My dad is Graham Merritt, CEO of Merritt Media, the largest media company in the country. My mom, Audrey Taylor-Merritt, is a retired Oscar-winning actress. And my brother, Lucas Merritt, is one of the hottest idols out there. The second I started at Blackwood School of Drama, gossip headlines started popping up about “Merritt Media’s youngest daughter entering her first year.” Naturally, my fame-hungry roommate wasted no time jumping on that: “Thank you all for the attention! I really want to focus on my studies, so I hope I can keep a low profile and avoid affecting others.” But within days, the truth was out: Merritt Media’s true princess was someone else. Content “Thank you, everyone, for the attention! As I’m just starting college, I’d really like to keep things low-key and just focus on my studies. I’d appreciate it if my wonderful fans could respect this and not disturb others,” Talia Owens posted on Twitter. Seeing Talia’s post, I couldn’t help but laugh. Just her luck, she was using her stage training from Horizon Pictures to play this one out right in front of me. This all started on the day we moved in. Somehow, a tabloid that must’ve missed the memo from my dad’s company put out the headline “Merritt Media CEO’s Daughter Begins at Blackwood School of Drama.” Let me tell you, any company that’s been around a minute knows Graham Merritt’s “other daughter” is off-limits—an untouchable topic. So, who dared to grab the tiger by the whiskers? More shocking was seeing someone so desperate for fame cling to my family’s name. The culprit? None other than my brand-new roommate, Talia Owens. To be fair, Talia had some convenient qualifications: we share a last name. She’s “Owens,” my dad’s “Merritt.” She was in a popular web series once, blew up for her “innocent girl-next-door” vibe, and picked up five million fans overnight. By the time she enrolled, she was already Blackwood’s newest “campus beauty” and had shot to the top of Trending News. As soon as people found out she was in my Drama Program, our group chat lit up like a bonfire: “OMG! She’s like a real-life princess!” “Ahhh! Are we gonna get to act with the campus queen?!” Right now, seeing her headline, our roommates turned their starry eyes on Talia, piling on the praise: “Talia, who knew you were the daughter of Merritt Media’s CEO? Oh my god, we’re practically royalty by association!” “Oh wow, Talia, does that mean Lucas Merritt is your real brother?! Can you get me his autograph?!” “Talia, your family must have incredible resources lined up for you! Mind if you bring me along? I’d be thrilled with any role—even a maid!” I couldn’t help but smirk at their comments. What a pipe dream. Lucas Merritt? He’s my brother. The real one. They may get that autograph, but a part in one of our productions? Good luck with that. All these people dreaming of shortcuts—first-year students who haven’t even acted in a real show yet, putting fame ahead of developing any skills. Could they even handle a speaking role? I opened my own account and posted a tweet under the trending hashtag: “Some people… Not exactly famous, but sure do love to jump on it.” Of course, some of Talia’s fans stormed over to my page, yelling: “Why don’t you keep your opinions to yourself?” “Yeah, she’s talking about you! Stop clinging to Talia’s fame!” I ignored them. The truth would come out eventually. The only one who took issue with my attitude was Erika Banks, another classmate hoping for any part she could get. She smirked: “What’s so funny? Not everyone gets a family background like that, let alone has the looks to match. What’s with the snobby attitude?” “Exactly!” someone else chimed in. “What’s with the acting high and mighty?” Oh, please. They’d lose it if they knew. All their so-called idols practically bow down to me. I’ve got exclusive signed merch stacked in our basement. They shower me with well-wishes every holiday, terrified I might just forget them. Talia gave a soft, humble smile. “Look, we’re all here for the same reason. Some classmates may come from humble backgrounds, but we’re all here because of our acting dreams. We can’t let status divide us.” Erika sighed. “Oh, Talia, you’re too kind. But some people… They should at least know their place. I mean, Chloe, I don’t see any designer on you. Maybe your family isn’t all that. You could never compare to Talia. Remember, some people just rank higher.” Talia quickly interrupted, “Let’s not get into comparisons, everyone. It’s really not necessary.” Right then, my dad called. I ignored them all and stepped out to take it on the balcony. “Hey, is my little girl alright? I just saw the trending topics, and I’ve already got someone taking them down. You don’t need to deal with this.” Hearing “little girl” from my dad—a serious, professional guy—was enough to make me shiver. “No, don’t worry about it. Just let it be.” “Really? You sure you’re okay, kiddo?” “Absolutely.” Let’s see what game she tries to play next. “When are you coming home? I miss you so much.” Rolling my eyes, I nearly got a headache. “Dad, it’s only the third day of college.” Seriously. Someone, rein in this “daughter-obsessed” dad, please.

My name’s Chloe Merritt. My dad is Graham Merritt, CEO of the biggest media company in the US. My mom, Audrey Taylor-Merritt, is an Oscar-winning actress who retired from the spotlight, and my brother Lucas is a top-tier idol. Why “Merritt” and not “Taylor?” Well, my mom had this thing when she was pregnant with me; she decided that if I took her last name, it would prove Dad’s love for her. And Dad, being head-over-heels in love and slightly henpecked, of course, said yes. Plus, when I was a kid, I got separated from Mom once at a fan event. One of her more obsessed fans cornered me in a women’s restroom, taking photos non-stop for three hours until my family found me. It left me with a hefty case of crowd anxiety and claustrophobia. For years, I couldn’t be left alone and had to sleep with a nightlight. I spent years in therapy, but finally got through it. That’s why my parents have always gone the extra mile to protect my privacy, letting every major media outlet know they’re to delete any shot of me. Keeping “Taylor” kept me out of the spotlight and let me enjoy a “normal” ten years. The downside? Missing out on the “privilege” of being seen as Graham Merritt’s daughter. I also prefer not to flaunt designer labels—feels tacky. Most of my wardrobe comes from my aunt, who designs clothes in Europe. She makes me unique pieces, and no one else in the world—royalty included—has them. I’ve always kept my family away from school. But the night before college, Dad paced around my room, Mom teared up on my bed, and my brother patiently packed my bags. “Sweetheart, what if Dad drops you off at school tomorrow?” “Absolutely not. If you show up, the school president will practically roll out a red carpet.” “Well, how about Mom? I’m out of the public eye anyway.” “Right. Tell that to Director John Carson, who stopped by last week trying to pull you back for a new movie.” “What if your brother…” “Nope. The whole dorm would get mobbed by his fans.” The thought made me shudder. The hypnotherapy helped block most memories, but I still can’t face crowds comfortably. Best to avoid it when I can. Seeing how adamant I was, they finally backed down. So, on move-in day, our butler, Mr. Benson, drove me to school in the oldest, beat-up SUV we own. He dressed like your average grandpa doing groceries. Totally low-key. Mr. Benson has worked for our family for over twenty years, and I see him as a relative. His style might be plain, but he’s been nothing but dedicated to our family. And trust me, we pay him well. Of course, that’s not what my roommates thought. To them, my “status” looked pretty low. At first, I had no issues with Talia Owens. But when I just barely made the “campus beauty” list, she felt her thunder stolen. Ever since then, she’s been subtly digging at me, throwing shade about my family’s background and mocking my “lack of style.”

Since that vague Twitter post, Talia’s popularity skyrocketed, and our dorm became a VIP shrine for her. Returning from class one day, I found her surrounded by gift bags and fan letters. Erika eagerly grabbed the things and set them on Talia’s bed, picking up some high-end gifts along the way. “Oh wow, a Cartier bracelet! So luxe.” “And this LV bag? I’ve been wanting it for ages!” “Look, Chanel’s collector’s perfume!” “Uh, and what are these… slippers?” “Get a grip,” Talia scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Those are Fendi. Worth over $1,000. I’d expect you to recognize them.” Erika gasped. “Seriously?!” Talia tossed her a Dior perfume, smirking. “Here, it’s yours.” Erika hugged the bottle, asking, “Who sent you all this?” “Who else?” Talia replied, “My fans, of course.” Watching her show off, I hit record on my phone, capturing everything. “Every time, I say I don’t need anything, but the second I hint at it on Twitter, they’re practically throwing gifts at me,” she said, laughing. “Honestly, it’s a waste. One fan even ‘bought’ me a star for my birthday—like, what am I supposed to do with that? I’d rather they send things I can actually enjoy.” “Every letter they send goes right into the trash. As if I have time to read them.” I felt a pang for her fans, for every person who spent hard-earned money, showing her support. Not that she cares. She only sees the dollar signs. Talia held out a lipstick toward me. “Chloe, you look like you could use some decent makeup. Here, this shade would suit you.” I rejected it coolly. “No thanks. Keep the gifts—you seem to value them so much.” Erika scowled, “Ungrateful much? Talia was trying to be generous.” “I don’t think you even deserve it. Stick to your drugstore brands.” “What’s wrong with affordable brands?” I shot back. “Just because something’s expensive doesn’t mean it’s better. Plenty of homegrown brands are fantastic quality.” Our family might be wealthy, but we don’t chase designer labels for everything. My favorite tees are made from American-grown cotton, and our silk pajamas come from a top-notch family-owned workshop that crafts exclusively for us. Erika rolled her eyes, dismissing me, “Country bumpkin mentality. No point talking to you.” While they continued with their gift haul, I watched my phone’s recording, knowing that someday, I’d make sure everyone saw Talia’s true colors.

The next day, in our Acting Workshop, the professor handed out scripts for us to perform. I drew the role of the female lead, partnered with the most popular guy in our class, Ryan Hastings. Ryan’s a campus heartthrob and a former boy-band member turned actor, with over ten million Twitter followers. I never expected Talia to react by biting her lip and looking like she was about to cry. Immediately, everyone gathered around, concerned. “Talia, what’s wrong? Are you feeling okay?” “If you’re not up to it, take a break.” Even Ryan and the professor approached her to check on her. Talia looked at me, then carefully unfolded her script. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just… didn’t get the role I wanted. Don’t worry, everyone. I’ll still do my best. I won’t let anyone down.” Wow, a masterclass in manipulation. The Queen of Green Tea herself couldn’t have done it better. Some of my roommates took Talia’s script and walked over to me. “Chloe, why don’t you trade roles with Talia? She’s the campus queen, after all, and has actual acting experience. She’d definitely bring more to the lead role than you.” “Right, Talia’s got the looks for it, too. She’s naturally meant for the lead. Are you sure you could pull it off?” Ever since they thought Talia might be Merritt Media’s “secret princess,” they all started sucking up like crazy. Unmoved, I replied, “Why should I? We all drew randomly. And besides, what makes you think I can’t handle the lead?” Ryan scoffed, “Lack of experience. And last I checked, you don’t share her last name either, right?” With that, he snatched the script from my hand and gently placed it in Talia’s. “Don’t worry,” he said softly to her. “Now we’re partners.” I looked at the professor, hoping she’d set things straight. “Professor, are you really going to let them steal the roles like this?” She sighed impatiently. “A role’s a role. You think you’ll get to pick your parts as a professional actor?” I wasn’t letting this slide. This was clear favoritism. I’d never been treated like this before. “Why don’t you tell her that?” I shot back. “She’s the one asking for a change.” “Teachers are supposed to be fair. If we allow people to swap roles whenever they want, who’ll take on the smaller roles?” “In every production, each part matters. Without supporting roles, the lead wouldn’t shine.” The professor looked irritated. “I say one thing, and you argue ten. You think you should be the teacher? Either take the role or leave.” I smirked. “You’re all letting her switch because she’s ‘Owens,’ right? What if she’s not even Graham Merritt’s daughter?” Talia froze, her face turning pale as she tried to keep her cool. “If she’s not,” she sneered, “then what are you saying? That you are?” “Obviously,” I answered confidently. The room erupted in laughter. “Oh my god, she thinks she’s Graham Merritt’s daughter. Hilarious!” “If she’s a Merritt, then I must be Jeff Bezos’ kid.” Graham Merritt—that’s my dad’s name. Sure, laugh it up while you still can. Soon enough, you won’t be laughing anymore. I don’t just want them to know the truth. I want everyone to know who the real imposter is. A week after school started, my brother Lucas Merritt was set to perform his concert. Ever since he’d won his season’s top spot on The Next Superstar, he’d gone viral nationwide, practically overnight, bringing me millions of sister-in-law “candidates” along the way. From day one, Erika bragged to everyone that she was Lucas’s biggest fan and held a spot on the Lucas Merritt Fan Society’s board. Tickets for his concert went on pre-sale three days ago. As expected, they sold out within seconds.

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My husband’s lover was found dead, brutally murdered. That afternoon, both he and I were brought to the police station. I hadn’t known about his affair; if not for the murder, I might never have found out. The Central Police Station collected our fingerprints and asked us to account for our whereabouts during the time of Melanie Reed’s death. She was 28, an office employee, killed around 11 p.m. on July 30, 2019. The cause of death was blood loss from a severed carotid artery, inflicted by a sharp object. Today marked the third day since Melanie’s death. Content It had only been three days, so I recalled the timeframe clearly. I was certain my husband had been with me that night, sleeping soundly beside me. I told them the truth without hesitation. The officers at the Central Police Station questioned us separately. I was interviewed by a man and a woman. The man, Detective Mark Callahan, was about thirty and the deputy head of the major crimes unit. The woman, Detective Hannah Shaw, appeared to be in her late twenties and was strikingly attractive. Perhaps they saw I was visibly upset, especially as a pregnant woman who’d just learned of her husband’s infidelity, and wanted to tread lightly. Detective Shaw, especially, asked me questions with a gentleness in her gaze. “Mrs. Langston,” she began, “can you try to remember if your husband left the house that night? Could he have possibly gone out while you were asleep?” Caught off guard, I paused before answering, “Detective Shaw, since I’ve been pregnant, I’ve been sleeping very deeply and go to bed early. I can only say that my husband was there both before I fell asleep and after I woke up.” Detective Shaw and Detective Callahan exchanged a look. Curiosity got the better of me, so I asked, “Detective Shaw, can’t DNA be collected from the victim? If you suspect my husband, shouldn’t you test him for it?” Though I said this calmly, I was seething inside. They’d been lovers; why would he have needed to assault her? The killer couldn’t possibly be my husband. Detective Shaw shook her head. “The perpetrator was careful and didn’t leave any viable evidence. It makes this case a bit complicated.” I nodded in understanding. Then she asked me how far along I was, and I told her a little over four months. She glanced at my belly, noting that it looked large and suggesting I might be carrying twins. She reminded me that pregnant women are prone to emotional swings and encouraged me to try to stay calm. I appreciated her words, and after a few more polite exchanges, I left the station. I thought my husband would be coming home with me, but Detective Callahan told me he’d need to stay to assist with the investigation. Unable to do anything else, I went home alone. When I got back to Maplewood Apartments, a neighbor told me the police had shown up in force, checked the security footage, and questioned the neighbors. They’d asked if anyone had heard our door open between 9 p.m. and early morning on July 30. I asked what my neighbor had told them, and she said she hadn’t heard anything. I felt reassured hearing that. Since I assumed my husband would be staying the night at the station, I tried calling him. He didn’t answer, so I ate dinner and went to bed. But just as I started to drift off, he came home. As usual, he was distant. I offered to reheat some food for him, but he waved me off. “Honey,” I asked, “why didn’t you pick up when I called earlier?” He replied that the police had confiscated his phone to copy his text and call logs. Just thinking about his messages with that woman made my stomach turn, but for the sake of our unborn child, I pushed it aside. After all, the woman was dead—what was the point of dwelling on it? But I was wrong. Just because I didn’t care didn’t mean he didn’t. Shortly after I fell asleep, I felt a strong pressure around my throat, jolting me awake. My husband was strangling me with a look of pure rage, his grip tightening as if he intended to kill me.

I struggled, gasping, trying to plead with him, “H-honey… I’m pregnant with your child… do you… do you really want to end two lives?” At those words, he slowly released me, though his hands dug into my shoulders as he leaned in, his bloodshot eyes filled with fury. “Jessica, was it you? Did you hire someone to kill Melanie?” His fury terrified me, and I stammered, “Honey, you… you’ve got it all wrong. I wouldn’t have the nerve.” “Really? You’d better hope it wasn’t you, or I’ll personally see to it that you pay.” With that, he glared at me with a chilling hatred, climbed out of bed, and stormed out of the room. He didn’t come back to our bedroom that night, leaving me lying awake, haunted by the look in his eyes. It wasn’t until dawn that I drifted into a fitful sleep. I woke to the doorbell ringing. After a moment, realizing no one was answering, I groggily went downstairs to open it. But as I came down the stairs, I froze. There, slumped on the couch, was my husband, completely still. A pool of blood lay beneath him, and on the coffee table, a bloodied surgical scalpel. I let out a scream. I couldn’t look a second time—the sight was too horrifying. My body felt weak and I collapsed to the floor, trembling. The doorbell rang on, even more urgently after hearing my scream. I wanted to get up and answer it, but I couldn’t move, paralyzed by shock. All I could do was sit there, sobbing uncontrollably. I didn’t know how much time had passed before the door was forced open. Detective Shaw and Detective Callahan entered, followed by two officers in uniform. When they saw my husband, they were visibly startled. Detective Callahan called for the coroner immediately, while Detective Shaw gently lifted me off the floor as I continued crying. The coroner arrived quickly, concluding that my husband’s death was a suicide, occurring around two in the morning. His expression seemed tortured, as if he’d experienced something terrifying in his final moments. Detective Callahan told me that my husband was the one who’d killed Melanie Reed. I didn’t believe it, but he said the evidence was solid. He explained that the police had reviewed footage from both Maplewood Apartments and Melanie’s complex. While my husband had avoided our building’s security cameras, he’d been unfamiliar with her building, and at 10 p.m. on the night of her murder, he’d been caught on one of their cameras. I was in disbelief, but Detective Callahan went on to explain that they’d found messages between my husband and Melanie on his phone, where they’d arranged to meet up that night. They concluded that my husband had likely killed her and taken his own life out of guilt. I felt numb, slumping to the ground, my body shaking uncontrollably. The police took my husband’s body away for further examination, and my home was marked off as a crime scene. The blood on the floor made me feel sick to my core. After taking my statement, Detective Shaw placed a comforting hand on my shoulder and asked quietly, “Jessica, I see you have bruises on your neck. Did Steven… hurt you?” Her question brought last night’s events rushing back. Wiping away tears, I admitted, “Last night, I confronted him about the affair, and he… lost control.” Detective Shaw looked thoughtful, hesitating before saying, “The neck is a vulnerable area. It seems like he was trying to hurt you badly. Why didn’t you report it?”

Her words took me by surprise. I took a deep breath, clutching my neck. “Detective Shaw, he was my husband. And he was the father of my child.” Seeing my reaction, Detective Shaw didn’t press further. As they were leaving, she suggested I stay at a nearby hotel if I felt unsafe at home and assured me I could reach out to her if I needed anything. I nodded, watching them go. Coming from a small town like Charleston, South Carolina, I had no one nearby—my family was far away. My husband’s family, too, lived a state over. We’d settled here after college, bought this big house, but now it was just me here alone. The thought filled me with a strange sorrow. I packed a few clothes and went to the nearest hotel, The Crescent. After a quick meal, I took out my husband’s bank cards. I called the bank’s hotline, and after checking the balances, I discovered he had over half a million dollars saved. I didn’t know his bank PIN, but recently, I’d gone to the store with him to shop for baby things, and while he paid, I’d memorized his payment code. Guessing he used the same password for all his accounts, I tried it once—and it worked. Since becoming pregnant, I’d had severe morning sickness and had quit my job as a makeup artist. My husband had always been stingy with money, giving me only three thousand a month, which barely covered my living expenses. With the bank cards secured, I felt exhausted and fell asleep on the bed, where I drifted into a nightmare. I dreamt that I was paralyzed, lying in bed as Melanie and my husband, Steven, stared at me with twisted smiles, reaching out to strangle me together. I jolted awake, parched and shaken, reaching for a glass of water. That’s when my phone rang. Seeing it was Detective Shaw, my heart skipped a beat. Taking a deep breath, I answered. She asked which hotel I was staying at, saying there was something more she needed to discuss with me. I gave her the hotel’s name, and she arrived about half an hour later, alone this time. I invited her in, and Detective Shaw smiled as she asked, “Mrs. Langston, although your husband’s death appears to be a suicide, the autopsy showed a high dose of diazepam in his system. Was he using it to treat a condition?” “Diazepam?” I paused, thinking, and replied, “That’s a sleeping aid, right? He had insomnia. Sometimes he’d take a couple of tablets if he couldn’t sleep.” “Is that so? Because the dose in his system was more than two pills—closer to five. What do you make of that?” Detective Shaw’s words made me laugh.

My laugh sounded more like crying. With a sigh, I said, “Detective Shaw, if you were in my husband’s place and your lover suddenly died like that, could you sleep? And if you couldn’t sleep, wouldn’t you take a higher dose than usual?” Detective Shaw was silent for a moment, her gaze intense. Finally, she replied, “Mrs. Langston, with your husband just having passed, I thought you’d be lost in grief. I didn’t expect you to check his account balances so quickly.” Her words caught me off guard, and she continued, “We found that your husband’s parents are still alive, and they’ve just lost their only son. Have you thought about notifying them?” “They’re elderly,” I said, with no attempt to mask my annoyance. “I haven’t figured out what to say yet. I’m expecting a child, and I have to think about the future, Detective. You all seem awfully nosy.” My tone was sharp, surprising her. For a moment, she looked taken aback, as if she hadn’t expected me to have any bite. She forced a slight smile and muttered an apology. Before leaving, she shared one last detail, saying a security camera across the street had recently been realigned due to wiring issues. It now pointed toward my living room, capturing part of what went on inside. She gave me a knowing smile before she left. Her words left me sleepless and anxious that night. As expected, she called the next day, asking me to come down to the police station. They’d uncovered something new in my husband’s death. Heart pounding, I went in, escorted straight to the interrogation room, where Detective Shaw and Detective Callahan awaited me. I sat quietly, waiting for them to start. Detective Callahan turned on a screen, playing a video of a woman in a long dress. The footage was blurry, her face obscured by wild, messy hair. She looked like a ghost as she moved slowly down a staircase, stepped to a window, and pulled the curtain closed. Then the screen went dark. I squinted at the screen, recognizing my living room, but feeling deeply confused. “Detective Shaw, Detective Callahan,” I asked, “Who is that woman? And what was she doing in my house?” The two detectives exchanged a look and smiled. Detective Shaw said, “Mrs. Langston, on the night of your husband’s death, only you and he were at home. Are you saying this wasn’t you?” “It wasn’t me!” I said, feeling my anger rise. Detective Callahan replied calmly, “Couldn’t you have painted your face, done some makeup to look like a ghost?” “I’m pregnant,” I retorted. “There’s no way that was me.” My response left them momentarily speechless. Detective Shaw then added decisively, “The woman in the video certainly resembles Melanie Reed, but we don’t believe in ghosts, Mrs. Langston. Would you mind if I checked your stomach?” Her question made me laugh bitterly. “So, you’re accusing me of faking a pregnancy?”

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I woke up and realized I was in a family-pampering story. A powerhouse CEO big brother, a medical prodigy second brother, and a movie-star third brother. I thought I was the adored heroine. Turns out… I’m just the supporting character? Wait, why do my brothers dote on me so much? And the real heiress… is actually me? Content I landed in a story all about a beloved family member. My adoptive parents were wealthy, doting, and provided everything I could want. I figured I could just sit back and relax. But then, one day, a woman showed up claiming she was the real daughter, pointing a finger at me and insisting I’d stolen her place. She demanded a DNA test. And the thing is, my adoptive parents half-believed her and actually did it! Turns out, yep, I wasn’t their real daughter. Wait, what? It hit me—I’m in that book I barely read because the plot was so over-the-top, Battle for the CEO’s Heart: The Real vs. Fake Heiress! Oh, no way… I’m the “fake heiress”? What kind of plot twist was this… “Mom, Dad, Roni missed you both so much…” I sat on the sidelines as the “real heiress,” Veronica Harper, cried her heart out, clutching her mother and telling her all about her hardships. “Life at Brookfield Children’s Home was so hard! I suffered so much, if only…” She shot me a resentful glance, voice steady but full of misery, “If only you hadn’t taken my place… But I don’t blame you. I’m just happy to have found you, and I’ll be glad to get along with my sister.” They cried and hugged together, with her mother repeating how sorry she was and promising to make it up to her. That was my cue. I shouldn’t be here; I should be under the car, not in it. I slipped out to get some air. When I returned, my adoptive parents’ attitude had completely changed. “Madison, what your real parents did was absolutely selfish! They left my daughter to suffer all those years in an orphanage!” Excuse me? I looked back at Veronica, who was smirking. I could piece together what happened. Clearly, she blamed everything on my biological parents. My adoptive mother clenched her fists, saying, “After all these years, it’s time we move on. I’ll contact your biological parents and have them come pick you up.” I nodded, sincerely thanked them for everything, and volunteered to leave. But my calm acceptance gave Veronica the perfect chance to play the “sweet sister” routine, feeding my adoptive parents all sorts of things about how I was just as ungrateful as my biological parents. Of course, that made my adoptive mother even angrier, and she immediately called my biological parents.

According to Veronica, my biological parents were simple farmers who had switched our bassinets at birth, which led to my being raised in this family while she ended up in an orphanage. I was speechless. I mean, it was so dramatic it felt like something only a novel could pull off. But with my years of reading experience, I figured there had to be more to this story. Maybe a big twist was coming? In any case, I was here now, and maybe going back to the farm life wouldn’t be so bad. I waited, and soon enough, my biological parents arrived. Wasting no time, my adoptive mother quickly packed up my belongings and practically shoved me out. “Your parents are outside. Go to them.” She shut the door without a backward glance. This woman was a completely different person from the warm, gentle mother she’d been just hours ago. I couldn’t help but laugh and headed toward the door with my stuff in tow. Free money, right? I’d take it. Outside, I saw a Bentley parked out front. Standing by it was a bodyguard-looking guy and a well-dressed woman who rushed toward me as soon as she saw me. “Madison! Are you Madison?” I nodded, “And you are…?” “I’m your mother!” She pulled me into a tearful embrace. “Have you been living here this whole time? You must have suffered so much!” I paused and glanced back at the sprawling mansion behind me. Uh… sure. “What are these things you’re carrying? Were they treating you badly, sending you off with junk like this?” My real mom could tell quality, I’ll give her that. On the way to her home, she and my adoptive mother had the same reactions to finding their long-lost daughter. My new mom told me about the chaotic hospital mix-up that led to their losing me and assured me I’d be well taken care of from now on. I was starting to feel like I’d just scored big. When we arrived at the massive estate that looked like a castle, I understood why she’d thought I was suffering. Rows of servants and housekeepers stood at attention, all calling out, “Welcome home, Miss!” My new mom mentioned their farming business was actually a major, high-tech agricultural empire. We’d just sat down when I heard a deep, anxious voice outside, “Where’s my daughter? Where’s my girl?” My dad had aged like fine wine, tall and fit with barely any signs of age. After we reunited, my mom said, “This surprise was so sudden, but your brothers are all on their way home to meet you.”

By dinner, we had a full family reunion. Honestly, I nearly lost my cool when I saw them. Big brother Ashton Lockhart? Six foot two, CEO aura that screamed authority, like the quintessential boss. Second brother Dr. Alexander Lockhart? He was known in the medical world as a “miracle healer.” Gentle and courteous, his smile alone was like a breath of fresh air. Third brother Ethan? I hadn’t seen him yet—apparently, he was still on his flight home. In short, this family had looks, money, and power. If this were a dream, I’d be laughing in my sleep. Wait, don’t let me wake up! This script was heaven-sent, and I was here for it! “Oh, Maddie, aren’t you at Northview University? I’ll arrange a transfer for you to Woodcrest Private Academy,” Dad offered. Big brother pulled out his phone to make the arrangements, but I quickly stopped him. “No need, Dad. I’m almost done here, and I’d rather keep things low-key.” “Our Maddie wants to keep a low profile? Alright, as you wish. We’ll cover all your meals at Northview so you’re well taken care of.” “Thank you, Dad and Mom.” Big brother smiled as he elegantly rolled up his sleeves. “I approved that project Northview submitted last week.” “Thank you, big brother.” Second brother wasn’t about to be outdone. With a raised brow, he said, “In that case, we should make sure the clinic there is well-staffed. I’ll send two of my students to help.” “Thank you, second brother.” I was honestly winning all around. And that wasn’t even the end of it. After dinner, big brother handed me the keys to a limited-edition Rolls-Royce. Second brother gifted me a million-dollar watch, and even third brother, though he wasn’t here yet, had sent ahead a designer gown that A-listers would kill for. Mom and Dad were no exception—they gave me several platinum cards and a pile of property deeds in my name, telling me to ask for anything else I wanted. That night, lying in the princess suite they’d prepared for me, I couldn’t even sleep. Who could understand this?

The next morning, determined to keep a low profile, I left the car big brother had gifted me in the garage and took a less flashy one to school. The watch, though—second brother’s gift was so beautiful, I couldn’t resist wearing it. At the classroom door, I overheard people talking about a new student transfer who’d arrived with great fanfare that morning. I didn’t pay much attention—it’s common at Northview. But someone turned to me, “Hey, Madison, I heard the new transfer is from the Harper family. Could she be your sister or cousin?” With that hint, I wasn’t too surprised to see Veronica Harper in my class. “Hello, everyone, I’m Veronica Harper. Please take care of me.” She quickly blended in with her “sweet girl” act. After class, she came over and greeted me warmly, “Sis!” This school was a mini society, with everyone scrambling to cozy up to those with power. She could easily signal she was from the Harper family, but that “sis” left me slightly stunned. What was her game? It seemed like she wanted to play the “sisters united” role, asking if my studies were tough or if anyone was giving me a hard time. I raised a brow at her. Nearby, someone asked, “Madison, why didn’t you ever mention you had a sister? You two seem close.” Veronica jumped in, “It’s because I just came home recently!” I could guess what she was up to. Right on cue, Veronica looked pained, “Sis, I know… oh, never mind, you’re probably not used to things after leaving the Harpers.” With that, she pulled a credit card from her purse, “Mom and Dad didn’t want me to help, but as your sister, I wanted to give you a little something. I hope it’s not too little for you.” I looked at her, chuckled, and accepted the card with a smile, “How could I mind? It’s the thought that counts, right?” The “sister” routine had me questioning if I’d stepped into a drama. People around us were clearly puzzled, and Veronica took the chance to drop the real bombshell. “Actually, my sister isn’t a real Harper. Her biological parents were just farmers, and years ago, they arranged for her to end up with the Harpers. I’m glad to be home now, and I don’t blame her for what happened.” I toyed with the card in my hand, watching her act with an amused smile. “Madison… is that true?” The people listening were now casting doubtful glances my way. Unfazed, I nodded, “Yes, my biological parents were farmers.”

After my casual confirmation, everyone instinctively huddled closer to Veronica Harper. Seriously? This was supposed to be a heartwarming family story, not some royal court drama where everyone fawned over the wealthy. “Alright, everyone, settle down! We’re holding a quick meeting,” our advisor announced, sweeping into the classroom with a spring in her step. “There’s a major signing event today, important for the university’s future, and we need a student representative to give a speech on stage.” Her gaze swept the room. “Veronica Harper, you’ll do,” she declared. Me: ??? Veronica had barely transferred into Northview, and suddenly she was speaking for the entire university? “Thank you, professor, for trusting me,” Veronica replied smoothly. “I know Madison has always been the one on stage before, but I promise to do even better and not let everyone down.” She rose gracefully and turned to me with a look that made me uneasy. As expected. “I hope everyone can look past my sister’s background. She spent so many years with the Harpers, and to me, she’ll always be a dear sister.” Oh, please! Was she really pulling this “sister act” in front of everyone? My only thought: Get me out of here. Veronica’s act of innocence had me livid. Did she want the spotlight so badly? Fine. I wasn’t about to let her get away with it. “Hey, Ashton.” I called my big brother, Ashton Lockhart. By the afternoon, Northview had set up a grand stage for the signing event. Veronica had her makeup done to perfection and was even in a formal dress, looking more suited for a gala than a university event. “What? Mr. Lockhart, I—?” The university president sounded panicked.

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Lately, my deskmate has been giving me weird looks. Whether we’re in the cafeteria or during PE, she always keeps her distance. Finally, I couldn’t hold back anymore and asked her, “Did I do something to upset you?” She flinched, backing away a few steps, looking around nervously. “No, it’s not you!” But soon after, she asked to change classes. I was puzzled and decided to confront her about it, standing at the door of her new classroom. As I watched, my former deskmate, who had been chatting with others, suddenly started trembling and screamed, “It really has nothing to do with you! Please, just don’t come after me again, I beg you!” … I began to notice that my deskmate Quinn had been looking at me strangely. At first, she just slid her desk a bit further away. Then, she moved her chair over to the window. I tapped her shoulder, trying to remind her to pay attention in class. To my shock, she jumped and fell off her chair. Terrified, she scrambled up and dashed out of the classroom. I was completely baffled, wondering if I had unknowingly upset her. I planned to talk to Quinn the next day to clear things up. But when I arrived the next morning, the seat next to me was empty. The English teacher reluctantly informed me that Quinn had requested a class change on her own. Our class was the top-performing one, and Quinn had mentioned multiple times how hard she worked to get in. For her to switch classes was really strange. I couldn’t help it. After class, I found out where she had transferred to and went there with an expensive gift. Even if I didn’t know the reason, I wanted to apologize sincerely. Quinn was sitting by the window, laughing with her new classmates. As I hesitated by the window, one of her friends nudged her, saying, “Quinn, someone’s here for you.” Quinn’s smile vanished the moment she turned around. Her expression shifted to one of fear, worse than tears, and her body started shaking uncontrollably. “Ah— It really has nothing to do with you! Please don’t come looking for me anymore, I’m begging you!” Seeing her in such a state, the other students quickly urged me to leave. Defeated, I returned to my classroom with the gift. Rachel noticed my gloomy mood and guessed how my attempt at reconciliation had gone. She came over and patted my back. “Just let it go. You shouldn’t force a relationship with someone who doesn’t want it,” “Your seat is at the front, so the teacher will definitely assign you a new deskmate from the back,” “Who knows, maybe your new deskmate will be even better?” I sighed, “I hope so.” Could a new deskmate really get along with me? The new deskmate assigned to me was named Charlotte. She was really outgoing. In just two classes, we went from strangers to friends, passing notes and chatting easily. We hit it off right away. But after lunch, she suddenly went quiet. When the teacher called on her, the usually lively Charlotte froze for a moment before standing up. She told the teacher she had been distracted and didn’t know the answer. The English teacher frowned, “First Quinn, now you. One after another, none of you are focused. What’s going on?” Charlotte’s gaze seemed to flicker briefly in my direction. Though it was quick, I noticed it, feeling especially sensitive lately. I realized Charlotte was also starting to act strangely. She began avoiding me, both on purpose and by accident. Even during nap time, when I half-awoke, I caught her staring at me.

Her mouth was twisted, fingers nervously gnawing on them. Her beautiful nails were now chewed to the quick, white edges crumbling. When she realized I had caught her, she looked uneasy. Her bright eyes were bloodshot as she quickly backed away. She blended into the cherry blossoms outside the window. Then she clutched her chest and turned her head away from me. I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me and rushed forward to grab her hand. “What’s wrong? Did I make you uncomfortable?” “No, it’s not you!” The usually bold Charlotte screamed and violently shook off my hand. As if I was an unapproachable monster. I turned away, tears forming in my eyes. Why? I hadn’t done anything wrong; I had been nice to them. First Quinn, and now Charlotte, both treating me like this. I took out a mirror, checking my reflection from all angles, but nothing seemed off. I may not be beautiful, but surely I wasn’t repulsive enough to make others feel sick? Tears filled my eyes. Charlotte saw and looked a bit guilty, as if wanting to comfort me. Suddenly, she jumped in fright, rubbing her back frantically. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she shouted, before rushing toward the window! I quickly pulled her back, with help from classmates who had woken up. After that, worried about her mental state, I didn’t approach her like I did with Quinn. I just observed her quietly, afraid she might do something drastic. Then, one day during PE, Charlotte was missing. Worried, I searched everywhere. Finally, I found her in the classroom, sitting in my seat and rifling through my desk drawer. I blinked in disbelief. “Charlotte, what are you doing?” She didn’t seem to hear me. When she finally found a piece of paper, she screamed. Looking up and seeing me, her pupils widened in panic. Before PE was even over, she rushed to the teacher’s office to ask for a seat change. The teacher sighed, “That seat is great, right at the front. Why do you want to move?” “I don’t want to be at the front or back. Please, teacher!” As Charlotte spoke, she glanced nervously out the window, catching sight of me. She began pleading, “Teacher, please, I’m begging you!” But the teacher was losing patience. “I have to think about other students too. I can’t cater to all your demands.” Charlotte was left speechless, dropping to her knees in despair. She wanted to escape. But seeing me at the door, she didn’t dare step out. I sighed heavily and turned back to the classroom. My seat remained empty. Charlotte didn’t return. The next day, the teacher announced she was taking a leave of absence. “Charlotte says she’s not feeling well and needs some time off,” The teacher tapped the blackboard firmly, “Even though we’re only sophomores, we need to concentrate. Environmental issues don’t matter; a calm mind is key.” Despite her words, I couldn’t help but wonder why all this was happening. After class, I turned to find my best friend Rachel. We hurried to the corridor to talk. I clenched my fists, saying, “I need to find out what’s going on. Otherwise, I’ll keep overthinking it.” Rachel frowned, “I don’t know, but if you want to investigate, I’ll help.”

Rachel thought of the paper Charlotte had rushed back into the classroom to find in my desk during PE. “There must have been a reason for that.” “Yeah, but I can’t figure it out,” I said, helplessly showing Rachel the paper. “Yeah, but I just can’t figure it out,” I said helplessly, showing Rachel the piece of paper. “It’s just a regular health record showing I’m fine.” I was trying to understand why Charlotte wanted to see my health record. Rachel looked frustrated. “Could she think you have some contagious disease that might spread to her?” I glanced at myself. “I don’t have any skin issues and I look healthy. There’s no way I’m sick.” “I know you’re not sick,” Rachel rolled her eyes. This whole situation felt bizarre. Then I remembered something. A few days ago, I had asked the class president if I seemed off. He had looked me over, confused, and said I seemed perfectly normal. So at least he didn’t think I was strange. Maybe he could help us figure this out. Just as I was about to go find him, I saw him walking towards me. “Haley, have the recent issues with your two deskmates gotten to you?” I sighed. “Yeah, they’re still bothering me. They’re acting like I’m some kind of plague.” The class president tried to reassure me. “It’s not your fault. The teachers were even joking about whether that seat has bad feng shui or something, like the cherry blossom scent is too overpowering and confusing everyone.” I knew he was just trying to make me feel better. “It’s fine, I know this is probably related to me in some way. You don’t have to convince me otherwise.” He asked, “Do you remember when their behavior changed?” I thought hard. Quinn had started acting weird when the cherry blossoms bloomed, just a few days after the semester began. As for Charlotte, she switched from being enthusiastic to cold and panicked during one lunch break. The class president focused on a detail: “When the cherry blossoms bloomed, did you do anything specific?” I recalled, “I took her and Rachel to see the cherry blossoms in the small woods on campus. Does that count?” “The small woods? Isn’t that area off-limits? What were you doing there?” His expression shifted to concern. A moment later, he looked terrified. He shot me a strange look, his legs began to tremble, and he dashed back to the classroom. Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t the school rule about that place just because of bugs? How can such a big guy be scared?” But then it hit me: “So it’s all because of the small woods. We should check it out after school.” Rachel shrugged. “Whatever you want.” After lunch, I returned to the classroom, where no one else was there yet. I stood at the door and saw the class president sitting in my spot, frantically searching for something. His eyes were bloodshot, and sweat dripped from his forehead. Finally, he pulled out a piece of paper. The moment he read it, he looked as if he had seen a ghost. When he looked up and saw me, he practically fell over and screamed. I was startled by his reaction. “Why are you shouting? The teacher asked me to come ask you about a new deskmate.” “Go ask the teacher yourself, I don’t know!” Seeing his panic, I was worried I might scare him further if I went in. I turned and headed to the teacher’s office to find our homeroom teacher. “Teacher, I really don’t understand why this is happening.” She tried to reassure me. “It’s not your fault. High school students deal with a lot of pressure.” But her words hinted that I should reconsider how I interact with my classmates. It frustrated me. “How about this, teacher? Since no one wants to sit next to me anyway, Rachel is my best friend. Why not move her next to me?” At least Rachel wouldn’t mind sitting with me. The homeroom teacher paused, her fingers frozen on the keyboard. With a puzzled expression, she looked at me.

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I never expected that after my sugar daddy went bankrupt, he would shamelessly move into my tiny 450 square foot apartment and demand that I support him instead. One night, he even boldly crawled into my bed after showering. I sat up in shock, pushing away that devastatingly handsome face, and tried to sound nonchalant as I said: “Let’s just sleep, okay? Nothing more.” His hot breath tickled my neck as he turned off the bedside lamp with one hand and untied my robe with the other, whispering: “Let’s do more than sleep. I’m up for anything. Besides, your personal trainer said you need more exercise.” (A story of a soft and vulnerable sugar baby vs a secretly scheming sugar daddy) “Is it hot in the car? Do you want to take off your clothes?” As he asked, the man glanced at my nervous expression in the rearview mirror and lowered the air conditioning temperature. “It’s fine, I’m not hot,” I said, biting my lip and clutching my coat tighter, grateful that the darkness could hide my flushed face. The car slowly drove up towards the villa on the hillside. It was the height of summer, and underneath my coat I was wearing a form-fitting cheongsam dress with a slit that revealed my pale thighs. I had just finished filming a Republican-era drama scene where I played a coquettish and manipulative concubine. I had to keep calling the male lead “my lord” over and over until the director finally yelled cut. My voice was hoarse from all the takes. You see, I’m a D-list actress who can only get bit parts playing villains. And the man driving me to his house now… He’s Alexander Blake, a former A-list actor renowned for his looks and talent, now working behind the scenes as a producer. Two hours ago, he had cornered me backstage after I finished filming, close enough that I could feel his breath. My heart raced – was this the casting couch moment I’d been waiting for? But he spoke without emotion: “I’m living alone here and feeling lonely. I’ll pay you this much per month to move into my villa. What do you say?” The amount he showed me was more than I’d ever seen, even in my wildest dreams. A rich CEO says he’s lonely and needs company. My first thought was that he wanted me as his mistress. I couldn’t do something so unethical, so I cautiously asked: “Are you… married?” “I’m single,” he replied. Hmm. I looked him up and down. This muscular man did seem to have strong hormones and needs. His long lashes lowered, seeming impatient. “Yes or no?” “I accept,” I said quickly. Even a second of hesitation would be disrespectful to such a lucrative offer. Rich, handsome, and muscular – who would refuse such a win-win deal? Inside the villa, Alexander emerged from the shower. His V-neck bathrobe revealed toned abs and defined pecs. Water droplets slid down his forehead, trailing lower. Looking up, that cold, forbidden face was breathtakingly beautiful. I had to close my eyes, it was too dazzling. Good lord, how did I get so lucky to be the sugar baby of such a perfect specimen? If I were a rich woman, I’d have no problem being his sugar mama! Alexander glanced at me expressionlessly and ordered me to go shower. “Make sure to wear the cheongsam hanging in the closet when you’re done.” “Got it, got it.” He seemed to really like women in cheongsams. That’s probably why he chose me today. No problem, I’ll do whatever he wants. When in Rome, right? The sky blue cheongsam hugged my curves in all the right places, oozing sensuality. I vaguely recalled wearing a similar style for a magazine shoot last year. He patted his leg, his tone coaxing. “Come here.” I obediently went over and sat on his lap, barefoot. The cheongsam he gave me fit like it was custom-made, perfectly conforming to my body. The style was quite risqué though. Short where it should be long, missing buttons where there should be buttons… Alexander admired me appreciatively for a while, then swept me up in his arms and carried me to the bed. For the next few hours, I wondered if he had chewed some kind of energy gum. He fully embodied that ad slogan about lasting all night. He gripped my ankles tightly, seeming to hold back anger as he thrust forcefully and said: “Call me ‘my lord’.” I had been covering my face in embarrassment, but hearing this made me confused. Was he getting into character? I could only play along and whimper softly like a mosquito: “My lord.” Alexander narrowed his eyes and scoffed coldly: “TessaBrown, no wonder you can’t get any good roles. Your acting is so amateurish. You were so enthusiastic calling that other guy ‘my lord’ on set earlier today.” I frowned, finding his words strange. But as a proper sugar baby, I summoned all my acting skills and called out in a coy, trembling voice: “My lord~” Unexpectedly, my breathy tone seemed to make him melt. Without another word, he flipped me over. Two hours later when I went to shower, my legs were still trembling. I couldn’t help looking at myself in the mirror. Porcelain skin, a delicate chin, red lips curved slightly upwards, adding a touch of allure to my otherwise sweet features. If I weren’t so desperate, I wouldn’t have resorted to making money this way.

As a drama school graduate, I had been struggling to make it in the entertainment industry on my own merits. Though I was a newcomer, my career had been on the rise. But I couldn’t escape the jealousy of my competitors. One “diva behavior” scandal, even though I was innocent, was enough to tank my reputation and career. Not only did I end up owing a ton in contract breach fees, I could barely afford my $200 monthly rent. Due to a performance clause I had signed with my agency early on, the penalty for failure was astronomical. If I couldn’t pay it off in time, I would go to jail. Alexander was like a godsend, solving my urgent money problems. I secretly rejoiced. To be honest, he was the reason I entered showbiz in the first place. He was my favorite actor. He once insisted on doing his own stunts and got badly injured in a wire accident, which forced him to retire from acting. I never imagined that one day we would become secret lovers like this. The next morning when I woke up, he was already gone. There was just a new message notification on my phone. “Breakfast is in the microwave. Heat it up yourself.” His profile picture was an unopened black umbrella, fitting his cold and aloof image. Though he was anything but cold and aloof on the inside. I shuffled to the kitchen in my slippers, lazily getting up to grab a cold soda from the fridge. Just as I entered the dining room, I ran into an elegant middle-aged woman. With a sandwich in my mouth and dishes in both hands, I didn’t even have time to adjust my loose pajamas to cover the hickeys on my neck. She smiled and said: “I rarely see Alexander smile, but he was this morning. So he finally brought a girl home.” I was so shocked I nearly choked on my soda. So this is… his mother? “I never thought my son liked to keep his girlfriends hidden away. If I hadn’t come to check on him, I would’ve thought he didn’t like girls at all.” The woman chatted with me for a while longer as I awkwardly tried to respond. Finally, she left me with a beautiful little Louis Vuitton suitcase, whispering as she left: “This suitcase is a welcome gift for you. What’s inside is for Alexander. Young people in love should still be careful, you know.” After she left, I nervously opened the suitcase to find box after box of condoms… Ugh, why do I have to experience both incredible luck and incredible embarrassment all at once?

A month later, it seemed my obedience and good behavior had moved my sugar daddy. Alexander specially picked out a script and got me a role – the third female lead. It was the best opportunity I’d had since entering the industry. I smiled and accepted this unearned fruit. After all, only I could put up with such a demanding and eccentric benefactor. As a D-list actress, my agent had abandoned me after my reputation tanked, leaving me to fend for myself and take whatever small jobs I could get. Before this, I was so broke I couldn’t even pay my electricity bill. I had to swallow my pride and film a cheesy commercial holding some sketchy male enhancement product, smiling awkwardly. People online savagely mocked me for “selling out.” But after joining this new production, I faced an even bigger challenge. According to the director’s shooting schedule, the very first scene we were filming was a kissing scene and… a love scene. When I heard the news, I was stunned. Starting off with something so risqué? “It’s just implied, darling. We need to hint at the passion without showing too much. Tessa dear, many starlets became famous overnight by doing nude scenes. This is just simulated, it’s nothing,” the middle-aged female director said, patting my shoulder reassuringly. I don’t know why, but I sensed a hint of an odd smile in her gaze. I bit my lip. This director had won numerous international awards. Getting a supporting role in her film was already the best opportunity of my career. So I reluctantly agreed. However, when we actually started filming, the male actor took off his clothes and the director complained that he didn’t have enough abs to look good on camera. She wanted to use a body double for the close-up shots. “His physique is too poor. Our male lead is supposed to be an avid horseback rider and archer. We need at least an eight-pack,” she said. But where would we find a body double on such short notice? I started to panic. Just as it seemed the scene would fall apart, Alexander, who was there as a producer, quietly stepped forward. “I’ll do it,” he said. He glanced at me, the corner of his mouth curving up slightly. As he moved closer, he whispered in a barely audible voice: “Besides, after all our practice, we’re the most compatible, wouldn’t you say, Tessa?” I had a feeling he planned this on purpose. Because what was supposed to be a two-minute kissing and love scene in the script ended up taking the entire afternoon to film due to his various uncooperative antics. He was playing the body double for the male lead, while I played the concubine having a secret affair with him. Behind red silk curtains, wearing only a short embroidered top, I giggled coquettishly: “My lord, the flowers in the imperial garden bloom easily when watered daily. You’re so much better than that old emperor. I’m sure I’ll be with child soon~” His kisses rained down on my brow, lips, trailing down to my collarbone. He swallowed hard and growled, “Good girl.” Even though we had done this for real countless times, I still felt embarrassed in front of the cameras. My skin broke out in goosebumps. After an entire afternoon of exhausting myself to the point of being drenched in sweat with a flushed face, the female director finally yelled “Cut!” with a huge grin. She went over to show Alexander the playback footage. “Mr. Blake, are you satisfied with this?” she asked with a sly smile. He watched the playback seriously, then calmly glanced at my swollen red lips. “Not bad. I’m very satisfied.” Damn it! What exactly are you satisfied with?! To be honest though, aside from his slightly kinky bedroom preferences, Alexander treated me very well as his sugar baby. In addition to strongly supporting my acting career, he also got me an annual gym membership, telling me to build some muscle. He said I needed better stamina to handle the grueling schedule of a busy actress in the future. “Your core strength is too weak,” he said casually, roughly kneading my waist. “It needs work.” I clutched the thin black and gold membership card in my hand and retorted: “I’m not an action movie actress. Why do I need such strong abs?”

With Alexander’s help, I worked overtime rushing from set to set. Not only did my reputation gradually improve, I even earned the nickname “Iron Woman” for my work ethic. In just three months, I managed to pay off the huge penalty that was about to come due. Being debt-free felt amazing. The day I paid it off, I was so moved I cried tears of joy. That night, I insisted on treating my sugar daddy to drinks. Seeing how happy I was, Alexander didn’t refuse. But he probably regretted it soon after. He frowned as I made him ride in a rickety three-wheeled taxi, winding through narrow alleys. “I just paid off my debt, so I can’t afford to treat you to anything fancy. This is my favorite hole-in-the-wall place from college – they have the best spicy lamb soup. I wanted you to try it,” I said with a grin. On the tiny wooden table, I opened a few bottles of beer and boldly handed him one, chugging straight from the bottle myself. As the alcohol kicked in, I saw Alexander’s fingers tracing the beer bottle, the smile fading from his lips. “Tessa Brown, I’m bankrupt,” he said abruptly. It took me a moment to process his words. “What kind of joke is that? You’re a real-life tycoon. How could you go bankrupt just from helping me pay off my measly debt?” I tugged at his suit sleeve, laughing. But as I laughed, I realized something was off. Alexander downed an entire bottle of beer, then suddenly looked up at me, his eyes bloodshot. He said he lost everything betting on the World Cup. He bet all his liquid assets on Argentina in the match against Saudi Arabia, but it was a huge upset. I was stunned. I never imagined that someone as rational and composed as him would be such a rabid sports fan. “My other assets are either tied up in the stock market or frozen. My father was furious and seized the villas under my name too,” he said flatly. He said that starting today, he could no longer support me. He seemed to say something else after that, but I was too dazed to catch it. I only remember patting his shoulder and brazenly declaring: “Don’t worry, it’s not a big deal. If you have nowhere to live, you can stay at my place. I’ll be your sugar mama.” Afterwards, I even seriously pulled up my home address on my phone to show him! Alexander’s lips curved into a smile, a cunning glint flashing in his eyes. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me, his voice husky as he said: “Alright.” That passionate kiss sobered me up instantly. I quickly scrambled out of his embrace, my face burning. He raised an eyebrow. “We’re so familiar with each other by now. Why are you still shy?” “Bro, I don’t think we’re that close,” I said with a forced smile, pushing him away. He snorted, forcefully wrapping an arm around my waist, and said cryptically:

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I went on a trip with my boyfriend of one year. He treated me exceptionally well, was incredibly attentive, and took care of my every need. Everyone considered him the perfect boyfriend. But what I never expected was that as soon as I got home, I received a text from him: “Welcome to the AIDS club.” (1) Of course, I didn’t believe it. I immediately called him, but all I heard was the mechanical voice prompt: “The number you have dialed is currently switched off…” I didn’t even have the patience to listen to the whole message before hanging up. The text was sent just three minutes ago. It couldn’t be that his phone had died. The only possibility was that he had turned off his phone immediately after sending the message. Because he knew I would definitely try to call him. I started to panic. Although I wasn’t a medical student, I knew enough about AIDS. But… how could this be possible? I couldn’t believe it. I met Jack Thompson during the freshman orientation week. He was handsome and charming, instantly capturing my heart. So, after the orientation ended, I mustered up the courage to ask for his contact information. It was the first time in my nineteen years that I had ever asked a guy for his number. After getting to know each other for a year, we naturally started dating in our sophomore year. He was my first love! During our year together, he was incredibly attentive to me. Even my roommates benefited from his kindness. He would always bring us delicious food and fun things to do. My roommates all said they were looking forward to attending our wedding someday. How did it suddenly… turn out like this? I couldn’t reach Jack, so I took a cab to the hospital by myself. When I told the doctor I wanted to get tested for AIDS, I saw a flash of shock in his eyes. He probably never expected that a young, 21-year-old girl would be infected with such a thing. I nervously followed the doctor to have my blood drawn. Seeing how cautiously they handled everything, fully geared up, my fear deepened even more. After drawing blood, the doctor told me the results would take two weeks and asked me to go home and wait for news. Finally, he asked seriously: “How long has it been since your exposure?” I thought carefully. It had been two days since I went on the trip with Jack, and since we had sex… “Three days.” The doctor’s expression immediately changed, but in the end, he just sighed: “I’ll prescribe you two post-exposure prophylaxis medications. Take them immediately when you get home. We’ll see the results in two weeks and go from there.” When I heard this, tears started falling: “Doctor, is there still hope for me?” He looked at me without saying a word. I understood. The most effective time for drug prevention is within two hours. I was way past that window. I walked out of the doctor’s office in a daze, just in time to overhear the nurses gossiping: “We got an AIDS case today. I heard the girl is only 21 years old.” “21? No way! How can someone so young already have such a messy personal life?” “I know, right? Young girls these days, they just don’t value themselves!” I couldn’t bear to listen anymore. I stumbled out of the hospital, tears streaming down my face uncontrollably. I couldn’t understand – if having my first relationship at 20 meant not valuing myself, then what would it take to be considered self-respecting? I was even more confused about how my boyfriend, who had always treated me so well, could suddenly turn into this kind of person! In that moment, I even thought about dying. If this news got out, I really wouldn’t be able to live anymore! (2) Two weeks later, I was diagnosed with AIDS. When I received the confirmed diagnosis, I felt like my entire world had collapsed. Jack was still unreachable. I went to his dorm to look for him, but his roommates said he hadn’t been back for a month. I was stunned when I heard this news. He had gone on the trip with me just half a month ago. If he hadn’t been back for a month, it meant he had been preparing for this for a long time? He took me on that trip just to infect me with this disease?! At that moment, my entire worldview was shattered. Countless feelings of hatred welled up in my chest. I had to find him, no matter what method I used. At the very least, he owed me an explanation. Why did he do this to me? What had I done to offend him so badly? But I underestimated how shameless Jack could be. He didn’t come back to school. He directly applied for a leave of absence without even setting foot on campus. Since we last parted, I hadn’t even seen him in person. To find him, I asked a friend in the student council for help and managed to get his family information. That’s when I found out that his father was one of our school’s major donors. The library on our campus was built with his donation. I stared at the name “Robert Thompson” in the records, lost in thought. No wonder he could so easily take a leave of absence without even coming to school. But now that I knew his family information, I wasn’t afraid of not being able to find him. Moreover, Robert Thompson was a well-known wealthy businessman in the area. With a quick internet search, I found the address of his company. However… I staked out his company building for three consecutive days but never saw Robert Thompson. So I had to give up. But what I didn’t expect was that at this moment, Jack suddenly called me. It was on a very ordinary night when I received the call. I had just finished getting ready for bed. Recently, everyone had been busy with internship matters, and the once lively dorm was almost empty, with only me left. The call came from an unknown number. At first, I didn’t answer, but it kept ringing, so I finally picked up. As soon as I answered, I heard loud music in the background, sounding like it was coming from a bar. “Hello?” There was no response. I called out again, still no answer. I was about to hang up when the other side finally spoke, “Emily, it’s me.” The tone was condescending, flippant and arrogant. As soon as I heard it, my scalp tingled. This voice, which had woken me up countless times and lulled me to sleep, I recognized almost instantly: “Jack!” He laughed loudly, “I heard you’ve been looking for me.” The emotions I had been suppressing completely erupted at this moment, “Why did you do this!” “Why did you deliberately infect me!” “What did I do to make you hate me so much!” I was almost hysterical, yelling into the phone. Tears fell uncontrollably, and I was shaking with anger. But Jack casually tossed back: “Who told you to be so gullible?” “Emily, don’t tell me you actually thought I loved you. How stupid can you be?” “Why? Don’t you feel any guilt?” “Guilt?” Jack sneered, “What’s conscience worth?” “Emily, let me be honest with you. For someone like me, playing around is no loss. Dragging someone down with me is actually a win. If you really want to blame someone, blame yourself for being too trusting.” “Also, don’t think about going to the police or anything. You slept with me voluntarily, didn’t you?” I couldn’t believe these words were coming from the mouth of the once sunny and cheerful Jack. Had the nearly two years all been an act? Did he feel no remorse towards me at all? I wanted to ask him more, but he heartlessly hung up the phone. When I tried to call back, the number had become inactive. I sat numbly in the corner of my bed, countless emotions tangled together at this moment. In the end, they were distilled into hatred. I had to make him pay, no matter what I had to sacrifice. I was determined to achieve this! But I never imagined that my connection with the Thompson family would run so deep. The next morning, to my surprise, my internship application was accepted by Robert Thompson’s Huachen Technology. I was a junior this year and had been busy looking for internships. Originally, the school was supposed to arrange a job fair, but it happened to coincide with the pandemic. Large gatherings weren’t allowed, so they could only give us the contact information for companies and let us reach out ourselves. Sending out resumes to hundreds of companies wasn’t a small project. Watching my roommates one by one secure their positions, with only me still waiting for news, I was starting to get anxious. I remember when I was busy sending out resumes, Jack was by my side with his arm around my waist, saying nonchalantly: “As the girlfriend of yours truly, you don’t need to frantically job hunt like everyone else.” “I’ll take care of your job for you.” At the time, I thought he was just joking around, so I didn’t take him seriously. Looking back now, I was truly too naive. But what was strange was, given the current situation, why hadn’t Jack removed me from the hiring list? Was it because he didn’t consider me a threat at all? Did he think I couldn’t do anything to him? Or was it because he wanted to tell me that even if he revealed his whereabouts to me, I still couldn’t do anything about it? I didn’t know. But I did know that this might be the last chance I could grasp. He was the typical rich kid, while I was just an ordinary citizen. After leaving school, we wouldn’t even be in the same social circles. There would be no chance of meeting again. And I wasn’t willing to accept that. I wasn’t willing to accept that he could so easily ruin my life and then walk away without consequences. I was even less willing to accept that he could live a good life after hurting me. So, I turned down offers from other companies and chose to work at “Huachen Technology” under Robert Thompson. (3) The gap between ideals and reality isn’t easily bridged. Even though I went to Huachen, I never saw Robert Thompson, who was the chairman of the board. Time flew by, and several months passed in the blink of an eye. Because I had AIDS, I didn’t dare to form close relationships with my colleagues, fearing that I might accidentally infect them. I lost the social circle I should have had. This also made me increasingly obsessed. I started to seek out information about Jack. Thanks to his good looks and rich kid status, which had the young women in the company swooning, my inquiries didn’t seem too obvious. He didn’t particularly try to hide his whereabouts. With just a few questions, I found out that Robert Thompson had sent him to study abroad. Apparently, he went to America and wouldn’t be back for four years. Four years. I didn’t have that much time to wait for him! But going to America? Obviously unrealistic. I didn’t have the financial means to go so far away just to confront him. Just when I didn’t know what to do, my boss Chris suddenly gave me a task. It was just an ordinary Friday, close to the end of the workday, when he suddenly tapped on my desk: “Emily, come with me somewhere after work.” I was a bit surprised. What kind of work required going somewhere after hours? But he didn’t give me any time to react, just turned and left. My colleague Lily kindly warned me: “Be careful of Chris. He definitely doesn’t have good intentions.” “Asking you to go somewhere after work, it can only be for entertaining clients.” She shook her head disapprovingly as she spoke: “In our company, basically any girl with decent looks will be dragged out by him to entertain clients.” “Be careful, don’t get drunk. Otherwise, you might be taken advantage of.” Taken advantage of? I mulled over these words in my mind, then suddenly smiled. Was I still afraid of being taken advantage of? It should be others who are afraid, right? With the mindset of not wanting to cause trouble for others, I originally didn’t want to go. But Chris was always a decisive person. No matter what I said, after work he still took me to a high-end club. I knew this club. Jack had been here before when we were dating. I remembered that even just a sauna and massage here required a significant amount of money. Far beyond what someone of my social class could afford. But what I didn’t expect was that the person he brought me to meet was actually Robert Thompson. I looked at Robert Thompson in surprise as he slowly walked towards me. He looked younger than in photos, without a beer belly or balding head, quite different from the typical successful middle-aged businessman. He wore a well-tailored suit and an obviously expensive watch. As he spoke, two words came to mind – “elegant.” Unlike Jack’s youthful arrogance, and unlike other entrepreneurs’ sleaziness, he carried the composure and grace of a successful person, but without that air of money. It was pleasant to look at. I couldn’t help but wonder, how could such a person have produced a scumbag like Jack? But soon, reality once again gave me a harsh slap in the face. After a few rounds of drinks, Robert Thompson suddenly turned his gaze to me: “Miss Carter, where do you live?” I hadn’t even spoken when Chris, as if suddenly enlightened, fawningly said to Robert Thompson: “Mr. Thompson, she lives in the city center area, quite far away.” Robert Thompson nodded, not saying anything more, but his gaze towards me clearly became inappropriate. I could very clearly feel the flirtatious and teasing look in his eyes. Sitting across from him, I felt as uncomfortable as if I wasn’t wearing clothes. I instinctively avoided his gaze, but still couldn’t escape his stare. I had an ominous feeling, as if I had been targeted by a hunter. Midway through, Chris found an excuse to leave, leaving just Robert Thompson and me. This time, his gaze became even more unrestrained, blatantly looking down my collar. After a while, he finally asked: “How long have you been at Huachen, Miss Carter?” I lowered my head: “Three months.” “What’s your salary?” “After deductions, I take home about $3,000.” “$3,000.” When he heard this answer, he clearly smiled, then rested his chin on his hand and asked: “Would Miss Carter like to earn more?” I didn’t speak. I had already instinctively realized what he wanted to do. “If you’re willing to be with me, you’ll get much more than that.” Scumbag! I had been holding back all night, but finally couldn’t contain myself at this moment. I suddenly stood up from my seat, looking down at him: “Mr. Thompson, thank you for your favor, but I don’t think I’m worthy of your affection.” I apologized for the few minutes of good impression I had of him when we first met. He and Jack were truly father and son, both skilled at using the sweet trap technique – giving you a good impression, then slowly torturing you. How disgusting. When I said this, he didn’t even change his expression, a faint smile still hanging on the corner of his mouth. I really couldn’t take it anymore and turned to leave. But just as I moved, I heard him say: “Miss Carter, I’ve never failed to get what I want.” His tone carried a hint of composure and certainty. (4) At first, I didn’t understand what he meant by that sentence. But the next day, I understood. The life of an intern was already difficult enough, always on edge, treading carefully. But after I rejected Robert Thompson, this situation directly escalated several times over. I became the office’s free laborer, helping people buy coffee, taking out trash, printing documents…

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“Asher and I are together now.” Daphne’s words felt like a bucket of ice water poured over my head. I involuntarily stopped my stretching routine, frozen for a moment before forcing out a smile. “That’s… sudden.” Asher had only been back for five days, and I had introduced Daphne to him just three days ago. Yes, how could I have forgotten? The lady beside me was known as the “straight guy killer” of our performing arts school. Apparently, even the guy I’d been crushing on for five years wasn’t immune to her charms. Chapter One “He’s picking me up for dinner this afternoon. Want to join us?” she invited. “No thanks, I don’t want to be a third wheel on your date,” I refused without hesitation. “He said he wants to thank you. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have met. So you have to come,” she insisted, wrapping her arms around mine and pouting. I gave in and nodded, “Alright.” Daphne had once seen my phone gallery, which included a photo of Asher and me from our high school graduation. “You like him?” she had asked point-blank. Embarrassed at having my feelings exposed, I blushed and defended myself, “We’re just good friends from school.” I don’t know if she believed me, but from that moment on, she started showing an unusual interest in Asher, constantly pestering me for information about him. A few days ago, when Asher returned to the States and asked me out for dinner, Daphne saw the message. What was supposed to be a one-on-one catch-up turned into a group hangout. I never imagined that with just one simple meeting, I’d hand over the guy I’d been crushing on for five years to someone else. That afternoon, Daphne and I walked out of the school gates. In the distance, we saw Asher leaning against his car, waving at us. Daphne immediately beamed and ran towards him. He caught her in an embrace, his smile affectionate. I stood rooted to the spot, the scene before me almost too painful to watch. After two minutes of cuddling, they finally remembered my existence. “Olivia, come on!” he called out, holding Daphne’s hand. I nodded at him and walked over, tactfully getting into the back seat. As soon as I got in, a huge bouquet of roses on the front passenger seat caught my eye. Daphne, true to his expectations, was delighted. She hugged the flowers, happily cooing, “Baby, I love you so much.” So, he was quite the romantic after all. He drove us to the best restaurant in the city. Daphne’s eyes darted around, taking in the luxurious surroundings. Although she tried to hide it well, I could see the longing in her eyes at that moment. “Olivia, thank you for introducing me to Daphne. This is a gift we picked out for you,” he said, pulling out an elegantly wrapped box from behind him and handing it to me. “Olivia, take it. It’s that perfume you like,” Daphne said, hanging on his arm, sounding like a princess bestowing a gift upon her handmaiden. I suddenly felt a sense of time displacement. Just three days ago, I was standing next to Asher, introducing him: “This is my roommate, Daphne.” How did our roles reverse so quickly? I felt like an awkward and out-of-place clown between them. The table was laden with exquisite and expensive dishes, but I could hardly swallow a bite. Chapter Two After that dinner, I didn’t see Asher alone again. Since starting her relationship with him, Daphne began frequently skipping classes and not returning to the dorm. On the rare occasions she did come back, she always carried shopping bags with designer logos, excitedly telling us about the places Asher had taken her. Lucy, our other roommate, expressed her envy. Daphne proudly lifted her chin and with a grand gesture, pulled out a bag from one of the shopping bags. “This one’s for you.” Lucy happily accepted it. “Daphne, you’re so generous!” Then she looked at me. “Olivia, why don’t you pick one too?” I waved my hand in refusal. “No need.” After thinking for a moment, I reminded her, “You haven’t been to the dance studio in a long time. The competition is coming up soon. Shouldn’t you come back to practice?” She smacked her forehead. “Olivia, you’re the best. I’ve been having so much fun lately that I almost forgot about it. I’ll go practice with you tomorrow.” I nodded in agreement. The next day, as soon as we entered the rehearsal room, our instructor’s face darkened upon seeing her. “Daphne Shaw, come out for a moment.” Although they went outside, I could roughly guess what was being said from the snippets of conversation and their expressions. Daphne’s professional performance had always been at the top of our school, and the instructor had been grooming her as the standard-bearer. The upcoming competition, if she won, would secure her a position at the National Dance Company. At a time like this, how could the instructor not be angry about her frequent absences and missed practices? About half an hour later, she returned and plopped down next to me, her face slightly pale. “What happened?” I asked. She sighed, “Ms. Harrison warned me that if I skip any more classes before next week’s competition, she’ll revoke my eligibility to compete.” “Then maybe you should stay in and practice for now. You can go out and have fun after the competition,” I suggested. “But it’s Asher’s birthday tomorrow. I’ve already planned a surprise for him. I can’t not be there.” Words of persuasion got stuck in my throat. That day, Daphne was clearly distracted during class. The next morning, when I woke up, her bed was already neatly made, and she was nowhere to be seen. As expected, when I arrived at the rehearsal room, Ms. Harrison was already fuming. “Olivia, what’s going on with Daphne?” “I don’t know.” “She wasn’t in the dorm last night?” “She was.” “Call her now. Tell her if I don’t see her here in half an hour, her eligibility for the competition is revoked.” I went to my locker, took out my phone, and dialed her number. After a moment, a mechanical voice responded, “The number you have dialed is currently switched off…” Ms. Harrison’s face was filled with disappointment. “Fine, she made her choice. I hope she doesn’t regret it later.” For the next week, Daphne didn’t appear at school at all. But through her Instagram, I knew she had meticulously prepared a perfect birthday for Asher. She posted a photo of them kissing at sunset, and everyone flooded her comments with congratulations. I right-clicked and also hit the like button. A moment later, her message popped up. “Olivia, you’re competing tomorrow?” “Yes.” “Oh, Asher and I will come cheer you on.” I put away my phone without replying. Chapter Three On the day of the competition, backstage, Ms. Harrison handed me my costume. “Olivia, with Daphne absent, you’re the most likely to win. Don’t let us down.” The dance I was performing was one I had practiced for two months. As long as nothing went wrong and I performed steadily, I was confident I could take first place. According to the draw order, I was the third to perform. As I walked out from backstage, I saw Asher and Daphne sitting in the audience from afar. Daphne mouthed “Good luck” to me, but I pretended not to see her and walked straight to center stage. The lights dimmed, and the music began. I twirled, my skirt gradually slowing as the music faded. As I completed the final pose with the last notes, the auditorium fell silent for two seconds before erupting into thunderous applause. Ms. Harrison stood below, giving me a satisfied thumbs up. I knew I had won. I won first place in the competition without any suspense, which meant I could enter the National Dance Company. After the competition, I sat backstage preparing to remove my makeup when Daphne, arm-in-arm with Asher, approached me. “Congratulations,Cora,” he spoke first, handing me a bouquet. “Thank you.” “Congrats,Cora. You can join the company now,” Daphne said, her congratulations sounding a bit stiff. I looked at their tightly clasped hands and felt momentarily dazed. I noticed a small letter tattooed on Asher’s ring finger. Seeing my gaze fixed there, he awkwardly withdrew his hand from Daphne’s grasp. “You got a tattoo?” I asked curiously. “Mm.” “Oh, you mean this?” Daphne chimed in. “It’s the name of his dog, Dobby.” I was taken aback. I knew about Asher’s dog; it was a Bichon Frise he got after going abroad. But in my memory, that dog was called Ruby. Seeing Asher’s unusual expression, I didn’t ask further. “Want to have dinner together later?” he asked. “I can’t today. There’s a celebration banquet later. Why don’t you join us?” Hearing my words, Daphne’s face immediately showed discomfort. Indeed, her presence at such an event now would only be rubbing salt in the wound. Asher must have realized this too. “We’d better not. We’ll celebrate with you another time.” “Alright,” I agreed. After that competition, I started frequently rehearsing with the dance company and gradually participating in some major events. Now Daphne and I had switched roles. I often missed school classes due to company rehearsals or events, while Daphne began attending every class without fail. Before the National Day holiday, I returned to school briefly. As soon as I entered the dorm, everyone was animatedly discussing something. Seeing me return, Lucy immediately held up her phone to show me. “Olivia, a famous director is coming to our school to cast the lead actress for his new movie!” I took her phone and looked carefully. Indeed, it was that internationally renowned director. If one could star as the lead in his film, it would already be a height that many established stars could only dream of. “Are you going to audition?” Lucy continued to ask. “The company is quite busy lately. I’m not sure if the timing will work out.” “Oh, what a shame. I heard Ms. Harrison recommended you and Daphne to the director.” Daphne, hearing her name mentioned, turned her head somewhat uncomfortably to look at me. “Ms. Harrison hasn’t told me the exact time yet. I’ll text you when she does.” I nodded. “Okay, I’ll go if there’s no schedule conflict.” I’m not sure when it started, but even though Daphne and I had never openly confronted each other about anything, the atmosphere between us had become strangely polite. I put down my things and started tidying up on my own. She left the dorm with Lucy, and we all maintained this safe distance with tacit and aloof understanding. Chapter Four Late at night, I opened my phone and scrolled through Asher’s Twitter. He was someone who liked to share his daily life on social media, so he often posted updates. But I noticed that since he got together with Daphne, the frequency of his tweets had significantly decreased. In contrast to his Instagram, where nine out of ten posts were about Daphne, his Twitter feed showed no trace of her. I couldn’t even find Daphne’s presence in his comments. Unconsciously, I scrolled back to the period when he was abroad. A particular person in the comments gradually caught my attention. I clicked into her Twitter profile, and the image that appeared on my phone screen left me momentarily stunned. After a while, I turned off my phone and pulled back my bed curtain to look at the bed opposite. Daphne’s even breathing could be heard. After a moment of struggle, I decided to let it go. The next day, because the dance company had rehearsal in the afternoon, I attended morning classes and then excused myself early. Soon after returning to the company, I received a message from Daphne. “Tomorrow at 11 AM, Building 3, Room 201.” “Okay, thanks,” I replied briefly. “Will you be able to come back tomorrow?” “I have something in the morning, but I can adjust. Besides, it’s not easy to get an interview with Director Wen, so I’ll definitely go for this opportunity.” “Oh.” Looking at Daphne’s text showing no particular emotional fluctuation, I didn’t reply further. I put my phone back and continued rehearsing. On the day of the interview, I woke up early and went to a makeup artist I had worked with before. She did an exquisite yet not overly flashy makeup for me. After finishing, she admired her work in the mirror. “Olivia, with your current state, this year’s newcomer award is yours for sure. When you become famous, you can hire me as your personal makeup artist. I’m not expensive,” she said teasingly, holding her brush. I gently pinched her chubby cheeks. “I’ll take that as a good omen.” Calculating the time, I still had a while before the interview. I went with her to pick out an outfit. When I arrived at school, it was just 10:30 AM. I walked towards Building 3 with my prepared materials, seeing a crowd already gathered at the door from afar. Besides some students who came to watch, there were also a few staff members. I politely handed my materials to a staff member at the door. “Hello, I’m here for the interview.” “Interview?” A man wearing a brown vest, who was organizing documents on the table, looked up at me with a puzzled expression when he heard my words. “Yes, for Director Wen’s movie. My recommender is my teacher, Ms. Harrison.” “Oh, didn’t Ms. Harrison tell you about the interview time?” He suddenly seemed to understand. “Isn’t it at 11 AM?” Hearing my words, he looked at me with a complex expression for a long time, then spoke. “I’m sorry, miss. I don’t know what misunderstanding occurred in your communication, but our interviews started at 9 AM and have already ended. Director Wen has already left the school.” I was stunned by his words. But Daphne clearly told me it was at 11 AM. He might have seen many similar situations, and seeing that I hadn’t spoken for a while, he sighed. “It’s alright, there will be other opportunities in the future.” “Thank you,” I said dejectedly as I took back my materials from his table. Just as I was about to turn and leave, I saw Daphne walking out of the restroom, smiling broadly and dressed in designer clothes. Chapter Five “Can you explain this to me?” I walked up to her, showing her the message where she had informed me of the time. She shrugged indifferently, while using a tissue to wipe off the remaining water on her freshly washed hands. “Olivia, you don’t need to rush to confront me. I don’t owe you anything.” “What do you mean?” “You must be very proud of snatching my position at the dance company, right? After all, I’ve always been a step ahead of you since we entered school. The underdog suddenly becoming the phoenix must be worth celebrating. I understand, so every time you come back to school to show off, I haven’t given you any trouble. I’m just taking back what belongs to me. That position can be my compensation to you. We’re even now, so stop acting like a victim in front of me. It makes me sick.” I was amused by her confusing speech. “Daphne, let’s be clear. When you didn’t go to the competition, it wasn’t because I tied you up and prevented you from going. You’re blaming all the consequences of your love-struck behavior on me. Do you think that’s reasonable?” She shrugged indifferently. “Whatever, think what you want. Anyway, we’ve always had a fake friendship. By the way, you don’t know this, but I’ve never considered you my friend. I’ve disliked you since the first day of school.” This last sentence from Daphne was unexpected. Seeing that I didn’t refute, she leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Oh, I forgot to tell you something else.” She paused deliberately before continuing. “You really like my boyfriend, don’t you?” Bang! My heart suddenly accelerated. I could feel my face burning hot. “What… what are you talking about?” I stammered. “Hahahahaha, why are you stuttering? Let me show you something interesting.” She pulled out a notebook from her bag. My breath caught. I couldn’t be more familiar with this notebook. It was the diary I had been writing since high school, containing everything I had recorded about Asher.

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On my 18th birthday, my phone suddenly had a few extra messages. The sender claimed to be me—from ten years in the future. “This isn’t a prank.” “Go to the Computer Science Department and find William Walker.” “He might seem withdrawn and cold right now, but in the years to come, he’ll be the one who loves you the most in this world.” “Save him. Promise me you won’t let him die for you this time.” My name is Violet Brooks, a freshman at Westwood University, and I just turned eighteen last week. This birthday was definitely the strangest I’ve ever had. My dad gave me a new phone that day. After a shower that night, I laid on my bed, switched the SIM card to my new phone, and started downloading my usual apps. Just as I was moving things over, a notification flashed on my screen with a new message. I glanced at it, and it simply read: “Go to the Computer Science Department and find William Walker.” I’d never heard of anyone named William Walker. It had to be a mistake, right? Ignoring it, I continued my app downloads until another message popped up: “Hurry, you have to find him before Christmas, or it’ll be too late!” This time, the sender’s tone was so intense that I felt compelled to respond, so I typed back, “You must have the wrong number.” The reply came instantly: “No, I’m looking for you, Violet Brooks.” The weirdness of it made me double-check the sender’s number—and that’s when I noticed something bone-chilling: the messages were coming from my own phone number. Imagine that: it was exactly midnight, and I was messaging…myself. Was this some elaborate prank, or a ghostly midnight message? I took a deep breath, tried to steady my hands, and finally typed back, “Who are you?” The screen stayed silent until morning. I almost forgot about the whole thing, but then last night, while staying up late for a club interview, the clock struck twelve, and my phone pinged with the same message: “Go to the Computer Science Department and find William Walker.” That was the second time. I had to figure out what was going on. “Who are you? Is this a joke?” I asked. The answer came back quickly, and it made absolutely no sense: “I am you, ten years from now.” Yeah, right. What a ridiculous prank. I reminded them, “April Fools’ Day was six months ago.” “It’s not a joke. If you don’t believe me, I can prove it. You’re in 2020, and you have a crush on Chase Emerson, right?” My brain froze. Chase Emerson was a guy in our club, a year older than me. He was charming and sweet, and a lot of people called him the “perfect senior.” He had been extra kind to me, and I liked him, but I’d never told anyone. How did this person know? Almost as if reading my mind, the message continued, “Don’t question it. I know because I am you—ten years in the future.” I threw caution aside and asked, “So, did I end up with Chase in the future?” There was a pause before the answer came, “Yeah, you got married.” I barely had time to blush before my phone lit up with a series of messages: “But he’s got nothing to offer in bed, he’s a massive jerk, and if you stay with him, he’ll blow through your money, hook up with your friends, and even try to kill you!” My jaw dropped, and a sad feeling crept in. Seriously? Was my future that tragic? Maybe realizing the sidetrack, the future me quickly got back to the original point: “We’re running out of time. Listen to me—go to the Computer Science Department and find William Walker.” “Right now, he seems distant and cold, but in time, he’ll be the one who loves you most.” “Promise me you’ll save him. Don’t let him die for you this time.” I asked her who William Walker was, why he’d die for me, and what would happen, but my messages seemed to disappear into a void. I checked the time. It was exactly five minutes past midnight. Apparently, this strange, time-crossing conversation had its own strict schedule.

The next day, I dragged myself to my 8 a.m. class, tired from the night before. With assigned seats, it was easy to see who was missing or late, so I noticed right away when I got to my desk—a breakfast had been placed on it: soy milk, a small order of dumplings, and a chocolate muffin. I turned to my roommate, who’d arrived just before me. “Who brought this?” “No idea,” she shrugged. Then she grinned and teased, “Come on, Vi, isn’t it from Chase Emerson? I mean, he bought you an iced coffee before, and last night you even posted about wanting a chocolate muffin on your Instagram story. Maybe he’s got a thing for you?” That café with the famous chocolate muffins was three miles from campus, and those muffins usually sold out fast. Normally, I would have felt flattered, giving Chase a little boost in my mind. But after those messages, now just hearing his name made me think of that warning: “He’s got nothing to offer in bed.” I practically cringed. Half of his good image was gone, and under my roommate’s playful stare, I quickly denied it: “No, we’re not together or anything.” At 3 p.m., I went to the club interview as planned, and things went smoothly. Chase came over afterward to congratulate me, asking if I wanted to catch a movie with him that evening. Normally, I’d have been happy to accept, but today, with that line repeating in my mind, I could barely stop myself from glancing downward. Chase leaned closer. “I already got the tickets—it’s that suspense movie you wanted to see.” Keeping my face neutral, I declined, “Sorry, I’m busy tonight.” He looked a little disappointed. “Alright. Next time, then.” I exhaled in relief. Then a thought hit me—wasn’t William Walker also in the Computer Science Department? Maybe Chase would know him. Curious, I asked Chase if he knew William Walker, and he nodded. “Yeah, he’s a freshman, pretty well-known this year. Why, do you know him?” I shook my head, improvising, “I have a friend who likes him.” Chase’s expression turned serious, his brows furrowing. “Your friend should probably give up.” “Why? Does he have a girlfriend?” “No,” he replied, his tone grave. “But word is, he’s got issues—like, mental health issues.” Chase shared some rumors about William Walker. Apparently, when William first joined, he was noticed for his sharp looks and mysterious attitude, and Chase’s “campus heartthrob” status was almost dethroned. But then someone dug up details about his family and posted them on the school forum. Overnight, everyone’s attitude shifted completely. The reason was clear: William’s father was a killer, with severe mental issues. William had witnessed his father murder his mother when he was just five years old. His dad, in a violent rage, had stabbed her, then slowly approached him. Miraculously, his father regained control just as he raised the knife, and realizing what he’d done, he ran away, vanishing completely. William’s neighbor found him hours later, huddled in a corner, shaking and staring blankly at the wall. After that, his father went missing, and William was left with a distant relative who quickly sent him off to the Riverside Youth Home. Chapter

The online forum painted vivid scenes. The thread starter claimed to be William’s former high school classmate and said he’d once seen William lose it, pinning an older classmate to a wall after the guy mocked his parents. Some people thought William’s reckless, fearless energy was an inherited trait, and rumors about his “mental instability” spread all over the Computer Science Department. I read every word of those posts, and instead of feeling afraid, I just felt… sad. It was probably those messages affecting me. One forum post even had a candid shot of him—eyes sharp, looking coldly into the camera. I studied that photo for a long time, conflicted, before finally deciding I’d try to meet him myself. Finding William wasn’t hard. I didn’t even need to ask around. Just standing outside the Computer Science building and looking in, I spotted him immediately in the crowd. Unlike most students who dressed in brand-name clothes and buzzed with energy, William was in the back row alone, wearing a plain white t-shirt. Black hair, dark eyes, like an ocean hidden from the sun—he just seemed out of sync with the world around him. Maybe my gaze lingered too long, because suddenly he looked directly at me, catching my eyes with a sharp, almost piercing stare. My heart skipped, and instinctively, I ducked out of sight beneath the window. As soon as I crouched down, I realized how weird it was. I wasn’t a creep—so why was I acting so guilty? When the bell rang, students poured out, and I saw William at the tail end of the crowd, his face calm and distant. Rumors must’ve kept people wary, as he walked alone, a little pocket of solitude in the middle of the busy hall. I couldn’t help myself—I called out, “Hey!” I ran over, phone in hand. “You’re William Walker, right? Hi, I’m Violet Brooks from the 3 The forum posts about William Walker were so detailed, you’d think people were reporting on a local celebrity. One person claiming to be his former high school classmate described a time they saw William snap, pinning a taller upperclassman against a wall. Apparently, the guy had made a rude comment about his parents. Everyone said William had this fearless energy, like he didn’t care what happened to him. Most figured he must’ve inherited it from his dad, so rumors about him having “mental issues” spread quickly across the Computer Science Department. I read all the posts about William. Not only did they not scare me—they actually made me feel sorry for him. …Maybe those texts had already started to get to me. One of the forum posts even had a picture of him, obviously taken in secret. In the photo, he was glancing at the camera with eyes that were both wild and cold. I stared at that photo for a long time, feeling torn, before deciding I’d go find him and see for myself. Finding William wasn’t hard; I didn’t even need to ask anyone. I simply went to the window of his classroom and looked in. Among the sea of students, he stood out immediately. His vibe was so distinct. Most college students around here wore brand-name clothes and had a certain carefree energy. But William was different. Sitting alone in the back, he wore a plain white t-shirt, dark hair falling into his equally dark eyes, like a shadowed lake with no sunlight reaching its depths. I compared him to the photo from the forum. No doubt, this was him. Maybe I was staring too long because he suddenly looked straight at me. Our eyes met, and his gaze was sharp, cutting. Caught in the act, my heart skipped a beat, and, completely flustered, I crouched below the window, hiding from view. It only hit me afterward how ridiculous that was. I wasn’t a spy, so why was I hiding like one? When the bell rang, everyone started pouring out of the classroom. I stood on my toes to catch sight of William, who was trailing at the end, a calm and distant look on his face. Thanks to the rumors, people kept their distance, walking in groups while he was completely alone, wrapped in a quiet solitude that felt almost suffocating. I couldn’t help myself—I called out, “Hey, you!” I jogged over to him, holding up my phone. “You’re William Walker, right? Hi, I’m Violet Brooks, from the Design Department. Can I add you on WhatsApp?” This was the first time I’d ever approached a guy like this. My heart pounded, but William stopped and looked at me, somewhere between surprised and… curious. “You know me?” His voice was calm and steady, surprisingly gentle. Trying not to seem overeager, I answered, “No, but I’d like to get to know you. If that’s alright?” William’s face went blank. “No, it’s not alright.” He brushed past me with a firm, “Don’t follow me.” Um… excuse me? Does he realize how quickly he’s pushing me away? When midnight rolled around, another message from the future came in, as predictable as clockwork. The same line as always, like some persistent command: “Go to the Computer Science Department and find William Walker.” Remembering what happened earlier, I replied, frustrated, “I went today. Are you sure he’s the right guy? He doesn’t even know me, and he definitely doesn’t like me.” Underneath the frustration, I also felt a tiny bit hurt, though I wasn’t even sure why. Was it because I’d made a fool of myself? Or… because it was William? That one look he gave me through the window stayed with me. Maybe I felt a little… smitten. After two full minutes, the future-me replied. “No mistake. I’ve read his journals. All through school, he’s been quietly in love with you. Neither you nor I ever noticed it.” A quiet, years-long crush. I tried to remember if I’d ever noticed him, but I couldn’t. So I asked, “When did William start liking me?” Unexpectedly, future-me replied, “I don’t know.” “His love… it was too silent. I never sensed it.” “Anyway, you need to watch out for Chase Emerson. He’s a total fraud who’ll stop at nothing to hurt you. The only reason he failed in my world is because William gave up his own life for me. I want to save him. I want him to live.” I promised future-me I’d protect William. From that moment, I came up with a plan. First things first: avoid Chase Emerson. I had once liked him because he was kind to me, but I wasn’t a fool. After learning he was a walking disaster, I’d happily take the midnight train out of town before dating him. Second: find a way to get close to William. I went to the school’s message board, found his class schedule, and on mornings when I didn’t have classes, I brought two breakfasts and confidently walked into his classroom, sitting down right next to him. He looked like a startled hedgehog, all his spines raised. “What are you doing here?” His voice was as cold as steel. He was cute like this. Though his journal had supposedly recorded a long crush, in real life, he seemed determined to keep his distance from me. A classic case of saying one thing and doing another. I handed him a breakfast sandwich and coffee. “I brought you breakfast.” He tensed, studying me before giving a quick push, “I don’t want it.” But his eyes had given him away; I could tell he was tempted. He was a complete contradiction.

I admit I have my own agenda. My 28-year-old self only asked me to save William’s life, to make sure he survived, but here I am at 18—wanting him to be mine. The breakfast I brought him turned into a playful tug-of-war, back and forth between us. It was enough to catch the attention of the students sitting in front, who turned around with faces full of shock, as if they couldn’t believe someone would actually sit next to William, much less chat with him. When the bell rang, I took a deep breath and firmly grabbed his hand, pushing the breakfast into it. Softly, I said, “Come on, skipping breakfast isn’t good for you. I brought this just for you—take it, okay?” I was pretty good at being persuasive, and, sure enough, William froze the instant I held his hand, like he’d been jolted. This time he didn’t push it away, but he did set the breakfast on the corner of his desk, as if he didn’t plan on eating it. I sighed inwardly, telling myself there was plenty of time for him to warm up. But by the third day, he’d clearly had enough. He blocked my way in the hall, gripping my arm. To put it lightly, he looked like a cornered animal, all bristling intensity. “What exactly are you trying to do?” If anyone else had confronted me like that, I’d probably have bolted. But the look in his dark eyes, an angry shield that barely hid something raw and vulnerable, didn’t scare me—it made my heart ache. And before I could stop myself, I said, “I think I…kind of like you. So could you…like me back?” William’s hand dropped away. A second later, he broke into a grin. It was the first time I’d seen him smile, and it was dangerously captivating. Whatever fondness I’d felt before surged into something stronger, something dizzying.

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I got up in the middle of the night to feed the twins and noticed that Ryan was in the bathroom handling… certain needs. Given that I’m still breastfeeding and my stretch marks haven’t faded since the pregnancy, I wasn’t surprised by his lack of interest. But when I caught a glimpse of the photo on his phone, I completely lost it. He was looking at Vanessa Blackwood—a woman he briefly dated when we split up. I slapped him and asked, “Is this what you’ve been doing instead of touching me for over a year now?” Unfazed, he straightened his clothes, grinning as he replied, “Not just this year. Even when I had to provide a sample for the IVF treatment, I used her picture.” 1、Amanda Quinn My name is Amanda Quinn. Ryan and I have been married for five years, three of which we spent trying for children through IVF. After thousands of hormone injections and four rounds of IVF, we finally had our twins—a boy and a girl. Even though my body’s changed, and my stomach is covered in stretch marks, I still feel hopeful every time I look at our two precious babies. Life was supposed to only get better from here. One night, I got up to feed the twins and noticed Ryan wasn’t in bed. The bathroom light was off, but I could hear water running faintly inside. I had an idea of what might be going on. Since we found out I was pregnant, we’d stopped sleeping together as a precaution. Now, six months after the twins were born, he still hadn’t touched me. I could understand; breastfeeding and the stubborn stretch marks weren’t exactly appealing. But I had a hunch it was time to try and reconnect. I quietly opened the bathroom door and saw the faint glow of his phone screen. There was Ryan, back turned, one hand against the wall, the other moving… And suddenly, I felt a pang of sadness. Gently, I called his name and reached out to embrace him. I was ready to bring intimacy back to our marriage. But when Ryan turned, the lust in his eyes vanished the instant he saw me. And as he turned, I got a clear view of his phone screen. Vanessa Blackwood’s face stared back at me—his ex-girlfriend from the three months we’d been apart. Rage boiled over, and instead of reaching for him, I slapped him, hard. “Is this why you haven’t touched me for over a year? Just to keep looking at her picture?” He locked his phone, his excitement gone, and began calmly fixing his clothes as though nothing happened. But I wasn’t about to drop it. I grabbed his collar, demanding an explanation. Instead of remorse, he just looked me up and down with a smirk. What he said next broke me completely. He said, “It’s not just this past year. Even when I had to provide a sample for the IVF, I used her photo for that too.” 2、Amanda Quinn His words struck me like a lightning bolt. By the time he walked out of the bathroom, I was still standing there in shock. In the mirror, I caught sight of my reflection—disheveled and worn. No wonder he wasn’t interested. I remembered the first time he had to provide a sample at Northfield Fertility Clinic. The nurse had shown him to a private room, and he’d been in there for an unusually long time. Another woman there for IVF mentioned that sometimes, wives are allowed to assist. So, I knocked and asked if he needed me to help. Without even looking at me, he shut the door, locking it with a loud click. I’d assumed he was just shy. Little did I know he was in there using Vanessa’s photo instead. Now the thought that our children—our own flesh and blood—came from something so tainted was unbearable. But, maybe I’d brought this on myself. After all, we did break up before marriage, and it was me who had walked away. Ryan was two years younger, fresh out of school, with a shaky job and little ambition. He’d come home from work every night and just played video games, while the men around me were moving up the ladder, some even making six figures. My family kept pushing me to settle down, buy a home, get married. So, I talked to him about buying a place. His parents, working-class folks, offered to help with the down payment, leaving us to cover the mortgage. I didn’t mind, but my mom did. She pointed out how my cousins’ husbands had paid for their homes in full and even bought cars. If they could, why couldn’t Ryan? I understood my mom’s concerns and sympathized with his family’s situation, trying to balance both sides until I was exhausted. But Ryan didn’t seem to get it. I’d be working late, and he’d be gaming. I’d try to reassure my mom, and he’d be gaming. The final straw came when I asked him to view a house with me, and he made an excuse, only for me to come home and find him, controller in hand. Heartbroken, I ended it and packed his things into a single suitcase. When he left, he went to stay with a friend, and I threw myself into work, barely noticing as half a year slipped by. Meanwhile, he worked through the pain, and to my surprise, I felt lighter without the relationship. Suitors started appearing, many with excellent prospects. Then, out of nowhere, my best friend Stephanie called, telling me Ryan had a new girlfriend named Vanessa Blackwood—a girl who looked eerily like me. At first, I just felt sorry for him. He was clearly still hung up on me if he’d found himself a lookalike. But then, Stephanie said something that gave me pause. Apparently, Ryan had reflected deeply on himself after our breakup. He’d poured himself into work, even getting promoted and landing shares in a game his company had developed. He was a new man, and yet Vanessa was reaping the rewards of all my effort to shape him. Fueled by a mix of jealousy and regret, I realized I wanted him back. I returned to Bridgeport, just as he was dropping Vanessa off at Grand Central Station. I stood in the taxi line, watching him embrace her by his new car, and a wave of bitterness flooded my chest. For the first time since we split, I realized I still loved him. I waited by his car, and when he returned, I spoke up. “Ryan, I’m back.” He looked at me, eyes rimmed red, but didn’t move. I stepped forward and hugged him. “You finally grew up. All my hard work wasn’t for nothing.” He pushed me away, but then reached out to wipe my tears. I clung to him, and though he resisted, he hesitated just enough. “Why now?” he asked. “I have a girlfriend.” But a three-month relationship can’t compare to years, and I knew that. I pleaded with him for days, even bringing my mom into it. She hated Ryan, yet whatever she said to him changed his mind. He agreed to get back together, though he looked miserable about it. After those eight long months apart, our reunion felt like a new beginning. Ryan was now able to buy a house, even a car, and my mom’s opinion of him finally softened. We got married, and I assumed Vanessa was firmly in the past. But now, hearing him admit he still thought of her during IVF was a punch to the gut. 3、 I stormed out of the bathroom, hurling accusations until the twins woke up crying, and my mom, Diane, rushed into the room, alarmed by the commotion. By the time I explained what happened, she sank onto the couch, dazed. I checked her blood pressure—190. She’d been struggling to help me with the twins, and now this outburst had triggered her health issues. Ryan, to his credit, kept quiet and fetched her medication. As she rested, she began a tearful lecture. “Ryan, Amanda has sacrificed so much for you. Do you remember how she was there when you had nothing? We almost lost her back then when I pushed her to leave you. Without her, you wouldn’t be where you are today. Don’t think for a second that she came back just because you’re successful now. You owe her more than just your loyalty. And don’t think that other woman wants you for anything besides money. You should be grateful Amanda bore you those twins after all she went through.” Ryan stayed silent, but I could see his pride deflate. Early the next morning, he made a full breakfast spread—my mom’s favorite foods—showing his willingness to make amends. As days went by, he kept it up, taking care of the house, cooking, and watching over the twins so my mom could rest. He would work late only after the babies were asleep. I thought, maybe it was just a slip of the tongue in the heat of the moment, and I could forgive him. Then, tragedy struck. One night, my mom had a sudden stroke. She died before my father even had a chance to say goodbye. Grief and guilt consumed me. I was sure she’d overexerted herself helping me with the twins. During the funeral, I couldn’t stop crying. Ryan took charge, arranging everything as though he were her own son. He shouldered all the responsibilities I couldn’t, carrying the casket, greeting guests, and comforting my father. Neighbors murmured that my mom had chosen well; I had a dependable husband. After laying her to rest, the heaviness in my heart began to ease. I could finally feel a sense of peace, believing that Ryan’s commitment was deeper than any fleeting attraction to Vanessa Blackwood. 4、Ryan Mercer I’m Ryan Mercer—the “useless Ryan.” That’s what Amanda’s mother, Diane, called me the day Amanda kicked me out. Five years of love packed into a single suitcase, and there I was, a pathetic mess, clutching it while I wandered onto the city bus, completely lost. I didn’t know where to go, so I just rode the 25 route to the end of the line and back. Over and over, from afternoon until the buses stopped running. I sat at the terminal, crying like a dog. I knew I wasn’t good enough for her. I knew her mom was pressuring her, so I’d even gone to Diane myself to reassure her. But she didn’t hold back. “Loser,” “pathetic”… she called me every name in the book. I understood she just wanted the best for her daughter, but they never gave me a chance to prove myself. I told them I was developing a new game, but they thought it was just an excuse to slack off. Even then, I couldn’t stand the thought of her leaving. I couldn’t believe she’d just cut me loose and abandon everything we’d planned for the future. So, I stayed with a friend and tried to reach out to her, but she was always too busy to even remember we’d broken up. Meanwhile, I was wasting away, shedding over twenty pounds in the process. My mom was the only one who cared. She picked up an extra job after hours to save money and help me buy a house. She even went behind my back and approached Diane to tell her they could help us with the mortgage. But Diane shot that down in a heartbeat. “And what about a car?” she sneered. My mom suggested they could sell their own home to help us, but Diane laughed, saying, “What, after you die? I’m sure my daughter will wait that long for a car!” Then she delivered the final blow, telling my mom to tell me not to embarrass her daughter by hanging on. My mom came back and collapsed from the stress. That illness was the end of her—two months later, she died from complications. And I couldn’t blame anyone but myself; my weakness had killed her. Her death finally snapped my attachment to Amanda. At the funeral, I met Vanessa Blackwood. She worked at Green Hills Crematorium, and even in that grim setting, she was warm and optimistic. Initially, it was her appearance that caught my eye, but her character was what drew me in. She was unapologetically single by choice, detached from all the societal trappings that came with relationships. Her nonchalance toward life and death was a breath of fresh air, and her carefree nature brought me back to life. Inspired, I poured everything into my game development work, and success followed. For the first time, I was finding my own path. And just as Vanessa and I became serious, Amanda came back. She hooked me, played me like a puppet. She cried over how much she missed me, knowing just how to push my buttons and rekindle my guilt. She even claimed she’d only broken up with me to “inspire” me to grow. As ridiculous as it sounded, my heart softened. I let her worm her way back in, though I never intended to leave Vanessa. Then Diane got involved. She reached Vanessa before coming to me, showing her recordings of my desperate phone calls to Amanda after the breakup. She even played a recording of my mom’s visit, begging Diane for my chance. Vanessa wasn’t the type to be swayed easily, but Diane knew exactly how to break her resolve. After Vanessa refused to break up with me, Diane went straight to Green Hills, causing a scene, screaming that Vanessa was a homewrecker, that she was destroying her daughter’s life. By the time Vanessa was about to call the police, Diane coolly apologized, claiming it was a “mistake.” Then she whispered that she’d be back—and next time, it wouldn’t be a mistake. She’d keep showing up and keep disrupting Vanessa’s life until she walked away. And Vanessa did. Before she left, she looked Diane in the eyes and said, “Once I’m gone, I’ll be his ‘one that got away.’ Amanda will forever live in my shadow.” In that moment, hearing her voice on the recording Diane so proudly played for me, I felt the last of my happiness slip through my fingers. I stood there, expressionless, watching Diane’s smug face as resentment bloomed inside me. Every humiliation, every grievance I’d endured resurfaced. Diane had destroyed my mother. Amanda had treated me like dirt. And now, with Diane’s help, Amanda was back in my life. They wanted this marriage? Fine. I would give it to them, and everything they thought they wanted. I acted unsure, reluctantly giving in to their pressure, and eventually, Amanda and I got married. She soon began nudging me about putting her name on the deed, and I pretended to go along. I told her I’d buy a house and put her name on the title. The smile didn’t even reach her face. Diane quickly started dropping hints, telling me how all her cousins had homes under their wives’ names. I’d nod, play along, and wait. Finally, Amanda and I found a place we liked and waited for a promotional discount to hit. Conveniently, I had a “business trip” during the sale days. Diane and Amanda panicked, calling me several times to transfer the funds. I played along, wiring the money. Predictably, they finalized the sale in Amanda’s name only. I returned with every bank record in hand. Diane then suggested it was time I bought a new car and “gently persuaded” me to sell my old one. She finalized the new car paperwork under Amanda’s name while I was “away.” Once it was done, they were sure everything was secure, and only then did we sign the marriage license. As far as they were concerned, the car and house were all “premarital assets.” Right before the wedding, I met Vanessa one last time. She saw my frustration and reassured me, “Don’t be sad. With me, you may never have kids or a marriage. I’d rather be your ‘one that got away’ than the leftovers on your plate.” When I asked if she’d regret never getting married or having a legacy, she laughed, saying she’d donate her eggs if she wanted to leave something behind. After that meeting, I began to see things differently. Maybe this marriage could work in my favor. More than a year into our marriage, Amanda began worrying she wasn’t getting pregnant. Diane was quick to plant doubts, hinting that men “so big and strong” as me might still have hidden issues. This was followed by thinly veiled threats of financial “compensation” if I was “deceitful.” So, with Diane’s push, we began our long, frustrating journey through fertility treatments. No luck. Nothing seemed wrong, but we weren’t conceiving. I admit, I sabotaged it a bit here and there. Eventually, we landed on the option of IVF. And that’s when my show began. Everything was playing out exactly as I wanted. The night Amanda caught me in the bathroom, I’d intentionally turned the water on loud enough for her to hear. She came to wrap her arms around me, and I pulled up Vanessa’s photo just as she got close enough to see. The moment she raised her hand to hit me, I knew I had her. I told her I’d even used Vanessa’s photo during the IVF sample collection, watching as her final bit of composure shattered. Predictably, Diane woke up from the argument, her blood pressure spiking immediately. I jumped into the role of the “manipulated son-in-law,” appearing the very next morning to make Diane’s favorite breakfast. Every meal I cooked for her was packed with high sodium, high-fat content, things that would worsen her condition. She’d sit, eat, barely moving afterward. I even brought her extra snacks. Within days, she suffered a stroke on the toilet. After the funeral, I stared at myself in the mirror, watching as my face twisted into a grin. Was it cruel? Not nearly enough. The real show had just begun.

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Aunt May Harper is our housekeeper. She’s usually quiet, looks like an honest, simple woman, and is 22 years older than my husband, Henry. I never thought twice about her. But lately, I’ve noticed something odd—our dog Lucky has been missing more often… 0“Aunt May, why are you washing my husband’s underwear again?” Aunt May Harper is the housekeeper we hired; she’s 48 and isn’t much of a talker, except when she’s doing chores. She comes across as very honest and down-to-earth. She wears clothes her daughter-in-law didn’t want anymore, and every month she sends her paycheck back home to support her two-year-old grandson. Even if she’s washing Henry’s underwear, I don’t suspect a thing. Her age alone could make her Henry’s mom. Usually, I just tell her once or twice not to do it again, and that’s the end of it. Aunt May looked a little stunned, put down what she was doing, and said, a little awkwardly, “I was tidying up earlier and saw them dirty on the bed, so I grabbed them to wash. I’ll remember not to next time.” Aunt May’s apology was sincere, and I didn’t want to be harsh with her. The woman had a rough life—her husband was paralyzed, her two sons never amounted to much, and she lost her only daughter. With everyone relying on her, she’s had enough hardship for a lifetime. “Alright.” I nodded. Ever since I got pregnant, I had Henry hand-wash both his and my clothes. I don’t like anyone else handling my personal laundry. I’m six months along now, and in a few more months, I’ll be a mom. “Aunt May, I’m hungry; make something to eat,” I said, keeping it simple. “Shouldn’t we wait for Henry?” she asked. Henry comes home every night around 7; it was only 4, and I’m used to dinner being made around 6. I think I’m pretty considerate of Aunt May. She only cooks three meals daily, not the eight other housekeepers are sometimes expected to prepare. And when I get hungry in the middle of the night, I have Henry go make food for me—I try not to bother her. But here she was asking if we should wait. Just because Henry wasn’t home, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t eat! “No, make it now. I’m hungry,” I replied, a little irritated. What was going on in Aunt May’s head? I hired her to look after me, not Henry. I ask for food, she makes it—what’s all the fuss? Maybe I was overly sensitive, thanks to being pregnant, but Aunt May’s comment didn’t sit right. She nodded reluctantly, saying, “Alright… I’ll make it now.” She headed for the kitchen, and I made my way to the living room. Aunt May made my favorites: savory mushroom stir-fry, tofu with preserved egg, green bean pork stew, and a pot of hearty gourd soup. Aunt May cooked well—her food was always delicious and her kitchen skills swift, and I did like that about her. After eating, I sprawled out on the couch with my phone. Suddenly, the smell of pork hock soup filled the air, and I froze. Why was Aunt May cooking pork hock? I was already done with dinner. “Aunt May, you making pork hock soup?” I asked, unable to resist. “Yup! Got it in the pressure cooker,” she called from the kitchen. That smell was so rich, my stomach growled again. My mom had bought those pork hocks herself from a farm—she said they came from pigs fed on grain and freshly butchered. Mom assured me that soup from those hocks would taste better than anything store-bought. A few hours passed, and Henry finally got home. As soon as he stepped through the door, I perked up, smiling. “Hey, honey.” He had strawberries in hand—my absolute favorite. “You’re back! Change your shoes; dinner’s ready.” I’d just slipped into my house slippers and was about to greet him when Aunt May beat me to the door. She took his coat and hung it up, even bending down to set out his slippers. She then casually returned to the kitchen like nothing unusual happened. My clueless husband walked over with a grin, saying, “Look, honey—strawberries!” He must have sensed I was a little annoyed but would never guess the reason. What was wrong with me? Was I seriously jealous of a 48-year-old woman? Did she have a thing for Henry, or was I just overly sensitive? 0

“Nothing’s wrong,” I muttered. “Let’s eat.” Aunt May served the dishes: Kung Pao chicken, the pork hock soup, stir-fried mushrooms, and sweet and sour fish. “Wow, it all looks amazing! I’ll just go wash my hands,” Henry said, giving me a quick peck on the cheek before heading to the bathroom. He had no idea I’d already eaten. I sat at the table, looking at the fresh dishes and feeling annoyed again. “Aunt May, why did you make new dishes? Where are my leftovers?” She chuckled nervously. “Oh, I… I ate them.” Just then, Henry emerged from the bathroom. “Aunt May, you don’t have to eat leftovers,” he said. “From now on, just join us.” “Oh, no, that wouldn’t be right.” Aunt May glanced at me and then back at Henry. “There’s nothing wrong with it; join us.” Henry smiled, oblivious to my annoyance. I put down my chopsticks and, in a low voice, asked, “Henry Graham, what do you mean by that?” Aunt May quickly ducked back into the kitchen, saying, “I’ll just go wash the dishes.” She shut the kitchen door behind her, avoiding eye contact. Henry looked at me, bewildered, then picked up a piece of fish and put it on my plate. “Honey, what’s got you mad? Whatever it is, I’ll fix it.” That’s my husband for you—always clueless as to why I’m upset and incapable of reflecting on his own. I’m usually straightforward, so I said, “When did I ever tell Aunt May to eat leftovers?” When Aunt May cooks, she takes a small portion out for herself and eats at a little table in the kitchen. That’s her space, so why would she suddenly be eating the food I’d set aside for Henry? The plan was for her to heat it up for him when he got home. “My mistake, totally my mistake,” Henry said, tapping his lips with his hand. “Honey, you’re pregnant; don’t get upset.” Staring at the spread on the table, I’d lost my appetite entirely. “And why did you invite Aunt May to eat with us? What were you thinking?” I asked, keeping my voice low. In my opinion, it’s best to maintain some boundaries; getting too close just makes things awkward. My cousin learned that the hard way when she got overly friendly with her housekeeper, only to have the woman refuse to leave when she was let go. She even accused my cousin of being ungrateful for not remembering all the care she’d given her during her postpartum recovery, forgetting that she’d been hired for that very job. Henry put down his chopsticks and raised his voice, clearly agitated. “What was I thinking? Aunt May is busy taking care of you; why can’t she eat with us?” “Henry Graham, you’re a jerk!” I shoved his shoulder, stormed off to our bedroom, and locked the door. He knocked, pleading, “Honey, come on. Open the door; I’m sorry, alright?” I sighed. When I’d married him, my parents disapproved, said he wasn’t stable enough, and didn’t trust him since he was from out of state. But I’d insisted. Though they’d come around, Henry always carried a chip on his shoulder, thinking my family looked down on him. In his eyes, me not wanting Aunt May at the table was a sign I was looking down on her, the same way he thought my parents looked down on him. By 10 p.m., he was back at the door, apologizing again, “Honey, open up. I really am sorry.” I grabbed his pillow and blanket, opened the door, and handed them to him. “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight,” I said flatly. My mood was so sour; I just wanted to be alone. He took the pillow and blanket, nodding. “Alright, but make sure you close the window tonight, so you don’t catch a chill.” I nodded, shutting the door behind him. As I lay in bed, my mind wandered. If I’d been born into the same circumstances as Henry, would I have ended up sensitive and insecure like him? His mother left him when he was six, his dad was always working, and his grandma was the one who raised him. But he’d pulled himself up, put himself through college, and within three years of graduation, he’d made supervisor at a major tech firm. It’s no good letting him sleep on the couch. He has to work tomorrow. I glanced at the clock: 1 a.m. I got out of bed, opened the door, and turned on the living room light—only to see Aunt May sleeping on the couch, wrapped up in Henry’s blanket. My hands clenched into fists. “Henry Graham, where are you?” 0

Aunt May jolted awake, visibly startled, and looked up at me. She rubbed her eyes, coming over to whisper, “Sam, don’t yell. Henry’s in my room, sleeping. He’s got work tomorrow.” She had given Henry the guest room, taking the couch for herself. Aunt May sure was going above and beyond for him. Just then, Henry emerged from the guest room, rubbing his eyes, wearing only his underwear. He looked exhausted. “What’s going on, honey?” he asked, yawning. “Who told you to sleep in Aunt May’s room? And put some clothes on!” I snapped, tossing a pillow at him. He grinned sheepishly, saying, “I just forgot in my hurry.” He looked at me questioningly. “So… can I come back to our room now?” He gathered up his blanket and pillow and went back into our bedroom, closing the door behind him as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Aunt May, too, seemed unfazed, as if she found my reaction overblown. But I could barely contain my frustration. Should I tell her to keep her distance from my husband? To stop being so attentive? Finally, I muttered, “Aunt May, just go to bed. You don’t need to help with my husband.” “Yes, of course. I’ll remember that,” she replied, nodding. I went back into the bedroom, slamming the door. Henry was lying in bed, smiling at me, “Come to bed, honey.” I climbed in, grabbing a pillow and whacking him with it. “Who told you to sleep in Aunt May’s room? What’s going on between you two?” He looked at me, clearly baffled, and sighed, resting a hand on my belly. “Honey, I know your hormones are all over the place. But Aunt May’s old enough to be my mom, and honestly, she’s not even attractive. I’d have to be blind.” “Then why are you sleeping in her room, letting her use your blanket and pillow? If you’re not into her, how do you know she’s not into you?” I whispered, glaring. Henry snorted, laughing. “That couch is way too small. She just offered me her room for the night. If you want Aunt May gone, just fire her and hire someone new.” That suggestion felt right to me. “Alright, then let’s fire Aunt May.” 0

The next day, I didn’t get up until noon. Aunt May had already set the table with food, her eyes slightly red as though she’d been crying. As soon as I sat down, she spoke up, “Sam, why do you suddenly want to fire me? Did I do something wrong? Just tell me, and I’ll fix it.” Her voice was shaky and fearful, and she clung to my arm like her life depended on it. “Sam, please, let me stay. I’ll take such good care of you,” she pleaded, looking genuinely distressed. I gave her a reasonable excuse. “Aunt May, my mom’s coming to take care of me. You know I’m not working, and Henry’s paycheck alone isn’t that much. We need to cut down on costs.” Aunt May looked crushed and quickly replied, “I’ll take a pay cut! Don’t make me leave, okay?” A pay cut? For someone like Aunt May, who could easily find work elsewhere, this was unnecessary. Could she really have feelings for my husband? She gave a tight, awkward smile when I didn’t answer right away. “Sam, it’s already the 23rd. Could I just work until the end of the month? Just one more week to find a new job?” I considered her request, but something about letting her stay for another week made me uneasy. I was six months pregnant, and I couldn’t risk anything happening with just the two of us home. Trying to stay calm, I said, “Aunt May, you’re reliable and hardworking. I’m sure you’ll find work in no time. You’ve taken great care of me, so just think of these seven days as paid leave. I’ll give you a full month’s salary.” Of course, my mom had no idea I planned to let Aunt May go. With Henry and my parents not getting along, I hadn’t asked them to stay with me. Not only did I want to avoid family drama, but I didn’t want my mom overextending herself at her age. Aunt May’s expression turned dark, but she managed to rein it in, “Fine, I won’t overstay my welcome. I’ll start packing.” She returned to the guest room, taking half an hour to gather her things. When she came out, she had a black bag slung over her shoulder and two shopping totes in hand. “Sam, could you pay me today?” she asked. Since her pay typically came on the 10th, I agreed and transferred her final month’s pay through the app. She glanced at her phone, sneered, and in an instant, her demeanor changed completely. “Sam Taylor, you’re really something. So high and mighty, just because you’re pregnant? Henry’s patience with your moods is a blessing. In my hometown, a wife like you would have been thrown out ages ago!” She spat out the words, and for a moment, I was speechless. Who would have thought such vile words could come from Aunt May, of all people? I regretted giving her the extra week’s pay, especially since she hadn’t been hired through an agency, which meant I couldn’t even file a complaint. “Couldn’t even let me eat at the table with you,” she added, her tone scathing. With someone like her, you never knew when she might seek revenge. “Get out of my house,” I said coldly. She looked at my stomach, smirked, and said, “You’ll never have a son. Just a spoiled little girl.” “May Harper, if you don’t leave right now, I’ll call the police.” I couldn’t take it any longer and threatened her.

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