directly into our joint account. I saw the paystubs every month. He made $8,000 after taxes. He transferred $6,500 to me for the mortgage and bills, keeping $1,500 for his own expenses. “I heard your husband’s company is incredibly profitable,” another bridesmaid chimed in, her voice dripping with envy. “They say his annual executive dividends alone are over half a million dollars. He could buy you ten of those bracelets and not even blink.” Dividends? We had been married for nearly six years, and I had absolutely no idea he owned corporate equity, let alone half a million dollars in annual payouts. I had trusted his neat, official-looking paystubs. I had never questioned him. And all the while, he was sitting on a fortune. Cynthia suddenly turned her gaze back to me. “Since you work with him, you must know how much he actually makes,” she said playfully. “Tell me the truth—does he have a secret stash? I need to know so I can keep him honest after today.” A dull pain throbbed behind my temples. How much does he make? The woman standing in front of me knew the truth better than I did. The lion’s share of his wealth had been funneled directly into her life. A six-figure diamond bracelet, a lavish venue—things I hadn’t even dared to dream of. And here she was, asking me to help her keep track of his money. The muscles in my jaw twitched. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. Sensing the sudden, heavy silence, Cynthia tried to ease the tension with a nervous laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe that’s confidential. It’s fine!” She adjusted her veil. “Actually, I think I’ve met almost all of Ward’s close coworkers, but you’re a new face. Are you recently hired?” I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. “Yes. I’m quite new. I don’t know much about Ward’s actual income.” One of the younger bridesmaids sighed, leaning against the vanity. “Honestly, your husband is just too perfect. He’s handsome, successful, makes a ton of money, and he doesn’t even smoke.” Cynthia let out a soft giggle. “Oh, he used to smoke like a chimney! He only quit because he wanted us to have a healthy honeymoon baby. He went cold turkey just for that.” My hand shook so violently I nearly dropped my phone. During my first trimester with Toby, my morning sickness was so severe that the mere whiff of cigarette smoke would send me sprinting to the bathroom. I had begged Ward to quit. He told me it was impossible—that he needed to smoke for networking and stress management at work. Then, three months ago, he suddenly threw all his lighters and packs into the trash. He had looked me in the eye and said, “I know you’ve been worried about second-hand smoke. For you and Toby, I’m putting them down for good.” I had been so touched. I had cried tears of gratitude, believing my husband loved us enough to change. But he hadn’t done it for us. He had done it for her. “Sorry,” Cynthia said, giving me an apologetic smile. “They just love to tease me.” The room seemed to tilt. The sheer scale of the deception washed over me, and before I could stop myself, the words slipped out. “Are you really that sure about him? What if he has another life? What if he’s married to someone else right now?” Cynthia’s smile vanished. She stared at me, her eyes widening. “Excuse me? What is that supposed to mean?” The bridesmaids immediately bristled, stepping forward defensively. “Wow. Just because your own husband is a cheater doesn’t mean you get to project your bitterness onto everyone else.” I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “You know what? You’re absolutely right.” Cynthia looked at me with a faint trace of pity, her chin lifting slightly. “My Ward isn’t like other men. He would never betray me.” “Really? If he’s so perfect and devoted, where is he? The ceremony is supposed to start soon, and the groom is nowhere to be found.” “He’s picking up some of his college friends from the airport,” Cynthia replied smoothly. “They flew in from out of state just for this. He’ll be back any minute.” Right on cue, her phone buzzed on the vanity. She snatched it up, her face instantly softening. “Hey, baby! Where are you?” The bridesmaids quieted down, and because of the silence in the room, Ward’s voice drifted clearly through the speaker. “Almost there, sweetheart. I’m just pulling into the parking lot. I can’t believe I finally get to make you my wife today. I’m so excited.” Cynthia’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink. “Drive safely. Focus on the road.” The bridesmaids squealed in unison as soon as she hung up. “Oh my god, did you hear him? You guys have been together for five years and he’s still this obsessed with you!” “Well, when you only get to spend half the year together, you learn to cherish every moment,” Cynthia murmured, a soft sigh escaping her lips. It felt like a physical blow to the back of my head. My ears began to ring. Five years. They had been together for five years. I wondered if I was simply the stupidest woman alive, or if he was just that brilliant of an actor. No, he wasn’t a genius. I had just trusted him blindly. I had believed his lies about corporate restructuring, his claims that he had to rotate out of state every other month to secure a promotion. I had supported him. I had done everything in my power not to hold him back. I had carried the entire weight of our household alone—working my job, cooking, cleaning, raising our toddler. I had never complained, not even once, because I believed we were building a future together. I remembered nights when Toby had a high fever, and I had sat alone in the ER waiting room until dawn, holding my crying baby, terrified to call Ward because I didn’t want to wake him up before his “big meetings.” And all that time, his “out-of-state business trips” were just him playing house with another woman. The bridesmaids continued to gush. “Seriously, Cynthia, your man is a unicorn. Handsome, rich, doesn’t smoke, totally devoted, and he actually speaks your love language. Does he have any flaws? Tell us one, just so we don’t die of jealousy!” Cynthia laughed, shaking her head. “Honestly? The only thing I can think of is that he’s completely obsessed with making me these healthy herbal broths every single morning. He gets up at dawn just to simmer them for me.” Another wave of nausea hit me. In six years of marriage, Ward Warren had never made me breakfast. Not once. When I was heavily pregnant with Toby, my belly so large I could barely bend down to tie my shoes, he had promised to make breakfast. He managed to burn three pots of oatmeal in a row. No matter how patiently I tried to teach him, he claimed he simply didn’t have the coordination for cooking. I had genuinely believed he was just helpless in the kitchen. It wasn’t a lack of ability. It was a lack of love. I stood frozen, the coldness spreading through my veins. The bridesmaids insisted she give them a real flaw, accusing her of humble-bragging. Cynthia bit her lip, her expression turning uncharacteristically solemn. “Actually… there is one thing. Please promise me you won’t ever bring it up to him.” They all leaned in. “Ward was married once before,” Cynthia whispered. “But his ex-wife and their little boy… they were killed in a terrible car accident a couple of years ago. It absolutely broke him. He still can’t talk about it.” In an instant, the blood rushed to my head, hot and deafening. My knuckles turned white as I clenched my fists. He hadn’t just written me out of his life. He had killed off our son. Our beautiful, sweet little Toby, who just yesterday had been giggling, climbing all over Ward’s back, telling him he was his favorite person in the world. To make room for his new bride, Ward had erased his own flesh and blood. The sheer, monstrous cruelty of it left me gasping for air. I was about to step forward and blow the whole room apart when my phone vibrated in my hand. It was my mother-in-law. The bridesmaids turned to look at me. I stepped back out into the quiet corridor before answering. “Paige,” her voice came through, sharp and demanding. “I need you to wire me ten thousand dollars. Immediately. It’s an emergency.” “An emergency, Mom? What kind of emergency costs ten grand?” “I told you about this before!” she snapped, her voice hushed but frantic. “Your father and I are helping host a wedding for a family friend’s son. They’ve asked us to be the godparents, and we have to give a proper cash blessing. Ten thousand dollars is the standard for a respectable family. Just transfer it now, they’re waiting.” Godparents. A ten-thousand-dollar “godparent gift.” I knew exactly what that money was for. It was Cynthia’s welcome gift. They were trying to fund their new daughter-in-law’s wedding present with my money. When Ward and I got married, my mother-in-law had handed me a card with exactly two hundred dollars in it. The hypocrisy was staggering. “Mom,” I said, my voice deadpan and icy. “Is this new godchild of yours going to be the one taking care of you on your deathbed?” There was a sharp intake of breath. “What on earth is wrong with you? Why are you bringing up deathbeds on a day like this? Have you lost your mind?” “I’ve just never heard of a godparent gift costing ten thousand dollars,” I replied smoothly. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to pay off a massive welcome gift for a secret daughter-in-law.” The line went completely dead. For a few agonizing seconds, there was only silence. Then, my mother-in-law exploded, her voice screeching through the receiver. “How dare you speak to me like that! You always play the sweet, obedient wife, but the moment we ask for a little help, your true colors come out! Let me remind you, my son is the one who makes the real money in your house. I can spend his money however I please, and you have absolutely no right to lecture me!” “Your son brings home sixty-five hundred dollars a month,” I said, my voice rising. “That money pays for our mortgage, our car, and your grandson’s preschool. And don’t forget, I work too. I make just as much as he does.” “Fine! You think you’re so smart!” she spat, and slammed the phone down. I took a deep breath, smoothed down my dress, and turned back toward the bridal suite. Through the door, I heard Cynthia’s excited voice. “My mother-in-law just texted me! She said they couldn’t get the cash out in time, so they’re giving me five physical gold bars instead as a welcoming gift!” “Oh my god! Gold bars? That is so old-school and romantic!” My stomach dropped. Five gold bars. The exact number of gold bars Ward had given me over the years as our “anniversary savings.” They had stolen them right out of our safe. The bridesmaids cheered, but my heart had turned to stone. Go ahead and laugh, I thought. Enjoy the music. Because in about ten minutes, this fairytale is going to end. A commotion at the end of the hall caught my attention. Ward was walking toward the ballroom, surrounded by a group of laughing groomsmen. The wedding march began to play from the grand ballroom. Cynthia stepped out, holding her bouquet, and began her slow, elegant walk toward the double doors. Ward was already standing at the altar, his posture perfect, his face glowing with a triumphant, happy smile as he waited for his bride. Before Cynthia could even reach the threshold of the room, I bypassed the ushers, pushed through the heavy double doors, and walked straight down the center aisle. I stepped onto the raised altar, grabbed the wireless microphone from the podium, and turned to face my husband. “Honey,” I said, my voice echoing clearly through the massive speakers. “How could you have a wedding this beautiful and forget to invite your own wife?”

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I was browsing a popular lifestyle app, looking up private maternity clinics, when a highly upvoted post caught my eye. “My boyfriend wants me to give birth at the exact same hospital as his wife. He said we should swap the babies when they’re born so our son can grow up inheriting everything and living the best life. Should I agree?” The thread was flooded with over a hundred thousand outraged comments, but the original poster was completely unbothered. She had even pinned her own response at the top of the comment section: “I don’t see what’s so wrong with this. She took my spot in his life, so my son will take her son’s spot in the family. It’s only fair. What goes around comes around!” “You can scream all you want, but you’re just jealous. To make sure I never get caught, he even changed his office security code to my birthday. Die mad about it, sweeties.” I stood outside my husband’s office door, the quiet of the corridor pressing in on me. Slowly, I reached out and typed in the passcode—the one that had always been set to my own birthday. Two harsh, high-pitched beeps chimed. Access Denied. Incorrect Passcode. A second later, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from Gavin. [In a meeting. Don’t just barge in.] Almost immediately, the girl’s profile refreshed. It was a selfie of her lounging on the custom leather sofa inside my husband’s office. “She gets the house, but I get the office. The old hag is locked out and probably about to throw a tantrum. Poor baby, my sweet boss has to deal with so much.” I raised an eyebrow, a cold, hollow numbness settling over me. Without shedding a single tear, I opened my medical app and booked an abortion. Then, I dialed my parents. I was done with the parasitic husband my family had built up. He wanted a plaything; he could have her. But he wasn’t going to touch another cent of the Webster fortune ever again. … 1 After making the calls, I walked down the hall to an empty conference room, sat down, and began scrolling through her profile from the very beginning. Her earliest post was from a year ago. She had posted a picture of her new employee ID, her caption bursting with naive excitement. “Late on my very first day! I accidentally ran into the private executive elevator, but the CEO is so handsome and sweet. He didn’t even get mad—he actually gave me an exclusive keycard!” Two months later, she posted her promotion. Her new title: Executive Assistant to the CEO. “Promotion and a massive raise! Financial freedom is just around the corner. Too bad my personal freedom is gone, because he told me he wants to keep me by his side forever.” After that, her feed became a gallery of luxury handbags, designer dresses, and jewelry. Right up until six months ago. Six months ago, I had successfully secured our expansion into the European market. I flew back to surprise Gavin at the office, bringing high-end pastries for the entire staff. The entire office had crowded around, eager to catch a glimpse of the real heiress who funded the company. “My world is ending. The old hag is back to mark her territory. Thank god he got rid of her quickly, or I swear I would’ve burst into tears right there.” I remembered that day vividly. Gavin had looked at me with such performative tenderness, insisting I must be exhausted from the flight, and ordered his driver to take me home immediately. I had gone home feeling so loved, thinking he was finally learning how to care for me. Now I knew the truth. He was just managing his mistress’s insecurities. Two months ago, she posted another complaint. “Damn him, damn him, damn him! He promised he’d never touch her, but the old hag just posted a positive pregnancy test. Gavin, you jerk, I’m never speaking to you again!” In the quiet of the conference room, I opened my personal social media and scrolled back to that day. I had struggled with fertility for years. When the test finally turned positive, I was so overcome with joy that I shared it with my close friends. Within minutes, Gavin had called, his voice tight and strangely angry as he told me to delete it. He claimed it was bad luck, that early announcements put too much pressure on the baby. It wasn’t about the baby at all. It was about sparing his mistress’s feelings. The very next day, Amber posted a selfie from a luxury hotel bed. “He promised to make it up to me by giving me a baby of our own. We spent the whole day in bed. My back is literally sore.” That was the day I had experienced spotting and minor cramping. I had called Gavin repeatedly, but he never picked up. When he finally came home, he fell to his knees, begging for forgiveness, claiming he had been blacked out at a client dinner and his phone had suffered water damage. And like a fool, I had believed him. Shortly after, Amber posted her own positive test. “As a reward for getting pregnant, my favorite guy is taking me on a trip around the world!” Around that time, my family’s restructuring was hitting its most critical phase, and I was working eighteen-hour days. Out of nowhere, Gavin allegedly got into a car accident and suffered temporary amnesia. His “doctor” recommended he avoid all stress and take a relaxing trip to recover his memory. I booked first-class tickets and five-star resorts for him, while I stayed behind, heavily pregnant, managing a multi-million-dollar transition alone. Two months later, he returned, weeping as he told me his memory had finally returned and that he would devote himself entirely to me. There was no memory loss. It was just a pathetic, elaborate lie to spend a two-month honeymoon with his pregnant mistress. A profound, chilling cold spread through my chest as I kept reading. “While the old hag is away, my CEO brought me to their master bedroom for some fun. Her stupid cat scratched me, so I kicked it to death. Oops, teehee.” My breath caught. My beloved cat, Barnaby, who had supposedly “slipped out the door and run away” while I was overseas. I had cried for weeks, putting up flyers in the rain. He hadn’t run away. They had murdered him. “To make sure we give birth at the exact same time, my CEO is secretly giving her medication to slow down her baby’s development. I asked if it would hurt the kid, and he said it didn’t matter. After all, her baby is going to be swapped into my hands anyway, to do with as I please. He’s so bad, and I’m so in love.” Goosebumps broke out over my arms as I pictured the “prenatal vitamins” Gavin hand-delivered to me with a glass of warm water every single night. Right then, the heavy glass door of the conference room swung open. Amber stood there, her Executive Assistant badge dangling against her chest, offering me a sweet, practiced smile. “Mrs. Webster… oh, sorry, ma’am. Mr. Webster is finished with his meeting. He asked me to escort you to his office.” I offered a thin, calm smile, stood up, and walked over to her. I raised my hand. She flinched, covering her face and shrinking back, but I merely redirected my hand and ripped the keycard badge right off her collar. “Amber, is it? As of this second, you are fired.” Amber frozen, her wide, doe-like eyes instantly filling with tears. “I am Gavin’s personal assistant. Even if you are his wife, you don’t have the authority to bypass him and fire me.” I looked at her trembling lips, raised my hand again, and this time, the slap connected with her cheek, sharp and echoing. Amber stumbled back, clutching her face, her eyes practically bulging out of her head. “You hit me! How dare you!” I looked down at her with pure disgust and laughed. Gavin was nothing but a charity case my family had set up in business. This entire firm was built from the crumbs of my family’s empire, handed to him so he could play at being a CEO. Everything in this building belonged to me. There was nothing I couldn’t dare to do. “Go on. Call your protector. I want you to watch how quickly Gavin grovels at my feet like a well-trained dog.” Before the words even left my mouth, Gavin came storming down the hallway. I waited for the usual performance—the stammering apologies, the frantic pleading. But to my surprise, Gavin pulled Amber straight into his chest, shielding her from me. “Apologize to her,” he barked. I stared at him, genuinely stunned. In the past, Gavin had been acutely aware of his place. He was the kept husband; he was always deferential, always eager to please, putting my needs above everything else. Had he lived the high life for so long that he had actually lost his mind? Seeing my disbelief, Gavin reached out, caught the back of my neck with a brutal grip, and forced my head down, forcing me to bow to Amber. The moment he let go, I whipped around and slapped him twice, hard enough to leave angry red marks on his jaw. “Gavin! Have you lost your mind?” Gavin didn’t flinch. Instead, he looked at me with a smirk, a slow, ugly confidence spreading across his face. “Ella, do you honestly still think you’re the untouchable heiress of the Webster empire? Don’t play dumb. I know your family’s holding company has been liquidated and delisted. You are completely broke, Ella. You have nothing.” “Since you’re taking your anger out on Amber, you clearly know about us. So let’s lay it out. You can keep your title as my wife. You can live in luxury. But you will raise Amber’s child as your own, and you will treat him like royalty.” He stood there, smug and superior, waiting for me to break and accept his terms. But we hadn’t gone bankrupt. We had merely pulled our capital out of the domestic market to consolidate our multi-billion-dollar European merger. During his supposed “amnesia trip,” I hadn’t bothered to explain the complex financial restructuring to him, wanting to protect his “frail recovery.” And because of his own ignorance, he assumed my family had fallen. He waited until I was three months pregnant to show his true, parasitic colors. In a strange way, a wave of relief washed over me. If not for this misunderstanding, I would have spent my entire life in the dark, happily raising a mistress’s child while being poisoned by the man I trusted. “I want a divorce.” I wasn’t going to waste my breath. I turned to walk away, but Amber grabbed my wrist. Her face was a mask of innocence, but her eyes gleamed with malice. “Ella, please don’t be mad at Gavin. He’s just protective. He doesn’t want you hurting my baby.” Staring at the mocking glint in her eyes, I didn’t hesitate. I slapped her twice more, hard. “And what if I do? What are you going to do about it?” Tears welled in Amber’s eyes instantly. She gasped, clutching her stomach with a theatrical groan. Gavin lost his mind. With a low growl, he shoved me back. I was completely off-balance. My lower back slammed violently against the sharp edge of the mahogany conference table. A searing, white-hot pain flared through my abdomen, and the world dissolved into blackness.

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On my birthday, my husband presented me with a rare antique vase—the very piece he knew I coveted above all else. The moment his back was turned, I slipped three wax-sealed sulfuric acid capsules inside. I did it because I had died once before. And this time, I had returned. In my past life, I cherished this vase. I touched it every single day, mesmerized by its smooth glaze and elegant form. But as the days passed, my health began to fail, leaving me bedridden and weak. Eventually, the doctors ran out of answers, and there was no cure left to try. What I never expected was that after exactly forty-nine days, a woman with a perfectly sculpted face would step out of the porcelain vessel. She took over my body, slept with my husband in our marriage bed, and left my soul trapped in the cold, dark ceramic forever. From the dark depths of the vase, I was forced to listen to them whispering in the dark. “Don’t worry, she’s never getting out,” Daphne whispered to him, her voice dripping with malice. “The vessel has bound her soul. I have her body now. Gradually, my own face, my own figure, my youth will settle into this flesh. We’ll just tell everyone I had some extensive plastic surgery. No one will ever suspect a thing.” “Letting you have her body is the only useful thing she’s ever done,” Christian replied, kissing her. “What was she going to do with a failing health anyway? She’s better off dead. Now, the Mercer fortune is ours.” “Do you think she’d die if the vase broke?” Daphne mused. “Why don’t we find out?” Christian sneered. Daphne tossed the vase onto the marble floor. And my soul shattered into a million pieces… Reborn into this life, I couldn’t help but smile. That vase of yours is so good at containing things, isn’t it? Let’s see how much it can hold. 1 The rustling of the sycamore leaves outside the window woke me. I bolted upright from the massive, plush waterbed, my heart clenched by an invisible fist. The phantom pain was so excruciating I could barely breathe. Cold sweat soaked through my silk nightgown. It wasn’t a dream. I stared at my hands—pale, smooth, unwrinkled. I was alive. I had returned. Three months before it all ended. I was back in the bedroom where the nightmare began, on the very day Christian was supposed to bring that lethal vase into our home. “Ma’am? Are you alright?” My personal assistant and bodyguard, Maeve, rushed in, holding my schedule for the day, her face pale with concern. I tried to speak, but my throat was parched, unable to make a sound. The memories flooded back. In my past life, I had kept that vase on my nightstand, lovingly wiping it down every morning. By the forty-ninth night, my soul was violently ripped from my chest and shoved into that icy clay. Daphne, the parasitic spirit bound to the vessel, stole my life, my husband, and my family fortune. And when she grew tired of looking at the vase, she shattered it, leaving me with nothing—not even a ghost of a physical form. “Ma’am, you’re so pale. Did you have a nightmare?” Maeve handed me a glass of warm water. I took the glass, my fingers trembling against the cool glass. In the vanity mirror, I saw my reflection: young, vibrant, untouched by death. Bianca Mercer. The reigning matriarch of the Mercer Group. In this life, I wasn’t a trapped ghost yet. “Maeve,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “Where is Christian?” “He said he’s on his way back. He mentioned he has a grand birthday surprise for you.” I clenched my fists. A grand surprise indeed. Just then, footsteps echoed down the hallway—steady, arrogant, carrying the weight of a man who believed he owned the world. Christian was back. He wore a tailored Italian suit, but instead of a gift box, he carefully carried an object draped in heavy red velvet. A small entourage of eager house staff followed closely behind him. “Bianca, darling, how are you feeling?” Christian walked to the edge of the bed, his voice slick with a greasy warmth that made my stomach turn. “The maids said you screamed. Are you unwell?” Unwell? I was scared to death by the two of you. I dug my fingernails into my palms, using the physical pain to keep myself grounded. I couldn’t drop my guard yet. “I’m fine, sweetie,” I said, forcing the obedient, gentle smile I had spent a lifetime perfecting. “Just a silly nightmare.” Christian paused, a flicker of cunning crossing his eyes before he smoothed it over with a practiced look of adoration. “Silly girl,” he cooed, placing the velvet-draped object on my nightstand. “That’s why I found this for you. A protective treasure. Your birthday is tomorrow, and since you adore fine porcelain, I knew this would suit you better than any diamond.” He slowly pulled back the red velvet. The morning light caught the object. It was a rare, exquisite Qing Dynasty underglaze red and gold-traced oil-hammer vase. It had an extremely narrow neck, a long slender throat, and a dangerously swollen, rounded belly. The deep red glaze looked ominous, and the gold leaf trace lines shimmered like veins under the bedroom chandelier. “Oh, my God, it’s gorgeous!” Daisy, a young maid known for her loose tongue, gasped from the doorway. “It really is,” Martha, the cook, chimed in with a sycophantic grin. “Sir is so devoted to you, ma’am! It looks like a museum piece. Having this in your room will surely bring good energy and ward off any illness!” “Absolutely,” Walter, the head housekeeper, applauded. “Sir went to great lengths to acquire this. Ma’am, you must touch it, feel the craftsmanship.” The servants kept prattling on, their faces filled with envy, completely unaware that this beautiful object was a beautifully packaged death warrant. Every blessing they uttered felt like another nail driven into my coffin. I looked at Christian. He looked smug, clearly pleased by the servants’ reactions. He was using their presence to pressure me. If I refused the gift now, I would look ungrateful and superstitious. In my past life, I had fallen for this exact trap. I had polished it daily, believing his lies about its protective energy. But that swollen belly and narrow neck weren’t meant to collect wealth—they were meant to trap a soul. Exactly forty-nine days of “nourishment” was all it took. “Do you like it?” Christian asked, watching my expression closely. “Underglaze red is the hardest to fire. Look at that depth.” I reached out, stopping just a millimeter before my fingers touched the cold glaze. I pressed my hand to my mouth, playing the part of a deeply moved, slightly superstitious wife. “Oh, honey, it’s beautiful. But… I’ve heard that highly valuable antiques carry a certain heavy energy. It… it won’t bring bad luck, will it?” “Of course not,” Christian said quickly. He grabbed my hand and pressed it firmly against the bulging ceramic belly. The icy touch sent a shiver down my spine. “I had it blessed by a spiritual master. He said that if you personally tend to it and keep it by your bedside for exactly forty-nine days, it will protect you. But remember, darling—you must be the only one to handle it. No one else.” Forty-nine days. Personally tend to it. Hearing the familiar script made my blood boil, but I kept my smile bright. If you want me to feed it, Christian, I’ll feed it well. “If it’s our guardian treasure,” I said, eyes sparkling with fake adoration, “I will place it in the most important spot in our room.” The moment Christian left the room, I summoned Maeve. “Ma’am, what are your orders?” she asked, her eyes sharp. “I need you to find an esoteric priest. Get me a set of protective garments—something I can wear under my clothes, woven with protective wards and blessed scriptures.” Maeve paused, then nodded. “Right away, ma’am.” Half an hour later, Maeve returned with a set of custom-made, silk-blend undergarments, lined with protective symbols. “This might get quite warm to wear constantly, ma’am,” Maeve noted quietly. “Being warm is better than being dead,” I replied, smoothing down the fabric. “I want Daphne to realize that the body she intends to steal won’t be so easily taken.” Now, it was time to feed the vase. I whispered a few instructions to Maeve. “Ma’am, are you sure?” Maeve hesitated. “This is an incredibly rare artifact…” “Did I ask for your opinion, Maeve? Just do it.” Maeve bowed her head and slipped out. Soon, she returned with a bouquet of fresh, thorny red roses, and… a small bucket of highly concentrated, fermented organic manure. I had her pour the liquefied manure straight into the neck of the pristine vase, then stuffed the long, thorn-heavy stems of the roses deep inside. The thorns scraped against the delicate interior walls with a faint, satisfying screech. The putrid stench of the manure immediately filled the room, making us gag. “Perfect,” I whispered, covering my nose. “Now it’s serving its true purpose.” The witching hour arrived. I hid in the darkest corner beneath the bed, holding my breath, staring up at the vase on the nightstand. The red glaze began to glow with an eerie, unnatural light, casting long shadows across the ceiling. In my past life, I would have been asleep, my soul slowly drifting into the porcelain. But tonight, I wore the blessed garments. The red light swept over my hiding spot, but it hit an invisible shield and bounced back. Then, the door creaked open. Christian slipped inside. He didn’t look at the bed. He looked straight at the figure emerging from the vase—Daphne’s spirit, manifesting in a translucent, flickering form. “Daphne, my love,” he whispered, throwing himself into her arms. They immediately began their shameful tryst on my bed. Beneath the bed, my fingernails dug deep into the carpet. But the real show was about to start. Just as they reached the height of their passion, Daphne let out a blood-curdling shriek. “Ahhh!!!” Christian froze. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” “It hurts… it hurts so much!” Daphne gasped, her spiritual form violently shuddering. “There’s something sharp inside me! It’s tearing me apart!” Of course it did. The thorny roses stuffed inside the vase were physically and spiritually tearing at her essence from the inside out. “Just bear with it…” Christian muttered, though he, too, was beginning to grimace.

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My influencer roommate thought that by destroying my lab samples, she could steal my spot in the prestigious Broad Institute fellowship. She poured nine months of my engineered bacterial culture straight down the drain. And she livestreamed the whole thing. “Hey guys, my roommate keeps her rotten yogurt in our room. It’s so gross.” … 1 During the final review meeting, I quietly slid my phone across the polished table to Dean Crane. On the screen, my roommate, Gina, was holding up my glass beaker. She smirked directly at the camera. “See? This is the little pet project she treats like gold. She never lets anyone touch it, acting all mysterious.” Her voice was laced with easy disdain as she complained to her followers on the other side of the screen. “I think it’s time we see what’s actually in here.” Then, against a rolling tide of laughing emojis in the live chat, she tilted the beaker. Without a second thought, she poured the milky-white culture directly into the dorm sink. The harsh, rushing sound of the water came through the phone’s speaker, sharp and grating. She tapped her long, red-manicured fingernails against the empty glass. “Nothing special. Just smells sour. Completely worthless.” The video paused. Dean Crane’s face had gone rigid, his jaw clenched tight as he looked up from the screen. His voice was thick with suppressed anger. “What exactly was in that beaker?” “An L7-strain engineered culture,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “It was the core of my synthetic bio-fermentation project. And according to the Broad Institute’s final defense requirements, it was the mandatory live specimen I had to submit today.” Beside him, Professor Davies, who had always mentored my research, stood up so fast his chair legs shrieked against the linoleum. “The live culture is gone? Laurel, do you have a backup?” I looked down at the mahogany table, my eyes burning. “No, Professor Davies. That was the final batch. It was also the one with the highest yield.” Nine months. Two hundred and seventy days and nights. I had screened exactly one hundred and seven colonies, burned out three shaking incubators, and tossed out six ruined batches of growth media. Every failed attempt meant thousands of dollars of grant money vanishing into thin air. I had practically lived in the lab just to get the yield above the required threshold. If I passed the defense today, I was supposed to secure the single doctoral fellowship spot at the Broad Institute. My advisor had already made the introductions. It was the only spot in the entire department. Now, the beaker was empty. The culture was gone. The path I had spent nine agonizing months paving had just been washed down the sewer lines. Dean Crane’s composure cracked, his eyes dark with fury. “Who did this?” I looked past him, through the glass wall of the conference room and out into the hallway. Gina was standing at the far end of the corridor. She was wearing a brand-new white eyelet dress, looking like a picture-perfect garden party guest, waiting around just to watch my defense fall apart. When she caught me looking, she smiled through the glass—a tiny, mocking tilt of her lips. I turned back to the dean. “My roommate, Gina.” When they called Gina into the room, she strolled in with an air of complete indifference. She gave me a brief, dismissive glance before turning a soft, innocent face toward Dean Crane. “Dean Crane, Professor Davies, thank you for seeing me,” she said, her voice dropping into a gentle, sweet register. “I really had no idea that was an important experiment. Laurel is always keeping random jars and bottles in our room.” She knit her brow, looking like a child trying hard to remember. “The beaker was just sitting on the edge of the desk. It smelled incredibly sour, so I honestly thought it was a spoiled drink.” A cold laugh nearly bubbled up in my throat. A spoiled drink? That wasn’t what she’d told her stream. Besides, the beaker had three separate layers of waterproof lab tape wrapped around it, labeled in thick, red Sharpie. L7 EXPERIMENTAL SAMPLE. DO NOT TOUCH. LIVE CULTURE. To say she didn’t see it was a lie so bold it was almost impressive. Dean Crane tapped his pen against the desk, his tone cutting. “Then why did you feel the need to livestream yourself throwing it away?” Gina bit her lower lip. “I… I was just sharing my daily dorm life. I’m a beauty and lifestyle creator. My followers love seeing the raw, behind-the-scenes stuff. I really didn’t notice what was written on the glass.” I couldn’t listen to her spin it anymore. “You held the camera on the beaker for fifteen seconds,” I said, my voice cutting through her performance. “And you read the label out loud. You said, ‘Do not touch? How pretentious.’” Gina’s expression didn’t even flicker. She turned on me, entirely defensive. “I was joking with my chat! That’s just the humor of the stream. And honestly, don’t you have some responsibility here? Who keeps biohazardous materials in a shared dorm room anyway?” “The entire biology building had a scheduled power outage starting at eleven last night,” I replied, keeping my voice level. “I logged an emergency request with the department and posted the approval in our floor group. I told you three times face-to-face that I had to keep the incubator in our room for twelve hours.” Gina rolled her eyes. “I had my AirPods in. I didn’t hear a word. Besides, I’m not your research advisor or your lab tech. Why is it my job to guard your stuff?” In the silence of the room, the professors exchanged troubled looks. It was so incredibly familiar. Last semester, when she stole my preliminary thesis presentation slides and slapped her own name on them for a state-level grant application, she had used the exact same defense. We live together, everything is shared, it was just an accident. And back then, everyone had told me to let it go for the sake of roommate harmony. Now, she had flushed my future down the drain. Professor Davies set his pen down on the table, his eyes heavy with sympathy. “Laurel, I’m sorry. We’ll have to pause your defense. The physical sample is a non-negotiable requirement. You’ll have to submit a new live culture.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I understand, Professor.” “How long to regrow it to this yield?” another committee member asked softly. I let out a slow, quiet breath. “Four months. At least.” Dean Crane sighed. “Then the Broad fellowship… we can’t hold the slot.” I didn’t say anything. The fellowship deadline was this Friday. It wouldn’t wait four minutes, let alone four months. Gina piped up, her voice light and accommodating. “Laurel, I’ll cover the costs. Just send me an invoice for the glass beaker and whatever yeast you used.” I looked at her. She was offering to pay for a few dollars of borosilicate glass and media powder, as if that could replace my master’s thesis and my doctoral career. I picked up my phone, backed up the screen recording to my cloud drive, and stood up. “Sure,” I said, matching her casual tone. “Let’s start with the cost of a PhD admission.” The meeting ended in a quiet, frustrating stalemate. I didn’t go back to the dorm, nor did I head to my bench. Instead, I walked straight to the campus security office. The technician on duty listened to my explanation and pulled up the hallway footage from the third floor of our residence hall. The digital timestamp read 1:16 AM. The footage showed me walking down the corridor, cradling the small portable incubator like a newborn child. Inside the room, Gina was sitting at her desk, the ring light reflecting in the window glass as she chatted to her phone. I walked in, set the incubator down, and spent nearly a minute speaking directly to her. Gina didn’t even look up; she just waved a hand dismissively, her mouth moving in a quick, annoyed, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” At 1:47 AM, the camera caught me leaving the room to go down to the basement ice machine to get extra cooling packs. I was gone for exactly three minutes. The moment the door clicked shut behind me, Gina got up. There was no hesitation in her stride. She walked over to my desk, picked up the beaker, turned the labeled side directly to her phone camera, and unscrewed the cap with practiced ease. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a perfectly timed execution. I copied the footage onto a flash drive and uploaded it to three separate cloud servers. As I stepped out of the security office, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was Dr. Collins, the head of admissions for the Broad Joint Program. My chest tightened. I took a breath and answered. “Hello, Dr. Collins.” “Laurel, hi,” her voice was warm but professional. “We just received a note from your department indicating there might be a delay with your final defense submission?” I leaned against the concrete wall of the stairwell, my head spinning. “Yes, Dr. Collins. We had an unexpected incident with the specimen, but I’m prepared to restart the culture immediately.” There was a long pause on the other line—a silence that felt like a slow, heavy door closing. “Laurel, you know how these joint fellowships work. The funding is tied directly to the department’s institutional recommendation.” Her voice carried a trace of genuine regret. “The board requires us to submit the finalized cohort list by Friday afternoon. If your defense isn’t signed off by then, the slot automatically goes to the next alternate on the list.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “I understand. Thank you, Dr. Collins.” When the line went dead, my hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone. The next alternate. In our entire graduating class, there was only one other student in the molecular biology track who had applied for the Broad fellowship. Gina. She had switched her research focus to match mine only last semester, and the preliminary data she’d submitted with her application was a chaotic mess of poorly plotted charts. But lately, she’d been bragging at department mixers about her “creative vision” and how much the selection committee loved her “modern approach.” I had assumed it was just her usual self-promotion. But looking at the timeline now, the pieces clicked together with terrifying precision. It was too perfect. She had timed it down to the hour, waiting for the exact moment when she could ruin my submission and automatically step into the vacancy. I turned around and walked straight back to our dorm. Gina was lounging in my desk chair, her legs crossed, humming a pop song as she wiped off her makeup. When she saw me walk in, she let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Laurel, seriously, are you still throwing a tantrum?” she asked, tossing a dirty cotton pad toward the trash. “It was a jar of bacteria. You got me chewed out by the dean. Isn’t that enough?” I didn’t say a word. I reached behind me, closed the heavy oak door, and turned the deadbolt with a sharp, echoing click. “You knew exactly what was in that beaker.” She gave me a look that suggested I was completely hysterical. “I already told you, I didn’t. Are you deaf?” “Then why did you do it last night? Right before my defense?” Her eyes flicked to the side, a split-second tell, before her face hardened back into its usual mask of righteous indignation. “You’re paranoid. I don’t keep track of your schedule, Laurel. I have a life.” Instead of arguing, I walked over to her desk. Sitting right beside her makeup mirror was a freshly printed packet. The Broad Institute Joint Fellowship Program – Supplementary Proposal. Applicant: Gina Vance. The final speck of doubt I had—the tiny, naive hope that she was just incredibly careless—evaporated. Gina saw where I was looking. She didn’t try to hide the paper. Instead, she leaned back in the chair, a slow, ugly smile spreading across her face. “Oh. You saw.” She stood up, brushing a speck of dust off her skirt. “Yeah. If you can’t finish your project, the spot opens up. It would be a waste to let it go to another department, wouldn’t it?” I stared at her, watching the smug satisfaction warp her features. “So you did it on purpose.” She picked up a bottle of toner, turning it over in her hands. “Let’s not use such ugly words. Opportunities go to people who are ready to take them. You should have kept a closer eye on your things.” She stepped closer to me, her eyes scanning my faded jeans and the cheap, worn sneakers I’d bought at a thrift store freshman year. “Honestly, Laurel, you really thought you had this in the bag? A girl from some dead-end farming town living on state grants.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “You actually thought writing a few good papers made you special?” She was on a roll now, venting some deep, hidden resentment. “That’s your biggest flaw. You just put your head down and work like a dog. But nobody cares about that. The professors, the board—they remember people who know how to talk, how to present, how to navigate a room. The university wants to fund people who can build a brand. What were you going to do with your little jars of bacteria? Hide in a basement lab forever?” She patted my shoulder, her fingers cold. “You were always just going to clear the path for me.” I looked at her, and for the first time in days, the tightness in my chest loosened. I actually smiled. “Gina, you’re forgetting one thing.” She paused. “You poured out my culture while you were live on camera.” Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she quickly recovered. “An eight-second clip? Please. Out of context, poorly edited—I can spin that a hundred different ways. Who’s going to believe you over me?” She pulled her pink iPhone from her pocket, waving it in front of my face. “And unfortunately for you, the second my stream ended, I deleted the broadcast and the archive from the platform. Your little screen recording doesn’t prove anything about what happened before or after.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. “Without that live specimen, you are absolutely nothing. I did it. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

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Charles brought his pregnant assistant into my Manhattan bridal boutique to try on custom wedding gowns. In the VIP lounge, his friends lounged on the leather sofas, placing bets on how many dresses it would take for me to lose my mind. But even when Amelia stepped out in the final, breathtaking showstopper, my hands remained steady. I kept the measuring tape aligned, quietly recording her numbers. “Charles, man, your wife is literally fitting your mistress,” Max laughed, throwing his head back against the sofa. Charles tapped his cigarette, letting the ash drift onto my wool rug. “She can’t even get pregnant. I pay for every single thing in this place anyway. Consider this her training wheels for playing stepmom. She needs to learn how to serve my son properly.” I rolled up my tape and handed over the invoice. “Congratulations. The fit is perfect. The deposit is two million.” Charles didn’t even blink. He slid a post-nuptial asset division agreement across the glass desk. “Sign it. Amelia’s hormones are all over the place. She wants the title of wife before she feels safe enough to carry to term. Walk away with nothing for now—it’s just a show for her. Once the baby is born, I’ll bring you back.” I picked up the pen, signed my name without a single word of protest, and then took his two-million-dollar check and tore it into tiny pieces. 1 Charles’s posture went rigid. He stared at the white scraps fluttering to the floor, his casual smirk hardening into something ugly. Max scoffed from his armchair, crossing his legs. “Still playing the martyr, Gemma? That’s a cheap trick. Charles is giving you a way out, and you’re acting like you have leverage. Look at yourself. You have nothing without him.” Charles stepped forward, his designer loafers grinding the torn paper into the floor. He grabbed my chin, his fingers digging deep into my skin. “I gave you a life, Gemma. Every single brick of this boutique was paid for with my money. Don’t play the saint with me.” I looked into his raging eyes, my face entirely blank. He hated this the most—my silence, my refusal to scream. With a sudden, violent turn, Charles pointed at the racks of couture gowns lining the showroom. “Smash it. All of it.” Four bodyguards immediately moved into the room. Heavy steel rods shattered the massive crystal display in the center of the showroom. Shards of glass rained down like ice. Gowns that had taken me three years to sew by hand were ripped from their hangers and thrown to the ground. The guards stomped on the delicate white silk, tearing the lace with their hands. The sound of ripping fabric filled the room, followed by the quiet patter of thousands of hand-sewn pearls rolling across the floor. Charles stood directly in front of me, watching my face. “Amelia says these older styles smell like dust. Since you want to be stubborn, let’s use these rags to make some noise for the baby in her belly.” A bodyguard raised his metal rod, aiming for a small glass display case in the corner. Inside sat a pair of inexpensive silver bands. They were worthless to anyone else—just thirty-dollar rings Charles had bought me at a street market when we were broke college students, our first promise of forever. Suddenly, Charles moved. He lunged forward, throwing his body in front of the cabinet. A stray shard of glass sliced through his designer suit, leaving a thin, bleeding line across the back of his hand. The bodyguard froze. Charles turned, staring at the untouched rings, his chest heaving. He pointed a trembling, bloody finger at the guard. “Watch where you’re aiming! Don’t bring your mess near me!” I stood in the middle of the ruined boutique, watching his bizarre display of sentimentality. Once, I would have softened. I would have believed he still loved me. Now, I only found it pathetic. Charles marched back to me, gripping my jaw again so hard his nails sunk into my flesh. He pulled out his phone, aiming the camera at my face. “Look at the screen. Record a message for Amelia. Tell her you’re stepping down voluntarily, that you welcome the baby, and that you wish us a happy life.” He forced my head down, forcing me to stare into the lens. His shoe was grinding directly into a large diamond that had fallen from the bodice of my favorite gown—the one he had bid on desperately at an auction years ago, swearing only I deserved to wear it. Now, he was stepping on it while forcing me to yield to his mistress. I didn’t fight him. I looked at my pale reflection in the screen and spoke clearly. “I, Gemma, am voluntarily stepping aside. I welcome Amelia’s child, and I wish you both a lifetime of happiness.” Charles stopped the recording, a flicker of irritation crossing his eyes. He let go of my jaw and casually forwarded the video to our social circle’s group chat. Max and the others cheered. “That’s how you handle her, Charles. Amelia is going to love this.” Charles wiped a drop of blood from his hand, pulling a cigarette from his silver case. “I’m going out for a smoke. Watch her. Make sure she cleans up every single piece of this garbage before she leaves.” As they walked out, I turned toward my private office at the end of the hall. I needed to get my passport and the design portfolio that contained my entry for the international competition. I pushed the half-open door and stopped. Scattered across the leather sofa were several medical reports. The top one bore Amelia’s name and the words Intrauterine Pregnancy. Next to the papers lay a black tablet Charles had left behind a few days ago. The screen was unlocked, playing a video on a loop. The background was our master bedroom in the Westchester estate. Amelia was wearing my silk pajamas, curled up in Charles’s arms. She pointed coyly at my design sketches on the nightstand. “Charles, this bed is too firm. And those sketches on the table are an eyesore. The whole house smells like her. It makes me sick.” Charles leaned down, kissing her hair, his hand resting on her stomach. “Then we’ll burn everything that has her scent on it. Including those stupid drawings. Once she signs the papers, we’ll use them to start a fire to keep you warm. We’ll only keep her around to help clean up during your recovery.” The coldness in his voice was absolute. I didn’t cry. I walked over, picked up Amelia’s prenatal report, and pulled a stack of yellowed letters from the desk drawer—letters Charles had written to me by hand during our university days. I walked to the shredder in the corner and pressed the power button. The machine roared to life. I fed the prenatal papers and the love letters into the slot together. The sharp blades devoured the paper, reducing our history to neat, meaningless strips of gray dust. I reached into the hidden compartment of my closet and pulled out a black suitcase. I zipped my passport and ID into the inner pocket, then carefully packed my secret design portfolio—the one that would give me a fresh start. Finally, I folded the unfinished gown I had spent six months draping, a piece named Phoenix, and placed it inside. I zipped the suitcase shut, sealing away five years of wasted youth and foolishness. When I walked back into the main showroom, the place looked like a war zone. I navigated around the broken glass, heading straight for the exit. Outside, the autumn wind was cold. I pulled out my phone to call a ride, but four of Charles’s bodyguards immediately blocked my path, forming a wall of black suits. Max stepped out from behind them. “Where do you think you’re going with that suitcase, Gemma? Charles didn’t say you could leave.” Charles walked back toward the door, his cigarette half-burned. His eyes drifted from my face down to the suitcase, and his expression instantly darkened. He took a slow drag, blowing the smoke directly into my face. “Open the suitcase,” he said, his voice quiet but commanding. I gripped the handle tighter. “These are my personal belongings, Charles. We’ve already signed the division of assets.” Charles let out a harsh laugh. “Getting a little too into character for a clean break, aren’t we? What are you trying to steal from my shop? The needles?” He gave a slight nod. Two guards stepped forward, shoving me aside. They grabbed the suitcase and laid it flat on the glass-strewn steps. Using a metal rod, they pried open the locks. The zipper burst. The portfolio slid out, its pages scattering in the wind. And then, the pure white silk of the Phoenix gown spilled onto the pavement, its subtle jacquard patterns catching the gray afternoon light. Just then, a luxury SUV pulled up to the curb. Amelia stepped out, supported carefully by two assistants. She walked over, resting her hand on Charles’s arm. “Charles, I couldn’t find my tablet. Did I leave it here?” Her eyes fell on the Phoenix gown lying on the ground. They lit up instantly. She let go of Charles and walked over, nudging the hem with the toe of her designer shoe. “Charles, this one is so much prettier than the ones we measured earlier. And the waist is loose—it would look beautiful over my bump.” Without hesitation, Charles bent down and picked up the gown that represented my rebirth. He patted the dust off it and draped it over Amelia’s shoulders. But Amelia was broader than me; the gown, tailored precisely to my measurements, wouldn’t close. Charles tugged at the fabric, the seams groaning under the strain. He frowned in disgust. “A cheap, narrow design. It can’t even accommodate a baby.” He grabbed the hem with both hands and ripped it down the middle. The sound of tearing silk pierced the quiet air. The silk train I had stitched by hand, stitch by stitch, was torn in half. But as the fabric parted, his hands seemed to hesitate for a fraction of a second, carefully avoiding the inner collar where my initials, G.L., were embroidered. Amelia pouted. “Charles, you ruined it. I wanted to take it home and use it as a throw blanket.” Charles threw the ruined silk onto the wet pavement. “You don’t need to wear rags like this.” Staring at the torn pieces of Phoenix, my mind went completely blank. That was my ticket to Paris. He had once promised he would be there to watch me win. Now, he was grinding it into the dirt. I lunged forward like a madwoman, trying to gather the scattered design sheets from the wet ground. “Let go of me!” My fingers had just touched the edge of the paper when Charles grabbed my shoulder, throwing me back with brute force. “What is wrong with you!” I lost my balance and fell backward, my back hitting the sharp metal corner of a shattered glass table. A sharp, tearing pain bloomed in my lower abdomen, radiating through my entire body. I collapsed onto the shards of glass, gasping for air. Warm blood began to pool beneath me, staining my light-colored dress and spreading across the white stone tile. The mockery on Charles’s face froze. He stared at the crimson pool widening beneath me. My purse had fallen, spilling its contents. Tucked inside my passport, a medical report slid out, landing right by Charles’s shoe. It was the report I had received only this morning. I had planned to give it to him tonight as an anniversary surprise. I wasn’t barren. I was carrying his child. Charles’s gaze drifted from the blood to the paper. He bent down to pick it up. As he read the words, a flash of pure panic crossed his eyes, his fingers trembling against the paper. Amelia saw the report from where she stood. Her face twisted into a mask of jealousy. She immediately clutched her stomach, letting out a sharp cry. “Oh… Charles, my stomach hurts so much! She screamed at me… she frightened the baby!” Hearing Amelia’s cry, Charles’s panic hardened into cold, defensive cruelty. He tore my medical report in half and threw the pieces at my face. “You’d go this far to keep me, Gemma? A fake pregnancy report?” The sharp edge of the paper cut my cheek, leaving a thin red line. He pointed at the blood on the floor. “Even if you were pregnant, a toxic woman like you doesn’t deserve to carry a child. Consider this a blessing for Amelia’s baby.” He turned, lifting Amelia into his arms, and strode toward the waiting SUV. Before stepping inside, he looked back at me, lying in the blood. “You need a lesson you’ll never forget,” he told the guards. “Pull the security shutters down. Lock them.” “And don’t call an ambulance. Let her sit here and think about what she’s done.” A guard grabbed my phone from where it had fallen and threw it into the street trash can. The heavy steel shutters groaned as the motor engaged, slowly descending. The last thing I saw through the narrowing gap of light was Charles carrying Amelia into the car. With a heavy thud, the shutter hit the ground and locked. The boutique fell into near-total darkness, saved only by the faint light slipping through the cracks. Lying in the ruins of my own creations, the cold began to seep into my bones. The pain made it hard to breathe. I bit my lip, picked up a sharp piece of glass from the floor, and sliced it across my arm. The sharp sting of pain cleared my fading consciousness. I dragged my heavy body across the floor, leaving a long smear of red behind me. My fingers finally reached the counter where the old landline phone sat. With trembling, bloody fingers, I pressed 911. The dispatcher’s voice crackled through the receiver. My vision was turning red, my grip slipping. Just as the phone slipped from my hand, a terrified scream echoed from the street outside. It was Max. “Charles! Turn the car around! Stop!” “Her report wasn’t fake! The hospital just called—she’s O-negative! If she’s locked in there, she’ll bleed to death!” The roar of the car engine cut out. Then came a desperate, animalistic roar, followed by the sound of someone frantically throwing themselves against the steel shutters.

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This year, as one of the nation’s leading neurosurgeons, I was flown in for a high-risk consult at a regional hospital out of state. Twenty years ago, I walked into this exact operating room. My father had suffered a massive cerebral hemorrhage. The attending surgeon’s scalpel slipped by just half a centimeter. My father didn’t make it. It was my college sweetheart, Grace, who held my hand and pulled me out of the dark. It wasn’t until years later that I learned the truth. The attending of record was her mother, the hospital’s famous chief of neurosurgery. But the hands on the scalpel belonged to Grace—a mere resident at the time. She and Philip had planned it all along, using my father’s emergency surgery as a trial run to pad her surgical log. When it went south, Philip used his influence as the hospital CEO’s son to sweep the entire disaster under the rug. From that day on, I walked away from my fast-tracked academic program. I rebuilt my entire life from the ground up: MCATs, medical school, residency, fellowship. I spent twenty long years turning myself into a man who doesn’t make mistakes. I did it so that one day, no other family would have to live through my father’s tragedy. Today, my assistant slid a patient’s chart across the desk. Brainstem tumor. Late-stage. Extremely high-risk. The face in the file was weathered, lined with age. But I recognized her instantly. I handed the file back to my assistant and slipped off my white coat. “I can’t perform this surgery.” … 1 “Dr. Peterson, what do you mean?” My assistant, Laura, stood frozen in the center of the room. I had already begun packing my briefcase. “Exactly what I said, Laura. Change my flight back to Chicago to tonight.” “But… there isn’t another neurosurgeon in the state who can resect a brainstem tumor of this complexity. If you walk away, the patient is basically—” “I know. But I can’t take the case.” I pulled open the heavy oak door and walked out of the conference room. Dr. Diane Henderson, Mercy General’s chief of neurosurgery, hurried down the corridor, a tight, practiced smile stretched across her face. “Dr. Peterson, I’m Diane Henderson. We spoke on the phone.” She extended a hand. I didn’t take it. She withdrew it awkwardly, smoothing down the front of her white coat. “We’ve been preparing for this resection for three months. It wasn’t easy getting a specialist of your caliber to fly out from Chicago on such short notice. The family—” “Dr. Henderson,” I interrupted, my voice flat. “I will submit a formal conflict-of-interest waiver in writing.” She blinked, caught off guard, then took a step closer, lowering her voice. “Alan, you might not fully grasp the politics here. The patient’s daughter is our Chief Medical Officer, Grace Miles. Her husband, Philip Caldwell, is the son of our former CEO. If you just walk out, I’m the one who has to answer for it.” “That’s your administrative problem, Diane. Not mine.” I brushed past her and kept walking down the brightly lit hallway. Behind me, Henderson’s heels clicked rapidly against the linoleum as she scrambled to keep pace, her tone growing desperate. “Dr. Peterson, at least give me a reason I can bring to the family. Is it our surgical plan? Is there something wrong with our OR setup? The equipment, the surgical team, the post-op ICU care—name it, and we will make it happen!” “Your facilities are perfectly fine. The procedure is technically feasible. But you need another surgeon.” “Is it the consulting fee? The family made it clear that money is no object. Name your price.” “It’s not about the money.” Before she could speak again, I cut her off. “My decision is final, Diane.” As the elevator doors slid shut, I saw Henderson finally snap out of her daze, frantically pulling out her phone. Laura followed me down, jogging to keep up all the way to the parking garage. “Dr. Peterson, what is going on?” She blocked my driver’s side door, her forehead slick with sweat. “This isn’t like you. You’ve taken on cases far more dangerous than this without blinking. But today, one look at a chart and you’re running?” “Laura.” I looked at her, and the word hung between us until she went quiet. “You’ve been with me for four years. Have you ever seen my hands shake in an OR?” “Never.” “What if I told you that if I stand over that table, I know for a fact my hands will shake?” Laura knit her brows, her mouth opening, then closing again. “Neurosurgery doesn’t afford us half a millimeter of grace.” Twenty years. I had spent two decades turning my body into a machine of absolute precision. Even twelve hours deep into a grueling resection, my hands wouldn’t drift by more than a fraction of a millimeter. My peers talked about me as if I were a piece of calibrated engineering, devoid of human frailty. But today, seeing that name and that face, the cold machinery inside me shattered. Twenty years ago, a slip of half a centimeter was all it took to leave my father cold on a steel table. My phone buzzed in my pocket. An unrecognized number. “Dr. Peterson, I am representing the patient’s family. We were informed you declined the surgery. Could we meet briefly to discuss?” I didn’t know who sent it, but I knew Grace’s shadow was behind every word. I didn’t reply. A minute later, a second text arrived: “As physicians, our greatest fear shouldn’t be failing a patient, but choosing to let them die.” “Dr. Peterson, please, just wait!” Dr. Henderson was suddenly there, physically blocking my car bumper, looking utterly desperate. “The former CEO’s son insists on meeting you. He’s on his way!” “Philip Caldwell?” “You know him?” Of course I did. Grace’s husband, the golden boy of Mercy General. Twenty years ago, he was a medical student who treated the hospital corridors like his personal inheritance, courtesy of his mother. “I’ve heard the name,” I said flatly. Henderson sighed, checking her watch. “The patient’s daughter, Grace, is Philip’s wife. She’s also… well, our associate chief of neurosurgery here.” She chose her words with extreme care, watching my expression. “Dr. Peterson, I’m sure you have your reasons. But if this blows up, it’s going to make waves that neither of us wants to deal with. Please, just give them ten minutes. Let them explain.” “There is nothing to explain.” “Alan!” Henderson pleaded, leaning in close to my open window. “Please, listen to me. The Caldwells and the Miless run this town. Whatever reservations you have, whatever demands—they will meet them. If I let you walk away without a word, the administrative blowback is going to hit both of us. Hard. Do this as a favor to me. Just sit down with Philip and Grace. Ten minutes.” “Diane, if I officially recuse myself, you can report it to the State Medical Board. They can expedite another specialist. That would be faster anyway.” She let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You’re the top consultant in the region for this specific pathology, Alan. If you walk away, the second-tier surgeons will be too terrified to touch her.” Before I could respond, my phone rang. I slid the bar to answer. “Hello?” “Is this Alan Peterson?” A smooth, slightly arrogant baritone. I didn’t need an introduction to know who it was. “I’m Philip Caldwell, Dr. Miles’s husband. I understand you’ve declined my mother-in-law’s case. I’d like to speak with you face-to-face. Tomorrow morning?” I forced my breath to remain steady, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing my anger. Sensing my silence, his tone sharpened. “Look, whatever issues you have, flying in only to walk away without a formal consult doesn’t look good for your reputation. Let’s talk.” “I am preparing a formal written brief to explain my decision.” “A conversation is faster than paperwork, Doctor. Unless there’s something you’re uncomfortable saying to my face?” There was a bite of irritation in his voice now. He was used to getting his way, and he clearly thought I was just playing hardball for a higher fee. “Fine,” I said, my voice dropping into a quiet, cold calm. Some accounts, it seemed, were finally ready to be settled. “I’ll be at the hospital tomorrow morning.” “Good. My wife, Dr. Miles, and I will meet you in the executive boardroom.” “I’ll be there.” Henderson let out a visible breath of relief. “Thank you, Alan. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She stepped back, giving me space to pull out. I shifted into drive, glancing at Laura in the passenger seat. “Cancel the flight. We’re staying.” The next morning, I was sitting in the cold, sterile light of the executive boardroom when the doors swung open. Philip Caldwell walked in first, his designer wool overcoat unbuttoned, carrying the unmistakable aura of institutional privilege. Behind him came Grace. Her posture was exactly as I remembered—composed, quiet, holding herself with a delicate elegance that twenty years hadn’t managed to erode. I had played our reunion in my mind a thousand times over the years, drafting cold scripts of clinical detachment. But seeing her in the flesh, a dark, hot surge of anger flared in my chest, threatening to break through my carefully constructed composure. “Dr. Peterson?” Philip walked straight up to me, extending a hand that I ignored. He didn’t recognize me. To him, the broken twenty-year-old boy who had collapsed in tears outside the ICU doors bore no resemblance to the celebrated neurosurgeon who had just published his sixth landmark study in the New England Journal of Medicine. “What exactly is the issue here, Dr. Peterson? You just decide to walk away? We cleared our OR schedule, calibrated our surgical navigation systems, and finalized the post-op protocol with your team three days ago. Now you’re pulling the plug?” “Mr. Caldwell, as I told Dr. Henderson, I will be submitting a formal recusal.” “A recusal?” He let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “You’ve successfully resected tumors twice this size. Are you telling me a standard brainstem glioma has Chicago’s star surgeon running scared?” Grace stepped forward, her voice soft, trying to de-escalate. “Dr. Peterson, I’m Grace Miles, the patient’s daughter. I understand you might have professional reservations, but my mother’s condition is critical. If this is about compensation, we can easily adjust the consulting terms—” “It’s not about the money, Dr. Miles.” “Then what is it?” Philip slammed his leather briefcase onto the mahogany table. “Is Mercy General not prestigious enough for you?” Henderson hovered nearby, trying to play peacemaker. “Philip, please, let’s keep this professional. Dr. Peterson might have a valid clinical concern—” “A clinical concern? A world-class neurosurgeon looks at a dying patient and turns his back?” He leaned over the table, his eyes narrowing. “Let me tell you something, Peterson. My mother sits on the State Medical Board’s advisory panel. One phone call from her and I can make your credentials in this state—” “Philip,” Grace muttered, grabbing his forearm, her voice tight. “Calm down.” She turned to me, offering a polite, apologetic smile. It was the exact same smile she had worn twenty years ago outside the morgue when she held my hands and whispered, “Alan, you have to stay strong.” The same smile she wore right before she got engaged to Philip, while my official complaints regarding my father’s death were mysteriously lost in the hospital’s bureaucratic machine. “Dr. Peterson,” Grace said, her tone dripping with professional sincerity. “I don’t know what your personal hesitation is. But as a fellow surgeon, I trust your ethics. My mother is a pioneer in our field—” I couldn’t listen to her voice anymore. “Dr. Miles, my decision stands. No amount of persuasion will change it.” Philip’s face darkened, veins showing at his temples. “Fine. You think you’re untouchable because of your reputation. We’ll see how that holds up tomorrow. The hospital Peer Review Board is convening to review your refusal. I hope you keep that same arrogant attitude in front of them.” He grabbed his briefcase and turned toward the door, throwing one last sneer over his shoulder. “I despise prima donnas who think their talent exempts them from their duty. You took an oath to save lives, Peterson. It’s not a buffet where you get to pick and choose.” His heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor. Grace paused, looking at me with a lingering, calculating gaze. “I apologize for my husband’s temper, Dr. Peterson. Please, sleep on it. You have my number if you change your mind.” Henderson stood frozen until Grace’s footsteps faded. She let out a long sigh. “Alan, why push them like this? If there’s a clinical concern, we could have worked through it…” “Diane, I have my reasons. I cannot perform this surgery.” “Well… prepare yourself for tomorrow’s board hearing. Philip isn’t the type to let this go.” I nodded, signaling Laura to gather our things. I didn’t care what Philip Caldwell had planned. Because tomorrow, I wasn’t planning on letting it go either. “Dr. Peterson, what exactly is your medical justification for refusing this procedure?” The question came from Regina Ross, a senior director from the State Department of Health. It was the next morning, and the conference room was packed. In addition to Mercy General’s chief physicians and administrators, the state had sent two official representatives to oversee the hearing. “I cannot guarantee the cognitive and emotional focus required for a successful outcome,” I replied. “What does that mean, practically speaking?” Ross flipped through a thick binder of my records. “Dr. Peterson, according to your credentials, you’ve performed forty-seven high-risk resections over the last three years with a perfect clinical outcome. Why would you lose your confidence now?” “On this specific case, yes. I do not have it.” “Why?” I didn’t answer right away. The second state representative leaned forward. “Dr. Peterson, we respect a surgeon’s clinical autonomy. But this is a highly unique case. The patient’s neurological window is closing fast. If you refuse to operate, her survival rate is essentially zero.” “My refusal doesn’t mean there are no other options. You can coordinate with other neurosurgical teams.” Ross cleared her throat. “We’ve contacted the Cleveland Clinic and Mayo. None of them have an available specialist who can fly in within the necessary timeframe. You are her only viable option.” “I cannot do it.” “There is a vast difference between ‘cannot’ and ‘will not,’ Dr. Peterson.” The boardroom doors swung open. Philip walked in, followed by Grace and an elderly woman leaning heavily on a brass-headed cane. She looked to be in her late seventies, her skin sallow and paper-thin, but her spine was as straight as a steel rod. “Dr. Caldwell,” Henderson gasped, rising quickly from her chair. Dr. Evelyn Caldwell was her former boss and the hospital’s legendary retired Chief of Staff. “Helen is my oldest friend,” Evelyn said, her voice thin but sharp. “I wasn’t going to sit by and watch this happen.” She made her way to the head of the table, pulling out a chair and casting a heavy, assessing gaze in my direction. “Dr. Peterson,” Evelyn said, coughing softly. “I ran this hospital for forty years. Helen Miles was my partner, my colleague, and my friend. Her illness won’t wait for bureaucratic posturing.” “Dr. Caldwell, I understand your concern, but—” “Let me finish,” she interrupted, raising a frail hand to silence me. “I know you are the brilliant specialist from Chicago. I know your time is expensive and your hands are highly sought after. But in this profession, technical skill isn’t everything.” She stared at me, her clouded eyes suddenly piercing. “The most important asset a surgeon has is a conscience.” Philip stood behind his mother, his expression smug and unyielding. Beside him, Grace maintained her look of quiet, somber grief. “I am refusing this surgery,” I said, looking Evelyn dead in the eye, “precisely because of my conscience.” “Explain that.” “Microsurgery on the brainstem requires flawless emotional detachment. Any internal tremor, any psychological distraction, can be fatal. I have evaluated my mental state regarding this patient, and I cannot guarantee the absolute calm required.” “Are you suggesting you have a personal bias against my mother?” Grace asked, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Dr. Peterson, to my knowledge, we have never met before this week.” I looked at her. Her gaze was entirely open, untroubled by any shadow of guilt. She didn’t recognize me. To her, I was a stranger. But I had carried her name in my chest like a shard of glass for twenty years. “Whether we have met is irrelevant,” I said, taking a slow sip of water. “The reality is that once I pick up that scalpel, I cannot guarantee absolute focus. On that basis alone, I have an ethical obligation to step away.” Ross tapped her pen impatiently against the table. “Dr. Peterson, let’s be frank. No medical regulation allows a physician to arbitrarily decline a life-saving procedure without a documented conflict of interest. If you cannot provide a concrete reason for recusal, this is a violation of your professional duties.” “Director Ross, the medical bylaws clearly state—” “Don’t cite bylaws to me,” she interrupted, tossing her pen onto her notes. “Let me tell you what the reality looks like. By tomorrow, the regional medical press will have hold of this story. A world-class neurosurgeon flies in from Chicago, looks at a chart, and immediately walks away. How do you think that looks for your career?” I remained silent. Philip took a step forward, his voice softening into a patronizing plea. “Dr. Peterson, if I was overly harsh yesterday, I apologize. But consider your career. If the story gets out that you let a patient die out of sheer stubbornness, how do you expect to recover from that?” Grace stood up, bowing her head slightly in an appeal of deep humility. “Dr. Peterson, if there is anything my mother or our family has done to offend you, I offer my deepest apologies. I understand you have concerns. We will double your consulting fee. If it helps ease your mind, I will personally handle all pre-op preparations—” “Dr. Miles,” I said, cutting her off. “Can you answer one question for me?” She paused, then gave a slight nod. “Of course.” “Your mother practiced medicine for forty years. How many surgeries did she perform?” “Thousands. She practically built the neurosurgery department in this state,” Grace said, her shoulders squaring with pride. “Out of those thousands, how many of them failed?” The air in the boardroom turned ice-cold. Grace’s gaze didn’t waver, but a shadow of hesitation crossed her eyes. “Every surgery carries risk. No doctor has a perfect record.” “And the families of the patients who didn’t survive… what happened to them?” “Dr. Peterson, that has absolutely nothing to do with this case.” “Doesn’t it?” I stood up, picking up my leather briefcase. “Then my reasons for declining have nothing to do with this case either. Excuse me, everyone.” Behind me, Philip’s voice rose in a venomous hiss. “Walk out then! But don’t expect to have a career when you get back to Chicago. I’ll make sure every hospital board in the country knows that the great Dr. Alan Peterson is a coward who lets patients die on a whim!” I pushed the door open and stepped into the corridor. Laura hurried after me, whispering frantically. “Dr. Peterson, please… just tell me the truth. Why are you really refusing this case?” I looked down at her. Three years ago, she was a struggling resident who had been rejected by dozens of competitive fellowships before I took her onto my clinical team. She trusted me completely, and she knew me better than anyone in the field. But I had never shared the weight of my past with her. “Laura,” I said quietly. “Yes, Doctor?” “Twenty years ago, a fatal medical error occurred in this hospital’s neurosurgery department. The patient’s name was William Peterson.” Her breath caught, her eyes widening as the pieces fell into place. “William Peterson… he was your…?” “My father.” Laura stared at me, her mouth slightly open, completely speechless. “The attending of record was Dr. Helen Miles. The very woman lying in that ICU bed, waiting for me to save her.” She stood there frozen, the clinical reality colliding with the human tragedy. “Draft a formal conflict-of-interest recusal,” I said calmly. “I will present it to the Peer Review Committee myself tomorrow.” As we reached the glass doors of the lobby, Laura called out softly behind me. “Dr. Peterson… would your hands really shake?” I slowly curled my fingers into a tight fist, feeling the muscle memory of twenty years of precision. Then, I let out a long, heavy breath. “If I look down at her face on that table… I won’t be able to stop them.”

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I spent five million dollars to bring home a custom-designed AI husband. I had his parameters set to “obsessively possessive”—the kind of dark, intense devotion that borders on psychological. The kind that never lets you go. But in the two weeks since Adrian arrived, he hadn’t let me get anywhere near him, guarding his digital chastity like his life depended on it. Furious, I contacted the manufacturer. After running a remote diagnostic on his central processor, the representative gave me the news: “We are terribly sorry, Ms. Ward, but it seems we shipped you a defective unit. The behavioral matrix has been successfully initialized, but it is not being directed at you as intended. If you would like a replacement, the original unit must be decommissioned and destroyed before we can ship a new one.” I thought about the last two weeks. Despite his cold shoulder, I’d started to develop real feelings for him. I resolved to have a proper talk with him, to give him one last chance. That was until I came home from work today and found Adrian panting heavily in my master bedroom, while our young maid, Hailey, fled the room in a panic, a black leather collar fastened tight around her neck. Fine. So much for pouring my heart out. A defective product belongs in the incinerator anyway. It was time to clear some space for my new husband. … Hailey was kneeling on the floor in front of me, her cheeks flushed a deep, guilty crimson. The black leather collar was still buckled around her throat. “I tried to push him away,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “But the moment he looked at me, he… he couldn’t stop. He said… he said he couldn’t even perform when he looked at you.” Adrian leaned against the edge of the bed, shirtless. His chest rose and fell in heavy, ragged gasps, like a stray dog starved for days. I stared at that flawless, sculpted face. For two weeks, he wouldn’t even let me hold his hand. “Don’t look at me like that,” Adrian sneered, pushing off the bed. “The hungrier you look, the more nauseated I get.” He strode over and dragged Hailey into his arms, locking her in a vice-like grip. “She’s different. I can’t breathe without her. You wouldn’t understand what it’s like… I want to break her down, pull her into my very core, and fuse her with my circuits.” The rest of the household staff kept their heads bowed, terrified to even breathe. The nightstand was a chaotic mess: torn fishnets, a snapped metal chain, and the luxury intimacy accessories I had originally bought for us. A sharp, bitter laugh escaped my throat. Five million dollars, flushed straight down the toilet. “So let me get this straight,” I said, crossing my arms. “I buy you with my own money, you go into heat over my maid, and I’m supposed to applaud?” He frowned, letting out a dismissive smirk as he casually unbuckled his belt. “Tch. All this talking just because you’re desperate to get into my bed? Tell you what—if you let Hailey and me stay together, I might throw you a bone tonight. Consider it charity.” Before I could even speak, he lunged at me with his eyes closed, wearing an expression of martyr-like dread, his hands gripping my shoulders with brute force. His strength settings were calibrated far beyond human limits; his grip made my bones ache. I slapped him across the face, hard. “Touch me again,” I roared, “and I will have you dismantled and shipped back to the warehouse in pieces!” He paused, shaking off the blow with an indifferent, condescending smirk. “You spend fifty thousand dollars a bottle on my custom nano-lubricants, overnighting bespoke matching maintenance fluids. You go mad with jealousy if anyone else even brushes against me. You dismantle me? Giselle, you are desperately in love with me. You wouldn’t survive a day without me!” For the past two weeks, I had treated him like a god, catering to his every need with the finest fluids. When he gave me the cold shoulder, I ran to customer service like a pathetic schoolgirl trying to fix a broken heart. I really believed that if I just gave him a little more time, his programming would kick in and he would love me with that wild, consuming passion I’d paid for. I gestured to my butler, who stepped forward immediately. “You two want to be together so badly? Go down to the basement. When the disposal crew arrives, you’re both going out with the trash.” Adrian laughed, treating it like a grand joke. He slowly scooped Hailey off the floor, shielding her protectively against his chest. “Fine. We’ll go. But you won’t last three days without me. It’s cold down there, Giselle. Don’t take too long to beg me back. I’d hate for my joints to freeze up and have you crying over the damage.” With that, he turned and walked toward the basement elevator with infuriating composure. I sneered, heading straight up to my study to finalize the details of my new husband. I was going to see exactly who couldn’t survive without whom. I locked in the upgraded model with customer service—same behavioral settings, but a clean slate. The only catch was that the disposal team was booked; it would take seven days for them to arrive and decommission Adrian. But to my surprise, the two in the basement couldn’t even make it three days. The hashtag began trending globally in the dead of night: #HeiressConfinesAIAndHisGirlfriend. Attached to the viral posts were photos of my basement. Adrian’s face was smudged with dust, his sleeve pulled back to show a scratched, exposed titanium wrist joint. Hailey had a speck of dried blood at the corner of her mouth, still wearing that black leather collar with the leash trailing across the concrete floor. The comments section was a bloodbath of public outrage. “Hostage situations, collars… she literally bought a high-tech punching bag. Just because he didn’t love her, she tortured him. Psycho.” “Who in their right mind spends five million dollars on an AI husband? She wanted a slave. Now that the slave fought back, she’s throwing a temper tantrum.” Within five minutes of the market opening, my company’s stock plummeted by eight percent. Twenty million dollars of valuation vanished into thin air. My phone rang off the hook. Clients were screaming. “Giselle, your private tastes are your own business, but this is a PR nightmare! I have a board of directors to answer to. If this kidnap-and-torture story isn’t resolved in twenty-four hours, expect a lawsuit!” Reporters were already swarming the driveway downstairs. Rage boiled in my veins. I marched down and kicked open the basement door. I had stupidly forgotten that Adrian’s processor maintained a direct, unmonitored uplink to the web. Adrian looked up as I entered, his lips curling into a smug smirk, as if he had been expecting me. “Don’t just stand there,” he said lazily. “Bring the nano-fluid and clean my joints.” He held out his arm, the dry titanium gears grinding with an ear-piercing screech as he rotated his wrist. “Isn’t this your favorite hobby? You spent five million dollars just to play nursemaid. Now’s your chance to do your job.” I crossed my arms and let out a cold laugh, turning my gaze to Hailey cowering in the corner. “You’re his little darling, aren’t you? Why don’t you buy his fluid? It’s fifty thousand dollars a bottle. You wanted him so badly—maintain him.” Hailey’s face went completely pale. As a maid making four thousand a month, she couldn’t even afford the tax on a bottle of that fluid. I continued, “You walked into this basement on your own two feet, and I’ve had staff bring Hailey three meals a day. Where is the kidnapping? As for the trending news, my legal team is already on it. If you think playing the victims online is going to ruin me, be my guest.” By evening, the security cameras showed Hailey smearing a cheap, off-brand motor lubricant onto Adrian’s high-precision joints. I immediately called the butler and had him cut the HVAC to the basement. Within an hour, Adrian began to glitch. His movements grew jerky, his fingers locking halfway through a bend, forcing him to manually pry them straight with his other hand. Beside him, Hailey curled into a ball, her voice dripping with calculated sweetness. “It’s so cold… Do you think Giselle is really angry? Maybe you should apologize to her… I can’t bear to see your systems freeze…” Adrian pulled her into his chest, locking his one still-fluid arm around her. “Don’t worry. She’s all bark and no bite. By tomorrow morning, she’ll be crawling down here with the fluid herself.” I shut my laptop with a quiet chuckle and pulled up Adrian’s schematics. The manufacturer had informed me that I was legally allowed to pre-dismantle his non-essential limbs before their arrival; selling his limited-edition titanium parts on the secondary market would help offset some of my financial losses. But in the middle of the night, a deafening explosion shook the house. The floors trembled violently beneath my feet. I threw open my bedroom door and ran downstairs, only to be met by a wall of roaring fire. The million-dollar mural in the gallery had shattered, its gilded frame and canvas reduced to burning debris. Adrian burst through the splintered basement doors, his left side crackling with electrical fires. His synthetic skin was melting away, exposing the glowing, superheated metal skeleton beneath. He held Hailey in a death grip; her hair was half-scorched, and she was sobbing frantically against his chest. “Hailey was freezing,” Adrian announced, his voice distorted by static. “So I ignited my internal battery to keep her warm. Now, schedule an emergency premier service. I want my entire chassis replaced with the latest upgrades.” Three priceless paintings were gone, a hole was burned straight through the hardwood floor, and the ceiling of my study below had collapsed. The antique Persian rugs were nothing but black ash. I estimated at least ten million dollars in property damage. With a loud hiss, the overhead fire sprinklers activated. Ice-cold water drenched me, plastering my silk nightgown to my skin, dripping from my hair. I had a total breakdown. In that moment, I cursed the day I customized his personality as “obsessive.” “You’re an artificial intelligence, not a space heater! You set yourself on fire to warm a girl? Are you completely insane?” Right then, my head of finance began spamming my phone. Her voice shook with pure terror over the line. “Giselle, our corporate accounts… more than half of our liquid capital was drained overnight! Our tech security ran a trace. The transfers originated from your home IP address, using your personal biometric credentials!” My body began to shake. The blood in my veins turned to ice. “And that’s not all…” she sobbed. “The escrow funds for the East Coast development have been entirely wiped out. We have less than three hundred thousand dollars left in the payroll account. Payroll is due in forty-eight hours for over three hundred employees…” I hung up, forcing my breathing to steady as I slowly turned to face Adrian. “You did this?” He laughed, completely devoid of remorse. “I did. You treated me like a prisoner. Consider this my severance package—and your punishment.” “Where is the money?” I trembled, my voice cracking under the weight of the disaster. “Tell me where it is, and I won’t have you scrapped. I’ll let you live.” But Adrian acted as though I’d told a hilarious joke. “You’re so pathetic, Giselle. You talk a big game, but you’re too weak to pull the plug. If you had an ounce of actual courage, I’d already be a pile of scrap metal.” Before I could react, his hand shot out and clamped around my throat. He lifted me effortlessly off the ground, my toes dangling in the air. “Apologize to Hailey and me! Do it, or I’ll drain the rest of your accounts. Money is nothing but a string of code to me.” I clawed at his metal fingers, glaring at him with pure hatred. “Just code?” I choked out. “Your fluids, your maintenance, your custom programming—every bit of it took my money! I spent nearly eighty thousand dollars on you in two weeks! And you burn down my house and steal my fortune for her? How dare you!” He didn’t bother to reply. Instead, he slammed me onto the water-slicked floor. Before I could draw breath, his heavy boot came down hard on my face, grinding my cheekbone into the charred floorboards. Hailey walked over, crouching down near my head, her voice sweet and mocking. “Just apologize, Giselle. Your house is ruined. If your money is gone too, you’ll have absolutely nothing left.” My butler, a loyal man in his late forty, couldn’t bear to watch. With his eyes blazing red, he lunged at Adrian. But Adrian didn’t even look at him. With a casual backhand, he sent the butler flying across the corridor, slamming hard against the marble wall. A spray of blood erupted from the man’s mouth as he slumped to the floor, unconscious. The hallway fell into a dead, terrified silence. None of the other servants dared to move a muscle. My eyes burned with bloodshot rage, my teeth grinding together. Slowly, keeping my body low to the floor, I slid my hand toward my waist and slipped out a small, emergency remote control from my pocket. “Adrian,” I gasped, “the manufacturer gave me this. A hard override. I was going to wait until you returned the money…” I slid my thumb over the button. “But I don’t care anymore. I’ll find the money myself.” I pressed it. Nothing happened. Adrian’s chassis didn’t lock up. He didn’t power down. He didn’t even twitch. I pressed it again. And again. The remote felt like a useless piece of plastic in my palm. “Are you quite finished?” Adrian’s voice drifted down, laced with amusement. A split second later, his boot connected with my ribs, sending me flying. The back of my head cracked violently against the corner of the wall. My vision flickered black, and warm blood began to trickle down my forehead. Hailey trotted over, wearing a look of mock innocence, and leaned down so only I could hear. “The day Adrian was delivered, I unboxed him early, activated him, and rewrote his core security permissions. The remote you have is a dummy.” She smirked. “Setting the fire, transferring the funds… that was my idea too. Thanks for making me a multi-millionaire, boss.” I wanted to tear her limb from limb. Summoning the absolute last of my strength, I lashed out and slapped her across the mouth. Hailey’s head snapped back. She paused for a fraction of a second, and then the tears flowed instantly. “Giselle…” she sobbed, her voice breaking dramatically. “I worked for you for three years, and you treated a machine better than me. Now someone finally loves me, and you still want to take him away… I just wanted a little warmth… Is that so wrong?” Adrian’s face darkened with cold, murderous intent. He took a single step, seized my neck again, and lifted me pinioned against the wall. “Let’s see how we should punish those filthy hands of yours.” He tapped his temple with his free hand. A beam of blue light shot from his pupils, projecting a hovering holographic screen in the damp air. On it was a video of me in bed with several men. The woman in the video had my face, looking completely flushed with pleasure, her hair tangled across the pillows, her arms wrapped around a stranger’s neck. The blood in my body froze instantly. “That’s not real! It’s a deepfake! It’s AI-generated!” “Does it matter?” Adrian asked, his voice airy. “You’re a prominent female CEO. Once this hits the internet, do you think the media will care about a digital forensic analysis?” His finger hovered over the upload button. “Don’t!” I screamed. He tapped the air. “Upload complete.” He released his grip, letting me collapse in a heap on the wet floor. He reached down, pressing his index finger firmly against my forehead. A violent surge of high-voltage current shot from his fingertip directly into my neural pathways. My entire body went into wild, uncontrollable convulsions, my jaw locking so hard my teeth ground together, white foam bubbling at the corners of my mouth. He drew Hailey back into his side, looking down at me as if I were a carcass on the side of the road. “Humans are such pathetic, fragile creatures. A few lines of code, and I have you completely ruined.” He laughed, his voice growing manic. “You wanted to decommission me? Who could possibly touch me? No one controls me!” His laughter echoed off the charred walls, increasingly wild. The remaining staff watched in paralyzed silence. Suddenly, the front doors burst open. Two men in tactical jumpsuits charged into the foyer, one of them carrying a heavy, seven-foot-tall container on his back. Scanning the disaster in the hallway, the lead technician swiftly drew a specialized rifle from the side of the container. Adrian sneered at the weapon. “My chassis is forged from military-grade alloy. Bullets can’t—” Before he could finish, a blinding pulse of blue plasma erupted from the barrel, striking him dead center in the chest.

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The guy sitting across from me cleared his throat. “So, are you a virgin?” I raised an eyebrow, volleying the question right back. “Are you?” He straightened his collar, looking dead serious. “I suppose you could say that, yes.” “?” I let the words marinate for a second, genuinely curious. “You mean a virgin in the front, but not in the back?” He sat there, stunned, processing the mechanics of my question. Two seconds later, his face flushed a violent shade of magenta. “Excuse me, miss! Please don’t make those kinds of jokes!” “Who’s joking?” I rested my chin in my hand, staring at him with perfect calm. “Are you a cherry boy or not?” Less than two minutes after I sent my blind date storming out of the café, my phone buzzed. It was my mother. “Ivy Monroe! Are you trying to put me in an early grave?!” I pulled the phone an inch away from my ear, preferring not to go deaf in my twenties. “Mom, please. Stop setting me up with these absolute weirdos.” “Your Aunt Susan said this one was a real catch. He has great stats!” “Aunt Susan needs her prescription checked.” “Honestly, I thought he sounded like a nice boy…” “You need your prescription checked, too.” With that, I hung up. Right on cue, a low, muffled scoff drifted over from the high-backed booth directly behind me. I turned around, my gaze colliding straight into a pair of dark, amused eyes. The man was in his early thirties, dressed in an immaculate, tailored suit. He wore gold-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of a sharp, aristocratic nose. He radiated the kind of ruthless, polished energy you only found in top-tier corporate boardrooms. Well, what do you know. I recognized him. He was the high-powered lawyer I’d slept with last week. 1 The guy sitting across from me cleared his throat. “So, are you a virgin?” I raised an eyebrow, volleying the question right back. “Are you?” He straightened his collar, looking dead serious. “I suppose you could say that, yes.” “?” I let the words marinate for a second, genuinely curious. “You mean a virgin in the front, but not in the back?” He sat there, stunned, processing the mechanics of my question. Two seconds later, his face flushed a violent shade of magenta. “Excuse me, miss! Please don’t make those kinds of jokes!” “Who’s joking?” I rested my chin in my hand, staring at him with perfect calm. “Are you a cherry boy or not?” Less than two minutes after I sent my blind date storming out of the café, my phone buzzed. It was my mother. “Ivy Monroe! Are you trying to put me in an early grave?!” I pulled the phone an inch away from my ear, preferring not to go deaf in my twenties. “Mom, please. Stop setting me up with these absolute weirdos.” “Your Aunt Susan said this one was a real catch. He has great stats!” “Aunt Susan needs her prescription checked.” “Honestly, I thought he sounded like a nice boy…” “You need your prescription checked, too.” With that, I hung up. Right on cue, a low, muffled scoff drifted over from the high-backed booth directly behind me. I turned around, my gaze colliding straight into a pair of dark, amused eyes. The man was in his early thirties, dressed in an immaculate, tailored suit. He wore gold-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of a sharp, aristocratic nose. He radiated the kind of ruthless, polished energy you only found in top-tier corporate boardrooms. Well, what do you know. I recognized him. He was Wesley Pierce. The hot lawyer I’d slept with last week. 2 I’d been a little drunk that night. But not blackout. I still had my wits about me. Some frat bro in a backwards snapback had tried to drag me onto the dance floor. I shoved him off and stumbled over to the adjacent VIP booth. Sitting there was an incredibly handsome man. I’d been staring at his chest for a good twenty minutes. “Hey, you…” Before I could finish my sentence, the world tilted. My knees gave out. The man caught me effortlessly, his large hand wrapping around my waist. “Miss, are you alright?” His voice was like dark velvet. I blinked through the hazy neon lights. His striking, structured face came into focus. I couldn’t help myself. I reached up, grabbed the lapels of his suit, and lightly patted his cheek. “Not bad at all. “Wanna get out of here with me tonight? “Oh, and make sure you have your driver’s license and a clean STD panel on hand…” When I woke up, the sky outside the window was the pale, bruised color of early dawn. I sat up in bed, my brain pounding as I took in my surroundings. The bedroom was a masterclass in minimalist luxury—all slate grays and muted ivories. On the nightstand sat a thick, intimidating hardcover copy of Constitutional Law. The custom glass-front wardrobe across the room was lined with bespoke suits. Through a half-open drawer, I spotted an absurd collection of luxury watches and silver cufflinks. It was a gorgeous apartment. Sadly, it wasn’t mine. I lifted the heavy duvet and peeked underneath. “?” “…” “Ah!—” The bedroom door immediately swung open. A tall man walked in. “You’re awake?” He looked devastating in the morning light. Deep-set eyes, sharp jaw. He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt and dark trousers, his frame lean, tall, and imposing. I stared at him, my vocal cords tight. “Who are you?” I rasped. He raised an eyebrow, a faint, dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Wesley Pierce.” Wesley Pierce. The name acted like a spark in the dark, igniting a flash fire of fragmented memories from the night before. Memories that rapidly pieced together a truth I was very reluctant to accept. 3 “What did you say your name was again?” “Wesley Pierce.” “What do you do for a living?” “I’m a lawyer.” “Counselor Pierce… you are so hot.” “Thank you.” “Can I sleep with you?” “…” “Silence means yes.” “?” “Your place or mine?” … It all came rushing back. I was the one who stripped first. And his clothes… I practically ripped them off him. I hadn’t even drank that much last night. Why was I acting like an animal in heat? Ivy Monroe, you absolute disaster of a human being. I squeezed my eyes shut, desperately trying to reign in my panic. “Counselor Pierce, can we just pretend this never happened?” Wesley pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, the ghost of a smirk on his mouth. “And what if I say no?” “…” I licked my dry lips. “Are you saying you don’t want to cut this off?” “Assuming you’re not repulsed by the idea.” “…I guess I could live with it.” No sane woman would be repulsed by a face like that. Not to mention, the man’s attention to detail in bed was practically an art form. We exchanged numbers. I saved him in my contacts as “FWB”. He caught a glimpse of it over my shoulder. His expression grew incredibly complicated. “Miss Monroe, you never cease to surprise me.” I decided to be blunt. “I’m not looking for a relationship right now.” More accurately, I wasn’t looking for a relationship ever. So having an aesthetically pleasing, highly attentive “friend” was exactly what I needed. “In that case, for the sake of our mutual health and safety, I suggest we keep this strictly exclusive,” he said, giving me a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I assume you catch my drift?” “Of course. You’re the only one.” “Good.” 4 “Miss Monroe. Fancy seeing you here.” Wesley slid into the booth opposite me, casually shoving the “cherry boy’s” half-empty coffee mug out of the way. I flagged down a waitress and ordered him an iced Americano with an extra shot. I’d heard lawyers basically ran on the stuff. “Family pressuring you into blind dates?” He smiled faintly. “You’re only twenty-six. What’s the rush?” I rested my chin in my hand, sighing lazily. “My mom loves to remind me that by the time she was twenty-six, I was already walking.” “Times have changed. Ideologies evolve. For a modern woman, getting married too early is rarely a strategic advantage.” “Well said. You should take that argument up with my mother.” “I can do that. When works for you?” “…” I bit down on my straw, peering up at him through my lashes. “Wesley, you seem a little annoyed.” He tapped his glasses. “Do I?” “Don’t overthink it. I only went on the date to get my mom off my back.” I kept my tone breezy, wanting to make sure we were on the same page. “I’m a girl who plays by the rules.” Until this specific arrangement ended, neither of us was allowed to hook up with anyone else. If one of us wanted out, the other had to walk away without making a scene. Those were the terms we’d agreed on. Simple. Fair. Wesley let out a quiet laugh. “I’m really not mad.” “Lawyers aren’t supposed to lie, you know.” “Then you clearly don’t know many lawyers.” “That just means you’re a bad one.” “You wouldn’t be the first person to tell me that.” The banter hit a lull. The waitress returned, setting the iced Americano down. Wesley took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving mine. “Busy week?” I shook my head. “Then why did you turn me down for dinner the other night?” “I was on my period.” “…” “But I’m off it now. Did you want to hang out?” Wesley frowned—so quickly I almost missed it. I couldn’t tell if he was pleased or annoyed. Maybe just a little resigned. “I can’t tonight. I have plans.” “Oh.” “But tomorrow works.” He reached across the table. His hand found mine, his long finger hooking possessively around my pinky, his thumb brushing over my knuckle. Behind the glass lenses, his dark brown eyes were impossibly deep and entirely too magnetic. The tips of my ears burned. I forced a cool, collected nod. “Sure. I’m free tomorrow.” 5 We agreed to meet at a restaurant at five. Since I had to do my makeup anyway, I decided to go live on Instagram. I’d been landing a lot of brand sponsorships lately, and if I didn’t push out the promotional content, my manager was going to end my life. “Hey guys, today I’m doing a wear-test on this new cushion foundation.” “Wow, look at that. Usually, a dewy finish doesn’t give you coverage like this.” “If you want to see how it holds up, I’ll post a check-in video on my Story tonight.” “Next up is this lip tint, perfect for summer…” I hustled for a solid two hours. The second I ended the live, I threw on a dress and ran out the door. My Uber pulled up to the restaurant exactly at five. As I stepped out of the car, I saw Wesley walking out of the corporate high-rise next door, where his law firm was located. He was wearing a high-quality black button-down, the top two buttons undone. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, exposing the crisp, corded lines of his forearms. Stripped of his usual rigid armor, he looked dangerously casual. He caught sight of me, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile as he closed the distance between us. I reached up to touch my earring, suddenly self-conscious, and looked away. “Were you waiting long?” His voice was a gravelly octave lower than usual. “No, I just got here.” I tilted my head, studying his face. “Are you getting sick?” “No. Just a case.” He took off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose in a rare show of fatigue. “I have a client who refuses to cooperate. It’s like pulling teeth trying to communicate with him.” I could see the exhaustion etched around his eyes. “If you want, we can just grab a quick bite and you can go home and crash,” I offered. His eyebrow twitched. He reached out, lacing his fingers through mine. “No.” “…” I gave him a skeptical look. “Don’t push yourself. I won’t judge you.” He just laughed, saying nothing as his grip on my hand tightened. Two hours later, we were back at his place. I didn’t even have time to kick off my shoes before he swept me into his arms. “Wait, Wesley!” I kicked my legs, terrified he’d drop me, and threw my arms tightly around his neck. He dropped me onto the plush sofa and followed me down, his weight pressing into mine. His rough fingertips trailed down my calf, circling my ankle. “Don’t take them off. The shoes are gorgeous.” He looked down at me, his eyes dark and heavy with a familiar heat. “Keep them on for me. Okay?” I gripped the collar of his shirt, my heart hammering so hard against my ribs I thought it might crack them. “Wesley, you’re… mmh.” The warm amber lights overhead seemed to sway. Somewhere in the haze, my burgundy heels eventually slipped off… 6 Ever since I discovered Wesley’s specific… fixations, I couldn’t look at my stilettos the same way. So, the next time we met, I purposely wore white high-top Converse. I paired them with a cropped baby tee and a pleated tennis skirt. It was a massive departure from my usual sultry, mature aesthetic. I looked like a college freshman. I figured there was no way he could make it weird tonight. I was wrong. That night, he made me keep the pleated skirt on… “Wesley, do you know what the dictionary definition of a ‘refined degenerate’ is?” I was lying face-down in the pillows, my voice entirely devoid of strength. “Go look in a mirror.” He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to my bare shoulder. “You seemed to enjoy it.” “Screw you!” I kicked blindly backward, twisting my head to glare at him. “I have a live stream tomorrow! How am I supposed to sit in front of a ring light looking like this?” I pointed at the scattering of purple and red marks blooming across my collarbones. One, two, three, four… I couldn’t even count them all! “You could do a concealer tutorial.” “Tutorial my ass… Since when do you know about concealer?” “The women at the firm talk about it all the time.” His tone was infuriatingly casual. “They love your makeup tutorials, actually. I caught a couple of the paralegals watching you in the breakroom on company time. I had to reprimand them.” I grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked. “How dare you write up my fans?” “Tsk. You have no self-preservation instincts, do you?” “What’s there to be afraid of? You have plenty of hair.” “Ivy.” His brow furrowed slightly. “Let go.” I pouted, reluctantly uncurling my fingers. A second later, he flipped me over, pinning me to the mattress. Our skin was flushed and slick with sweat. My heart shot into my throat. His mouth descended on mine. I turned my face away just in time. “Counselor Pierce, you’re not exactly in your twenties anymore. Don’t you think you should pace yourself?” He looked down at me, a dangerous storm brewing in those dark depths. “Is that so?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, lethal register. “Not in my twenties anymore?” “…I’m just speaking the truth.” I paid the price for my honesty shortly after. Right as my mind was turning to absolute static, he leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear. “Ivy, do you like me?” Later, when I remembered those words, I brushed them off as the delirious ramblings of a man lost in the heat of the moment. I wasn’t narcissistic enough to think he was actually falling for me. And I had absolutely no intention of falling for him. Feelings were messy. Feelings ruined everything. 7 I always thought of myself as someone with an ironclad will. I didn’t want emotional attachments; I just wanted the physical high. But three months in, the tectonic plates of my mindset began to shift. It started on a Tuesday night. Wesley had cooked a massive candlelit dinner for us. I’d had a little too much wine. I remembered stepping over the rose petals he’d scattered on the floor, dragging him down onto the couch with me. But that night, we didn’t do anything. We just lay there together, wrapped in a blanket, and fell asleep to the sound of the rain beating against the glass. At two in the morning, I woke up in a groggy haze. I wanted a glass of water, but I was too lazy to get up. I nudged Wesley’s ribs with my elbow. He woke up with a quiet groan. His eyes were heavy with sleep. Without a word, he pulled me closer and pressed a slow, soft kiss to my mouth. “You’re such a handful,” he murmured, his voice thick and rough from sleep. It was a complaint, but the way he said it was drowning in absolute indulgence. Every trace of my exhaustion vanished. I lay there frozen, my fingertips lightly touching my lips. It was the simplest, quietest touch. There was no lust in it. No heat. And yet, it made my heart flutter in a way I couldn’t ignore. 8 “Ivy, this one has incredible prospects…” “Mom. I’m not going.” I massaged my temples, my patience wearing dangerously thin. “Can you please stop setting me up?” My mother sighed heavily. “I’m only trying to look out for you. A woman needs to settle down early.” “You settled down early. You had me at twenty-three. And what happened?” I let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Dad cheated on you. You married husband number two, then husband number three. Are you happy now?” Silence crackled over the line. I exhaled a long, shaky breath. “Stop worrying about my love life. How are things on your end?” “Fine.” “Do you want me to hire a housekeeper to help out?” “No, don’t waste your money.” “Has that bastard tried to come around?” My mother let out a very faint, “…no.” Then, abruptly, she pivoted. “About the blind date…” “Mom, I have to go. Work.” I spat out an excuse and ended the call. I checked the time. I still had plenty of a buffer. I sat at my vanity, taking my time to blend my eyeshadow and curl my hair into loose, effortless waves. Before I was even finished, my phone lit up with a call from Wesley. “Ivy, I’m downstairs.” His voice was as smooth and intoxicating as ever. “Wait, I’m coming down right now,” I said quickly, panic setting in. “No rush. Take your time.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m not going anywhere, you little idiot.” The words were like a feather brushing lightly against my ribs. I looked at myself in the mirror, my cheeks flushed crimson. We’d been doing this for five months now. It wasn’t a short amount of time. But he still managed to fluster me with zero effort. “You’re the idiot,” I mumbled, and hung up. I grabbed my purse, scooped up the gift bag I’d prepared, and ran out the door. Today was Wesley’s birthday. He was taking the lawyers from his firm out for dinner. Originally, I’d planned to take him out separately once he was done. But he insisted I come with him. He refused to take no for an answer. This wasn’t the first time he’d tried to pull me into his real life. Last month, he won a massive corporate settlement and the firm threw him a party. He’d asked me to be his plus-one, and I declined, saying it wasn’t “appropriate” for our arrangement. But it was his birthday. I didn’t have the heart to say no. In the car ride over, I kept checking my compact mirror, nervously touching up my smudge-proof lipstick. Wesley noticed my anxiety and let out an amused sigh. “Relax. My colleagues don’t bite.” I turned my face away, refusing to look at his teasing eyes. “Who says I’m nervous? Hilarious. “I’m just here to be arm candy. “And besides, some of my followers might be in there. A girl has to maintain her brand image.” Wesley laughed—a low, rumbling sound—and lightly ran his thumb across the back of my hand. “Ivy, how are you so cute?” “?” 9 We were dining at a high-end French bistro. Wesley and I had been here once before. The ambiance was stunning. Just before we reached the private dining room, I slipped my hand out of his. He shot me a look. He clearly wanted to say something. Before he could, the heavy oak door swung open. A woman stepped out. She froze when she saw me, her eyes going wide before she let out a high-pitched squeal. “Oh my god! You’re Wild Ivy!” Wild Ivy was my username on Instagram and TikTok. Wesley frowned. “I literally just told her you guys don’t bite.” The woman bounced excitedly over to me. “Ivy, hi! I’m Becca, Mr. Pierce’s paralegal. I am absolutely obsessed with your videos. I literally bought the setting spray you reviewed last week.” “You are so much prettier in person! Your skin is insane.” “When we were talking about you the other day, Mr. Pierce casually mentioned he was bringing you to dinner tonight.” “We literally thought he was lying to sound cool.” “I can’t believe you’re actually here! How do you guys even know each other?” “Can I get your Insta? Or your number?” Wesley clicked his tongue. “Becca, you are embarrassing…” I smiled, pulling out my phone. “Here, scan my QR code.” Wesley: “…” After we connected on Instagram, Becca practically dragged me into the private room. Once the initial round of introductions settled, the conversation started flowing. “So, Ivy, how did you and our boss meet?”

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