My online boyfriend is incredibly good at swearing. Especially when he’s roasting my annoying boss. He can curse him out for ten minutes straight without repeating a single word. Then, one day, I accidentally pocket-dialed a video call. My online boyfriend answered instantly. And then, the handsome, chilling face of my boss filled the screen. “…” I was completely speechless. 1 [Baby, want to play a game?] When my online boyfriend sent that message, I was still stuck at the office, miserably grinding through overtime. I replied bitterly: [Can’t. Still working.] [Why are you still working so late?] [Poor baby.] I replied, feeling sorry for myself: [Management forced it. Honestly, there’s absolutely nothing to do.] He slowly typed out a single question mark. I was bursting with frustration and had nowhere to vent, so my fingers flew across the keyboard. [The big boss came to the office today. Remember the one I told you I hate?] [Our management just wants to kiss his ass. They forced us all to stay late to show off their ‘leadership’ skills.] [Tell me, is there something wrong with his brain?] My online boyfriend filled the entire screen with question marks. [No way… Is your management team brain-damaged?] [Forcing overtime is good leadership? Doesn’t forced overtime just prove how incompetent they are?] [I have literally never seen such pathetic ass-kissing in my life.] [But then again, that boss of yours has a weird way of thinking. Who knows, maybe he actually eats that stuff up.] [You’ve been treated so unfairly, baby.] I was about to complain some more when the big boss, whose brain was allegedly wired wrong, appeared at the door of our bullpen. He was holding his phone in one hand, his thumb tapping away at the screen. His head was slightly bowed, looking like he was texting someone. His expensive suit jacket was casually slung over his other arm. His dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. He exuded the cold, aloof aura of an untouchable heir. Until he looked up— The expression in his eyes completely suppressed that careless, relaxed vibe. Our department head was already scurrying over to brown-nose him. At that exact moment, I received a new message from my online boyfriend. [Baby, don’t be mad. I’ll show you my abs, okay?] I was just about to say yes. In the dead silent office, Preston Sterling’s low, commanding voice rang out: “Why hasn’t anyone left?” “Overtime,” the department head said with an ingratiating smile. “Everyone’s work ethic is very strong. To support their efforts, I also—” Preston cut him off: “Are you actually getting work done, or just pretending?” Instantly, a cold sweat broke out on the department head’s forehead. “W-working…” Preston called the department head out into the hallway. Less than a minute later, the department head trudged back in, looking thoroughly defeated. His face was pale as he weakly announced: “Go home.” My coworkers and I exchanged bewildered looks. Then, we packed our bags at lightning speed and bolted. 2 When I got home, I jumped on a voice call with my online boyfriend to play our usual game. Maybe because I had just heard the big boss speak not long ago, I kept feeling like my online boyfriend’s voice sounded somewhat similar to his. Especially the pacing and the way he emphasized certain words. It was almost identical. “Baby, get in the car. We need to outrun the blue zone,” he called out to me. “Oh,” I said, quickly hopping into the virtual vehicle. I tested the waters, “Can you say a specific sentence for me?” “Say what?” “‘Why hasn’t anyone left?’ Say that.” He dragged out the syllables, pausing between each word like he was pouting: “Whyyy~ hasn’t~ anyooone~ left~? Are~ you~ waiiiiting~ for~ me~?” “…” I completely abandoned the idea that they sounded alike. If these two were the same person, the sun would rise in the west tomorrow. I focused on the game, but my online boyfriend wouldn’t let it go: “What’s wrong? Why did you suddenly want me to say that?” I couldn’t shake him, so I told him the truth. “It’s just… for a split second, I thought your voice sounded a lot like my boss’s.” “The boss who sexually harassed his female subordinate?” “…Yeah.” The rumor about him sexually harassing a female subordinate was something I had heard from a colleague who had recently quit the executive suite. According to the rumor, Preston wanted to sleep with her. She refused and fought him off, so Preston made her go to HR and process her own resignation. At the time, I never would have thought that Preston, who looked so respectable and professional on the outside, was actually a monster behind closed doors. I had complained about him to my online boyfriend plenty of times, which is why he also deeply despised the man. “Baby! How could my voice sound like that animal’s?” he sounded hurt, with a specific kind of stubbornness mixed in. “You’re insulting me! I’m going to be mad at you!” I quickly tried to soothe him: “Don’t be mad, don’t be mad. You don’t sound like him.” “You already said I do,” he argued irrationally. “I’m going to get vocal cord surgery tomorrow. I won’t sound like him!” He made me laugh. “What do I have to do to make you not mad?” His attitude instantly turned shy and bashful. He mumbled, “You know what.” I did know. I tested the waters, calling out softly: “Babe~” “Hmph.” “Boyfriend?” His huff grew louder: “Hmph!” I pulled out the ultimate weapon: “Husband.” He immediately replied: “Hehe. Not mad anymore.” Not only was he not mad, but even through the internet, I could feel him grinning from ear to ear. We played until eleven o’clock. I grabbed my pajamas and went into the bathroom to shower and get ready for bed. By the time I finished showering, washed my hair, and came out, my clingy online boyfriend had already sent me a barrage of messages. [Baby, I finished my shower!] [You take so long.] [But waiting for you to shower makes me feel so happy.] [Daily reminder: We agreed to meet up in person this Saturday.] [I already bought that men’s cologne you like. When we meet, I’ll make sure you can’t keep your hands off me!] [Baby, what do you want to see me wear?] [I put together a few outfits. Pick your favorite, and I’ll put it on for you!] I opened the photos he sent. Just then, a drop of water fell from the end of my wet hair and landed directly on the screen. Then, the screen automatically backed out of the chat interface. I blinked in confusion, turned off my hairdryer, and casually flipped my wet hair out of my face. At that moment, a second and third drop of water hit the screen. I pulled a tissue to wipe the water off the screen. I didn’t expect the screen to be so hypersensitive. I didn’t know when, but it had automatically dialed a video call to him. I watched helplessly as the call connected. The person on the other end of the video was sitting up straight in front of the camera, his hair fluffy and soft from a fresh shower. Exquisite brows, a straight nose, full lips—every single one of his features was perfectly proportioned. The only problem was… This face was exactly the same as the face I had seen in the office not too long ago. —He was Preston Sterling! The moment I realized this, I panicked and slammed the ‘End Call’ button. 3 Water was still dripping from the ends of my hair, but I didn’t have time to care. My mind was consumed by one thought— My online boyfriend was actually my strict, unsmiling boss, Preston Sterling?! This was absurd and ridiculous. But the truth was staring me right in the face, and I had no choice but to believe it. I tried to search through the past for clues, but the shock of “Preston is my online boyfriend” was too massive. My brain simply couldn’t process anything else. In my anxiety, my brain conjured up an even more terrifying question. —Did he see me? Logically, even if he did, it shouldn’t matter. After all, I had never interacted with him at the office; he probably didn’t even know what I looked like. But what if? What if we bumped into each other at the office one day, and my cover was completely blown? I was restless, filled with panic and unease. Preston, who had been abruptly hung up on, was clearly not having a good time either. He sent a barrage of messages. [Baby, why did you hang up?] [Did you press the wrong button?] [I thought you wanted to see what I looked like, so I answered… I didn’t mean to offend you.] [Baby, are… are you not happy with how I look?] [I just got out of the shower, so I might not look my best. Let me send you a few more pictures.] [Image] [Image] [Image] [This is how I usually look. Does this look a little better?] [Baby, do you like them?] If, a moment ago, I still harbored a sliver of hope that “Maybe I saw it wrong, maybe my online boyfriend isn’t Preston,” this moment completely crushed it. Because the candid photos he sent were undeniably Preston himself. Sitting in a conference room in a tailored suit, looking out from a mountaintop in a black windbreaker, leaping for a dunk in a #23 basketball jersey… Every single one was him. Every single one was Preston. I was losing my mind! He seemed to be losing it too, sending a voice memo that sounded almost like a whimper: “Baby, please don’t ignore me. You’re scaring me.” A shiver ran down my spine. If I previously thought his pouting and whining was cute… Now that I knew he was the cold, untouchable Preston Sterling, it made my skin crawl. How could the contrast be this extreme? At the office, he was unsmiling, strictly professional. But in private… in private, he was shamelessly needy… I slowly typed: [Did you see me?] He was very excited. [I did!] [A super gorgeous girl!] “…” I was just contemplating how good I could possibly look from the fatal angle of having wet hair plastered to my face, when he sent another message. [But I didn’t see clearly.] [I only saw baby’s little chin and little nose. So cute, I want to kiss them.] [Did baby just wash her hair?] [Make sure you blow-dry your hair, okay? Otherwise, you’ll catch a cold, and my heart will ache for you.] “…” This was a true test of my psychological fortitude. Using blow-drying my hair as an excuse, I paused this excruciating conversation. The hairdryer hummed loudly. I scrolled through my chat history with my online boyfriend, still finding it hard to believe that this person was Preston. Maybe someone was impersonating him? It wasn’t uncommon for people to use other people’s photos for online dating. Clinging to that last shred of hope, I opened a chat with a coworker. [Hey bestie, are you in a group chat with Preston?] [Can you take a screenshot of his WhatsApp profile for me?] My coworker replied: [I don’t dare. That group is full of top executives.] “…” I offered a bribe: [I’ll buy you breakfast for a week.] She still hesitated: [What if I accidentally ‘nudge’ Mr. Sterling? I’d be completely screwed.] I upped the ante: [I’ll cover lunch too.] Only then did she muster the courage to send me the screenshot. The CEO’s profile picture, nickname, WhatsApp ID, and even his location matched my online boyfriend’s exactly. My online boyfriend was Preston. Preston was my online boyfriend. The moment I fully accepted this, despair washed over me. At the same time, I was deeply confused. How dare he use his main account for online dating? Preston, emboldened by my silence, sent another message. It was a few pictures, a virtual fashion show. [Baby, I changed into my clothes for Saturday. Which outfit do you think looks best?] I suddenly remembered, we were supposed to meet in person this Saturday. Today was already Thursday. Which meant I only had Friday to make things clear with him. Break up. I had to break up immediately! 4 Having decided to break up, I began to carefully choose my words. I couldn’t just tell him the real reason, but breaking up out of the blue would definitely make him suspicious. After thinking it over, I decided to use the video call as an excuse. I typed coldly: [I don’t want to meet anymore.] [What’s wrong?] Even through the screen, I could feel his cautious anxiety. I replied: [You’re not my type.] Preston panicked: [Then what type does baby like? Tell me, and I’ll work hard to become that, okay?] [No.] [User is typing…] stayed at the top of the screen for a long time. A pang of guilt flashed through my heart, but remembering the Preston who sexually harassed female subordinates, I hardened my resolve. [Let’s just break up.] [No!] [I won’t break up!] [I don’t agree!] He sent messages one after another. Seeing that I wasn’t replying, he directly initiated a video call. He wouldn’t have done this before. He was a man who understood boundaries. Even if he wanted to make a voice call, he would always ask if it was convenient first. He was desperate. But so was I. I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to break up with him, and even more terrified my secret would be exposed. In my panic, I simply deleted his WhatsApp contact. The world was finally quiet. That was probably the one good thing about online dating. As long as you deleted the other person’s contact info, it was as if they had never existed in your life, leaving no trace behind. I set the silent phone aside. Staring at the black screen, I felt like crying. How did it end up like this? How could my online boyfriend be the hypocritical Preston Sterling? He even used to curse himself out with me. Did he not realize he was insulting himself? For a moment, I wanted to read through our chat history again. But when I picked up my phone, I remembered I had already deleted him. I lay in bed clutching the empty phone, closing my eyes, trying to sleep away the melancholy of a breakup. But I couldn’t sleep at all. My mind was full of him. I met him on a first-person shooter game. It was a classic “hero saving the damsel” scenario. He showed up right when I was getting cursed out by my teammates. He took out the hidden enemies with a couple of shots, revived my injured character, and then verbally destroyed the teammate who wouldn’t stop spewing garbage. Although he was cursing too. But my stunned brain was left with only one thought: He looks so cool when he curses! After the game ended, I immediately DM’d him: [Can we play together again sometime?] He coldly rejected: [No.] I thought fate ended there, but who would have thought I’d get matched with him a second time. I followed him around like a little tail. He probably got annoyed, and finally relented, agreeing to play with me in the future. From meeting in the game to falling in love in reality, all those sweet memories weren’t fake. I stared at the ceiling and let out a long sigh. Why did he have to be Preston? 5 I didn’t sleep well all night, and I was still exhausted when I got to work the next day. My coworker at the next desk, Kelly, was practically buzzing. She rolled her chair over to me: “Wake up! The CEO is at the office again today!” My eyes widened: “Doesn’t he only come in on Tuesdays and Thursdays?” “Who knows,” Kelly shrugged. “It’s his family’s company, he can come whenever he wants.” “But according to Maya from the executive suite,” Kelly whispered conspiratorially, “Mr. Sterling’s mood is incredibly foul today. The whole company is on high alert. Best not to get on his bad side.” I nodded cautiously. As she rolled her chair away, I couldn’t help but wonder, did Preston come to the office because of me? Although it sounded a bit arrogant, I was still worried. Would he recognize me? Probably not, right? I racked my brain trying to remember our past conversations, struggling to determine if I had ever let slip any identifying details. It was then I felt a wave of regret. I deleted him too early. I should have just blocked him. At least if I blocked him, I could still see our chat history. I could have analyzed the chat logs to see if I had dropped any hints. That way I’d have some evidence to base my worries on. I spent the entire morning on edge, but nothing happened. I silently comforted myself not to be too paranoid, and went to the company cafeteria for lunch with my colleagues. Unexpectedly, Preston was there too. He sat in a prime spot on the second floor, resting his chin on one hand, overlooking the entire dining area. Like he was looking for someone, or more specifically, looking for me. I instinctively hid behind Kelly, concealing the chin and nose he had seen last night, terrified of being recognized. Kelly looked bewildered: “What’s wrong?” I made an excuse: “Chris is over there, he’s annoying.” Chris was a male colleague who had hit on me. Or rather, it wasn’t hitting on me, it was relentless stalking. Kelly knew I found him annoying too, and like a mother hen protecting her chick, she stood in front of me: “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.” I kept my head down the entire time, only letting Preston see the top of my head. I thought I’d get away with it, but halfway through lunch, every employee received an email from the executive suite. A survey on “Ineffective Overtime.” My colleagues whispered about how the department heads’ performative overtime yesterday must have angered the CEO, and quickly clicked the link to fill out the survey. I followed suit, dutifully entering my name and department. The survey redirected to a new page. My eyes instantly locked onto a required question that had absolutely nothing to do with the survey’s content. Username for First-Person Shooter Game. The colleagues around me were confused, muttering about why they had to fill this out. I, however, broke out in a cold sweat. I thought, Preston knows! It turned out he really was that sharp. From just a few sentences, he had deduced that I was in his company, and wanted to use this opportunity to draw me out. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. I made up a fake game username, randomly selected a few answers, and submitted the survey. The cafeteria was noisy with chatter. I silently told myself not to panic. Preston didn’t know who I was yet, at least I could buy some time. I ate my lunch clinging to that hope. After the lunch break, Maya from the executive suite messaged me. [Aria, come upstairs. Mr. Sterling wants to see you.] “…” In that moment. The heart that had been hanging in suspense, finally died. 6 Even though I knew there was a high probability that my cover was blown, I still wanted to make a final, desperate struggle. Before leaving, I put on a face mask. Maya met me by the elevator. Seeing me wearing a mask, she paused: “Do you have a cold?” I nodded: “I don’t want to pass it to Mr. Sterling.” “That makes sense.” She led me all the way to the CEO’s office door. I tried several times to glean what this was about from her expression, but she only gave me a sympathetic look. My shoulders slumped in defeat. She comforted me: “Maybe it’s good news.” I thought bitterly, what good news could possibly make Preston seek me out? This was skipping way too many levels of management. There was only one possibility. Online dating. I gathered my shattered emotions, thinking the worst that could happen was death, and pushed open the door with a sense of fatalistic relief. Inside, Preston was brewing tea. His suit jacket was carelessly tossed over the armrest of the sofa. He had his sleeves rolled up and his collar open, slowly and methodically handling a white jade teacup. Suddenly, he looked up at me, his gaze lingering: “Why the mask?” I faked a cough: “I have a slight cold.” “Perfect,” he said, raising the teacup toward me. “Tangerine peel soothes the throat. Try some.” “…” For a moment, I really couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or sarcastic. I asked cautiously: “Did you need to see me about something, Mr. Sterling?” He casually set down his teacup: “Aria, I hear you’re quite popular in your department?” I answered conservatively: “I guess so.” “Then can you help me clear up a rumor?” Preston stared at me intently. Being stared at like that, I had the inexplicable illusion that he could see right through me. I instinctively touched the mask on my face. Still there, thank goodness. I asked: “What rumor?” “Sexually harassing a female subordinate.” He said reasonably, “People in your department seem to have a misunderstanding about me. I wasn’t the reason for Lily’s resignation.” In an instant, I thought of a possibility I had never considered before. If Preston harassing a female subordinate was false, could it be that the female subordinate tried to seduce him, failed, and then falsely accused him? Preston’s answer confirmed my suspicion. He tossed his phone in front of me: “If you don’t believe me, you can ask her yourself. Honestly, I feel quite wronged about this.” On the phone was Lily, whom I hadn’t seen in a long time. She was apologizing and clarifying, saying she had a moment of madness and tried to seduce the CEO, and that she shouldn’t have thrown dirty water on him… I didn’t want to listen anymore and hung up the phone. Preston was drinking tea again. He said: “She only told you this, but I’m not sure how many people you passed it on to. I hope you can clear my name.” I thought, I only told one person. That was my online boyfriend, which was the person sitting in front of me. Preston asked: “Can you handle this?” “Yes.” I answered sheepishly. The anxiety I had before entering the office was gradually smoothed over by this bizarre conversation. I thought, Preston probably didn’t know who I was yet. He just guessed his online boyfriend was in our department, but he still needed to investigate exactly who it was. He sought me out just to have me clear up the rumor. I secretly breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness, thank goodness. “Let’s add each other on WhatsApp then,” he suddenly said. My eyes widened: “Huh?” He smiled, his eyes curving: “Don’t I have the right to be updated on your progress?” “Y-yes.” In my panic, I hurriedly logged into my alt WhatsApp account and scanned his QR code. Seeing the familiar profile picture reappear in the chat window, I felt an indescribable emotion. Preston also stared at my alt account’s profile picture for a few seconds. Finally, he smiled and said: “Looks good. You can go back to work.” That day passed relatively peacefully. At night, I lay in bed. Staring at Preston’s profile picture in the chat window, I zoned out. If the video call accident hadn’t happened, what would we be chatting about right now? About meeting up, right? After all, we were supposed to meet tomorrow. He would repeatedly tell me the time and place for tomorrow’s date. He would nervously recount what he was going to wear tomorrow, what we were going to eat tomorrow, what we were going to do together tomorrow. He would use actions to tell me how excited he was. More cheesily, he would say he was going to kiss me to death when we met tomorrow. I immersed myself in this beautiful fantasy, but was suddenly defeated by cold reality. He was Preston. Even if he was no longer a hypocritical boss, he was still my boss. Rather than finding out the truth at the moment of meeting and panicking, it was better that this video accident led to an early breakup. I repeated “early breakup is better” to myself and decisively tossed my phone aside to sleep. I slept until 10:30 the next morning. This was the time I had agreed to meet him. I had no intention of going, and idly scrolled through my phone. Suddenly, Preston updated his WhatsApp status. The picture was of the cafe where we agreed to meet. His caption: [Waiting for you.]

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My boyfriend loved to test my love for him. He would fake being sick, making me run out in the pouring rain to buy him medicine in the middle of the night. He would deliberately leave hickeys on his neck just to make me jealous. He would even force me to wait three hours in the rain just to show off to his friends. I unilaterally announced our breakup. Yet, he still thought I was just throwing a tantrum. On my birthday, he called me. “Alright, stop being mad. Come to the Starlight Club tonight, I have a surprise for you.” I told him I was busy today, but he didn’t believe me, scoffing: “What could you possibly be busy with?” “I’m getting married today.” 01 I had been waiting downstairs with a cake for three hours. The messages I sent him vanished into thin air like stones dropped into the ocean. Just as I was about to leave, cheers erupted from the apartment upstairs. Ethan and his friends excitedly poked their heads over the balcony, whistling. “Sister-in-law! Ethan said you would wait for him in the rain for three hours! I can’t believe it’s actually true!” “Your love story is so enviable!” “Ethan is such a lucky guy!” They were loud, surrounding Ethan and cheering him on. I stared at them blankly, the colors of everything around me slowly fading to black and white. Only Ethan remained. He had a smirk on his face, looking at me like he was looking at a little puppy that had just earned him some bragging rights. Suddenly, it felt like my chest had been violently ripped open, the cold wind rushing in, freezing and painful. Ethan waved at me. “Chloe, come here.” I looked at him for a few seconds, turned around, and walked into the rain. I had been dating Ethan for five years. From the days when he had nothing, to now, when he had established his own company. I had been the unwavering witness to his transformation from a poor boy to a small business owner. When he closed his first business deal, he held me and cried like a child. “Chloe, I will definitely, definitely treat you well. I will love you forever.” Back then, he spoke with such sincerity. So much so that I believed him without hesitation. I don’t know when he changed. I only know that in my memory, the things he left me with were no longer beautiful. He once faked being sick and made me go out in the middle of the night to buy him medicine, just to test my love. It was the dead of winter, snowing heavily. As soon as I heard he was sick, I rushed out without a second thought to get him medicine. The roads were icy, and I fell four times. When I got back, Ethan stood at the door and gave me a hug. He said, “Baby, you’re the best.” He told me he wasn’t sick, he just wanted to test my love for him. I don’t know what I felt at the time, but the pain from the bruises on my legs made my eyes sting. Another time, Ethan deliberately left hickeys from other women on his neck just to make me jealous. We had the biggest fight in history, but he turned around and posted on Facebook. [My baby really loves me, otherwise she wouldn’t be so jealous.] Over the years, he had done too many absurd things. I was losing count. Passing by a trash can, I smashed the cake in my hands into it. After so many years, Ethan had finally depleted my love for him, bit by bit. 02 Walking in the rain, I was reminded of a rainy night many years ago. At that time, Ethan and I were only sophomores in college. It started raining on my way back from tutoring. As I stepped off the bus, I looked up and saw a boy standing under the dim streetlight. He was holding an umbrella, waiting for me. The moment he saw me, he ran over with a smile. He pulled a baked sweet potato from inside his jacket and shoved it into my hands: “It’s still hot, eat it quickly.” That kind of blatant, passionate affection, it was the first time I had ever felt it. But it had only been five years. The person was the same, but everything else had changed. Actually, I had been disappointed for a long time. I just clung greedily to the beautiful moments he once gave me, which was why I kept holding onto a sliver of hope. What if? What if he changed back? The facts proved that it was just my wishful thinking. From the moment he started treating my kindness towards him as his bragging rights, the love between us had already mutated… Today was his birthday, and I originally wanted to have a serious talk with him. About us, about our future. Ethan didn’t give me that chance; he used three hours to make me face reality. There was no future between us anymore. Thinking about it that way, those three hours were actually quite worth it. Before walking out of their line of sight, I heard them talking. “Sister-in-law seems mad.” “Should you go coax her, Ethan?” Ethan’s casual voice rose slightly: “No need, she’s just throwing a tantrum.” “After all these years, I’m used to it. It won’t be long before she comes back on her own.” He was very confident. He felt that since he was successful now, even if I was stupid, I wouldn’t give up on a catch like him. But I would not be coming back. Ethan, I don’t want you anymore. 03 That entire night, Ethan didn’t call me once. The next morning, I stood downstairs and watched him leave for the office before returning to the apartment we shared. I left him a letter. I didn’t even need to pack any luggage, just my ID and passport. When I pushed the door open to leave, I couldn’t help but look back one last time. This was the apartment Ethan and I rented after graduation. At the time, it was just a bare concrete box. We decorated it ourselves, picked out furniture together, hung decorative lights together. Later, when we had money, we bought this apartment. The apartment was very small, but we never moved out. Every little detail here held our memories. Now, those memories felt like a joke. On the day I boarded the plane to leave Seattle, I changed my SIM card. I left everything related to Ethan behind in that city. Years later, I finally returned to Los Angeles. The taxi was stopped at the entrance of the prestigious Oakwood Estates: “This is a private residential area. Unauthorized entry is prohibited.” I rolled down the car window: “Uncle Charles, it’s me.” The elderly security guard looked at me with wide eyes, head lowered: “Miss! Miss, you’re finally back!” “…” There weren’t many people in the sprawling estate. So I knelt in the courtyard for an hour before someone quietly brought me a cushion. “Dad, I really know I was wrong.” My father, his hair already turning gray, lay in a rocking chair with his eyes closed. After a long silence, he finally spoke. “I can still remember how fiercely determined you were when you left home for that poor boy.” “Your mother tried so hard to persuade you, but you wouldn’t listen to a single word.” “I hit you, I scolded you, but what was the result? You said you wanted to sever your ties with me…” “Dad.” My tears couldn’t be held back anymore, spilling out: “I regret it.” “From now on, I will do whatever you tell me to do.” The rocking chair stopped moving. He slowly opened his eyes and turned to look at me. “Since that’s the case, you should go ahead and hold the wedding with Liam first!” I froze for a moment. “Liam?” That unfamiliar name dug out memories I had almost forgotten. The Sterling family and my family were old friends. I was engaged to Liam when I was eighteen. Back when I was so fiercely determined to leave Los Angeles for Ethan, before I left, I specifically went to apologize to Liam and asked him to step forward and break off the engagement with me. What did he say back then? He said: “Growing up, when have I ever denied you anything you wanted?” So I naturally assumed that the engagement between him and me was no longer valid. I looked up, confused: “Liam, isn’t he married yet?” By my calculations, he should be thirty by now. “Who would he marry if you weren’t here?” My mom came out from inside carrying a fruit platter, put it on the table, and glanced at me: “Aren’t you going to stand up? Kneeling there is in the way.” I stumbled to my feet. I heard my mom say: “Since you’re back, the first thing you need to do is hurry to the Sterling family to apologize, and while you’re at it, go get the marriage license with Liam.” 04 When I went to the Sterling family, Liam wasn’t there. I heard he was abroad negotiating a project. The elders of the Sterling family were very happy to see me. This was quite different from the scene I had imagined; there were no cold stares or sarcastic remarks. “I heard you went abroad to clear your head these past few years. Now that you’re back, I assume you won’t be leaving again for a while?” I nodded in a daze: “Yes.” Auntie Sterling took my hand: “Back then, our Liam broke off the engagement with you without explanation. That was indeed inappropriate of our Sterling family. Your Uncle Sterling has already disciplined him, and we can understand you running abroad to clear your head.” “So now, about your marriage with Liam…” I felt so ashamed I wanted the ground to swallow me whole: “I’ll leave it entirely up to the elders of both families.” After leaving the Sterling house, I called Liam. It didn’t take many seconds for him to answer. Liam’s voice hadn’t changed much; it was still as calm and collected as ever, deep and magnetic: “Hello?” “Liam, it’s me.” Facing Liam, I felt very guilty. “I didn’t expect the engagement between us to still be…” I paused: “I thought you’d mind being entangled with someone like me, I’ll figure something out as soon as possible, to see if there’s a way to resolve this in the most peaceful…” He interrupted me before I could finish. “Mind what?” He said: “It’s not like you committed murder or arson. You just had a rather unpleasant relationship with someone else, that’s not a stain on your character.” “When is the wedding date?” He changed the subject so fast, I couldn’t react. “It hasn’t been set yet… but both sets of parents are very anxious.” “Okay, I’ll be back as soon as possible.” Until the call ended, I was in a daze. Actually, kids from families like ours should have realized early on that our marriages are not in our own hands. Understanding it is one thing; accepting it calmly is another. I thought, I should learn from Liam on this point. Liam returned half a month later, and on the day he returned, he brought gifts to Oakwood Estates. He had become more mature and reserved, speaking mildly and modestly to my dad, and he effortlessly made my mom happy without showing off. No wonder they liked him so much. I watched him from the side, and the moment his gaze shifted to me, I looked down and took a sip of tea. My wedding with Liam was set for May 5th. That day was also my birthday. While getting my makeup done in the morning, I received a call from an unfamiliar number. “Hello?” “Holy crap, this number really is you!” The voice sounded exactly like Ethan’s friend, Kevin: “Sister-in-law! I finally found you!” “Sister-in-law, where have you been hiding this whole time? Ethan’s been going crazy!” I didn’t know how he found out about this number. I just frowned slightly: “Stop contacting me, he and I have already broken up.” Suddenly, there was a commotion on the other end, and someone else took the phone. “You just left me a letter and unilaterally proposed a breakup, I didn’t agree, so it doesn’t count!” It was Ethan. “Chloe, what exactly are you mad about this time? Is it just because I made you wait in the rain for three hours?” “Is such a trivial thing worth running away from home over?” I listened in silence, too lazy to even argue with him. He made me realize once again that my decision to leave was absolutely correct. “OK, I apologize.” Ethan’s voice softened: “Baby, don’t be mad, okay? I just felt insecure and wanted to test your love for me, please don’t be mad.” “Today is your birthday, I prepared a surprise for you at the Starlight Club, could you please come over?” There were cheers from men and women in the background. “Sister-in-law! Ethan’s going to propose to you!” “Whoa~ So romantic!” “Get lost!” Ethan laughed and scolded: “If you say it out loud, it’s not a surprise anymore!” Listening to the noise over there, my head throbbed, and I couldn’t help but rub my temples. The makeup artist was startled and hurriedly asked: “I’m sorry Miss Davis, did I hurt you?” “No, keep going.” “Okay Miss Davis, I will definitely make you the most beautiful bride in the world today!” On the other end, Ethan froze: “Chloe, what are you doing?” I was silent for a few seconds, then said word by word: “Ethan, I’m getting married today.” There was no sound on the other end, and just as I was about to hang up, Ethan suddenly laughed. “Chloe, you’ve learned from me, haven’t you? Are you trying to make me jealous too? You almost had me fooled.” His tone was deliberately light. I suddenly felt a sense of relief. Maybe I had figured it out, I would never have any entanglement with him again in the future. “I’m not fooling you, we got the license last month, holding the wedding today.” I also smiled: “I won’t invite you for drinks, it wouldn’t be appropriate for you to come, my husband probably wouldn’t be happy either.” “Chloe!” Ethan’s voice suddenly spiked: “Are you done making a scene or not! You…” I hung up the phone, pulled out the SIM card, and threw it in the trash. The makeup artist was also frightened by me and didn’t move for a while. I faced the mirror and smiled at her: “Sorry about that, please continue.” 05 My wedding with Liam was held in a church in Los Angeles. The scene decoration didn’t look like a standard assembly line job; it was clearly done with care. I couldn’t help but ask an assistant: “Which company did this? It’s quite nice.” The assistant replied in a low voice: “Miss Davis, this was personally designed by Mr. Sterling.” “Ah…” I was stunned. I didn’t expect Liam to be so attentive to this arranged marriage. There was someone guiding me all the way on what to do and how to do it. I just walked into the hall in a daze like that. Liam, wearing a crisp suit, had his back to me. At the priest’s signal, he turned his head and looked over. With the cheers of the crowd filling my ears, I gazed at Liam from afar. Was I seeing things? The smile in his eyes actually seemed quite sincere. Perhaps I should learn from him and perform my superficial duties to the extreme. I adjusted the expression on my face, was led forward by my father, until I placed my hand in Liam’s warm palm. The wedding proceeded very smoothly, except after the ceremony ended, we were dragged around by our parents to socialize with numerous uncles and aunties. My legs were almost worn out from all the walking. It wasn’t until 11:00 PM that we finally returned to the bridal suite. It was a small villa, the surrounding environment was very nice and quite peaceful. I went off on my own to shower and remove my makeup. By the time I finished and came out, it was already midnight. Liam was sitting on the sofa in his pajamas, his hair not completely dry, a few stray strands falling across his forehead. This was quite different from his usual meticulous, elite appearance, making him seem… much more approachable. I saw him looking down at a tablet and instinctively said: “Still working this late?” Liam’s gaze shifted from the tablet, and he looked up at me: “I’m not working, I’m waiting for you.” Liam and I really weren’t very close, and we rarely chatted. While I was wondering why he was waiting for me, I saw him put down the tablet in his hand, get up, and walk towards me. “It’s getting late.” I nodded: “Yes, it is late.” So? Liam: “Time for bed.” In my momentary distraction, Liam had already pinned me against the wall, his hand resting on the back of my head, forcing me to look up at him. I was bewildered by his sudden action. Before I could react, I felt the change in the mature male body pressing against me from the front. The air around us began to grow thick and scorching. My thoughts slowed down. Maybe it was because I hadn’t been touched by a man in a long time, maybe it was because Liam’s body was truly top-tier, or maybe it was because his gaze was too intense. I found myself inexplicably reaching out to wrap my arms around his neck. “Let’s go to the bedroom.” He and I got married today, our identities were as legal as they could possibly be. We hadn’t signed any prenuptial agreements, and I definitely didn’t plan on being celibate forever. Now that there was such a man here to pleasure me, I couldn’t really resist. In just a few seconds, I convinced myself. We’re both just getting what we need. We’re all adults here. We stumbled into the bedroom all the way. I don’t even know where the robes on our bodies were thrown. I originally thought Liam was the ascetic, aloof type, or at worst, someone who was secretly wild but outwardly proper. But who knew he didn’t even pretend, directly exposing his truest self and desires to me. The chandelier on the ceiling wasn’t lit, but it kept swaying before my eyes… The moment my thoughts drifted to the clouds, I couldn’t help but take a bite of Liam’s shoulder. He let out a muffled groan, then chuckled softly. “Chloe, why do you still love biting people so much?” I didn’t hear that sentence clearly; I was already not quite lucid by then. I don’t know how many times I bit him, I only know that when I woke up the next day, Liam had his back to me, getting dressed. The exposed muscles on his back were well-proportioned and attractive; they would look even better if you could ignore the red and purple bite marks. I silently buried my head under the covers and began to pretend to be asleep. Liam finished dressing, walked straight over, and patted my head through the blanket. “I know you’re awake, if you don’t want to get up, don’t. I’m heading to the office first, remember to eat when you get up, and if you feel uncomfortable anywhere, give me a call.” He said all of this unhurriedly. His voice was still a bit hoarse. It wasn’t until the sound of the door closing rang out that I slowly poked my head out from under the covers. Lying flat on my back on the bed, I stared blankly at the large chandelier above. This was really not what I had expected… 06 My relationship with Liam actually drew much closer after that night. He would come back at night to have dinner with me, listen to me gossip about the wealthy elite circle, and occasionally respond to me. And I would accompany him to various galas and cocktail parties, playing the role of an elegant wife by his side. As a bedmate, Liam was even more qualified. He didn’t have the habit of messing around outside, got regular health checkups, was healthy, rigorously selected by the Davis family, and always guaranteed. I became more and more satisfied with this arranged marriage. My parents also noticed my changes. “Chloe, it’s been a month since you got married, you seem to have gained a little weight, and your complexion is much better.” My mom smiled: “It shows that Liam knows how to care for people.” “They say loving someone is like raising a flower, you can tell at a glance if the flower is raised well.” Speaking of this, my mom changed her tone and sighed: “Looking at how haggard you were when you suddenly came back before, it broke my heart just looking at you.” My strong smile froze for a moment. “Tsk, I was in such a good mood.” My dad was still very quick at changing the subject: “Now that you’re married, you should settle down. How about this, come intern at the company next month, familiarize yourself with the company business.” He had the final say, arranging my future work. When I got home that evening, Liam was just heading to his study. He was meticulous in his work, sometimes staying in the study until midnight. He asked me: “Have you eaten?” “Yes?” I politely asked back: “And you?” “No.” I paused: “It’s so late… I sent you a message saying I wouldn’t be back for dinner.” Liam nodded: “I saw it, but because you weren’t here, I didn’t have much of an appetite.” What he said was a bit intriguing, and I stared at him for a few seconds without speaking. Liam walked into the study, paused, and turned to look at me: “Do you need something?” I looked away, pretending nothing had happened and picked at my nails: “Nothing much, my dad said he wants me to help out at the company. I’m planning to buy an apartment near the company, it’s too far from here, commuting isn’t very convenient.” “Then buy one.” Liam said: “Let me know when you decide on the location, I’ll have someone set it up. We’ll need to buy another set of the things we’re used to using.” Huh? We… us? I jerked my head up: “Are you moving there too?” Liam looked at me, his tone flat: “We’ve only been married for a little over a month, and you want to separate from me already?” But I actually detected a hint of grievance in that flat tone? “That’s not what I meant… If you want to move there, fine.” “Then it’s settled.” Liam smiled: “Get some sleep, wife.” Me: “?” Until he closed the study door, I was still a bit dizzy. Did Liam take the wrong medicine? Before going to work at the company, Liam and I moved into an apartment nearby. I didn’t buy a very big one, since it was just the two of us living there, and he wouldn’t be there every day, so buying a big one would be a waste. My dad didn’t publicly reveal my identity at the company, he just had me work as a small assistant by his side, teaching me by example every day, assigning me a ton of tasks. He was seriously grooming me. Once I got busy, the days flew by. In the blink of an eye, half a year had passed. In early winter, an unexpected guest arrived at the company. Kevin. When I walked past the General Manager’s office with documents, he chased right after me. “Sister-in-law?” Kevin looked at me in confusion: “Why are you here?” I didn’t expect to run into him here either, and smiled politely: “I work here, and also, I’m not your sister-in-law.” He was a bit embarrassed: “Sorry, I misspoke.” He was also an executive at a company, and was probably here to talk business today. I didn’t say much to him, walked straight into the elevator, and headed to the top floor. Kevin stood there for a few seconds, then turned and went inside. He asked the manager: “What’s the position of the young lady who was just here at your company?” “Chairman’s Assistant.” The General Manager was confused: “What’s wrong?” “Nothing, nothing.” Kevin thought for a moment and asked: “Do you know what her husband does?” The General Manager was taken aback and turned to look at his secretary. The secretary said: “Assistant Davis doesn’t seem to be married yet, right? I’ve never heard her mention her husband…” The first thing Kevin did when he left the company was to call Ethan. “Ethan! Guess who I ran into today?!”

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I was the high-priced “closer” Peterson headhunted to be his Executive Assistant. My retainer was thirty thousand a month, and within thirty days of stepping into the office, I’d already locked down a ten-million-dollar contract. Peterson treated me like a lucky charm, a golden goose he wanted to keep on a pedestal. What he didn’t expect was his “trophy wife,” Tiffany, to see me as a target. It started with a single photo from a strategy meeting. Just because I was standing next to Peterson, she posted it to her socials that same day. “This assistant is nothing but a little home-wrecker. Look at her, trying so hard to show off her curves in those tight clothes. She’s probably spent her whole career sleeping her way to the top. Who knows how many men have used her before my husband took pity on her?” Slut-shaming? That was a line I wasn’t going to let her cross. 1 “Jade, you’re trending. And not in the good way.” When my colleague, Monica, Slack-ed me the link, I didn’t think much of it. “The truth is its own defense. I don’t have time for rumors,” I replied, my fingers flying across the keyboard. Everyone in this industry knew the deal. I, Jade Lin, was a force of nature. Whichever CEO I worked for, their stock price went up. Peterson had poached me specifically because he valued my grit and my track record. I was here to make money, not to engage in high school drama. But Monica looked at me with genuine pity. “You might want to actually look at it, Jade. It’s… it’s nasty.” I finally turned my head and glanced at the screen. I froze. [BEWARE! This CEO’s assistant is a professional mistress. She clings to the boss like a leech, always flaunting her body!] [I heard she’s been with five different CEOs before this. They all end up obsessed with her. She’s a piece of trash who uses her bedroom skills to get a paycheck!] [Wives, watch your husbands. Never hire a fox like this, or your family is over!] I didn’t even need to look at the profile picture to know who it was. The stylized, filtered “soft girl” aesthetic belonged to Tiffany, Peterson’s pampered wife. I took a slow, deep breath. The photo had been maliciously cropped. It showed only the split second where I had leaned in toward Peterson. In context, it was a press conference. I was handing him the media brief, standing close enough to whisper a correction about a journalist’s name. It was professional etiquette. She had turned it into a tabloid scandal. “This is too much,” Monica whispered. Suddenly, another coworker, Mike, called out from across the floor. “Jade! You better get out here. The boss’s wife is on a warpath again.” “She’s claiming she had an allergic reaction to the lunch you ordered for her. She’s screaming for your head.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. Again. Counting the online smear campaign, this was the eighth time Tiffany had come for me this month. From the day I started, she’d hated my guts. At first, it was subtle. She’d drop by the office daily with “organic smoothies” or “homemade cookies” for her husband. She played the doting wife, but her eyes were like searchlights, scanning me for flaws. She’d started countless fights with Peterson over me. I’d heard them through the office walls. “Why are you paying her that much? Are you two sleeping together?” “Why couldn’t you hire a man? Do you really need a woman to take your notes?” “Working late again? Or are you just having an office date?” Peterson usually ended it with a headache. “This is a workplace, Tiffany. If you can’t be professional, go home.” But that only fueled her fire. She began whispering to her friends about my wardrobe. “Look at how tight her skirt is. She wants everyone to see her body. Disgusting.” When I stayed late to fix a pitch deck, she’d sneer, “What a ‘hard worker.’ She’s probably waiting until everyone leaves so she can take that skirt off in his office. I should put a hidden camera in there…” I’d treated it all as white noise. I was here to get paid, not to compete for a man I didn’t even want. As long as the checks cleared, she could imagine whatever soap opera she wanted. But the noise was getting too loud. If I kept taking the “high road,” I’d eventually find myself at the bottom of a cliff. I finished the paragraph I was writing and stood up to handle the “lunch crisis.” The moment I stepped out of my office door, a bucket of ice-cold water hit me square in the face. 2 It was early spring, and the office AC was blasting. The cold sent a violent shiver through my entire body. My white silk blouse was instantly translucent, clinging to me in a way that was utterly humiliating. I looked up. Tiffany was standing there, arms crossed, a smirk of pure triumph on her face. “You must be Jade,” she said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. “With a face like that, it’s obvious what your real job is. Being a ‘secretary’ is just a cover for being a professional homewrecker. Why don’t you just tattoo ‘mistress’ on your forehead and save us all the trouble?” I wiped the water from my eyes. My blood was boiling, but before I could move, Monica grabbed my arm. “Jade, don’t. Don’t give her what she wants,” Monica whispered urgently. “She’s the ‘Trophy Wife’ type. She thinks every woman is a threat to her meal ticket. Plus, rumor has it she was the ‘other woman’ before she married Peterson. Women like that see ghosts everywhere.” I took a breath, forcing the rage down into a cold, hard knot. Getting into a screaming match in front of the entire staff would only make me look as unhinged as she was. I straightened my back, my voice steady and clinical. “Tiffany, I suggest you choose your next words very carefully.” “This isn’t your living room. This is a corporate environment. In the state of New York, what you’re doing is called harassment and defamation. There are legal consequences for both.” Tiffany’s eyes widened. She lunged forward, her hand swinging for my face. “You think you can talk back to me?” “You’re just a glorified servant. You think you’re important? In the old days, you’d be the help! If my husband didn’t pay your bills, you’d be starving on the street!” I let out a short, sharp laugh. She was so blinded by her own privilege that she didn’t see the room shifting. Every employee in the open-plan office was watching. And they weren’t looking at her with respect; they were looking at her with disgust. “Mrs. Miller,” I said, using her husband’s surname to remind her where her power actually came from. “You seem to forget that everyone in this room ‘lives off’ your husband’s company. Are you saying we’re all your servants?” Tiffany’s face paled as she realized she’d insulted the entire workforce. Before she could pivot, the murmurs started. “What century is she living in? Servants?” “We’re all here to do a job, and she thinks we’re beneath her?” “If this is how the boss’s wife thinks of us, maybe it’s time to update my LinkedIn.” The collective cold shoulder hit her like a physical weight. Tiffany turned her rage back on me, pointing a trembling finger. “Jade, you bitch! You did that on purpose! You set me up!” She raised her hand again, determined to land the blow this time. The hand came whistling toward my cheek. I didn’t flinch. I reached out, my fingers locking around her wrist with the precision of a vice. I’d spent three years in Krav Maga classes for “stress relief.” She couldn’t move an inch. I leaned in, my voice a low, terrifying silk. “Three things, Tiffany.” “First: I earn my salary. Peterson pays me for my brain and my results, not out of charity. It’s a transaction, and he’s getting the better end of the deal.” “Second: This is a workplace. We are equals here. The ‘servant’ mindset died a long time ago. Keep up.” “Third: If you touch me again, I won’t just block you. I’ll call the police.” Tiffany’s face went from white to a mottled purple. “You… you have such a silver tongue, don’t you? No wonder Peterson won’t fire you no matter how many times I ask.” She looked me up and down, her lip curling. “I wonder if you use that mouth for other things when the door is locked. Does he like the way you talk when you’re on your knees?” I released her wrist with a look of pure disdain. She stumbled back, losing her balance on her five-inch heels, nearly hitting the floor. “You pushed me?!” she shrieked. She turned to the onlookers. “What are you all doing? Grab her! She just assaulted me! She’s trying to stage a coup! Do something!” The office remained dead silent. People went back to their monitors. A few people literally turned their chairs away. Tiffany’s humiliation was complete. She was shaking, her voice rising to a frantic pitch. “You’re all going to regret this! Every single one of you! I’m telling my husband, and you’re all fired! You hear me? Fired!” “What is all this noise?” A deep, authoritative voice cut through the chaos. 3 Peterson. He was standing at the entrance of the floor, his charcoal suit impeccable, his brow furrowed in a deep, sharp V. He looked exhausted. “I could hear the screaming from the elevator. What is going on… Tiffany? What are you doing here again?” I opened my mouth to give a professional debrief, but Tiffany beat me to it. She transformed instantly. The predator became the prey. She threw herself into Peterson’s arms, sobbing as if she’d been stabbed. “Peterson! Oh, thank God you’re here!” “They’re all bullying me! Your employees… they’re ganging up on me!” “And Jade… she poisoned my lunch! She knew I was allergic. She wants to disfigure me so she can take my place!” She looked at me over his shoulder, a flash of pure malice in her teary eyes. Peterson looked stunned. He held her, but his eyes were on me. “Jade? What happened?” I stood there, soaked to the bone, shivering but steady. “Peterson,” I said, skipping the ‘sir’ for the first time. I flicked a bead of water off my hand. “The catering was handled through the usual channels. I sent the menu to Tiffany myself for approval yesterday. She signed off on it.” I took a step forward. “However, she just came in here and dumped a bucket of water on me in front of the entire staff. She insulted the employees, calling them ‘servants’ and ‘slaves.’ She tried to strike me twice. There are thirty witnesses and four high-definition security cameras that caught every second of it.” With every word I spoke, Tiffany’s “sobs” got quieter. Peterson wasn’t an idiot. You don’t build a multi-million-dollar empire by being blind to the people around you. He knew exactly who his wife was. He looked down at her, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous register. “You poured water on my Lead Assistant? You called my staff ‘servants’?” Tiffany shrank back, her voice a tiny whine. “Peterson, I didn’t mean it… she provoked me! She’s manipulative! She’s wearing that tight skirt to seduce you, she’s probably not even wearing underwear—” “Enough!” Peterson’s voice echoed off the glass walls. “This is a place of business, not a playground. How many times do I have to tell you? If you want to act like a child, stay at home.” I watched, a cold observer to the wreckage of their marriage. The other employees weren’t even trying to hide their smirks anymore. Tiffany looked at him like he’d slapped her. “Peterson… you’re yelling at me? For her? You’re choosing a secretary over your wife?” “You clearly don’t love me anymore!” She turned and fled toward the elevators, her heels clicking a frantic, rhythmic retreat. Peterson sighed, a long, weary sound, and rubbed his temples. The “trophy wife” act works on men like him for a while, but eventually, the maintenance cost becomes higher than the value of the asset. He looked at me, his eyes full of apology. “Jade, I am so sorry. Go to the executive lounge. There’s a shower and some spare clothes in the gym locker. Get cleaned up. We’ll talk in an hour.” He pulled out his phone, presumably to call and placate her. “No need for a talk, Peterson,” I said calmly. 4 Peterson froze, his thumb hovering over the screen. He looked up, confused. “What do you mean?” I met his gaze, my eyes clear and unflinching. “I’m not here for an apology or a shoulder to cry on. I’m here to resolve a liability.” I pulled out my phone and pulled up the social media post. I handed it to him. “Take a look.” “This is a post your wife made yesterday. She used a cropped photo of us to start a smear campaign. She called me a ‘slut’ and a ‘home-wrecker’ to over fifty thousand followers. She has fundamentally damaged my professional reputation.” “My peers are seeing this. My future employers are seeing this. I’m being harassed in my DMs.” Peterson took the phone. As he scrolled, the vein in his temple began to throb. He slammed the phone down on the desk. “Driver!” he shouted toward the hallway. “Get the car. Bring Tiffany back here. Now.” Ten minutes later, Tiffany was “escorted” back into the office. She walked in with her chin up, thinking Peterson was going to apologize. When she saw his face, her bravado vanished. “Peterson? What’s wrong?” “You have the nerve to ask?” He shoved the phone toward her. “Look at this, Tiffany. Look at it!” “Every day, you’re either embarrassing me or playing these petty games. Jade is the most talented person in this building. How could you be so cruel? How could you be so… stupid?” Tiffany saw the post and panicked. “It wasn’t me! A friend sent it… I just told her to keep an eye out—” “A friend?” I cut in, my voice like a blade. “Hanging me out to dry on the internet, calling me ‘trash’—that’s a ‘warning’?” “That’s cyberbullying. It’s character assassination. It’s libel.” I turned to Peterson. “I have been a model employee. I’ve brought in three major accounts, closed ten million in revenue, and cut your overhead by two million. I have never once crossed a professional line with you. I don’t want you, Peterson.” I looked at Tiffany, whose face was now a ghostly white. “And you need to understand something. Not every woman wants your husband.” “To you, he’s a prize. To me, he’s a paycheck. I’m worth thirty thousand a month because I’m good at what I do. I have the skills to buy whatever I want. I don’t need to steal a man to get a seat at the table.” The room was silent. My colleagues were looking at me with newfound awe. Even Peterson looked startled—and deeply impressed. He nodded slowly, then turned to Tiffany, his voice cold. “Tiffany. Apologize. Now.” Tiffany gasped. “To her? She’s a secretary! I’m your wife! I will never apologize to her!” Peterson took a slow breath. He was done. “I’ll say it one more time. She is a key asset to this company. When you insult her, you insult my business. You insult me.” “Apologize to Jade.” Tiffany saw the finality in his eyes. She started to cry, but it wasn’t the “pretty” cry from earlier. It was ugly and desperate. “I won’t! I’m right! You’re just blinded by her!” Peterson didn’t argue. He walked into the printing room. When he came back, he held a single sheet of paper. He slid it across the desk to her. “Apologize, or sign the divorce papers.” Tiffany’s world stopped. She looked at the header of the document, her mouth falling open. “You… you’re serious?”

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My boss secretly gave me a project that earned me $500,000. My wife said, “Just give me 80,000; any more will be too much.” I couldn’t argue with her, so I did as she said. My boss took the money but never gave me another project. Later, the money ran out, my mother couldn’t afford medical treatment, and my wife left me. I stood on the rooftop, looking down… Then I opened my eyes and was back that night. Reborn, the first thing I did was take 400,000 and knock on my boss’s door… 1. The money was sitting right there, staring back at me. Half a million dollars. Cold, hard cash. I pulled the stacks out of the heavy black duffel bag and lined them up on the dining table, one by one. They were crisp, the ink still smelling fresh, the bank bands still tight around the middle. Rachel’s eyes went wide. She reached out, her fingers trembling as she stroked the bills like they were made of fine silk. She traced the edges, whispering under her breath, “Half a million… It’s really half a million.” “It was a side project Jim Garrity handed me,” I said, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. “An off-the-books subcontract.” She snapped her head up, her eyes gleaming with a predatory light. “So, this is all ours?” “Technically…” I paused, feeling the familiar weight of her expectations pressing down on my chest. “Technically, I need to give Jim his cut.” “His cut?” Her voice sharpened instantly. “How much?” “Four… four hundred thousand. It’s the first one, Rachel.” I felt the sweat prickling at my hairline. I knew the rules of the game, even if she didn’t. “That’s how this works. He gave me the lead, he handled the internal politics. Without him, I’m nothing.” “You’re out of your mind!” She slammed her hand onto the table, making the stacks of cash jump. “Four hundred thousand? For what? You did the work, Mark! You’re telling me Jim Garrity gets nearly the whole pot just for opening his mouth? Have you lost your damn mind?” I knew this was coming. I had lived this argument a thousand times in my head, and once before in reality. “Rachel, listen to me—” I tried to explain how the corporate world really turned. I wanted to tell her that this wasn’t just a payment; it was an investment in a future. It was the price of admission to the inner circle. But she wasn’t listening. She never did. “Mark, I am telling you right now, you are not giving that man a cent more than necessary!” She stood up, hands on her hips, her face flushed. “Do you have any idea what this money could do for us? Toby’s private prep school is twenty grand a year. His club soccer, the elite coaching, the math tutors—that’s another fifteen. Your mother’s medical bills, her insulin, the private nursing—that’s two thousand a month. The mortgage, the car payments… do you ever actually look at the spreadsheet? You bring home ten grand a month and it vanishes before the second week is over!” I knew. God, I knew every cent. But I knew something else, too. Something far more terrifying. “Rachel, just let me finish—” “No!” Her eyes welled up, her voice cracking into that practiced sob that used to break my heart. “I’ve been with you for eight years, Mark. Eight years! We lived in that cramped studio for three years just to save for this down payment. I haven’t bought a dress over fifty dollars in three years. We finally get a break, a real chance to breathe, and you want to just hand it away? Do you even care about us?” She started to cry. It started as a soft whimper, then escalated into a full-blown sob as she collapsed onto the sofa. “I’m so cursed… I married a man who doesn’t know how to take care of his family… giving our life away to some rich executive…” I stood by the table, looking at the money, then at the woman I had once loved more than life itself. I felt a profound, soul-deep exhaustion. It wasn’t the kind of tired that sleep could fix; it was the kind that had settled into my marrow over years of compromise. When we married eight years ago, she wasn’t like this. She worked the cosmetic counter at the mall, making peanuts, but she was happy. She used to say we’d make it together. Then she got pregnant, the morning sickness was brutal, and I told her to stay home. I told her I’d take care of everything. And slowly, the woman I knew disappeared. Maybe it was the pressure of the suburban dream, or the social media feeds filled with friends in the Hamptons and new Range Rovers. Somewhere along the line, she changed. And so did I. I became the man who walked on eggshells, the man who traded his backbone for a quiet house. “Fine,” I heard myself say. “How much do we give him?” The sobbing stopped instantly. She looked up, her eyes still wet but sharp with calculation. “Fifty thousand. Max.” “That’s an insult, Rachel. He’ll see right through it.” “Eighty, then.” She grit her teeth. “Not a penny more. You tell him it’s a ‘token of appreciation.’ If he has any heart at all, he’ll understand that we have a family to feed.” I wanted to scream. Why would Jim Garrity care about my family? He gave me the project so I could make him rich, not so I could pay for Toby’s soccer camp. But the words died in my throat. I knew the script. If I insisted on the four hundred thousand, she’d scream, she’d take Toby to her mother’s, she’d call my mother and tell her I was throwing away our future. I’d hold out for three days, then I’d fold. It had been eight years of folding. “Fine,” I said. “Eighty thousand it is.” It was the worst mistake of my life. 2. I went to the bank and withdrew the eighty thousand in a thick manila envelope. It felt heavy in my hand, but it was the weight of a coffin lid. I picked a Tuesday night, circling the block of Jim’s gated community three times before I had the nerve to pull into his driveway. My palms were slick against the steering wheel. I was terrified of being seen, but more terrified of what was about to happen. Standing at his front door, I heard voices inside. I heard Jim laughing—a warm, genuine sound I never heard in the boardroom. The other voice belonged to Pete Hoffman, a guy from my department, just a couple of years older than me. He’d been promoted to Director last year. “Jim, about that project… I can’t thank you enough.” “Forget it, Pete. You’re one of us. Just keep up the good work.” The door opened. Pete stepped out, freezing when he saw me. He gave me a knowing, almost pitying smirk and a nod. On the hallway table behind him sat a manila envelope. It was three times as thick as mine. My heart plummeted. “Mark, come on in,” Jim said, his voice dropping into a neutral, professional tone the moment he saw me. I didn’t sit. I couldn’t. I placed my envelope on his mahogany desk. My hand shook. “Jim, I just… I wanted to say thank you for the opportunity. This is a small token of my gratitude.” He looked at the envelope, then up at me. I will never forget that look. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even disappointment. It was total, chilling indifference. “Mark,” he said. “What is this?” “Just… an appreciation for the lead.” He chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. He picked up the envelope and tossed it onto the floor by his feet, next to the trash can. Then he patted my shoulder. “Sure. I get it. Get back to work, Mark.” That was it. I stood there, waiting for a cue that never came. He turned back to his laptop, dismissing me as if I were a delivery boy who’d forgotten the napkins. “I’ll… I’ll head out then, Jim.” “Mm-hmm.” I walked out. The night air was cold, and the silence of the suburbs felt like a funeral shroud. I could hear my heart thumping—a slow, rhythmic tolling of a bell. The days that followed were a slow-motion car crash. The projects didn’t stop, but the good ones did. I was back to the grind—the internal stuff, the audited stuff, the projects where every bonus was capped and every hour was logged. Pete Hoffman, meanwhile, was in Jim’s office every other day. Rumor had it Pete just cleared a seven-figure commission on an offshore deal. I didn’t ask. I didn’t dare. I became a ghost in my own office. A “solid” employee who was going nowhere. The half-million dollars lasted exactly two years. Rachel’s spending was a fever. Toby’s soccer went from local clubs to regional travel teams with private coaches. The tutors multiplied. Rachel’s “self-care” expanded to a luxury gym membership, designer handbags, the latest iPhone every six months, and a Botox habit she thought I didn’t notice. “He’s an investment!” she’d snap whenever I questioned the bills. “You want him to grow up to be a loser like you? If you’re worried about money, go earn more!” I tried. But the doors were closed. Jim wouldn’t look at me, and in that world, if the king doesn’t look at you, no one does. Then came my mother. The day her kidney failure spiked, I’d just gotten my paycheck. Twelve thousand dollars. With the twenty in our savings, I was still short for the specialized surgery. I called Rachel. “We don’t have it,” she said, her voice flat. “I just paid the tuition for the spring semester. I’ve got maybe three thousand in the checking account.” “Can we borrow it? Put it on the cards?” “Borrow? From who? Mark, your mother is eighty. I am not going into debt for a woman who won’t even be here in five years when Toby needs college money.” I hung up. I scrambled. I begged friends, took out a predatory personal loan, and scraped together the fifty thousand. But the delay cost us. The surgery happened three days too late. My mother survived, but she never really came back. She became a shadow, requiring 24-hour care we couldn’t afford. Then, the mortgage. By the third month of arrears, the foreclosure notice was taped to the door. I sat in the living room with the yellow paper in my hand. Rachel sat across from me. Toby was in his room, probably playing a video game we couldn’t afford. “We have to sell,” I said. “And go where? An apartment?” She sneered. “I spent three years in a rat hole for this house. I am not going back.” “Then what’s the plan, Rachel? There is no money.” She didn’t answer. The next day, I came home to an empty house. Her clothes were gone. Toby’s room was stripped. There was a note on the kitchen island: Don’t look for us. You can’t afford a family. Just like that. I stood in the silence of a house that was no longer mine. I owed over a million on the mortgage and loans. My mother was in a state-run facility. My job was on the line—layoffs were coming, and as a “marginal” performer, I was top of the list. I called Rachel. Phone disconnected. I tried to message her. Blocked. I walked out of the house, hailed a cab, and went to the tallest building in the city. Twenty-eight floors up. I stood on the roof, the wind whipping my cheap suit jacket. Below, the cars looked like toys, the people like ants. I thought, If I jump, it’s over in four seconds. No more debt. No more failure. Memories flashed like a slide show. Me at twenty-two, eating ramen in a basement, believing I’d be a CEO by thirty. Rachel laughing at the makeup counter. The way Toby smelled like baby powder when I first held him. And then, the quiet moments. The way I’d let myself be carved away, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but a shell that paid bills. I thought of Jim’s look. The way he tossed eighty thousand dollars onto the floor like it was trash. The wind picked up. I took a step toward the ledge. One more step and the noise would stop. Then, my phone buzzed. I looked at the screen. It was the nursing home. My mother. If she knew I was standing here, she’d break. She had worked two jobs to put me through school. She’d saved every penny for my wedding. She hadn’t had a vacation in forty years, and now she was dying alone because I was too weak to stand up to my wife. And Toby. He was eight. What kind of man would he become if his father’s final act was a leap into the dark? I stepped back from the ledge. It wasn’t a moment of triumph. It was a moment of agonizing realization. The phone wouldn’t stop ringing. It was a tether, pulling me back from the brink. I went to the hospital. My mother was awake, her voice a papery thin whisper. “You look tired, Mark. Are you eating?” “I’m fine, Mom. Just a long day at the office.” “Don’t work too hard,” she said. “Life is short.” I wanted to howl, but I just nodded. The rest was a blur of misery. The bank took the house. The company let me go. My mother passed away a month later in a room shared with three other people. I moved into a studio apartment, spending my days throwing resumes into the void. I saw Rachel one last time, months later. She was in a photo on a mutual friend’s Facebook. She was standing next to a guy who owned a chain of car washes—a guy with a Rolex and an ego to match. The caption said: Rachel is finally living her best life. That night, I lay on my thin mattress, staring at the ceiling. I asked the universe: If I could go back, what would I change? Would I have given Jim the four hundred thousand? Would I have fought her? Would I have left her then? But there are no do-overs. There is only the dark. 3. That night, I dreamt of the rooftop. I felt the wind. I took the step. But instead of falling, I felt a strange, violent sensation of being pulled upward, through the clouds, through the stars, through the very fabric of time. I woke up gasping. The sun was blinding. My phone was buzzing on the nightstand. I grabbed it, my heart hammering against my ribs. June 15, 2024. 7:23 AM. June 15th? I scrambled through my phone. Messages, bank balances, call logs. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped the device. Is this a stroke? Am I dying? I scrolled up. A message from Jim Garrity: “Mark, you free for dinner tonight? Let’s talk about that side hustle.” The dinner. The night he offered me the project. The night everything began. June 15th. It was today. I hadn’t given the money away yet. I hadn’t even received it yet. I threw off the covers and bolted out of bed. Rachel was in the kitchen, her voice floating down the hall. “You’re up? Breakfast is on the table—” I didn’t answer. I flew out the door. The bank opened at nine. I was the first one in line. “How can I help you, sir?” the teller asked. “I need to make a withdrawal,” I said, my voice steady for the first time in a decade. “Four hundred thousand dollars.” The cash was heavy. Four thick, beautiful bricks of hundreds. I walked out into the morning heat. The sun was fierce, but I didn’t blink. I stood on the sidewalk and took a breath that felt like it reached the very bottom of my lungs. This time, the script was changing.

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In my past life, my brother Simon had a “pet”—a fragile, wide-eyed girl named Isabella who claimed she wanted to see a meteor shower. To satisfy her whim, Simon took every single one of our family’s security detail and drove out to the countryside to curate a “private celestial event” just for her. He didn’t care that he’d spent the last year ruthlessly dismantling a rival firm, leaving a trail of desperate, vengeful enemies in his wake. One of those enemies saw the opening. They broke into our estate, intent on a massacre. My mother died protecting me. She took the blade meant for my heart, her life slipping away in my arms while I frantically called Simon. When he finally deigned to return with the guards, it was too late. The killers were caught, but then came the “tragedy” from the hills. Isabella had vanished, leaving behind a tear-stained suicide note. In that letter, she blamed me. She claimed I had orchestrated the security withdrawal to “bully” her, that I had lured the killers to the house to spite her, and that she couldn’t live with the guilt. Simon didn’t cry for Mom. Instead, he coldly burned the letter and told me not to “overthink it.” He waited. He played the grieving son until my father, blinded by the loss of his wife, promised to hand the family empire to me. Then, on the night of my celebration gala, Simon walked into my bedroom. He didn’t say a word as he ended my life. His face was a mask of ice. “A monster like you deserves to stay dead,” he’d whispered as the light faded from my eyes. “The inheritance was always meant for me.” I died with my eyes wide open. And then, I woke up. The sound of the heavy iron gates being rammed open echoed through the halls of the estate. 1. The thunderous crash of the front gates being forced open jolted me out of the suffocating sensation of dying. I lunged forward, grabbing my mother just as she was about to rush into the hallway to investigate. “Maddy, what’s going on?” she gasped, her eyes wide with a terror she couldn’t quite hide. She didn’t know yet. She didn’t know that Simon had stripped the house bare of protection for the sake of his “precious” Isabella. “Mom, Simon took the security. All of them. It’s just us,” I hissed, dragging her into my bedroom and slamming the door. I turned the deadbolt, my lungs burning as I shoved the heavy mahogany dresser against the door. “What? That’s impossible,” she stammered, her voice trembling. “Simon is sensible. He wouldn’t leave us defenseless.” She didn’t want to believe it. In her eyes, the Sterling—no, the Victor—legacy was built on safety and order. But she saw my face, pale as a ghost, and the way my hands shook as I strained against the furniture. The dresser screeched against the hardwood, leaving deep, ugly gouges. “Call him! Tell him to get back here now!” Mom urged. I didn’t answer. I just stared at the door. My fingers flew across my phone screen, dialing 911. I gave the operator our address and a frantic summary of the situation. I couldn’t rely on Simon. In my last life, he came back just late enough for Mom to bleed out. My heart sank. A heavy blizzard had closed the mountain passes. We were in a secluded estate on the ridge; the nearest precinct was miles away through the snow. Bang! The bedroom door shuddered under a massive blow. I threw my body weight against the dresser, the tide of memories threatening to drown me. That was when Mom’s call to Simon finally connected. “Simon! You have to come home! There are people in the house—they’re breaking in!” she screamed into the phone. His voice came through the speaker, drawling and irritated. “Mom, stop the drama. I’m in the middle of Isabella’s birthday dinner. I’ll be back tomorrow.” “I’m not lying! They’re at the door! Simon, if you don’t come back, you’ll find us in body bags!” His tone turned frigid. “I know you hate Isabella, but this is pathetic. Don’t use fake threats to ruin her night. And tell Maddy to stop her little games. I’m not falling for it this time.” The line went dead. My blood turned to ice. He remembered. Simon was reborn too. But in his twisted mind, the massacre of our past life was a “trick” I had played to gain favor. He truly believed I had faked the attack. The footsteps outside the door grew heavier. A rhythmic, mocking thud hit the wood, and the dresser began to slide inward. “Found you,” a raspy voice laughed from the hallway. I pushed Mom toward the bed, my palms sweating. I looked at the widening crack in the doorframe. We were unarmed. We were cornered. The door was finally forced ajar, the dresser screeching like a dying animal as it was shoved aside. A pair of mud-caked tactical boots stepped into the room. “Thought a little furniture would stop us?” The man smirked, his eyes yellowed and predatory. He flicked open a switchblade, the steel glinting in the dim light. His gaze crawled over me. “Well, well. Didn’t expect the little heiress to be such a prize.” Mom let out a piercing scream. “Don’t touch her!” I gritted my teeth, leaning close to her ear. “Mom, no matter what happens, stay out of it. Get to the window. There’s a safety trampoline in the garden below—jump. The snow will cushion the rest. Run to the neighbors. Find Nathaniel. Tell him to bring help.” “Maddy, I can’t leave you!” I gripped her wrist hard. “Go! If you stay, we both die. If you live, there’s a chance.” The man lunged. Mom didn’t jump. Instead, she threw herself at him, her fingers clawing at his arms, trying to drag him away from me. “Run, Maddy! Run!” “Mom, no!” I screamed. I watched, paralyzed, as the man raised his hand. The blade buried itself into her back with sickening ease. The world turned red. My mother gasped, her grip on the man’s waist tightening even as her strength failed. “Jump!” she choked out. “Maddy, jump now!” 2. The adrenaline hit like an electric shock. I knew I couldn’t win a physical fight against three of them. I scrambled onto the windowsill and threw myself into the dark, freezing air. I hit the garden trampoline with a bone-jarring thud. A sharp, white-hot pain exploded in my ankle, radiating up my leg. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I forced myself upright and began a frantic, limping sprint toward the neighboring estate. The snow was waist-deep in some places, grinding against my bare, frozen feet until they were raw and bleeding. The neighbor’s house was nearly a mile away. Every breath felt like inhaling broken glass. When I finally collapsed against Nathaniel’s front gate, I pounded on the iron bars with the last of my strength. “Nathaniel! Open the door! Please! Someone’s killing my mother!” The gate buzzed and groaned open. Nathaniel stood in the entryway, wrapped in a plush cashmere coat, looking down at me with an expression of profound boredom. “Maddy,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “Your acting has certainly improved lately.” “Nathaniel, I’m not joking! My mother has been stabbed! Please, send your security—” He looked at my shredded feet and the blood on my nightgown, but his lip just curled in a sneer. “Simon called me. He told me you’d try some elaborate ‘home invasion’ stunt because you were jealous of the attention he was giving Isabella. I have to admit, the commitment to the bit is impressive.” “Forget Simon! Look at me!” I roared, my vision swimming. “I called the police! They’re on their way, but they won’t make it in time! My mom is dying!” He didn’t move. He leaned against the doorframe, checking his watch. “Calling the cops as part of the play? That’s bold. A bit too much, don’t you think? Simon warned me not to let you manipulate me tonight.” “Nathaniel, you’re insane! It’s real!” I tried to show him my phone, the outgoing 911 call, but he just turned away. “Nathaniel, please! If you don’t go now, she’ll die! We grew up together! Don’t you have any soul left?” He stopped and looked back, his eyes like flint. “Simon was specific, Maddy. He told me to let you ‘simmer’ in your own drama. He’s tired of your thirst for power.” The cruelty of it shattered something inside me. Before Isabella appeared, Nathaniel had been my rock. We were engaged. He had promised to protect me. But since Simon brought that girl home, everyone had changed. It was like they were all under a spell, blinded by her “purity” and Simon’s ego. Simon had even destroyed a whole company because their CEO’s dog shared a name with Isabella’s pet. That was why the killers were in our house tonight. I prostrated myself in the snow, sobbing, my forehead hitting the frozen ground. “I’ll do anything. I’ll break the engagement. Just go. Please.” Nathaniel’s butler, an older man who had known me since I was a child, stepped forward, looking pained. “Sir, perhaps we should check. Miss Maddy isn’t one for lying about blood.” Nathaniel hesitated for a second. I seized the moment, banging my head against the stones. “Please. Please. Save her.” “Fine,” Nathaniel sighed. “I’ll take a few men over. But Maddy, if this is a lie, I’m done. I’ll make sure you regret wasting my time.” He ordered his men to the cars. As we moved, his phone rang. It was Simon. Nathaniel put it on speaker. “Nathaniel? Maddy hasn’t crawled over to you yet, has she?” Simon’s voice was light, amused. “The lunatic actually used Mom’s phone to call me and pretend there were killers in the house. It’s hilarious. She’s getting desperate.” I felt the world tilt. My own brother was laughing while our mother’s life leaked onto the bedroom floor. “Simon, you’re a monster!” I screamed at the phone. “I saw her get stabbed! You saw it all before—how can you do this again?!” He let out a dry, cold laugh. “Ah, still sticking to the script. I checked with Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper. She said the house is quiet. Give it up, Maddy. You’re the one who’s dangerous. If anything happens to Mom, it’ll be your fault for playing these games.” The line went dead. Mrs. Higgins had been on vacation for a week. Simon didn’t even care enough to know who was in the house. Nathaniel’s face hardened. He looked at me with pure disgust. “You orchestrated this. You even lied about the housekeeper. I’m done. Guards, break her legs. Let’s see how well she ‘runs’ for help then.” The guards hesitated. They knew my father. “I said do it!” Nathaniel snapped. He grabbed a golf club from the umbrella stand near the door. He walked toward me, the “charming” fiancé I once loved replaced by a cruel stranger. “If they won’t teach you a lesson, I will.” I tried to crawl away, but he was faster. He swung. The metal cracked against my already injured left leg. “AGH!” The scream was ripped from my throat. I collapsed, the pain so intense I nearly blacked out. “That’s for the lie,” he said coldly. Suddenly, his phone chimed. He frowned, picking it up. It was a call from a local precinct. “Hello? Is this Nathaniel Victor? We’re looking for Madeline. We just arrived at the Sterling estate. The suspects fled after a shootout. We found a woman, Catherine Victor, in critical condition. She’s lost a massive amount of blood. We need family on site immediately.”

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The night we were both poisoned, the first dose of the antidote went up for auction at an underground gala. In a move of reckless devotion, Cassie Beaumont placed a “blank-check bid”—the kind of high-stakes power move that signaled to everyone in the room that she would pay any price to win. Everyone whispered that she did it for me. “Obviously, she’s saving Ben,” they murmured. “She worships the ground he walks on.” But under the cold glare of the chandeliers, Cassie didn’t even look my way. Instead, she took the vial, tilted back Damian Cole’s head, and pressed her lips to his, forcing the medicine into his mouth with a lingering, desperate kiss. When the second item—an ancient signet ring rumored to have neutralizing properties—appeared on the block, Cassie did it again. She outbid everyone, her eyes hard and focused. But when she spoke, she didn’t call my name. She announced to the stunned crowd that the ring was her engagement gift to Damian. The third and final hope was the Beaumont Covenant—an ancient family ledger. According to legend, if a name was inscribed upon its first page with the blood of the lineage, the family’s luck—and health—would be shared. I was coughing, my vision blurring with internal hemorrhaging, and I begged her to use her influence to secure it for me. Cassie checked her accounts. She looked at me with a mixture of boredom and irritation. “Ben, I’ve got exactly one dollar left in the liquid assets account. It’s not enough to play the hero for you tonight.” “Cassie, I’m dying,” I wheezed, blood staining my teeth. “This toxin isn’t fatal, Ben. Stop being so dramatic. You’re embarrassing yourself.” She used that final dollar to secure the Beaumont Covenant in a symbolic closing bid. Then she walked away with Damian, leaving me on the cold floor of the auction house. As the lights flickered out and the room emptied, a voice echoed in my head—the “System,” the strange entity that had plucked me out of my life six months ago and dropped me into this nightmare future. A ring—the very one Cassie had bought for Damian—clattered onto the floor in front of me, stolen back by the entity. “Ben,” the voice hissed. “You chose to jump ahead to see how your ‘perfect’ love story ended. Are you finally ready to give up and go back?” I wiped the blood from my chin, my hand trembling as I reached for the ring. “No,” I whispered, my voice raspy but certain. “I’m not going back to the past.” “Then what?” “Where is your Master? The girl you said I was destined for? Tell her I’ll marry her.” 1 The System’s voice erupted in a jubilant shout. “Hold on tight, Ben! I’m going back six months to tell her to start the wedding preparations!” And then, the presence vanished. The moment I slid the signet ring onto my finger, a cool wave washed through my veins. The agonizing fire of the poison began to recede, leaving behind a dull, manageable ache. I sat alone in the hollowed-out silence of the auction house and laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. Before this “glitch” in time, I had been like everyone else: I believed Cassie Beaumont would never love another man. I thought we were endgame. But six months in the future, everything had rotted. I managed to stumble out of the building, my body still weak. I was heading for my car when the screech of tires tore through the night. A black SUV barreled around the corner, aiming straight for me. The impact was a blur of steel and glass, throwing me into the darkness. I don’t know how long I was out. When I finally forced my eyes open, I realized my hand—the one wearing the ring—was pinned under the SUV’s tire. The driver was slowly oscillating the car, crushing my fingers, rolling over the bone again and again. The ring was gone. Two men stood a few feet away, leaning against the hood and smoking. “Does the boss actually love this guy or what?” one asked, flicking ash. “She told us to make sure he hurts, but warned us not to break a single bone. That’s some high-level mental gymnastics.” “Eh, don’t overthink it. Six months ago, she was obsessed with him. Then Damian Cole showed up.” I had jumped straight from six months ago to this moment, leaving a half-year gap in my memory. But as they spoke, the missing pieces began to flood my brain like a dark tide. Half a year ago, Damian had been hired as Cassie’s personal assistant. Cassie, famous for her icy professionalism and singular devotion to me, suddenly couldn’t be without him. I remembered his first challenge. It was at a private club, a celebration for a major merger. Damian had gotten “drunk” and stripped his shirt off in front of the board members, sprawling on a velvet sofa and declaring he’d have Cassie by the end of the night. “Hey, Ben,” he’d smirked at me. “If we both stood naked in front of her right now, who do you think she’d touch first?” I had ignored him, confident in our five-year history. Cassie had looked at him, her face dark with feigned anger. “Damian, if you were the last man on earth, I wouldn’t be interested. Get dressed or you’re fired.” The room had roared with laughter. They laughed at his audacity; they laughed because they knew Cassie loved me “to death.” But no one noticed that later that night, Cassie’s designer coat was draped over Damian’s bare shoulders because he “refused” to put his shirt back on. And no one noticed that when I shivered because the AC was too low, Cassie didn’t even glance my way. Looking back now, I realized I had lost that night. Even if I went back to the past, I couldn’t change a heart that had already started to stray. Why go back and suffer through the slow rot twice? I tried to pull my hand out from under the tire. The movement caught their attention. “Easy there, Mr. Mercer. Don’t struggle. This little love tap won’t kill you.” The ring needed three days to fully neutralize the toxin. I looked at them, my voice cold. “Where is the ring?” One of them tapped his phone screen. “Boss has it. She’s at the family estate right now, using it to propose to Damian in front of the whole Beaumont clan.” Five years. Every time I had asked to meet her parents, Cassie had an excuse. The timing wasn’t right. Her father was too traditional. Her mother was ill. Damian had been around for six months, and she had already brought him home. I stared at the screen, at the blurry image of the Beaumont Manor. I recognized that place. I had been there before. 2 The men’s phone buzzed. It was Cassie. Her voice came through the speaker, sounding languid and satisfied—the voice of a woman who had just stepped out of a very active bedroom. “The proposal is done. Take Ben to the ER. And make sure there’s no permanent damage to his hand. I don’t want him scarred.” As they drove me to the hospital, the two thugs couldn’t stop gossiping. “I swear, the Boss is a total psycho,” one muttered. “Total internal conflict.” “The guys guarding the penthouse said she had them run out for protection seven times tonight. Seven. They said the bed sounded like it was going to collapse. The noise was insane.” “Hey, Mr. Mercer,” the driver called out, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Rumor was the Boss never looked at another guy because she only wanted you. But my boys said she never once asked for protection when she was with you. You got some kind of problem downstairs?” I sat in the back, my hands bound, and let out a soft, dry laugh. Cassie always told me she liked “structure.” She said our love was too pure for animalistic urges. I had suppressed every desire, followed her “rules,” thinking I was being the perfect partner. But the memories were still flooding back. I remembered the night after the club incident. The Cassie who said she wouldn’t touch Damian if he were the last man on earth had “accidentally” gotten drunk and knocked on his hotel room door. In my memory, I was standing in the hallway, listening to her breathless cries through the door—the sounds of a woman begging for more, while Damian whispered for her to try a different position. I finally understood. Cassie liked “rules.” But she craved Damian’s wreckage. Tears soaked my collar. The man in the passenger seat turned around. “Damn, Mr. Mercer. You crying? We didn’t even hit you that hard. It was just a little pressure on the hand.” They did a hack job at the hospital—dabbed some antiseptic on my crushed hand, wrapped it in a thick, bulky bandage, and dumped me at the “marital home.” It was a house Cassie had chosen and I had decorated. It was supposed to be our sanctuary. But as I walked in, Cassie stepped out of the master bedroom, pressing a finger to her lips. “Shhh,” she whispered. “He’s sleeping.” The heart I thought was already broken shattered into even smaller pieces. “My mother likes Damian,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact as she walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. “She wouldn’t approve of us.” “So you’re marrying him?” my voice was a ghost of itself. “It’s a strategy, Ben. I marry him, we have a kid, my mother gets her heir and stops breathing down my neck. But the role of ‘Beaumont Son-in-Law’… that will always belong to you in my heart.” She didn’t even look at my bandaged arm. She had said these things a dozen times in the last six months of the timeline I was now remembering. I had gone from shock to screaming to numbness. I had even tried to break up with her. And the night I tried to leave, Damian had poisoned my drink. I remembered stumbling to the auction to find the cure, only to see Damian backstage, swallowing a vial of the same poison with a smirk. He had leaned his head on Cassie’s shoulder, whining like a child. “Now I’m sick too, Cassie-baby. Who are you going to save?” And Cassie had pulled him into her arms, kissing his forehead. “You, you idiot. Always you.” Her assistant had whispered, “Ma’am, there are three doses. You can save both.” Cassie had glared at him. “No. I won’t risk Damian’s recovery. Give him all three.” The memory was a jagged blade. Cassie turned back to me now, her expression softening into that fake pity I had come to loathe. “Ben, the poisoning… Damian didn’t mean it. He’s just impulsive. He’s so insecure about us that he does stupid things. Don’t hold it against him, okay? As an apology, I’m not going to let you break up with me.” She pointed to the Beaumont Covenant lying open on the table. “Our names will be on that ledger eventually. Want to see? After the wedding with Damian, I’ll find a way to write yours in next to mine.” I walked over and glanced at the ledger. I froze for a second. I didn’t need to wait. My name was already on the first page. 3 The Beaumont Covenant was a relic—a heavy, leather-bound volume worth more than the house we were standing in. They say the couple whose names are inscribed together on the first page are bound by soul and fate. Damian had orchestrated the auction to flaunt Cassie’s choice. He thought he had won. I closed the book and handed it back to her. I walked to the guest room, grabbed my passport and my birth certificate, and headed for the door. Cassie caught my arm, her voice laced with genuine confusion. “Ben, stop this. I’m not saying I won’t marry you eventually. I just need to give my parents what they want first. Stay. You’re still my fiancé. You’re always complaining that I never take you to the family estate—well, I’m taking you there in a few days for the gala. Isn’t that what you wanted?” She tightened her grip. “But if you walk out that door now, you’re nothing. You’ll never set foot in the Beaumont world again. Think carefully.” I didn’t think. I just walked. If I stayed a second longer, I would have vomited. For five years, she’d kept me in the shadows. “The estate is too suffocating, Ben,” she’d say. “My parents are building a custom wing for us. We’ll go when it’s ready.” It took Damian four months to dismantle that lie. I remembered the day at the office when Damian was handing out gift cards and expensive champagne to the staff. Someone asked how a “simple assistant” could afford it. Damian had looked directly at my office door and shouted, “The Beaumonts gave me a huge welcome-to-the-family bonus! They even let me move into the new wing they built for the ‘future son-in-law.’ They’re so sweet, I just had to share the love!” The entire floor went silent. Later, I heard him whispering in the breakroom to a group of gossiping interns. “The rules aren’t that bad,” he’d giggled. “The new wing is huge, but I got scared the first night, so Cassie stayed and slept with me for three days. She’s very… respectful of my needs.” He had walked into my office later with a coffee, leaning over my desk so I could see the dark, purple bruises on his neck. “Ben, the Beaumont estate is massive. I screamed so loud in that new bed and no one heard a thing.” He smirked. “Cassie said next time she’ll take me to every room in the house. She likes the variety. Oh, wait—you’ve never been there, have you? You probably don’t even know how to make her vocalize like that. Want me to record it for you?” I had stood up, picked up the hot coffee, and poured the entire cup over his head. “No need for a recording, Damian. Let’s hear you scream right now.” The ice and heat sent him into a screeching fit. I knew the noise would bring Cassie. I just didn’t expect what happened next. She had kicked the door open, seen Damian dripping in coffee, and didn’t ask a single question. She grabbed him by the waist, comforted him, and then looked at her security team. “Take Ben to the executive washroom,” she’d said, her voice like dry ice. “Hold his head under the water until he cools off. He clearly needs to wake up.” They had held me under for four hours. 4 That night, she had apologized. She claimed she didn’t know the guards would be “so rough” and fired them as a show of good faith. But from that day on, she stopped hiding Damian. On my birthday, she was at a theme park with him. Photos of them kissing on the Ferris wheel went viral. On our anniversary, she was teaching him how to swim. I waited at a restaurant for six hours while Damian posted a photo of them wrapped in a single towel. “My girl, my coach. Guess what I learned today?” Then came the text: “Ben, make sure they change the water in the pool. We couldn’t help ourselves. We didn’t leave the water all afternoon.” I had sent the screenshot to Cassie, demanding an explanation. Her reply? “Damian is just looking out for you. He knows you like the water clean.” A cold breeze snapped me back to the present. I shook the memories out of my head. The next morning, I woke up in a hotel. A courier delivered an invitation: a gala at the Beaumont estate. My name had been handwritten over a white-out smudge. I laughed and tossed it in the trash. I was going to that gala, but I didn’t need her invitation. I would be entering as someone else entirely. I cut my hair, changed my style, and ditched the soft, pastel shirts Cassie liked. I was halfway to the estate when the black SUV appeared again. The same two men looked at me grimly. “Sorry, Mr. Mercer. Boss’s orders. Again.” “Why now?” “Damian’s having a ‘relapse.’ The toxin is acting up. She says you need to come and apologize for ‘stealing’ the ring at the auction.” When the car pulled up to the Beaumont Manor, I didn’t fight. I looked at the towering stone pillars and smiled. Before I could even take a breath of the air, Cassie grabbed me by the collar and dragged me toward the drawing room. She threw me onto the floor at Damian’s feet. “You coward!” she screamed. “You took the ring! If Damian suffers because you stole his medicine, I will ruin you! Get on your knees and apologize!” The impact with the floor caused a sickening crack in my wrist. A lightning bolt of agony shot up my arm, but I didn’t make a sound. I bit my lip until it bled. Damian, meanwhile, was holding a pair of desk scissors to his own throat, wailing like a sacrificial lamb. “Kill me, Cassie! It hurts so much! I can’t take the pain!” Cassie’s eyes went red with panic. She snatched the scissors from him and, in a fit of mindless rage, flung them toward me. I ducked, but the blade sliced deep into my forearm. Blood sprayed across the white rug. Seeing my blood, Damian suddenly calmed down. A glint of triumph flashed in his eyes. He looked up at Cassie, pouting. “Cassie-baby… I just remembered. Doesn’t your family have that magic ledger? If we write our names in it, the legend says my pain will vanish and we’ll be bonded forever.” Cassie hesitated. She hadn’t written his name in the Covenant yet. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she couldn’t. The ledger only accepted those of the bloodline or their officially sanctioned spouses. But she was desperate. “Tonight is the family gala anyway,” she declared. “I’ll announce our engagement and we’ll perform the blood-oath on the Covenant.” Damian couldn’t wait. Before the patriarch of the family—the legendary Alistair Beaumont—even arrived, Cassie stood before the gathered elite. She loudly announced that she had broken up with me months ago, that I was fired from the company, and that Damian Cole was her future husband. I stood in the corner, clutching my bleeding arm, watching the circus. Cassie gave me one last look of disgust, then took Damian’s hand. Together, they flipped open the Beaumont Covenant. But the moment the page turned, Cassie’s eyes went wide. She stared at the first page, her face draining of all color. She looked at me, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. Before she could speak, the heavy oak doors swung open. Alistair Beaumont entered. The old man marched onto the stage, and without a word, delivered two thunderous slaps to Cassie’s face. “You disgraceful girl!” he roared, his voice trembling with fury. He pointed a shaking finger at me. “Do you have any idea who he is?”

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The day before our wedding, Benjamin looked me in the eye and told me he’d fallen for someone else. He gave me a choice, as if he were presenting a business merger: we could call it off right now, and he’d handle the humiliating task of apologizing to our families; or, I could go through with it, become Mrs. Benjamin Thorne, and look the other way while he kept his mistress on the side. We had been childhood sweethearts for twenty years. I told myself it was just a mid-life crisis, a flicker of cold feet before the “forever” started. I chose to stay. I didn’t realize that after the wedding, Benjamin would turn into a hollowed-out “payment machine.” He paraded his mistress through the city’s most expensive galas, using wire transfers to buy my silence every time I dared to question him. When our son needed a bone marrow transplant, Benjamin backed out at the last minute because his mistress, Jade, told him she “liked her men strong and untainted by hospital wards.” He even had the audacity to corner Jade in the funeral home’s private lounge during my mother’s wake. I caught them, the air still thick with the scent of lilies and grief, and he just looked at me with bored, glassy eyes. “Is ten million enough this time?” he sneered, adjusting his tie. “Stop being so relentless, June. It’s exhausting.” I didn’t scream. I didn’t even cry then. I simply turned and walked away. I knelt by my mother’s fresh grave until my tear ducts ran dry and the earth under my fingernails turned to mud. As the sun began to crawl over the horizon, I pulled out my phone and sent Benjamin a single text: One hundred million. Wire it now. That payment would be our final goodbye. 1 My phone rang almost instantly. Before I could even say hello, Benjamin’s roar vibrated against my ear. “Have I spoiled you that much, June? A hundred million? Who the hell do you think you are—the IRS?!” “Your mother is already dead,” he continued, his voice dropping into a cruel, jagged edge. “What I do in a lounge at a funeral home doesn’t change that. You think a quick roll in the hay is worth that kind of payout? You’re delusional.” He hung up. Was I? Maybe. But even a hundred billion wouldn’t buy back my mother’s dignity or the life she lost. Especially since she died because of him. The wind at the cemetery howled, sharp enough to pierce through my coat and settle in my ribs. I looked at the photo of my mother on the headstone and reached out to stroke the cold marble. I could still hear the state trooper’s voice at the scene of the accident: “She was waiting at the red light, ma’am. Then, it was like she saw something—something that made her lose her mind. She just charged out into traffic… right on New Year’s Day. It’s a tragedy.” A tragedy. That was one word for it. She had seen Benjamin and Jade kissing in his car across the intersection. Why did she run? Why couldn’t she just let it go? I had told her I was going to leave him, that we were done. But her love for me was a fierce, protective thing. In that split second, she didn’t see a car; she saw a man destroying her daughter, and she wanted justice. Before the funeral, Benjamin had the nerve to bring Jade around. “Jade and I just got swept up in the moment,” he told me, as if he were discussing a weather pattern. “It’s not our fault your mother ran into the street. You can’t pin that on us.” “We’ll stick to the usual arrangement,” he added, his voice dripping with condescension. “Don’t make a scene. I’ll just send the transfer.” Every word was a scalpel, flaying me alive. I collapsed against the headstone, sobbing until the world went gray. “Mom… I’m so sorry… I should have listened to you and Dad. I never should have married him…” I cried until my body gave out. I fainted right there in the dirt. It wasn’t until a groundskeeper found me on his rounds that I was rushed to the ER. I was burning up with a 104-degree fever. The hospital couldn’t reach my next of kin, so they called the police. When the officers finally got Benjamin on the line, he didn’t even let them finish. “Cut the crap,” he snapped. “Eighty million. Not a cent more. Whether she’s sick or just throwing another tantrum, don’t call me again!” The nurses looked at each other, their faces filled with pity. I closed my eyes, the exhaustion pulling me under like an anchor. Fine. Eighty million. Let that be the price of my exit. 2 Two days later, I messaged him. I accepted the eighty million. He was suddenly jubilant, his tone through the phone almost lighthearted. “See? That’s my girl. We’re husband and wife, June. There’s no need to be so petty. You’re finally learning how the world works.” “No other wife gets the treatment you do,” he boasted. “Most women would kill for your bank account. If you keep being this obedient, maybe I’ll actually make it home for dinner once in a while.” It was breathtakingly shameful. If the seventeen-year-old Benjamin could hear himself now, he would have punched his future self in the face. Back then, he followed me around for five years, proposing a dozen times before I finally said yes. Under the Fourth of July fireworks years ago, he had whispered into my hair: “June, I love you. It’s only ever been you. I’ll never change.” I suppose the fireworks were too bright; they burnt out his heart, leaving nothing but smoke and ash where his promises used to be. I was done chasing the ghost of the boy I used to know. It wasn’t worth the cost of my soul anymore. But the universe wasn’t finished with me. The day after my mother’s funeral, my son, Jamie—who had been fighting leukemia for a year—passed away after a sudden, violent relapse. I ignored the doctors and burst into the morgue, clutching his small, cold body. “Jamie… baby, I’m so sorry!” “If your father wasn’t such a monster… if he had just given you what you needed…” I moved like a ghost through the next few days, handling the cremation and the paperwork alone. I came home carrying the small, hand-carved mahogany urn that held my son’s ashes, ready to pack my things and vanish. But Jade was already there. She had used her thumbprint to unlock my front door, and she stood in the foyer, eyeing me with a smirk. A year ago, I would have slapped her. Now, I just felt a profound, hollow numbness. Seeing no reaction, she pulled her silk strap down, revealing a fresh bite mark on her shoulder. “Benjamin wanted me here while you were out,” she purred. “He says a woman like me belongs in a house like this. He says you’ve become… well, a bit of a ‘downgrade.’ A bit of a drag.” A downgrade. I supposed I was. I didn’t know how to be a mistress in my own marriage. “Move,” I said, my voice flat. Jade blinked, then laughed. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Everyone you love is dead, June. You’re a charity case living on Benjamin’s mercy. You should be kissing my feet. If I get bored of you, you’ll be on the street by morning.” “Honestly,” she continued, stepping closer, “I think your mother died just to get away from you. She probably jumped in front of that car to get a payday. Like mother, like daughter—just a couple of gold-diggers—” Slap. I hit her with every ounce of grief and rage left in my body. “Say one more word about my mother,” I hissed, “and I will end you.” Jade touched her cheek, her eyes wide with shock. Then, with a screech, she lunged at me, clawing at my hair. We tumbled to the floor, a mess of silk and mourning black. That’s when Benjamin walked in. Jade immediately scrambled up and threw herself into his arms, sobbing hysterically. “Benjamin! She’s crazy! She tried to kill me! She said she was going to send me to join her mother!” Benjamin’s face went dark. He looked at me, bruised and disheveled on the floor, but his eyes held no concern. Only fury. “June, apologize to Jade. Right now.” I crawled to my feet, tilting my chin up. “Never.” The vein in Benjamin’s temple throbbed. He kicked out, his shoe connecting sharply with my shoulder, sending me stumbling back against the side table where I’d placed the urn. He snatched the mahogany box off the table. “No—!” My scream tore through the house. Benjamin didn’t hesitate. He raised his knee and slammed the box down against it. The wood splintered with a sickening crack, snapping in two. It felt like he had reached into my chest and snapped my heart in the exact same way. 3 I stared at the shards on the floor, my vision blurring into a haze of red. In my mind, I could hear my mother’s voice from the last few years, a constant, gentle warning: “June, stop holding on. Leave him. You don’t fit in his world anymore…” She was right. Why had I been so stubborn? Why had I traded decades of my life for this? The tears had dried up long ago. I knelt on the floor, numbly picking up the pieces of the urn, cradling them to my chest. But Benjamin wasn’t done. He ripped a shard from my hand and threw it across the room, grinding his heel into the remaining wood. “Get out!” I shrieked, lunging at him. He pushed me back, his foot catching me in the ribs. I coughed, the taste of copper filling my mouth, but my eyes were fixed on him with a pure, unadulterated hatred. “Don’t touch him! Get away from him!” Benjamin didn’t look guilty. He actually let out a low, mocking chuckle. “For God’s sake, June, stop the theatrics. It’s a box. A piece of wood. Do you really have to go this insane over a prop?” Jade leaned into him, pouting. “It’s so unfair. This psycho gets millions of dollars and gets to hit me? My face still hurts, Benjamin!” Benjamin wrapped an arm around her, kissing her temple. “You’re right. It’t not fair at all.” “She should be punished,” Jade whispered. “She should have to feel what I feel.” Benjamin looked down at me, his expression cold and predatory. “You heard her. Do you want to do it yourself, or do I have to help you?” I looked up at him, a single tear finally escaping. He leaned down, his smile a jagged line of mockery. “Don’t cry. I’ll pay you for the box, too. How much do you want this time?” My heart convulsed. A payment. Always a payment. That word had defined the last thousand days of my life. To him, there was no grief so deep, no insult so foul, and no trauma so scarring that it couldn’t be settled with a wire transfer. The humiliation of the day before our wedding flooded back. Back then, I didn’t understand. I fought him, I screamed, I begged. He didn’t care. He left me to face a hundred guests alone while he took Jade on a “vacation” to the Maldives. He stepped on my dignity and expected me to thank him for the designer shoes he bought me afterward. He sounded exactly the same now as he did then: “Stop making a scene, June. Tell me the number. I’m not the broke kid I used to be. You can’t enjoy the penthouse and the black card and then complain that I’m not ‘loyal’ enough for your fairy tale.” Why was I the one being “unreasonable” for expecting him to keep his word? I wiped my face and looked him dead in the eye. “One hundred million.” Benjamin burst out laughing. “Greed has to have a limit, June. A broken box? A hundred million? Is it made of human souls?” I gripped the splintered wood so hard the edges sliced into my palms. Blood dripped onto the floor. Jade chimed in with a giggle. “You’re not getting a hundred million, June. Benjamin just promised that money to me. We’re buying that estate in the Hamptons. The one that costs exactly a hundred million.” The last string of my sanity snapped. I threw myself at Jade. Benjamin grabbed my wrist and flung me away. My head slammed into the glass display case in the hallway. Shards rained down on me, and blood began to mask my vision. He didn’t even check to see if I was breathing. He just pulled Jade into a protective embrace. “Are you okay, baby? Did she touch you? The doctor said you’re most likely to conceive this month—I’m counting on you to give me a healthy heir.” I froze. I looked at them, the world spinning. Jade hid behind him, her voice trembling with fake fear. “Oh, Benjamin, she knows we’re trying for a baby because we don’t want a sick one like hers. She’s going to try to hurt me!” Benjamin turned to me, his eyes full of lethal warning. “I’ll give you your hundred million, June. On one condition: you stay the hell away from Jade.” So that was it. For Jade, he wouldn’t even haggle. I started to laugh. It was a hollow, jagged sound. Benjamin Thorne and his money—I didn’t want a single cent of it ever again. 4 My silence seemed to agitate him. “Don’t test my patience,” Benjamin snapped. “I’ll give you forty-eight hours to think about it. Think about the medical bills your son still has!” Your son. The irony was a physical weight. I laughed until I choked. I dragged myself up, gathered the broken pieces of the urn into a silk scarf, and pulled my suitcase toward the door. As the door clicked shut, I remembered the first time he’d walked me into this house. “June, this is our home. This is where we’ll grow old together. This house will be the witness to my eternal love for you.” Eternal was such a short time. I went back to the small apartment my mother had lived in. The moment I stepped inside, someone shoved me from behind. Three masked men carrying bats stormed in. They pinned me down before I could scream. “Mr. Thorne said you have two days to think,” one of them growled. “He doesn’t want you harassing Miss Jade in the meantime. We’re here to make sure you stay put.” “And,” another added, “if you don’t apologize in forty-eight hours, we’re authorized to ‘resolve’ the situation.” I screamed, but the blows fell like rain. For two days and two nights, I was treated like an animal. Beaten, mocked, degraded. Every time I tried to speak, they found a new way to punish me. I felt myself slipping away, and for the first time, I felt a strange, blissful sense of relief. If I died, maybe I could see the people who actually loved me again. Finally, the front door opened. A bucket of ice water was thrown onto my face, forcing me back to consciousness. Benjamin stood over me, looking down like I was something he’d scraped off his shoe. “Well?” he asked, his voice cold. “Do we have a deal?” I nodded slowly, my neck stiff. He smirked, satisfied. “One hundred million is the final price. After this, I won’t give you another dime for anything involving Jade. If you act out again, I’ll—” “I don’t need a hundred million,” I rasped, cutting him off. He froze. “What?” “I said a thousand dollars is enough. Give me back the tuition money I spent to send you to college ten years ago. Give me that, and I will never mention Jade’s name again.” Benjamin’s face went ashen. His lip twitched. Enraged, he pulled a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and hurled them at my face. “Fine! Take it! Take more than you asked for!” He signaled his men, kicked the door open, and stormed out. I picked up the bills one by one. I rolled them into a tight cylinder, struck a lighter, and watched them burn. I tossed the flaming paper into the air. It was beautiful. Much more beautiful than the fireworks we’d watched so long ago. I didn’t contact him for days. Slowly, Benjamin grew restless. Eventually, his ego couldn’t take the silence, and he went to the hospital to find me, certain I’d be at Jamie’s bedside. He found Jamie’s primary oncologist. “Is June in there with my son?” The doctor stared at him like he was a madman. “Mr. Thorne… your son passed away days ago. How could you not know?”

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The moment of the crash is a blur of screeching metal and the smell of burning rubber. In that split second, to protect his first love, Sean Vane jerked the steering wheel toward himself, violently throwing my side of the car into the path of the oncoming semi-truck. Later, outside the ER, he prioritized her comfort over my survival. He pulled the strings of his influence to cancel my priority status for a corneal transplant, handing my chance at sight to her instead. I woke up to a world that was half-dark, permanently blind in my right eye. I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg. I simply waited until the nurses were gone, ripped out my IV, and vanished from the city, carrying my scars into the shadows. Two years later, Sean has become a god of the venture capital world. Tonight, he’s at the city’s most exclusive private club, playing the part of the doting protector to his precious Izzy. And I? I’m standing here in a stiff waiter’s tuxedo, serving them vintage champagne. Sean looks at my fallen state, his eyes mocking and cold. “Nicole, if you had just been obedient back then, would you really have ended up like this? So pathetic that anyone can trample on you?” He leans in, his voice a low, condescending drawl. “Drop the pride. Bow your head, and I might find a place for you in one of my private care facilities. I’ll see to it that you’re looked after for the rest of your life.” Pathetic? In need of charity? He has no idea. Tonight isn’t just the gala for Cillian Blackwell—the heir to the Blackwell empire—to take over the family throne. It’s the night he tells the world that I am the woman ruling it by his side. 1 “Nicole, if you had just been obedient back then, would you really have ended up like this?” Sean looks down at me from his pedestal of wealth. Izzy Montgomery is nestled in his arms, her eyes wide and faux-innocent. “Just apologize,” he continues. “My private clinic can provide you with lifelong care. You wouldn’t have to live like this.” I keep my spine perfectly straight, the silver eye patch over my right eye catching the dim light of the lounge. “Mr. Vane’s charity has too high a price. A ‘broken’ woman like me wouldn’t want to overstep.” I place the tray firmly on the marble tabletop and turn to leave. “Stay right there.” Sean’s voice drops an octave, turning icy. The circle of trust-fund vultures in the booth stop their laughing. Their eyes lock onto me. “Is this her, Bash? The high-and-mighty ex?” A guy with bleached hair and a Rolex that cost more than a house let out a sharp whistle. “Man, she’s a mess. Does this club really hire cripples with one eye now?” Izzy tugs at Sean’s sleeve, her brow furrowed in a practiced display of concern. “Sean, don’t be so hard on her. I’m sure she had her reasons for running away.” She turns to me, her eyes gleaming with a triumph she can’t quite hide. “Nicole, if you’re really struggling for money, I can ask Sean to find you a job as a janitor at the firm. It’s better than carrying trays and taking insults from strangers.” I look at them—the predator and the parasite—and feel nothing but a hollow sense of absurdity. “Save your pity for the stray dogs, Izzy. I don’t need it.” Sean slams his glass onto the table with a deafening crack. “Nicole Sinclair, two years and you’re still as stubborn as a damn rock.” He stands up, closing the distance between us until I can smell his expensive cologne—the same scent I used to associate with home, now the scent of my nightmare. “Do you think this ‘pure and tragic’ act makes me feel sorry for you? Without me, you couldn’t even find a real job. You’re nothing but a glorified servant.” I meet his gaze with my one good eye. It’s calm. Dead calm. “If I’m so beneath you, Mr. Vane, why are you so desperate to talk to me? Aren’t you afraid my ‘lowly’ status might rub off on you?” He snaps. He lunges forward, grabbing my jaw in a vice-like grip, forcing my head up. “Don’t push your luck. Tonight is Cillian Blackwell’s night. The only reason you’re even allowed to breathe the air in this room is because people like me hold the tickets. You’d never set foot in a place like this if I hadn’t opened the door for you.” I let out a soft, jagged laugh. “Is that so? Then I suppose I should thank you for your ‘blessings,’ Mr. Vane.” Izzy rushes over, her hand fluttering over Sean’s wrist. “Sean, you’re hurting her! Let go!” She slides between us, artfully pushing him back while holding out a glass brimmed with dark liquor. “Nicole, since you’re the server here, why don’t you do your job? Drink this. Consider it an apology to Sean for your disrespect.” I look at the amber liquid, nearly spilling over the rim. I don’t move. “Club policy. Staff are forbidden from drinking on shift.” Sean scoffs, snatching the glass from Izzy. “Rules are for people who don’t own the room. In here, I am the rule.” He holds the glass to my face, his eyes dark with a cruel intent. “Drink it. Or I’ll call the manager right now, have him strip that uniform off you, and throw you out into the street.” The air in the VIP booth turns frigid. Bleach-hair cheers from the side. “Drink up! It’s a gift from the king! Get on your knees and say thank you!” I reach up and slowly straighten the lapel of my tuxedo. “Sean,” I say quietly. “Do you really think that if you throw me a few scraps of your life, I’ll crawl on the floor and lick your boots?” Sean’s face turns a violent shade of red. “You’re asking for it, Nicole!” Suddenly, Izzy lets out a sharp gasp. The glass in her other hand tilts, seemingly by accident, drenching the front of my white shirt and vest. “Oh my god! Nicole, I’m so sorry! My hand slipped!” She covers her mouth, her eyes dancing with malice. “That uniform looks so expensive… can you even afford the cleaning fee?” 2 I pull a spare towel from my pocket and begin dabbing the stain on my chest. Sean watches me, a flicker of sadistic satisfaction in his eyes. “She apologized to you. Are you deaf?” He snatches the towel from my hand and hurls it to the floor. “A blind girl who can’t even catch a drink… what’s the point of even keeping that left eye?” At the word blind, my hand pauses for a fraction of a second. Izzy immediately pivots back to her “guilt-ridden” persona, her eyes brimming with tears. “Sean, don’t blame her. She can’t see on the right side; it’s natural for her to have blind spots. If she hadn’t given her cornea to me, she wouldn’t be like this.” Sean pulls her behind him protectively. “She owed you! The crash happened because she tried to grab the wheel. Giving you that eye was the only way she could ever begin to pay you back!” I look up. My left eye fixes on Sean’s arrogant, self-righteous face. “Sean, let’s talk about that night on the mountain road. Who was it that actually yanked the wheel to the left, sacrificing the passenger seat to save themselves?” His eyes flicker with a momentary shadow of guilt, but it’s instantly swallowed by his ego. “If you hadn’t been screaming at Izzy, I wouldn’t have been distracted! Besides, Izzy is a ballerina. Her eyes are her life. You? You were just a lab rat. Why did you need perfect vision to look through a microscope?” The sheer, distorted logic of it makes me want to laugh. “So, that gave you the right to use your connections at the hospital to bump me off the transplant list? To watch the nerves in my eye die while I begged for help?” Sean speaks as if he’s explaining something to a child. “It was your own fault. If you hadn’t been so stubborn—if you’d just signed the divorce papers and the settlement—I wouldn’t have cut off your medical fund.” He points to the puddle of red wine on the floor. “Now. Get down. Clean that up with your tongue, and I’ll pay for your suit.” Bleach-hair bangs on the table, howling with laughter. “That’s genius! Do it! That’s a five-thousand-dollar bottle of Burgundy! You’ll never taste anything that expensive again in your life!” I don’t move. I just stare at Sean. “Are you sure you want me to kneel?” Sean, sensing my “fear,” lets a cruel smirk pull at his lips. “What? Realizing how small you are now? Too late.” He steps forward, attempting to grind his shoe into the hem of my trousers. “You left with such drama two years ago. I thought you had spine. Turns out you’re just another gutter rat willing to bend for a dollar.” I step back, avoiding his touch. “Sean, you are going to regret every word you’ve said tonight.” Izzy stomps her foot with a delicate whine. “Nicole, why are you still acting so tough? Sean is the new titan of the city. If you offend him, you won’t even be able to wash dishes in this town.” Her eyes suddenly lock onto something pinned to my chest—a subtle, black iris lapel pin with dark, shimmering accents. “Oh, look at that pin. How… unique. Is that some knock-off you bought at a flea market to look fancy?” That pin was placed there by Cillian Blackwell himself. It is the crest of the Blackwell matriarch. Sean follows her gaze. His eyes narrow. He reaches out and violently rips the pin from my lapel. The sharp needle grazes my collarbone, drawing a thin line of blood. “Trash like this doesn’t belong in a Blackwell venue.” He drops the pin and grinds it into the carpet with his heel. “Nicole, you must be desperate, wearing high-end fakes to try and fit in.” I look at the mangled black iris on the floor. My heart goes cold. “That belongs to the Blackwell family.” Sean explodes into laughter. “The Blackwells? You?” He points a finger at my face, his voice dripping with disdain. “Are you delusional? Do you even know who Cillian Blackwell is? He’s the King of this city. You aren’t even fit to shine his shoes!” Izzy giggles, leaning into him. “Nicole, even if you want to climb the social ladder, don’t tell such ridiculous lies. If the Blackwells heard you, they’d have you blacklisted from the planet.” Suddenly, the heavy doors of the VIP suite swing open. The club manager, Mr. Miller, rushes in with a squad of security guards. He’s sweating through his suit. “Mr. Vane! What’s going on? Who caused this disturbance?” 3 Mr. Miller is pale, bowing and scraping before Sean. Sean points to the wine stain and the crushed pin on the floor, his posture radiating unearned authority. “Miller, the standards of this club are slipping. You let a dishonest, clumsy cripple in here to insult my guests?” Miller turns to me, his face hardening instantly. Tonight is the most important night in the club’s history; he can’t afford a single mistake. “Nicole! What have you done? Apologize to Mr. Vane and Miss Montgomery right now!” I look at the manager, this man who barks like a dog for anyone with a black Amex. “I did nothing wrong. Miss Montgomery tipped the glass herself.” Izzy immediately shrinks behind Sean, letting out a soft, trembling sob. “Nicole… you ruined my dress, and now you’re lying about it?” Sean pulls her closer. “Miller, you hear that? Are you really keeping someone with such a disgusting character on your payroll?” Miller wipes his brow and snarls at me. “Nicole Sinclair, you are fired! Effective immediately! Get on your knees and apologize to Mr. Vane!” “Or what?” I ask. “You’ll blackball me from the ‘hospitality industry’?” Miller is incensed. He slams his hand on the table. “You think you’re someone? I’m the General Manager! I can wipe you out with a phone call!” Izzy peeks out from behind Sean, her voice sweet as poison. “Mr. Miller, her uniform is ruined too. That’s a custom club suit, isn’t it? Since she’s fired, she shouldn’t be allowed to wear it. Why don’t you have her take it off before she leaves? It would be a good lesson for her.” The “friends” in the booth erupt into crude laughter. “Great idea, Izzy! Let’s see what the blind girl is hiding under that suit!” Sean doesn’t stop them. He crosses his arms, waiting. “You heard them. Take it off. Do it yourself, Nicole, and maybe I’ll let this go.” Miller, desperate to please Sean, signals the guards. “Don’t just stand there! Help her out of the clothes!” Four guards close in, trapping me in the corner of the booth. I reach into my pocket. My fingers brush against a small, sleek transmitter—the direct link to the building’s core security system. “Sean,” I say, my voice steady. “You’ve really lost every ounce of your humanity for the sake of a girl who plays you like a violin, haven’t you?” Sean’s face twists. “Still talking back! Strip her! I want to see how much pride she has left when she’s standing there in her underwear!” The guards reach for my collar. I sidestep the first one, driving my elbow into his ribs. He grunts, stumbling back. The other three pull out their batons. “You’re fighting back?” Miller screams. “Pin her down!” Izzy pulls out her phone, aiming the camera at me. “Nicole, don’t move too much. It would be a shame if you got a scar on your face; that’s the only asset you have left.” Sean watches the chaos with a look of pure, vengeful ecstasy. “Nicole, beg me. Just get on your knees, tell me you were wrong, tell me you’re nothing compared to Izzy, and I’ll make them stop.” I let out a cold laugh, my thumb hovering over the button. “Sean, you’ll be waiting for that day until the sun burns out.” Just as a guard’s baton swings toward my shoulder— Beep—Beep—Beep— A deafening, high-pitched alarm echoes through the entire club. A Level Red lockdown.

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I logged into my Chase app to check our mortgage balance, only to find the loan had been closed out. Paid in full. I hadn’t made an early payoff. Mark hadn’t mentioned doing it, either. I clicked into the transaction history and saw a massive incoming wire. $680,000. Memo: Escrow Disbursement – Property Sale. A fine tremor started in my fingers. Our house had been sold. And I was the last person to know. 1. I called Mark. It rang six times before he picked up. “Hey, what’s up?” His tone was perfectly casual. Exactly like any other day. I stared at the string of numbers on my phone screen. $680,000. “What time are you coming home today?” “Working late. Might be a while.” “What time?” He paused. “Is everything okay? You sound a little off.” “I’m fine. Just wondering when you’ll be back.” “Probably around nine.” “Okay.” I hung up. My screen was still locked on the banking app. Escrow Disbursement. $680,000. When we bought this house, the purchase price was $750,000. The down payment was $250,000—money my parents put together for us. My dad had just gotten out of the hospital after having stents put in his heart. He literally dragged himself out of his recovery bed to go to the bank and authorize the wire. My mom drained every CD and savings account she had spent her life building. “Sweetheart, the house goes in your name,” my mom had told me. “This is your safety net. Your leverage in this world.” The deed to the house had one name on it. Joanna. Just my name. And now, this house had been sold. Without my knowledge. I took a slow, jagged breath. I didn’t make a second phone call. Instead, I opened my browser and navigated to the county property appraiser’s website. I typed in our parcel number. The page loaded for three agonizing seconds. Ownership Status: Conveyed. Recording Date: February 18. Today was March 11. Twenty-one days ago. My house had been sold and the title transferred, right under my nose, twenty-one days ago. I closed the browser. I stood in the center of the living room, looking at this home. I had picked out that sofa. I had chosen those curtains. Every pot, pan, and plate in the kitchen, I had bought with my own hands. Our framed wedding photo still hung on the wall. Mark was smiling so handsomely in the picture. Looking at his face now, he felt like a complete stranger. I didn’t cry. I opened my messages and texted my best friend, Brooke. Brooke was an attorney specializing in family law and high-net-worth divorces. “You around? I have a legal hypothetical.” She replied instantly. “Shoot.” “A house is bought prior to marriage. The deed is solely in the wife’s name. Her parents paid the down payment. Husband and wife contribute to the mortgage together for three years. Can the husband legally sell the house without the wife knowing?” She sent back a single question mark. “Just a hypothetical,” I typed. A voice memo popped up. I pressed play. “If it’s pre-marital property and the deed is solely in your name, he has zero legal authority to dispose of it. If he forged your signature, faked a Power of Attorney, or used a fraudulent notary to close the sale, the contract is voidable. That’s felony fraud. Jo, don’t panic. Tell me what’s actually going on.” I didn’t reply right away. I stared at the screen for a long time. Then, I typed four words: “I’ll call you later.” I needed to figure something out first. Why did he sell the house? And where did the money go? At ten past nine that night, Mark walked through the front door. He took off his shoes, walked into the living room, and saw me sitting on the couch. “Did you eat?” he asked. “Yeah.” He walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a bottle of water. So normal. Just like every other night of the past three years. I watched him. “Mark.” “Hmm?” “Is there anything you need to tell me?” He unscrewed the cap and took a sip of water. “No. Why? What’s going on?” He looked me right in the eye. He was perfectly calm. No dodging. No guilt. Either he was an Oscar-worthy actor, or he genuinely didn’t believe he had done anything wrong. “Nothing,” I said. “Just asking.” He chuckled. “You’re acting weird today.” Then he walked into the bedroom. I sat on the couch, listening to the sound of the shower running in the master bath. I reached over and picked up his phone from the coffee table. He didn’t have a passcode. He never did. I had never snooped through his phone. Not once in our three years of marriage. But tonight was different. I opened his banking and payment apps. Zelle. Venmo. Nothing weird in his recent contacts. I opened his transaction history. I scrolled past three pages of mundane purchases. And then I saw a name. Camille Lawson. Transfer amount: $15,000. Date: February 20. Two days after the house was recorded as sold. I kept scrolling down. $10,000. $8,000. $5,000. $5,000. $3,000. $3,000. $3,000. $1,500. $1,000. $1,000. $500. $500. $500. … I kept swiping. One page. Two pages. Three. Four. The earliest transfer was from April 2023. Three years ago. Mark and I got married in January 2023. Which meant, exactly three months into our marriage, he had started funneling money to Camille Lawson. I did the math in my head, adding up the amounts. $125,000. Three years. One hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. I set the phone back down. It sat on the coffee table, the screen still glowing. Camille Lawson. I knew that name. She was Mark’s college sweetheart. The one who got away. His tragic first love. He had brought her up once, in a very dismissive tone, saying they broke up after graduation and never spoke again. Never spoke again. $125,000. The shower shut off. I nudged the phone back to its exact original position. He walked out, toweling off his hair. “You coming to bed?” “In a minute.” He glanced at me, didn’t say anything else, and turned off the living room light. He fell asleep almost instantly. His breathing was deep and even, as if absolutely nothing was wrong in the world. I lay in the dark, my eyes wide open. The man sleeping next to me—the man I had shared a bed with for over a thousand nights. He had secretly sold my home. He had given another woman a hundred and twenty-five grand. And now he was sleeping peacefully beside me. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. 2. The next morning, I called in sick to work. When Mark was getting ready to leave, I pretended to still be asleep. The moment I heard the front door click shut, my eyes snapped open. It was time to get to work. First order of business: I called Brooke. This time, there were no hypotheticals. I told her everything. The house was sold, the down payment was from my parents, the deed was solely in my name, and Mark had transferred the title behind my back. Brooke was silent for five full seconds. “You never signed a Power of Attorney? A quitclaim deed?” “Never.” “You didn’t e-sign anything via DocuSign when it went into escrow?” “I knew absolutely nothing about it.” “Then how the hell did it clear title?” Brooke’s voice shifted from sympathetic friend to shark lawyer. “The deed is in your name. Without you present, without a notarized authorization from you, no title company or buyer’s agent on earth would dare touch that transaction.” I didn’t know. “Jo, this is incredibly dark,” she said. “Don’t tip him off yet. Let me pull the closing documents from the county records. I’ll find out exactly what kind of fraudulent paperwork he filed.” “Okay.” “One more thing,” she paused. “Who is Camille Lawson?” “His college ex.” “A hundred and twenty-five grand over three years.” “Yeah.” “Jo.” “Yeah.” “Don’t cry yet.” “I’m not crying.” And I wasn’t. From yesterday until this exact moment, I hadn’t shed a single tear. Not because I was strong. Because I was furious. The kind of blinding, suffocating rage that burns your tears away before they can even form. After hanging up with Brooke, I moved to step two. I booted up Mark’s desktop in the home office. He always left it logged in, but I knew his password anyway—our wedding anniversary. I opened his iMessage app, which synced with his phone. In the search bar, I typed: Camille. The chat history populated. The most recent message was from last night. Mark: When is the surgery scheduled? Camille: Next Wednesday. Thank you, Mark. Mark: Don’t thank me. Just focus on getting better. Camille: I will. When I’m healed, I’m taking you out to dinner. Mark replied with a smiley face. I scrolled up. Line by line. I read for an hour. Three years of text messages. The first year was restrained. How have you been? I’m okay. Take care of yourself. Around early 2024, the frequency picked up. Work was brutal today. Did you eat? Go to sleep early. It read like the mundane intimacy of a couple. In March 2025, Camille told him she was sick. The texts didn’t explicitly name the illness, but after that day, the size of his cash transfers spiked. $5,000. $8,000. $10,000. By late 2025, Camille texted that she needed a massive surgery. The cost: $700,000. Mark replied: I’ll figure it out. In January 2026, Mark started messaging real estate agents. I kept scrolling. And then I found it. A text from Mark to Camille, dated January 15, 2026. I listed the house. The realtor says the market is hot, we can easily pull over 800k. Camille replied: Won’t… your wife find out? Mark: She won’t. I pay the mortgage from my account anyway. I’ll handle the deed stuff. I stared at those two lines. I’ll handle the deed stuff. He knew the house belonged to me. He knew he had no legal right to sell it. He did it anyway. I kept scrolling. Early February 2026. Camille: Did you find a buyer? Mark: Yeah. A friend of a friend introduced us. Price is locked at $750k. Closing by the end of the month. Camille: But what about the closing paperwork… your wife… Mark: I talked to a guy. I’m having someone forge her signature and getting a buddy to notarize it. She never checks this stuff. Forge her signature. My hands started shaking. Not from fear. From pure, unadulterated hatred. I started taking screenshots. One by one. Every single incriminating exchange. I forwarded them all to a hidden folder in my own email. Then, I kept scrolling all the way back. To the very beginning. April 2023. The day they reconnected. Camille: Long time no see. Mark: It’s been a long time, Cam. April 2023. We had been married for three months. I had just found out I was pregnant. Pregnant. Suddenly, a memory slammed into me—something I thought I had buried forever. June 2023. I was two months along. Mark sat me down on the couch and held my hands. “Jo, this just isn’t the right time. The financial pressure is too much right now. The mortgage is killing us. Let’s just wait a little longer.” I didn’t want to wait. I was thirty. We had been trying for six months to get those two pink lines. But he kept pushing. “We can’t afford it.” He sounded so earnest. So deeply stressed. “Once I get my promotion, once we have a real cushion, we’ll try again. I promise.” My mom went with me to the clinic. While I was in the procedure room, my mom sat in the waiting area and wept. I didn’t cry. I thought he was making a responsible, adult choice. If we couldn’t afford a child, it was unfair to bring one into the world. But now I knew the truth. In June 2023, he told me we “couldn’t afford it.” In June 2023, he Zelle’d Camille Lawson $3,000. The exact same month. He said he couldn’t afford to raise our child. And in that very same month, he sent three thousand dollars to another woman. I shut the computer down. I stood up. I walked out to the balcony. The sunlight was blinding. Down in the manicured courtyard of our subdivision, a neighbor was walking a golden retriever. Everything was so quiet. So profoundly normal. I stood there for a very long time. Then I picked up my phone and texted Brooke. “He used a fraudulent notary. He had someone forge my signature. I have screenshots of the texts proving it.” Brooke replied with two words: “Fucking animal.” Then she sent another text: “Hang tight. I’m pulling the buyer’s info. He is not getting away with this.” I wasn’t in a rush. From the moment I saw that massive deposit in the Chase app until now, it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours. But I had already learned two life-altering things. First, my husband had stolen and sold my house, committed felony fraud, and given the cash to the ghost of his past. Second, he and his tragic first love had never stopped talking, and he had bled our marriage dry to the tune of $125,000. But I knew this wasn’t the bottom. There had to be more. I needed time. I needed patience. Before he realized I knew anything, I was going to dig up every single skeleton he had buried. And then, I was going to burn his life to the ground. 3. Brooke worked fast. By day three, she sent me a heavily redacted PDF. “I found the buyer.” Buyer’s Name: David Lawson. I didn’t know anyone by that name. But the last name hit me like a physical blow. Lawson. “Run a background check on Camille Lawson’s immediate family,” I texted back. Ten minutes later, Brooke sent a screenshot from a public records database. Camille Lawson. Born 1990. Immediate relatives: Father, Arthur Lawson. Mother, Susan Lawson. Brother, David Lawson. The buyer was the ex-girlfriend’s biological brother. I stared at the name. David Lawson. This wasn’t a standard real estate transaction. This was money laundering. Mark sold my house to his ex’s brother, funneling the equity straight into Camille’s pockets. From start to finish, the whole thing was a coordinated, premeditated setup. I called Brooke and walked her through the connection. She went dead silent on the line. “Jo, this is worse than I thought,” she finally said. “He didn’t just sell your property without your consent. He colluded with a third party to deliberately siphon your pre-marital assets. This crosses out of family court and straight into a criminal indictment.” “I know.” “What’s your play here?” “It’s not time yet.” “What does that mean?” “I still have more digging to do.” Brooke didn’t press me. She knew how my brain worked. I was a corporate forensic accountant. I had spent the last decade tearing apart cooked books and finding hidden offshore accounts. Numbers don’t lie. So, I started an audit on my own marriage. A cold, calculated audit. By day, I went to work. By night, I made dinner, smiled at Mark, and asked him how his day was. He had no idea I was watching him like a specimen in a jar. He ate the food I cooked, drank the coffee I brewed, and slept on the sheets I washed, totally oblivious. Sometimes he would even wrap his arms around me from behind and murmur, “You work so hard for us, babe.” I would just smile. “Anything for us.” While my brain was screaming: Not as hard as you worked to commit real estate fraud, you son of a bitch. It took me a week to compile the master file. I pulled three years’ worth of Mark’s bank statements. His direct deposits went into a joint account he claimed he was “too bad with money” to manage, leaving me to handle the budgeting. The irony was suffocating. I opened Excel and built a ledger. Line by line. His salary, his quarterly bonuses, his end-of-year payouts. Minus the mortgage, utilities, and his credit card bills. The remainder—the surplus of his life—had flowed almost entirely into one account. Camille Lawson. Three years. $125,400. I color-coded the spreadsheet. Arranged chronologically by month. Every transfer: Date, Amount, Memo line. And then, a specific row caught my eye. June 2023. That month, his salary and bonus hit the account: $4,000. The mortgage auto-drafted: $1,800. He transferred $3,000 to Camille. Ending balance: Negative $800. His credit card bill that month was $600. The month he sat on the couch and told me we “couldn’t afford a baby,” his own checking account was deeply in the red. Because he had given the money to Camille. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford a child. It was that he took the money meant for our baby and handed it to his ex-girlfriend. I stared at the row in the spreadsheet. June 2023. Transfer: $3,000. Memo: [Blank] Corresponding Event: Joanna’s abortion. I highlighted the row in blood red. Deep breath. Keep going. There was one last thing I needed to audit. Camille’s “illness.” 4. Verifying Camille’s medical condition was tricky. HIPAA laws are airtight. But I had a workaround. My cousin Rachel had been a charge nurse at a massive research hospital for fifteen years. I didn’t ask her directly. I took her out to lunch. Halfway through our salads, I casually brought it up. “Hey, Rach, do you guys ever see procedures that are just astronomically expensive? Like, close to a million dollars?” Rachel paused, her fork hovering. “A million? What kind of disease are we talking about?” “A friend of a friend has someone who needs surgery, and they’re trying to crowdfund $700,000 out of pocket.” Rachel shook her head. “$700,000? Unless they are getting a multi-organ transplant with zero insurance, or they’re flying to Switzerland for some unapproved experimental trial, no. Major surgeries in the US, even the catastrophic ones, max out in the low hundreds of thousands before insurance out-of-pocket maximums kick in.” “What if it’s…” I tried to remember the vague phrasing from Mark’s texts. “…a chronic illness that requires long-term intervention?” “Long-term care and surgical fees are billed entirely differently,” Rachel explained. “A surgery is an episodic charge. Subsequent treatments run through insurance. Unless this is a 100% private-pay, concierge medical tourism situation.” “If it is private pay, abroad, what’s the cap?” “Depends on the protocol. Tell your friend to get the itemized estimate from the clinic. I can look it up and tell you if they’re getting scammed.” I smiled tightly. “Thanks, I’ll let them know.” Lunch wasn’t a waste. I confirmed one massive red flag: a flat $700,000 surgical fee was a fairy tale.

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The first time my wife didn’t come home, I was frantic enough to call the police. When I finally found her, the sheets were still warm from her encounter with the man who had haunted our marriage like a ghost. Sampson didn’t even look guilty when he saw me. He stood there, adjusting his cufflinks with a chilling, entitled calm. “Since you’ve seen us, let’s talk terms,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “You’ve been with Vicky for six years. I’ll make sure she pays you a generous ‘service fee.’ You won’t have undressed for her for nothing all these years.” The rage hit me like a physical wave. I lunged, my fist connecting with the corner of his mouth until he bled. Vicky let out a sharp, horrified gasp. She didn’t rush to me; she rushed to him, cradling his face as if he were made of glass. She took him to the ER immediately, leaving me standing in the wreckage of a life I thought we’d built. She didn’t come home until the third afternoon. She walked into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and looked at me with an exhausting level of condescension. “Sampson has a temper, Daniel. He’s sharp-tongued, but he’s got a good heart. Don’t take what he said to heart.” I stared at her, speechless. “He promised me he won’t hold the assault against you,” she continued, as if she were doing me a favor. “From now on, I’ll be fair. I’ll balance my time between you two. There’s no reason for us to have conflict anymore.” A cold, dead weight settled in my chest. I looked at this woman—this stranger—and asked, “Vicky, what on earth makes you think I’d ever want a second-hand version of you?” She didn’t flinch. Instead, she gave me a look of supreme, high-society confidence. “You love me too much, Daniel. And you love our daughter. For Daisy’s sake, you’ll never leave.” … A bitter laugh escaped my lips. She was doing it again—using our child as a leash. Vicky’s tone softened, a practiced gentleness returning to her voice. “Come on, stop being dramatic.” She reached out to stroke my arm, her touch once a source of comfort, now making my skin crawl. “Even Daisy has accepted Sampson. Are you really going to be less mature than a four-year-old?” It felt like a blade had been driven through my sternum. I shoved her hand away, my stomach turning. “Our daughter knows about him?” “Sampson is the best daddy ever! I love him the most!” Suddenly, Daisy’s bright, cheerful voice rang out from the top of the stairs. She came flying down, skipping toward the living room, and threw herself into Vicky’s arms. Then, she turned to me, her small face twisted in a pout of innocent indignation. “Daddy, why don’t you like Daddy Sampson?” Every time she said it—Daddy Sampson—it was a fresh twist of the knife. “Daisy… you call that man Daddy?” I whispered. I felt the blood rushing to my head, my vision blurring with a hot, stinging prickle. I fought with everything I had to keep from breaking down in front of her. “Do you understand what that man is doing to our family?” I asked, my voice trembling. “He’s hurting me. He’s hurting us. And you’re calling him Daddy?” Daisy’s lower lip trembled, and she burst into a loud, wailing sob. “No, he’s not! Mommy and I are happiest when we’re with Daddy Sampson!” She pointed a small, accusatory finger at my face. “You’re saying mean things! You’re the bad daddy!” Vicky immediately began wiping her tears, cooing to her in that honeyed voice. “Sampson is the best daddy in the whole world, sweetie. Don’t cry. Mommy thinks he’s wonderful, too. Your father is just angry. He’s saying things he doesn’t mean.” Daisy’s tears wouldn’t stop. “I want to go to Daddy Sampson’s house. I want to sleep there tonight!” “Okay, okay,” Vicky soothed, picking her up. “We’ll go to Sampson’s. We’ll stay with him tonight.” Vicky walked toward the door with our daughter in her arms, never spared me a single backwards glance. It was as if I had ceased to exist, fading into the background like the expensive wallpaper she’d picked out for this house. In that moment, the leash snapped. The weakness I felt for them withered away, replaced by a strange, hollow sense of relief. I reached for my phone to call a divorce lawyer, only to stop myself. I remembered then—Vicky and I were never actually married. Six years ago, when we started dating, her parents had been vehemently against us. I was a “nobody”—a kid from a blue-collar town who had fought his way up to become the top-producing sales executive in the city. Vicky had been my client. She’d pursued me for months before I finally gave in. To the rest of the world, I was successful and handsome. To the Beaumont family, I wasn’t even worth the dirt on their loafers. Because our backgrounds were “incompatible,” her father had demanded I sign a pre-nuptial agreement that made it clear I would never touch a cent of the Beaumont fortune. He’d humiliated me in his study, saying, “If you don’t sign, it proves you’re just a gold-digger. You’re a salesman, Daniel. You make a living selling your mouth. Some would say you’re selling your body, too. Vicky is just going through a phase.” Young and proud, I had ripped the pre-nup to shreds in front of him. I told Vicky we wouldn’t be getting a marriage certificate until her family actually respected me. I was naive back then. I thought a piece of paper meant nothing if there was no honor behind it. Looking back, my pride was my salvation. I was free. I checked my personal bank account. The balance had so many zeros I didn’t bother counting; it was enough to live comfortably for the rest of my life. These were commissions Vicky had insisted on gifting me over the years, labeled as “voluntary gifts” in our records, along with bonuses for the massive contracts I’d secured for the Beaumont Group. Six years of my life, distilled into a digital number. At least it wasn’t for nothing. I sent a text to my old mentor, the CEO of a rival firm: “I’m ready to come back to the game.” In less than a minute, my phone rang. He was ecstatic. During my five years with him, I had been the undisputed “closer.” I had more respect in that boardroom than I ever did in the Beaumont mansion. I grabbed my ID and my bank cards. Just as I was about to walk out, Vicky returned. “It’s late. Where are you going?” Her tone was back to normal, but when she saw my cold expression, she softened. “Look, honey, let’s talk.” The word “honey” used to make me feel like the luckiest man alive. Now, it felt like a splinter under my fingernail. She pulled me into the living room and opened a bottle of high-end bourbon. She poured two glasses and handed me one. I took it, deciding to give her one last chance to put a period at the end of our story. We sat across from each other. She took a sip, looking at me with a heavy, nostalgic gaze. “I met Sampson in high school,” she began slowly. “He was my first love. When he moved abroad, I tried to follow him, but our fathers had a falling out over a business deal. They forbid us from being together. We were forced apart, and he stayed single all those years, waiting for me.” She watched for my reaction. I took a sip of the bourbon, saying nothing, just listening to the autopsy of our relationship. “A year ago, he came back,” she continued. “I tried to control myself, Daniel. I really did. But you can’t control the heart.” She looked me straight in the eye. “But I can’t leave you, either. In my heart, you’re my only husband. I want to grow old with you.” My stomach churned. I had spent six years loving a woman who was apparently incapable of basic human decency. My phone vibrated. I looked down. It was a message from Sampson. “Consider this a favor for taking care of Vicky for six years. Now you know why she chose you. Oh, and by the way, Daisy is asleep in my arms. She said she wants me to be her daddy forever. I’ll love her like my own.” Below the text was a photo. I froze. It was an old photo of Sampson, before whatever accident or time had changed his face. A few years ago, Sampson looked remarkably like me. Or rather, I looked like him. I wasn’t her husband. I was his stunt double. “He went through so much over there,” Vicky was saying, her voice cracking. “He tried to take his own life because of me. He was disfigured… he had to go through the agony of reconstructive surgery.” She began to sob. “I owe him my life.” She stumbled toward me, smelling of expensive bourbon and betrayal. She threw her arms around me like a grieving child. “Daniel, please. I can’t choose. I can’t lose either of you. Just don’t make this hard for me, okay? I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. I’ll be fair to both of you.” The smell of her perfume—the one I’d bought her for her birthday—clung to her. I realized now why she’d always looked at me with that strange, wistful sadness when she touched my face. She wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at a ghost. “Vicky,” I said, my voice dead. “I’m not your husband. And we’re done.” She slumped against the sofa, the alcohol finally taking over. Her eyes closed, and she fell into a deep sleep. I looked at that familiar, beautiful, lying face one last time. “We’re done, Vicky.” I walked out of that house without looking back. The next morning, I got a text from her: “I’m giving you time to process this. When you’ve cleared your head, call me. I’ll come pick you up and bring you home.” I didn’t reply. Her “I want it all” attitude was like someone stabbing me in the chest and then offering me a piece of candy. It was insulting. I moved into an apartment I owned, and the following day, I showed up at my old firm. My new life started quietly. A few days later, while I was at the grocery store, I saw them. Vicky and Sampson, each holding one of Daisy’s hands. They looked like the perfect American family from a catalog. Sampson went out of his way to approach me. “Hey, Daniel.” He was smiling, but his eyes were pure venom. Vicky looked unbothered, nodding as if we were just casual acquaintances. Daisy looked up at me and said, “Daddy, it’s Daddy Sampson’s birthday today. You’re a really good cook. I want him to have the best dinner. Can you come over and cook for him?” My heart, which I thought was already numb, shattered into a million pieces. I looked at her with ice in my veins. “Daisy, don’t call me Daddy anymore. I’m not your father.” Daisy’s face crumpled, and she began to wail. “Daniel!” Vicky snapped. “How could you speak to her like that? Stop being petty with a child.” Sampson picked Daisy up, playing the role of the protective, understanding father. “Daniel, you’re scaring her. The child is innocent. Even if you have a problem with me, don’t take it out on her.” I felt nothing but a cold, hard clarity. “You guys deserve each other.” I tried to walk past them, but Vicky grabbed my wrist. Her voice was firm, the tone of a CEO used to getting her way. “Enough. Stop the tantrums. It’s Sampson’s birthday, and our daughter wants your cooking. Come home, make dinner, and we’ll have a nice family evening together.” Family? I almost laughed. Daisy stopped crying and looked at Vicky’s stomach. “Daddy Sampson said Mommy has a baby in her tummy. She wants sour things.” Then she looked at me. “Daddy, make the spicy-sour fish. Mommy likes that.” Sampson smirked, patting Daisy on the head. “That’s my girl. Just like your mom, always looking out for people.” I kept my face like stone. Vicky’s phone rang, and she stepped away to take the call, taking Daisy with her. Sampson’s mask dropped instantly. His smile turned into a jagged, triumphant sneer. “Oh, I forgot to tell you the good news. Vicky and I got married yesterday. Legally.” I stared at him. After the death of my heart, his words were just noise. He scoffed. “So what if you look like the old me? Vicky loves me, not the face. You spent six years as a placeholder, no title, no nothing. The second I came back, she couldn’t wait to sign the papers.” He paused for effect. “And there was no pre-nup this time. None.” He pulled a marriage license from his jacket pocket and waved it in my face. “As soon as she found out she was pregnant with my son, she took me straight to the courthouse. She said she didn’t want our child to be a bastard.” A phantom pain flickered in my chest—not for her, but for the six years of my life I’d poured into a void. “So, ‘big brother’,” he mocked, “make sure you buy the good ingredients for my birthday dinner. Your daughter’s orders.” I looked at him, truly looked at him. “Whether this is a blessing or a curse, Sampson… only time will tell.” He sneered, assuming I was just jealous. I just smiled. My battlefield wasn’t in a marriage or a petty rivalry over a woman who didn’t know the meaning of the word loyalty. I walked away and called my boss. “You know that massive Southeast expansion project? I want the lead on the bid.” My boss practically screamed with joy. I was going to show Sampson that he couldn’t steal my life. Because the life he took wasn’t worth having. That evening, Vicky called. “If you don’t want to cook, I won’t force you. We’ve booked a table at a restaurant. Daisy really wants you there. I’ll send a car for you, okay?” I kept my voice flat. “I’m busy. I have work.” She misinterpreted my tone as dedication to her company. Her voice turned sweet. “My husband is so hardworking. I know you say mean things, but in my heart, you’re still the best. The Southeast project is a big deal. Once you land it for us, I’ll make it up to you.” I smiled to myself. I didn’t correct her. For six years, even when I stepped back from the front lines, I had been the silent engine behind her biggest wins. She just assumed I would keep doing it. I said nothing until the day of the bidding war. I walked into the elite conference hall, surrounded by the city’s power players. I saw Vicky and Sampson. She was in a stunning gown, her arm linked with his, looking every bit the corporate queen. She whispered to me that she brought Sampson along so he could “learn the ropes” of the business. I just nodded and took the stage. “Good morning,” I began, my voice amplified and steady. “My name is Daniel Miller, and I am here representing The Prescott Group.” The room went silent. Everyone in the industry knew I was Vicky Beaumont’s man. This was a declaration of war. Vicky’s face went pale. She stood up, her voice trembling. “Daniel? Honey, you must have read the wrong company name.” Suddenly, a cold, commanding female voice cut through the room. “Mrs. Beaumont, be careful with your words. Since when did my lead executive become your husband?”

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