To test my fiancé, I created a burner account, playing the role of a sweet-as-pie ingenue sliding into his DMs. I didn’t actually expect him to bite. But he did. He showered my alter ego with attention, checking in on my day, sending good morning texts, and eventually, booking a hotel room for us to meet. I was trembling with a quiet, lethal rage. I spent two hours getting dressed to the nines, arrived at the hotel suite early, and waited to catch him red-handed. The heavy mahogany door clicked open. But it wasn’t some random girl from the internet who peeked her head in. It was my own younger sister, fresh off a bus from our rural hometown in New Hampshire. She looked at me, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink, her eyes wide and wet. “Tori,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Colby and I… we’re truly in love. Please, you have to let us be together.” 1 I stared at Colby. The atmosphere in the room shifted, twisting into something bizarre. It didn’t feel like I was the fiancée catching a cheater; it felt like I was the overbearing, unreasonable girlfriend showing up unannounced to ruin a perfectly innocent afternoon. Behind him, Debby’s fingers were curled into the fabric of Colby’s Oxford shirt. She looked like a startled fawn caught in the headlights of my existence. “Colby?” I repeated his name, the syllables tasting like ash in my mouth. Colby reached out, attempting to wrap his fingers around my wrist. I twisted my shoulder, stepping back. He didn’t look guilty. He didn’t even look angry. He just sighed, the sound heavy with a manufactured, condescending patience. “Victoria, please don’t make a scene. We were going to find the right time to sit you down and tell you.” “Tell me what, exactly?” My voice was entirely flat. It belonged to a stranger. “That while I’ve been buried in spreadsheets finalizing our wedding caterers, you two were sleeping together?” I looked at my sister. “That you used the iPhone I bought you for your birthday to arrange a hookup with him at a Marriott?” Debby recoiled as if I had struck her. The tears spilled over, tracing perfect, tragic lines down her cheeks. She shrank further behind Colby’s broad shoulders, her voice a pathetic, breathy squeak. “Tori, please don’t blame him. It was me… I made the first move.” “We’re in love, Tori. You can’t put a leash on these kinds of things. It just happened,” Colby added. He pulled her flush against his chest, dropping his chin to the top of her head. “Shh, Debby, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” Then, he looked up at me. His eyes were swimming with a sickening, theatrical pity. “Victoria, you and I both know the spark between us died a long time ago,” he said smoothly. “You’re always so dialed in, so fiercely independent, so cold. I never felt like you actually needed me.” He tightened his grip on my sister. “Debby is different. She’s pure. She’s soft. With her, I actually feel like a man.” I looked at the two of them. The tragic, misunderstood lovers. And there I was: the cold, corporate bitch standing in the way of true romance. The villain in my own life story. The dull, rhythmic ache in my chest was suddenly swallowed by a rising wave of pure nausea. I didn’t say another word. I broke eye contact, reached into my Prada tote, and pulled out the plastic keycard. I placed it gently on the marble console table by the door. “I already paid for the room,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Knock yourselves out.” I paused, my hand on the doorknob. “Consider it my early wedding gift to you both.” I walked out, letting the heavy door swing shut behind me. But just before the latch clicked, I heard my sister’s voice, breathless and laced with a tearful, bubbling joy: “Colby, did she… did she just give us her blessing?” 2 The moment I got back to my apartment, I collapsed onto the velvet sofa. The glare from the geometric chandelier on the ceiling stabbed at my eyes, making my skull throb. My phone buzzed against the coffee table. Mom. The second I swiped to accept, her frantic voice filled the quiet room. “Victoria Davis, why aren’t you answering your sister’s calls? She’s a wreck. She told me everything.” “She said you three ran into each other at some hotel? Tori, tell me you didn’t overreact and accuse her of something crazy.” I squeezed my eyes shut. Debby, my sweet, innocent little sister. She really didn’t miss a beat, did she? “Mom,” I breathed out, “what exactly do you think I’m ‘accusing’ her of?” The line went dead quiet for three excruciating seconds. When my mother finally spoke, her tone was a masterclass in cautious, weaponized guilt. “Tori, you know how Debby is. She grew up in a small town; she’s sheltered, she hasn’t seen the world like you have. Colby was probably just showing her some kindness, and she got her wires crossed.” “Just… take the high road, okay? Don’t pick a fight with her, and for god’s sake, don’t blow up at Colby. The wedding is in two months. We can’t afford a scandal right now.” A hollow, breathless laugh scraped its way up my throat. So that was the narrative. In their eyes, Debby was naive, Colby was a Good Samaritan, and I was the hysterical, score-keeping shrew. “Mom. They were standing in a hotel suite. Together. They looked me dead in the eye and told me they were deeply in love.” Silence again. This time, it stretched out so long I foolishly thought she might actually offer a word of maternal outrage. A word of defense for her eldest daughter. Instead, she let out a heavy sigh. “Victoria… have you considered that maybe you’ve been freezing him out lately? Men are fragile; they need their egos stroked.” “Debby just got to the city. She’s overwhelmed. You’re her older sister. You need to be the bigger person and give her some grace.” “Let’s just sweep this under the rug, alright?” Sweep this under the rug. Six little words to erase an absolute betrayal. I pulled the phone away from my ear, hit end, toggled the ringer to silent, and tossed it onto the adjacent armchair. Outside my window, the Boston skyline dissolved into a thick, suffocating blackness. 3 At 3:00 AM, a novel-length text message from Colby lit up my screen. It was peppered with the word “sorry,” but reading between the lines, it was an itemized list of my flaws. He blamed me for working sixty-hour weeks. He blamed me for my ambition, claiming my success emasculated him. He blamed me for the stagnant water our relationship had become, insisting he was the only one rowing the boat, exhausting himself to keep us afloat. His grand finale read: “Debby was an accident. I didn’t plan for her. But she made me remember what it feels like to have my heart beat for someone. I can’t lie to you anymore, Tori, and I refuse to lie to myself.” “I know your family contributed to the down payment on our place, and you’ve bought me a lot of expensive things over the years. I’ll have my accountant calculate the total and I’ll buy you out. Let’s be adults and part on good terms.” He was so deeply, clinically calculating. He was actually trying to frame his infidelity as a tragic consequence of my ambition. I stared at the words “part on good terms.” The sheer audacity of it burned. I didn’t text back. At eight o’clock the next morning, my phone rang again. It was Colby’s mother. She wanted to meet. At the artisanal coffee shop downtown that I used to love. 4 By the time I arrived, my future mother-in-law—excuse me, my ex-future mother-in-law—was already seated in a velvet booth. She wasn’t alone. Sitting across from her were my parents. Next to them sat Colby. And tucked practically underneath Colby’s arm was Debby. A goddamn tribunal. My mother refused to meet my eyes, opting to study the foam in her latte. My father sat stiffly, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle ticking, completely silent. Mrs. Gallagher, her face smoothed by expensive dermatologists, offered me a practiced, diplomatic smile. She took a slow sip of her cappuccino before addressing the table. “Victoria, darling. We are all aware of the… situation between Colby and Debby.” “Now, we parents usually prefer to stay out of the messy affairs of the younger generation. But since the collateral damage involves both our families, we need to handle this cleanly.” She placed her cup down and fixed me with a cool, appraising stare. “Colby has informed me he wishes to break the engagement. Now, the Gallaghers might not be old money billionaires, but we believe in fairness. Every dime your family put toward the wedding, and the engagement gifts—we will refund it entirely.” “Furthermore, we are prepared to offer you an additional hundred thousand dollars. Consider it compensation for the years of your twenties that Colby tied up.” Debby, still glued to Colby’s side, kept her head bowed. Her shoulders trembled rhythmically as she wept silent, endless tears, like a fountain on a timer. My father’s face darkened from red to a terrifying shade of purple. He slammed his fist on the table. “Eleanor, this isn’t about the damn money!” “Exactly,” my mother chimed in, practically tripping over her words. “It’s our family that owes you an apology. Debby is just a child, she didn’t know any better—” “Don’t blame Debby,” Colby interjected, his voice dripping with faux-chivalry. “This is on me. I mishandled the transition.” He gazed down at Debby like she was a dying heroine in a Victorian novel, then looked at me, his face a mask of earnest sorrow. “Victoria, I bear the brunt of this. Hate me if you want, but leave Debby out of it.” It was a perfectly choreographed dance. They took all the “blame” while simultaneously laundering their betrayal through the untouchable, sacred concept of True Love. Because as long as they called it “True Love,” sneaking around behind my back wasn’t dirty. It was destiny. I looked at my mother, so desperate to smooth things over. I looked at my father, paralyzed by the humiliation. Suddenly, I felt incredibly, utterly bored by all of them. 5 “Okay.” The single word slipped from my lips, quiet and absolute. The chatter at the table evaporated instantly. Everyone stared at me in shock. Colby included. He had clearly prepped for a screaming match. He wanted me to throw a glass of water. He wanted me to prove his narrative that I was unhinged. I looked calmly at his mother. “Keep your hundred thousand, Mrs. Gallagher. The years I spent with Colby were my own choice. I don’t need a severance package for my personal life.” I turned my gaze to my parents. “Mom. Dad. If it’s the love of the century, who am I to stand in the way? I give them my blessing.” My mother’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The purple in my father’s face drained, leaving him looking hollow and aged. Colby and Debby exchanged a quick, electric glance. I could see the poorly concealed triumph dancing in their eyes. “However,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. The entire table stiffened. “I don’t want your money. But every single thing I purchased for Colby during our relationship? I want it back. Unopened, unsold, exactly as I gave it to him.” I let the silence hang for a second. “And I mean everything. From the Tom Ford ties down to the Porsche Cayenne I bought you last month.” Colby blinked, momentarily thrown, before his arrogance returned. “Done.” To him, this was a bargain. A few material possessions in exchange for a guilt-free exit and total freedom? It was the steal of a lifetime. Mrs. Gallagher exhaled a very audible sigh of relief. Her smile became genuinely warm. “You’ve always been such a pragmatic, sensible girl, Victoria. No matter what happens, we’ll always consider you family.” I offered a thin, close-lipped smile. Family? Not for much longer. 6 The logistics moved with lightning speed. The very next afternoon, a moving truck pulled up to my building. Dozens of boxes—containing every watch, every pair of limited-edition sneakers, every piece of designer luggage I’d ever bought him—were stacked in my lobby. He even left the keys to the Cayenne with the concierge. I went through the itemized list he provided, ticking off boxes. I felt nothing. No heartbreak, no nostalgia. Just a clinical desire to cleanse my space. By sunset, Colby had made it Instagram official. He posted a carousel of photos of him and Debby. The location tag? The exact lavender farm in upstate New York that I had booked, and paid a non-refundable deposit for, to shoot our engagement photos. In the main photo, he had his arms wrapped tightly around Debby, grinning like he’d won the lottery. Debby was leaning into his chest, looking coyly away from the camera. Resting perfectly on her left hand was a massive, radiant-cut diamond. My ring. The one I had custom-designed with the jeweler. His caption read: “The rest of my life starts now. Finally found my soulmate.” The comment section beneath the post was a war zone. Our mutual friends were losing their minds. Some were horrified, some were confused, and the clueless ones from his frat days were dropping fire emojis and congratulations. My phone vibrated so hard it nearly walked off the kitchen island. My best friend, Roxy, was screaming before I even got the phone to my ear. “Tori! What the actual hell?! Are you just going to let them get away with this? Colby is a sociopath, and your sister is a manipulative little snake in a sundress!” “I’m getting in my car right now. I’m going to nuke his comment section and tag everyone in Boston.” “Stand down, Rox,” I said, my voice eerily steady. “Let them have their moment.” “Are you—” Roxy sputtered, practically choking on her rage. “Did they drug you? Have you lost your mind?” I hadn’t lost my mind. I just knew that the show was only in its opening act. I needed them to climb. I needed them to put themselves on the highest pedestal possible, right in the center of everyone’s radar. Because the higher the pedestal, the more shattered the bones when you finally kick it out from under them. Less than a week later, a thick, cream-colored envelope arrived in my mail. An invitation to Colby and Debby’s official engagement party. Gold foil lettering. A polaroid-style insert of the happy couple. The venue? A historic colonial estate in the Berkshires, owned by my mother’s trust. It was the house my late grandfather had left her. The place where I spent every summer of my childhood running through the apple orchards. Hosting their celebration of my betrayal in the very house that held my happiest memories was an act of psychological warfare. 7 My mother showed up at my condo clutching the invitation, looking agonizingly uncomfortable. “Tori, I know this looks… I know Colby was a bit insensitive choosing the Berkshire house—” “Mom, they can host it in a dumpster for all I care. It’s their party,” I cut her off, not looking up from my laptop. “But…” “But what, Mom?” I finally looked at her. “Are you here to ask me to go?” Caught in her own trap, my mother flushed. “Well, it is family. If you don’t show up, people will talk. It’s going to make your father look incredibly bad in front of his business partners.” “Besides, Debby begged me to ask you. She’s eaten up with guilt. She really wants your blessing in front of everyone.” I stared at the woman who raised me. Her eyes darted everywhere—the rug, the ceiling, the kitchen cabinets—anywhere but my face. From the very beginning of this nightmare, every single calculation she made was about protecting Debby’s feelings, or protecting my father’s reputation. Not once had she paused to ask how I, the daughter whose life had just been firebombed, was surviving the wreckage. Whatever lingering embers of familial warmth I had left in my chest finally went cold. “Okay. I’ll be there.” I didn’t just plan on attending. I planned on bringing a spectacular gift. 8 On the night of the engagement party, I dressed for war. I wore a floor-length, blood-red silk gown that hugged every curve. I looked sharp, dangerous, and entirely unbothered. By the time I valet-parked and walked into the grand foyer, the party was in full swing. Crystal glasses clinking, a string quartet playing in the corner, the room dripping with old money and new gossip. Colby and Debby were standing on the grand staircase, holding court. Debby was draped in a diaphanous white gown, looking like a literal angel. The makeup was flawless, highlighting her youthful glow. She looked incredibly, nauseatingly triumphant. Colby stood beside her, shoulders squared, exuding the smug aura of a man who believed he was the hero of a romantic comedy. The moment my red heels clicked against the hardwood, the chatter in the room died. A noticeable ripple of silence spread outward. Eyes locked onto me. I could feel the microscopic weight of their stares—the morbid curiosity, the pity, the schadenfreude of the wealthy watching a trainwreck. My parents spotted me and power-walked through the crowd. “Victoria, what on earth are you wearing?” my mother hissed, her fingers biting into my arm. “It’s an engagement party! You wore crimson? Are you actively trying to cause a scene?” I easily slipped my arm out of her grasp and kept walking, straight toward the staircase. Colby noticed me approaching. A flicker of genuine panic crossed his eyes, but he quickly smothered it beneath his polished PR smile. “Victoria. You made it,” he said loudly, making sure the crowd could hear his graciousness. Debby clung to his bicep, her voice a fragile whisper. “Tori…” The guests were openly whispering now. “Is that the older sister? God, how humiliating. Dumped for the little sister and still showing up to the party.” “I heard she was impossible to live with. Total ice queen.” “Look at her. She’s definitely going to do something crazy.” Colby cleared his throat and motioned for a microphone from the event coordinator. “Thank you all for being here tonight to celebrate with Debby and me,” he began, his voice echoing through the massive room. He looked down at Debby, practically melting into a puddle of devotion. “I know that to some, our love story might seem… sudden. Maybe even unconventional.” “But true love doesn’t operate on a timeline. When Debby walked into my life, it felt like someone finally turned the lights on in a dark room. I knew instantly that this was fate.” He paused, letting the silence build, before shifting his gaze directly to me. “I also want to publicly thank my former fiancée, Victoria. Without our time together, I wouldn’t have learned what it is I truly need in a partner. We’ve parted ways as friends, and I know she wishes us nothing but the best.” It was a masterclass in manipulation. He crowned himself the brave romantic, simultaneously patting me on the head and twisting the knife in my ribs. Debby looked up at him, tears of profound emotion glittering in her eyes. A smattering of polite, hesitant applause echoed through the room. Then, every single face turned back to me. They were waiting for the meltdown. They wanted tears. They wanted a screaming match. They wanted me to cement my status as the bitter, discarded woman. I held their gaze, squared my shoulders, and walked smoothly up the steps. I reached out and gently plucked the microphone from Colby’s hand. I smiled. A wide, bright, terrifying smile. “Of course I do,” I said, my voice smooth as glass over the speakers. “As her older sister, how could I not be thrilled to see Debby find her soulmate?” I turned to the golden couple. “And to commemorate this beautiful union, I actually brought a custom engagement present.”

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“A hundred and fifty thousand for your brother. The sweater for you.” Nana slid the heavy, leather-bound checkbook across the coffee table toward my brother, then reached into a plastic bag. She pulled out a faded, pill-covered gray sweater and tossed it onto the sofa in front of me. The collar was stretched out, practically hanging by a thread. It was the same sweater Grandpa Thomas had worn every winter for the last fifteen years. There were over a dozen relatives crammed into the living room. Not a single one of them said a word about how wrong this was. I looked at the limp, gray wool. Then I looked at the checkbook resting under my brother’s hand. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I didn’t say anything. I just picked up the sweater and pulled it into my lap, clutching it against my chest. They didn’t know. They had no idea that this threadbare sweater was heavier than all the money in that account. 1. I was the only one there when Grandpa took his last breath. The hospital called at three in the morning. I drove forty minutes in the pitch black, breaking every speed limit from my apartment to the suburbs. The room was silent, just the steady, rhythmic hiss of the oxygen machine. He couldn’t speak anymore. But his frail, translucent hand reached out and locked onto my sleeve. He pulled. Weakly, but with a desperate kind of gravity. Like he was terrified I would walk out the door. I covered his trembling hand with both of mine. “I’m here, Grandpa. I’m not going anywhere.” He looked at me. His dry lips parted, trembling, but no sound came out. And then, the tension simply left his fingers. The grip loosened. He was gone. I called my dad. Dad called my brother, Bradley. Bradley didn’t show up until four o’clock the next afternoon. He walked into the hospital wearing a brand-new quarter-zip fleece, holding a to-go coffee. I had been sitting in that sterile room for thirteen hours. My eyes were burning, bloodshot and swollen. Bradley barely glanced at the empty bed. He let out a heavy sigh. “So, he’s really gone, huh?” Then, he turned to Nana. “Where’s the checkbook?” Those were the first words out of his mouth. Not, Did he suffer? Not, Brianna, you must be exhausted. Where is the checkbook. Nana didn’t flinch. She just dabbed at her dry eyes with a tissue and whispered, “We’ll talk about it at the house.” Three days after the funeral, Nana summoned the whole family to the old house. Aunt Susan came. Uncle Mark came. Uncle Richard and his wife, Carol. My dad was there, too. A dozen people packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stale air of the living room. Nana sat in Grandpa’s old recliner—the seat of power. “Your grandfather left us,” she announced, her voice tight but authoritative. “And he left a few things behind.” She let her gaze sweep over the room, finally landing on Bradley. “The joint savings account. There’s exactly one hundred and fifty-three thousand dollars.” She paused, letting the number hang in the air. “That money goes to Bradley.” I was sitting in the corner, near the drafty window. I blinked, the words taking a second to register. All of it? Nana must have felt my eyes on her, because she reached into a tote bag beside her chair. She pulled out the gray sweater. The one he’d worn for over a decade. The one with the sagging collar and the loose threads at the cuffs. “This,” she said, her tone flattening, “goes to Brianna.” She tossed it onto the cushion next to me. Casual. Like she was tossing out a dirty dish towel. I stared at the gray wool. Then at Bradley’s hand, resting possessively over the checkbook. A hundred and fifty grand. And a sweater. Aunt Susan took a slow sip of her tea. “Seems fair. Mom always knows best.” Uncle Mark nodded in agreement. “Bradley is the oldest grandson. He carries the family name. He’s got a future to build.” Aunt Carol shot me a sideways glance, her lips curving into a tight, patronizing smile. The kind of smile that said, And what exactly are you going to do about it? My dad was sitting on the loveseat. He kept his head bowed, staring at his shoes. He didn’t say a single word. I looked at him, willing him to look up. He didn’t. Bradley flipped open the checkbook. Once he saw the numbers printed on the bank ledger, a wide, easy smile broke across his face. “Thanks, Nana,” he said, his voice bright and loud. I looked back down at the sweater. I remembered Grandpa wearing it while sitting on the back porch, letting the autumn sun warm his face. I remembered him wearing it while sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for me to cook him Sunday dinner. I remembered him wearing it in the hospital bed, his weak fingers clutching my sleeve, refusing to let go. I picked up the sweater. I didn’t say a word. I just stood up and walked toward the front door. “Brianna!” Nana’s voice barked from behind me. “Where are your manners? Aren’t you going to say thank you?” I didn’t look back. 2. Six years. I took care of Grandpa for six years. It started the year I graduated from college. He had his first stroke, which left the entire left side of his body paralyzed. Nana complained that playing nurse was too exhausting. Dad said he was too busy with his corporate job. Bradley lived two states away and said his career couldn’t take the hit. So, I stepped up. Every weekend, I drove out from the city to the suburbs. Forty minutes, each way, for six years. Over three hundred weekends. I cooked his meals for the week and froze them. I helped him shower. I helped him walk out to the garden so he could feel the sun. I drove him to every cardiology and neurology appointment. I paid for his prescriptions every month. I bought his wheelchair out of my own pocket. Two thousand dollars. I bought the adjustable medical bed so he could sleep upright. Three thousand, five hundred dollars. He was hospitalized three times. The first time, eight days. My co-pays and the out-of-pocket home care costs came to four thousand. I paid it. The second time, twelve days. Six thousand dollars. I paid it. The third time. The last time. The ICU. Nineteen days. Another eight thousand. I paid that, too. In total, over twenty-eight thousand dollars of my own savings. In those six years, I never asked Bradley for a dime. I never asked Nana for a cent. I didn’t think I needed to ask. I thought they saw what I was doing. I thought it meant something. I was wrong. How many times did Bradley visit in those six years? Four. Four times. And he never stayed longer than two hours. The first time, he sat on the couch for thirty minutes, took a “work emergency” call, and bolted. The second time, he took three selfies with Grandpa and posted them to Instagram with the caption: Cherishing every moment with my hero. The third time was Thanksgiving. He ate the turkey I cooked, didn’t wash a single plate, and left before pie. The fourth time was the day Grandpa died. And his first question was about the money. I remembered something Nana said to me during Grandpa’s second hospital stint. I had called her to say I was putting the medical bills on my credit card for now. Nana had sighed into the receiver. “You’re a good girl, Brianna. Taking care of your grandfather is your duty.” My duty. Six years, twenty-eight thousand dollars, and three hundred weekends of my twenties. My duty. Bradley shows up four times, posts a few photos, and walks away with a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. His right. I took the sweater back to my cramped apartment. I laid it on my bed. I sat on the edge of the mattress, my thumb tracing the worn, pilled wool of the collar. Suddenly, the memory of Grandpa clutching my sleeve flashed in my mind. What was he trying to say? What did he want to tell me in those final seconds? I couldn’t sleep that night. It wasn’t just the sheer injustice of it all keeping me awake. It was the smell. The sweater smelled like Grandpa—that familiar mix of laundry detergent and old-spice aftershave. But beneath that, there was a sharp, overwhelming scent of mothballs. It was strong. Too strong. A sweater he wore every single day, one that I washed for him constantly, shouldn’t reek of mothballs. Unless… Unless it hadn’t come out of his everyday closet. Unless it had been stored away somewhere else entirely. 3. Five days after the family meeting, Bradley posted on Facebook. It was a photo of a shiny set of house keys dangling in front of a newly constructed suburban home. The caption: Thanks to Grandpa looking down on me. Down payment secured! Next chapter begins. A hundred and fifty grand. He used it to buy a house. In the comments, his wife, Courtney, replied: So proud of you, babe! Finally, a place of our own! followed by three heart emojis. I stared at the screen until my vision blurred. Six years. Three hundred weekends. Thousands of dollars. He had never even texted me a “thank you.” The next morning, my phone buzzed. It was Nana. “Brianna, we need to handle a little paperwork,” she said, her voice entirely too casual. “Your grandfather’s estate has been settled, as you know. But your Uncle Mark brought up the fact that, legally, you still have inheritance rights on paper.” I didn’t respond. “So,” she continued, “I’m going to have a courier drop off a waiver of inheritance. Just sign it and send it back.” She said it like she was asking me to sign for a package. “It’ll just save us a headache down the line.” I froze. “What kind of waiver?” “To formally relinquish your claim to the estate. Your brother already signed his half of the paperwork, we just need yours to close the probate.” I let the silence stretch for five agonizing seconds. “Nana. You gave me a dirty, worn-out sweater, and now you want me to sign a legal document giving up my rights?” Her tone instantly hardened, the polite veneer cracking. “What exactly are you implying? Are you trying to pick a fight with your brother over money?” “I didn’t say—” “Brianna.” She cut me off, her voice dropping into that familiar, icy register. “You are a girl. Eventually, you’ll marry into someone else’s family. Why on earth should your grandfather’s legacy go to you?” I gripped the phone. My knuckles turned white. “We all appreciate what you did for him those last few years. But that was expected of you. You’re the granddaughter.” There it was again. Expected. “Bradley is the firstborn grandson. The family assets belong to him. That is just how the world works.” I took a deep breath. A furious, burning retort sat on the tip of my tongue. But I swallowed it. Not because I was afraid of her. But because my mind was racing back to one specific thing. The mothballs. Why was the scent of mothballs so painfully strong? A sweater washed that often shouldn’t smell like a storage chest. Unless… it had something inside it. I hung up on her mid-sentence. I walked over to my bed and picked up the gray sweater. I held it up to the light. I turned it inside out. I checked the collar. The cuffs. The hem. My fingers stopped. On the inner left side of the bottom hem, there was a seam. The stitching was different from the rest of the garment. The rest of the sweater was machine-knit. This section was sewn by hand. By Grandpa’s hand. I recognized the tight, meticulous stitches. He had worked as a tailor when he first immigrated. My heart started to pound against my ribs. I grabbed a pair of sewing scissors from my desk. My hands were shaking. Carefully, I snipped the thread and pulled the seam apart. Inside the lining. A thick, heavy-duty ziplock bag. Vacuum-sealed flat. I pulled it out and tore it open. Inside were three things. A legal document. A sealed envelope. And a brass key. 4. The document was a Last Will and Testament. A notarized, legally binding Will. The date at the top: April 12, 2023. Exactly three months after his first stroke. The legal jargon was dense, but the core directive was crystal clear: I, Thomas Harding, being of sound mind, do hereby declare this to be my Last Will and Testament. The real estate property located at 128 Maplewood Drive, South End, shall, upon my passing, be inherited solely and entirely by my granddaughter, Brianna Harding. This document is notarized and supersedes any prior spoken or written directives. At the bottom was the raised seal of the State Notary Public. I read it three times. The paper rattled in my shaking hands. 128 Maplewood Drive. The house. Not the drafty old house Nana lived in. The rental property Grandpa had bought decades ago in a rundown neighborhood that had recently been completely gentrified by tech money. How much was a single-family home on Maplewood Drive worth now? I pulled up Zillow on my phone, my fingers fumbling over the screen. Estimated Value: $850,000. Eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I dropped my phone and picked up the envelope. Inside was a letter. Written on yellow legal pad paper. The handwriting was jagged and crooked—he had spent months doing physical therapy just to hold a pen again after the stroke. Brianna, I know your Nana is going to give the bank accounts to Bradley. I can’t stop her. She’s stubborn as a mule. I left that $150,000 sitting right out in the open on purpose. It’s bait. Let them have it. I went to a lawyer and put the Maplewood house in your name. It’s ironclad. You took care of me for six years, sweetheart. I saw every minute of it. I remember every weekend. The key is in the bag. Go look at the house. I left something for you there. When I’m gone, don’t cry for too long. You are the best thing I ever did in this world. I am so proud of you. I finished reading, the ink blurring as tears spilled onto the yellow paper. He knew. Grandpa knew everything. He knew Nana favored the boys. He knew Bradley wouldn’t show up when things got hard. He knew that in this entire family, I was the only one who genuinely loved him for him. So he took his greatest asset and hid it inside the one thing he knew they would never look twice at. The old, ratty sweater Nana despised. The sweater everyone thought was a humiliating joke to give me. The hundred and fifty grand was just bait. He threw it out there so the vultures would gorge themselves and leave the real treasure alone. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. I carefully folded the Will, the letter, and the key, and placed them in my safe. Then, I picked up my phone and called Diane, a friend from college who worked in estate law. “Diane, I need you to look at something. I have a notarized Will.” I texted her photos of the document. She was silent on the line for a long time. “Brianna… this is airtight,” she finally said. “A formal, notarized Will absolutely overrides the state’s default inheritance laws or anything your grandmother claims was a ‘verbal agreement.’” “Which means?” “Which means the house is legally yours. No one can touch it.” I looked over at the gray sweater resting on my mattress. Grandpa. You were ten times sharper than all of them put together. And right now, they were sitting in their suburban homes, patting themselves on the back. Bragging on Facebook. Trying to bully me into signing away my rights. Fine. I wasn’t going to sign their waiver. Not only was I not going to sign it. I was going to show them exactly how much a dirty old sweater was really worth.

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I was six months into my second marriage, carrying a belly that felt like a heavy secret, when my ex-husband crawled back into my life. He looked at me with a sickening mix of nostalgia and regret. “Erica, you were right,” Derek sighed, his voice thick with a staged kind of epiphany. “Amber was only ever after the money. She didn’t pass the test you set for her.” His gaze dropped to the curve of my stomach, and a sudden, delirious smile broke across his face. “I see it now. You’re the only one who ever truly loved me. We can put this behind us. From now on, it’s just the three of us—a real family.” Eight months ago, this man stood in our living room and confessed his affair with a girl barely out of her teens. Ten years. We had spent ten years building an empire from the lint in our pockets. We started in a studio apartment where the heater rattled like a dying ghost, sharing a single dollar-menu burger as our only meal for the day. And once the bank account finally reflected the blood, sweat, and tears I’d poured into his dreams, he told me he’d rather die than stay married to me. He wanted her. I wasn’t going to let a decade of my life be handed over on a silver platter to a home-wrecker. So, I played the long game. I looked him in the eye and lied through my teeth. “She only loves your net worth,” I had told him back then. “If you don’t believe me, sign everything over to me. Leave with nothing but the shirt on your back. If she stays with you through two years of struggle, I’ll admit it’s true love. I’ll give the assets back then.” He was so drunk on his own ‘epic’ romance that he believed me. He signed the papers. He walked away with zero. Now, snapping back to the present, Derek reached out, his hand trembling with an unearned intimacy, intending to touch my belly. I slapped his hand away. My voice was a blade of ice. “You don’t get a second chance, Derek. I have a husband. A real one. And unlike you, he actually knows how to take care of his family.” 1 Derek let out a soft, dismissive chuckle, the kind he used to use when he thought I was being ‘difficult.’ He opened his arms as if expecting me to fall into them. “I was a jerk, okay? I broke your heart. But let’s drop the act, Eri. I know you’re just saying this to hurt me.” He took a step closer, his eyes softening into that manipulative puppy-dog look. “I know I messed up. Stop being stubborn.” In Derek’s mind, I was a well of infinite forgiveness. He was convinced that no matter the scale of the betrayal, a few sweet words and a lowered head would bring me back to heel. He didn’t realize that infidelity wasn’t just a mistake; it was a scorched-earth policy. He had worked very hard to ensure there was nothing left of my love to salvage. “Derek, look at me,” I said, my tone hardening. “I am married. Do you not understand English?” He continued to smirk, that arrogant, lopsided grin he’d used for a decade to end every argument. He’d keep it up until I cracked a smile, until the tension broke, and he was off the hook again. It had always worked. He looked at my protruding stomach, his confidence swelling. “Alright, alright. Enough. You’re practically due. I’m not an idiot, Eri. Don’t use a fake marriage to pick a fight with me.” What he didn’t know was that I was carrying twins. At six months, I looked like I was ready to pop any day. He’d done the math in his head—the wrong math—and decided this child was his parting gift to me. “I’m having twins, Derek. I have a husband. I have a new life. This baby? Not yours. Not even close.” He didn’t even flinch. His ego was a fortress. “You always were a terrible liar,” he said, sounding almost proud. “You’d never carry another man’s child. You’re mine, Erica. In this life and the next. I know how much you love me. I’ve never doubted it for a second.” A cold, bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. Love? Mentioning children to me was like twisting a serrated knife in an old wound. In ten years of marriage, I had been pregnant three times. I had lost all of them. The first time was because of his mother. I was seven months along. She’d decided, based on some archaic old-wives’ tale about the shape of my bump, that I was having a girl. Without a word to me, she started slipping abortifacients into my food. I didn’t just lose the baby; I almost bled out on the kitchen floor. When I demanded a divorce, Derek didn’t leave—he just cried and begged me to forgive her. I didn’t. I called the police and watched them haul his mother to a cell. The second time was our fifth year. Derek got into a bar fight with a competitor, nearly killing the man. He was sentenced to two years. I was three months pregnant, drowning in legal fees and stress, running myself ragged to keep his reputation alive. The baby didn’t survive the chaos. The third time was our ninth year. Two months along. That was when Amber appeared. She pushed me during an argument at the top of the stairs. I spiraled down, and the life inside me flickered out. Derek didn’t even raise his voice at her. Ten years of shared breath, shared poverty, and shared dreams… all discarded for the giggle of a nineteen-year-old girl. 2 I reached into my bag to call my husband, but Derek’s phone buzzed first. From the corner of my eye, I saw the lock screen. It was Amber—a filtered, pouting selfie. Derek darkened the screen instantly, his face shifting into a mask of hurried business. “I have to handle something,” he said, dismissive as ever. “Send me your new address. I’ll come over later tonight so we can talk about coming home.” And just like that, he ran off. After the divorce, I hadn’t just moved; I had purged. I sold the company. I sold the mansion I had spent years decorating. I sold the luxury cars he had hand-picked. He knew I’d liquidated everything, but he had no idea I’d remarried within eight weeks. I wondered what his face would look like when he realized the ‘test’ for Amber was a lie, and the ‘clean break’ was the only thing that was real. On the ride home, my phone chimed. An anonymous message. A video. It was filmed in the corner of a crowded, dimly lit bar. Derek was there, his arm wrapped around a heavily made-up Amber. She was sporting a small, tell-tale bump of her own. “Only a year and a half to go,” Amber whined, leaning into him. “Then we get the money back. I don’t want you crawling back to that old woman. Can’t we just wait?” Derek’s fingers traced her jawline with a sickening tenderness. “You’re pregnant, babe. I don’t want you and the kid living like paupers. Just let me get back with Erica, and as soon as the assets are back in my name, you’ll be back in silk and diamonds.” Amber’s face soured. She balled up her fist and tapped his chest playfully, though her eyes were sharp. “You better not be lying. If you hadn’t listened to her and signed everything away, we wouldn’t have to do this. You actually let her make you doubt me!” Derek caught her hand and kissed it, though his voice held a new edge of sternness. “I said I’d take care of it. Just stay quiet. I’ll tell you the truth—I regret the divorce, but only because it was messy. Once I’m back with her, she’ll do the work, and you’ll get the reward.” Amber wasn’t mollified. She hit her own stomach lightly. “I’m the one carrying your legacy! Do you even care? I think you’re still obsessed with her.” Derek grabbed her wrist, his voice dropping an octave. “I told you. If you don’t make a scene, you get whatever you want. I need Erica. She’s the only one who can actually run the business side of things. I’m tired of being broke. Just stay out of my way while I reel her back in.” Amber looked cowed by his tone. She nodded, her eyes welling with fake, practiced tears. “So you’re just using her for the money? You promise I’m the one who matters?” Derek wiped her cheek, his expression softening into something like pity. “You’re both important in different ways. Erica is… she’s my first wife. It’s been hard without her. But she’s the one who makes the money. You’re the one I enjoy it with. Just don’t mess this up for me.” Then, he leaned in and kissed her. I stared at the screen, a cold, sharp smile spreading across my face. It didn’t matter what his motives were. He was never getting back in. 3 He was right about one thing: I was the only one who could help him. From age twenty to thirty, I was his everything. I was his maid, his chef, his CFO, and his shield. When we were starving, I’d give him the larger half of the bread. When his stomach ulcers acted up and he couldn’t drink at business dinners, I was the one who went shot-for-shot with investors until I was hospitalized with alcohol poisoning, just to close his deals. He used to hold me and sob, promising me the world. “A virtuous wife lifts her husband to the clouds; I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never touch the ground.” He swore he’d never betray me. But then Amber smiled at him, and suddenly I was “old” and “boring.” He forgot the girl who bled for his bank account. I watched the city lights blur outside the car window. I felt nothing—no sadness, no joy. Just a clinical sense of satisfaction. I had traded my youth for a fortune. And as for a husband? I had found a significant upgrade. The following weekend, I was at a high-end prenatal center for a class. To my absolute disgust, I ran into Derek and Amber. It was a “Couples’ Bonding” session. My husband, Beckett, was supposed to be there, but he’d been injured in a car accident during a business trip in London a week ago. He was stuck in a hospital bed across the Atlantic, so I was attending alone. Derek’s eyes widened when he saw me. In a room full of people, he tried to play it cool, acting like he didn’t know me. I returned the favor, treating him like background noise. The entire hour was a performance. Amber made sure to moan “Husband” or “Honey” at every opportunity. During the tactile bonding exercises, she hung off him, throwing triumphant, venomous glances my way. She looked like she’d won the lottery. I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a second glance. As I walked toward my Maybach in the parking lot afterward, Derek caught up to me, breathless. “Eri, wait. Let me explain.” He reached out to grab my arm. I yanked it away, my eyes flashing. “I am not your wife, Derek. Your life is none of my business. If you’re here to talk about the assets—” “Derek!” Amber appeared, a fake, sugary sweet smile plastered on her face. She stepped up to us and looked at me with mock sympathy. “Erica, hi! Look, I wanted to say… I’m going to be so good from now on. I know I’m younger, and you were here first. It’s only right that you’re the ‘Head Wife’ and I’m the ‘Second.’” She patted her stomach and then pointed at mine. “Since we’re both pregnant, the kids can be best friends! It’ll be like one big happy family.” She was a better actress than I gave her credit for. Derek looked at me with a terrifyingly sincere expression. “I was going to break up with her, Eri. I swear. But she’s pregnant. I have to be responsible. But I’m never leaving you again. We’ve been through too much. These last few months… I realized I’m nothing without you. Amber will be quiet. She’ll stay in her place. Just… be the bigger person, okay? For us?” I wasn’t angry. I was genuinely amused by his delusion. “Derek, for the last time. I. Am. Married. And this child is not—” Amber interrupted with a tinkling laugh. “Oh, Erica, stop with the ‘playing hard to get’ act. If you were married, where’s your husband? Why are you at a couples’ class alone? I’m literally offering to be the mistress just so Derek can have you back. Please, just accept it.” Derek patted my shoulder with nauseating condescension. “Alright, enough with the temper tantrum.” His phone rang—a client. He glanced at the ID and then back at me. “Wednesday. I’ll pick you up. We’re going to the courthouse to get remarried. Don’t be late.” He didn’t even wait for an answer. He assumed my silence was submission. 4 Suddenly, Amber doubled over, clutching her stomach and gagging. Derek, who had already turned to leave, pivoted back instantly, fussing over her. Amber looked up at him with teary eyes. “It’s the morning sickness, honey. Taxis always make it worse. Can we…?” Without a word of transition, Derek reached into my hand and snatched my car keys. “I’m taking Amber home,” he said, already steering her toward the passenger side of my car. “I have meetings and I need the wheels. You can just call an Uber, right, Eri?” He helped her into the seat before I could even process the sheer audacity. He climbed into the driver’s seat, closing the door with finality. For ten years, he had been conditioned to ignore my feelings. He truly believed that whatever he said, I would simply do. I stood there, stone-cold, as he started the engine. “That car is mine, Derek. If you pull out of that spot, I’m calling the police.” He frowned, his lips moving as if to argue, but Amber let out a sharp cry of pain from the passenger seat. “Derek, it hurts! I think the stress is getting to the baby!” All of Derek’s focus shifted back to her. “I’ve got you, babe. Hang on.” He floored it. My car sped out of the lot, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust. I didn’t hesitate. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. The rest was handled by my legal team. Derek was arrested for grand theft auto and sentenced to fifteen days in county jail. When he got out, he went on a rampage trying to find me, but I was a ghost. Until, that is, the night of the Lawson wedding. My husband, Beckett, and I were invited to the gala of the season. I was sitting in the lounge area, sipping sparkling water, while Beckett stepped away to use the restroom. That’s when I saw them. Derek and Amber had somehow gained entry—likely by crashing or begging an old contact. Derek was working the room, trying to project his old aura of success, but he looked frayed at the edges. When he spotted me, he marched over, his face a mask of suppressed rage. “Erica.” He pulled a chair so close our knees were almost touching. “I cannot believe you did that. You actually had me locked up over a car?” He let out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh. I remained composed. “I told you I would. Maybe now you’ll learn that ‘No’ is a complete sentence. Stop harassing me, Derek.” His expression darkened. He leaned in, his voice a low hiss. “Is that what this is? Fine. If I make Amber get an abortion and cut her off completely, will you finally come home?” I looked him dead in the eyes. “This is about the money, isn’t it? You want the assets back. Well, let me be very clear: You are never seeing a dime of that money again.” He blinked, stunned. “All is fair in love and war, Derek,” I continued. “You taught me that. I played you.” A bitter, broken smile touched his lips. He still didn’t believe I was capable of being as cold as him. “I care about the money, sure. But I care about us. I don’t know how to live without you. I know you’re mad about the cheating, but if you take me back, she’s gone. I mean it this time.” He sounded so sincere. To anyone else, it would have been moving. To me, it was just another Tuesday. Ten years of his lies had turned my heart into armor. “I’ve told you,” I said, patting my bump. “I’m married. I have a husband. I have a life. This child is his.” Derek laughed, a arrogant, hollow sound. “Where is he then? This mystery man? This imaginary husband who lets his pregnant wife sit alone at a wedding?” I looked past him. I saw Beckett walking toward us—tall, imposing, and looking every bit like the billionaire he was. “My husband,” I said, nodding toward the man behind Derek, “is right there.”

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I was the villain of the story. After being forced to play my part in a script I didn’t write, I reached my “scheduled departure.” I died. But then, I opened my eyes and found myself eighteen again. With tears blurring my vision, I fumbled for my phone and dialed the one person I had spent my entire life trying to outdo. My rival. My shadow. “Wyatt, I can’t find my house. Please, come get me.” Silence—dead, heavy silence—echoed from the other end. I felt a spark of the old me, the girl who refused to be ignored. “Wyatt! If you don’t come right now, I’m telling your parents! I’ll tell them you’re being a prick to me again!” A heavy, ragged breath hitched on the line. Then, a voice that sounded like it had been dragged through gravel and glass whispered back. “Wait for me.” Just three words. They sounded like they were traveling across a vast, impossible distance. On the other side of town, in a bathroom slick with red, Wyatt crawled slowly, painfully, out of a crimson bathtub. … One second, I was in my dining room at home, enjoying a lobster dinner. The next, I was standing on a street corner I didn’t recognize. I followed the map in my head, navigating a world that felt both hauntingly familiar and entirely alien, until I reached the gates of my neighborhood. But the security guard wouldn’t let me in. He looked at me like I was a ghost and told me my house had been sold two years ago. I didn’t believe him. I made him call the owner. When a stranger’s voice answered the line, my brain felt like it had been hit by a live wire. How could I go from my dining table to the sidewalk only to find my entire life had been erased? The panic started to set in. I checked my pockets—nothing but a few crumpled bills. I managed to borrow a phone from a passerby. The device looked sleek, more advanced than anything I’d ever seen, but I didn’t have time to wonder why. I dialed my parents’ number, my heart hammering against my ribs, only to hear the cold, mechanical recording of a disconnected line. Desperate, I dialed Wyatt. Wyatt was my “boy next door” nightmare. We’d been at each other’s throats since kindergarten. He’d steal my erasers; I’d shred his homework. He’d put spiders in my locker; I’d glue his chair. In middle school, when he ranked first in the state, I studied until my eyes bled just to take the second spot. By high school, if he ran for Class President, I ran for VP just to veto his every move. We had spent over a decade making each other miserable. We hated each other, but we were the only constants in each other’s lives. Right then, he was the only person left in my world. I expected him to laugh. I expected that punchable, arrogant smirk and a sarcastic comment about how the “Princess of the Heights” had finally fallen. But I had no other choice. In this strange, distorted reality, my enemy was my only lifeline. Then came the silence. I checked the screen—the call had connected. “Wyatt, I can’t find my house. Please, come get me.” Nothing. The panic flared into anger. “Wyatt! If you don’t come right now, I’m telling your parents! I’ll tell them you’re being a prick to me!” It was our old routine. No matter how bad our fights got, his parents always sided with me, and he’d eventually have to cave. “Wait for me,” he finally rasped. The voice was Wyatt’s, but it wasn’t the voice of the eighteen-year-old boy I knew. It was deeper, weathered, and dangerously fragile. I didn’t understand how the world could shift so much in a heartbeat. Half an hour later, a black sedan pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and a man stepped out. I froze. It was Wyatt, but it wasn’t. He looked like he was in his thirties. He was wearing a tailored black shirt and trousers that screamed success, his frame taller and broader than I remembered. His features were the same—the sharp jaw, the piercing eyes—but they were carved with the weight of years. But it was his eyes that truly broke me. They were hollowed out, like a fire that had burned down to cold ash. Looking at him, I felt a physical ache in my chest. What could have happened to him to make him look so… dead? The pain in his gaze was a tidal wave, even if his face remained a mask of stone. But the moment his eyes landed on me, a spark flickered back to life. “Wyatt?” I whispered, my voice trembling. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Get in the car,” he said, his voice a ghost of a sound. I hesitated. This man looked like Wyatt, but he moved with a crushing sense of exhaustion. “Is it… is it really you?” A bitter, fleeting smile touched his lips. “It’s me. Get in. It’s cold out here.” I bit my lip and climbed into the back seat. The interior was silent, save for the low hum of the engine. I watched him from the shadows, noticing how pale he was. His lips were bloodless, and as he gripped the steering wheel, I caught the metallic scent of copper. My eyes darted to his sleeves. There was blood soaking into the cuff of his shirt. Instinct took over. I reached forward, grabbing his arm and shoving the sleeve up. Even though he’d tried to bandage it, the white gauze was already blooming a deep, violent red. The cuts were fresh. They were deliberate. “Wyatt, what the hell are you doing to yourself?” I shouted, my voice cracking. We were rivals, sure. But we weren’t enemies. Not like this. What could possibly be worth ending it all? A suffocating silence filled the car. He didn’t deny it, and he didn’t explain. He just kept his eyes locked on me in the rearview mirror, his expression a mix of profound grief and a terrifying fear that I might vanish if he blinked. “Drive to the hospital! Now!” I screamed at the driver. The driver glanced nervously at the mirror, waiting for a command. Wyatt just looked at me. “Do what she says.” At the hospital, I was a wreck. When the doctors peeled back the soaked bandages, I saw the jagged, angry lines across his wrists. I burst into tears, sobbing as if the wounds were on my own skin. Wyatt looked lost. He reached out with his good hand, trying to comfort me. “Don’t cry. It doesn’t even hurt, I promise.” “You’re lying!” I sobbed. “How can that not hurt?” There was so much blood. He was so white. He looked like he was fading away right in front of me. Yet, he seemed completely detached from the pain, his only focus being the soft words he used to try and calm me down. Even the doctor looked confused by his stoicism. They rushed him into surgery to repair the tendons. I sat on the plastic bench in the hallway, my hands slick with cold sweat. He had really meant it. This wasn’t a cry for help; it was a mission. Wyatt, the boy who was too arrogant to ever lose, had decided to give up. What had I missed? A nurse walked out. “Family for Mr. Beaumont? “I’m here,” I said, standing up instantly. “He’s lost a lot of blood. We’re low on his type in the bank right now…” “Take mine,” I said without thinking. “We’re the same type.” She paused, looking at me. “And your relationship to the patient?” I hesitated for only a second. “I’m his girlfriend.” She nodded and led me away to the donor chair. An hour later, the surgeon emerged. “He’s stable. But his mental state is extremely fragile. He needs to see a specialist immediately.” “A specialist?” “Yes. Given the depth and placement of the wounds, this was a very determined attempt. If you hadn’t called when you did…” I didn’t wait for him to finish. I ran into the room. Wyatt was lying there, his left arm a mountain of white gauze. He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes so empty it made my stomach flip. “Wyatt,” I choked out. He turned his head. Slowly, his eyes focused on me, and he smiled. “You’re still the same. Still such a crybaby.” “You almost died, you idiot! Of course I’m crying!” He just kept smiling, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m just happy.” “Happy? I thought I lost you! I thought…” I couldn’t even say the words. “Why? Just tell me why!” He didn’t answer. He just watched me with a gaze that felt like a thousand scars being reopened, yet somehow filled with a desperate, new hope. He didn’t even want to blink. He reached up with his right hand and wiped a tear from my cheek. His hand was freezing, but as he felt the warmth of my skin, his smile widened. “It’s really you.” I slapped his hand away, frustrated. “Of course it’s me! Now tell me what’s going on!” “There are things,” he said softly, “that you wouldn’t understand.” “Then explain them! I’m not stupid, Wyatt!” But all I got was that same heavy, drowning silence. And that look—that devastatingly sad look that made my heart feel like lead. Wyatt refused to stay in the hospital. Against medical advice, he checked himself out. On the drive back, I couldn’t stop staring at his bandaged wrist. “Wyatt.” “Yeah?” “Don’t ever do that again. I don’t care how bad things get. Do you hear me?” He looked at me, a soft, tired smile on his face. “Okay.” As we drove, the world outside the window felt like a sci-fi movie. I couldn’t stop asking questions. “What is that building? Since when did they build a glass tower there? Everything looks so… futuristic.” I felt like a country girl seeing the city for the first time. The car eventually pulled up to a massive, modern villa. “This is where you live?” I asked, stunned. “Yeah,” he said, opening the door. “Come inside.” The interior was minimalist but screamed wealth. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over a perfectly manicured garden. It felt surreal. In my memory, Wyatt’s family was well-off, but this was billionaire territory. “Don’t just stand there,” he said. “Come in.” The house was spotless, but it felt cold. It felt like a showroom, not a home. There were no photos, no clutter, no signs of life. “Wyatt, where are my parents? I tried calling, but the number is dead.” His back stiffened. “They moved abroad. They changed their numbers a long time ago.” “Oh. But why wouldn’t they tell me? I’m their only daughter. That’s so messed up.” I didn’t really believe him, but in this world where everything felt “off,” Wyatt was the only thing I could grab onto. “Yeah,” he murmured. I looked at him, the confusion boiling over. “Wyatt, what is happening? Everything is familiar but wrong. And you… you look…” Older. “Nothing happened,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “I’ve just had a few rough years.” He had clearly made a fortune, yet he said he’d had a rough time. He was hiding something huge. It hit me then. This wasn’t my time. I was still eighteen, but he was thirty. I had somehow skipped twelve years. Looking at him, my heart twisted. Whatever had happened in those twelve years had broken him so badly he’d tried to end it all. The next morning, I got up early to make breakfast. I didn’t know the truth yet, but I knew I had to take care of him until he was whole again. I was just finishing some noodles when he came downstairs. “Wyatt! I made that spicy brisket chili you used to love. Come eat.” He froze at the base of the stairs. “You remembered.” “Duh. We lived next door for eighteen years. I know what you like. And don’t worry, I didn’t ‘accidentally’ drop a whole bottle of hot sauce in it this time.” He sat down and took a bite. Then, he started eating like a man who hadn’t seen food in a week, swallowing huge mouthfuls. “Whoa, slow down,” I laughed. “It’s not going anywhere. We have time.” He slowed down instantly at my words. “That’s better,” I said, satisfied. “I’ll make it for you every day until you’re sick of it.” Wyatt kept his head down, shoveling the food into his mouth. But I saw it—a single tear splashed right into the bowl. He was a thirty-year-old man, a titan of industry by the looks of it, and he was crying over a bowl of chili. I hadn’t even started teasing him yet.

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As I lay dying in the snow, my husband was huddled by a roaring fire, sharing a grilled steak with his first love. He had stripped my down coat off my freezing body and wrapped it around her. “You’re going to die anyway,” he’d said, his voice as cold as the frost on my lashes. “Don’t let it go to waste.” After I died, my soul lingered, tethered to the world by sheer spite. I heard him whisper to her, “We only have this pocket dimension because that stupid woman gave me her family’s heirloom medallion. Everything in this space is ours now.” Then, I blinked. The world rushed back—the warmth of the sun, the hum of the city, the smell of expensive cologne. I was back. It was the day before the apocalypse. Martin was standing in front of me, his voice oily and sweet, trying to coax the medallion out of my hand. I looked him dead in the eye and, with every ounce of strength I possessed, slammed the quartz against the marble floor. It shattered into a million useless green shards. This time, let’s see how you survive. 1 “Crystal, have you lost your mind?” Martin’s roar nearly burst my eardrums. The crisp, sharp sound of the medallion shattering was still echoing in the living room. Green dust and jagged fragments were scattered across the rug—the remains of a carved quartz piece that had been in my family for generations. In my past life, it was the weapon he used to kill me. Martin’s eyes were bloodshot as he lunged at me like a feral animal. He grabbed my shoulders, his grip so tight I felt my bones groan under the pressure. “That was worth half a million dollars! Half a million!” he screamed, spit flying. “You stupid bitch! What the hell is wrong with your head?” I looked at his distorted face with a chilling detachment. Half a million? No. In the coming Great Freeze, that medallion was priceless. In my previous life, I had watched him struggle with his failing startup. Out of some misplaced sense of wifely devotion, I gave him the medallion to hock for capital. But when the world ended the next day, he discovered the secret: the quartz contained a hundred-square-meter storage dimension. A pocket of space that remained a constant sixty-eight degrees, no matter the weather outside. He used that space to hoard mountains of supplies. Then, he locked me out of the house, forcing me into the blizzard to find firewood for him. He called it “building my survival skills.” I froze to death in a minus-ninety-degree storm. My last sight through the frosted window was Martin cradling his “golden girl,” Dora, wrapping my own premium down coat around her legs. They were drinking my vintage Cabernet and eating hot food while I turned into an ice sculpture. They didn’t even bother to bury me. This time, I wasn’t just breaking the quartz. I was breaking their lifeline. “Martin, you’re hurting me,” I whispered, blinking rapidly, forcing a look of wide-eyed innocence. Martin was shaking with rage, his hand flying back as if to strike me. “I ought to kill you for this!” His hand stopped mid-air. I had pulled a black Centurion card from my pocket and was waving it slowly between two fingers. “I was going to tell you… my father just released my million-dollar trust fund for my ‘business venture,’” I said softly. “But if you’re this angry, maybe the money should stay in the bank…” Martin’s pupils dilated. The transition was nauseating. His raised hand diverted its path, landing instead on his own thigh with a sheepish slap. “Honey!” His face flipped faster than a script page. The predatory snarl dissolved into a groveling, pathetic grin. “Look at you! Why didn’t you say so? I was just… I was just stressed about the heirloom. You know how much I value your family history.” He let go of my shoulders and reached out to rub them, his touch making my skin crawl. His eyes, however, stayed glued to the black card. Greed. Pure, unadulterated greed. In my last life, he used this same “sweetness” to drain every bit of value from me before discarding me like trash. I tucked the card back into my pocket. “The quartz had to go,” I said, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “Martin, I had a dream. A vision. An angel told me that the medallion was a curse on our wealth. It was a ‘stopper.’ We had to break it to let the real fortune flow in.” Martin paused, a flicker of disdain crossing his features. He was a rationalist who only believed in things he could spend. But right now, he needed my money. “You’re right, babe. To hell with old superstitions! If it brings the luck, I’m glad it’s gone!” He tried to grab my hand. “So, about that million…” I stepped back, moving to the sofa. “I’m putting all of it on the table. We aren’t starting a business, Martin. We’re prepping.” Martin looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “Prepping? For what? You’re acting crazy.” I smiled. “The vision said the world changes tomorrow. A deep freeze. We need to build an apocalypse-proof fortress.” Martin reached out to feel my forehead. “You don’t have a fever…” Right then, the doorbell rang. A soft, melodic voice drifted through the door. “Martin? Are you home? I… I have an emergency.” That voice. I would recognize it even if my ears were filled with gravel. Dora. Martin’s “One That Got Away.” The delicate waif. In my last life, she was the one who whispered in his ear that I was “taking up too much space” in the shelter. Martin’s face paled. He looked at me, panic flitting across his eyes. “Uh, that’s just… Dora. She’s probably having car trouble.” I stood up, my smile radiant. “Well, don’t just stand there. Let her in! We’re going to need all the help we can get for our ‘Survival Plan.’” If we’re all going to hell, we might as well go as a family. 2 The door opened, and there stood Dora. She was wearing a thin white sundress, looking like a breeze could knock her over. Her eyes were rimmed with red, the perfect picture of a damsel in distress. “Oh… Crystal. You’re here too,” she stammered, casting a longing, soulful look at Martin. “Martin, my landlord is raising the rent again, and I… I have nowhere else to go…” Give this woman an Oscar. In my previous life, I fell for this act. I welcomed her into our home, cooked for her, cared for her. I invited the wolf into the den. Martin looked pained, ready to comfort her, but I moved faster. I grabbed Dora’s hands. “Dora! What perfect timing!” I exclaimed. “I was just telling Martin—we need a ‘good luck charm’ for the house, and here you are!” Dora blinked, confused. Martin looked equally stunned. “Crystal, what are you talking about?” she asked. I pulled her into the living room and pushed her down onto the sofa. “Dora, dear, I’ve become very spiritual lately. Breaking that quartz medallion today was about clearing out the bad energy. Now, we’re making big moves.” I turned to Martin. “Martin, honey, I’m going to pull the million out. We’re turning this penthouse into the safest place in the city.” The mention of the money made Martin’s eyes light up like a pinball machine. Even Dora’s breath hitched. “You’re… renovating?” she asked. “More than that,” I whispered, leaning in. “I’m installing industrial floor heating, a wood-burning fireplace, bulletproof glass. I’m buying a year’s supply of prime rib and crates of the best French wine. Imagine it: a blizzard outside, and we’re in here, warm and toasty, eating hot pot. It’ll be heaven.” I watched their expressions as I painted the picture. I saw them both swallow hard. Greed is the perfect bait. As long as there’s a hook, the fish will bite. “But…” Martin hesitated. “All that money on renovations? This place is technically in your name from before the wedding. If we spend the million here, it just increases your equity.” The sound of his mental calculator was deafening. Even now, he was worried about property value. I suppressed a cold laugh. “Martin, what are you thinking? I’m putting your name on the deed. And the million goes into our joint account. But…” I paused, letting the silence hang. “The vision said that for the fortune to last, we have to prove our commitment. A sacrifice.” “What kind of sacrifice?” they asked in unison. I pointed to the window. Outside, the August sun was brutal. It was nearly a hundred degrees. “A test of character,” I said. “If you want a spot in my fortress, you have to show me you’re all in. Martin, sell your Porsche. Dora, sell those designer bags of yours. Every cent goes into supplies. Whoever contributes more gets the ‘Senior Status’ in the bunker. More food, better room. It’s all about the investment.” Martin’s face fell. That car was his soul. Dora clutched her Prada bag to her chest. “Crystal, that’s…” “Not interested?” I shrugged, picking up the black card. “Fine. I’ll just go check into a five-star hotel. I have the money. I can survive the end of the world in luxury by myself. I’ll spend the million on me.” I made a move toward the door. “Wait!” Martin barked, grabbing my arm. “I’ll do it! I’ll sell it! It’s just a car. For our future, I’ll sacrifice anything!” He turned to Dora, his eyes narrowing. “You too. Sell the bags. They’re just leather, Dora. You can’t eat a Birkin when the world freezes.” Dora flinched under his gaze, nodding tearfully. “Okay… whatever you say, Martin.” Watching them suffer over their petty possessions was a delight. This was only the beginning. I would strip them of every safety net they had. I would watch them lose everything while I prepared for the grand finale. 3 For the next twenty-four hours, I was the commanding officer of the household. Martin sold his car for fifty thousand. Dora sold her collection for ten. I “generously” added five thousand in cash to the “pot.” That was our entire working capital. The million-dollar trust fund? That was a ghost. A carrot on a stick that only I could see. “Martin, go get flour, rice, and oil. Only the premium stuff,” I ordered, playing the part of the demanding heiress. “Dora, you’re on clothing duty. We need down jackets—real goose down, nothing cheap.” I sat in the air-conditioned living room, sipping an ice-cold Coke and scrolling through my phone, while they ran around like frantic servants. Behind their backs, I was placing real orders. Generators, heavy-duty batteries, portable heaters. Thousands of hand warmers and self-heating meal kits. I had them delivered to an abandoned garage three blocks away—a space I’d rented under a different name. “Crystal, why are we buying so much charcoal?” Martin asked, lugging crates of smokeless coal through the door. He was drenched in sweat, looking like a beaten dog. “It’s the twenty-first century. We have electricity.” I looked at him with feigned pity. “You don’t get it, do you? The vision said the grid goes down first. This coal will be our heartbeat.” Martin rolled his eyes, probably thinking I’d finally lost it. But he didn’t argue. Not with the million dollars still “pending.” Dora returned later, dragging bags of clothes. They were cheap, off-season clearance items. Half the feathers were already poking through the seams. “Crystal, I went everywhere. This is all I could find with the money I had left…” she whined, looking at me for sympathy. She had clearly pocketed a portion of the cash for herself. I didn’t call her out. Those clothes weren’t for her anyway. “It’s fine, sweetie. You worked so hard,” I said, taking the bags. “Go rest. Tonight, we feast.” I ordered a massive spread for dinner. Lobster, steak, the works. Martin and Dora ate until they were stuffed, oblivious to the fact that this might be their last real meal. “Babe, when is that million hitting the account?” Martin asked, a bit tipsy on the wine. “Tomorrow morning,” I promised, pouring him another glass. “As soon as the bank opens. Then we start the real work. We’re going to triple-insulate the walls!” Martin beamed, pulling Dora into a side-hug as they fantasized about the future. “We’ll be in here watching the world freeze,” Martin laughed. “We’ll be eating steak while everyone else is eating wind. Cheers to that!” I watched them from across the table. Laugh now, I thought. Tomorrow, you learn what hell feels like. I checked the weather app. A “Red Alert” for heat had been issued. The forecast said 110 degrees for tomorrow. Everyone thought the heatwave would last forever. No one knew that at noon tomorrow, an unprecedented polar vortex would sweep the globe. The temperature would drop from 110 to minus-60 in less than an hour. And I had a very special gift waiting for them. 4 The next morning, I dragged Martin and Dora out of bed at 6:00 AM. “Get up! We have work to do!” Martin rubbed his eyes, groggy. “What? It’s too early. The bank isn’t even open.” “The contractors dropped off the supplies!” I pointed to a pile of bricks and bags of cement by the door. I’d had them delivered at dawn. “The vision said we have to do the work ourselves to ‘seal the luck.’ This morning, we’re bricking up the balcony and sealing the windows in the guest room.” Martin’s face turned green. “I have to do it myself? Can’t we hire someone?” “And let people know we have a hoard?” I hissed. “When the end comes, they’ll come for us first. We keep it in the family.” That hit his paranoia perfectly. Martin was as selfish as he was lazy. “Fine, fine! I’ll do it!” I drafted Dora into service, too. “Dora, go strip all the comforters in the house. Take the cotton batting out and re-fluff it. The vision said old, compressed cotton loses its spirit. We need it fresh.” Dora looked at the mountain of heavy bedding and nearly cried. “Crystal, my hands hurt…” “Do they?” I glanced at her. “Then maybe you shouldn’t stay here. The million isn’t for people who don’t contribute.” Dora shut her mouth and got to work. I acted as the foreman, sitting in the center of the room in a lounge chair, eating chilled watermelon while I barked orders. “Martin, those bricks aren’t level! Do it over!” “Dora, that cotton is still lumpy! Do you want us to freeze?” They were miserable, drenched in sweat and covered in dust. Time ticked by. Eleven o’clock. The sky outside began to turn a strange, bruised purple. The blinding sun suddenly felt dim. The wind died down. The world went deathly silent. “What’s going on?” Martin wiped his brow and walked to the window. “Why is it getting dark? Is it going to rain?” Dora joined him. “It’s so muggy…” I checked my watch. Thirty minutes left. “Martin, I’m heading to the bank,” I said, standing up and brushing the dust off my skirt. “I have to sign for the wire transfer in person.” Martin’s eyes lit up. “I’ll drive you!” “No,” I waved him off. “You have to finish that wall. If it’s not done, the ‘money god’ won’t enter. And Dora needs to finish that batting.” I went to the door and laced up my sturdy hiking boots. “Just stay here and work. Once the money is in, we’re safe forever.” Martin hesitated, but his greed won out. “Okay. Hurry back. Be careful out there.” For a second, he almost sounded like he cared. He just didn’t want his cash cow to get hit by a car. “Don’t worry,” I smiled. “I’ll be back before you know it.” Liar. I stepped out and pulled the heavy, reinforced door shut. Then, I took a tube of industrial-strength epoxy I’d hidden in my pocket and jammed it into the lock cylinder. I squeezed until the mechanism was completely seized. I took a deep breath, turned, and ran for the elevator. My destination was the abandoned garage downstairs—my safe house. As for Martin and Dora? They were trapped in a fortress with no windows, no insulation, and the very walls they’d bricked up themselves. I hoped they enjoyed the cold.

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On the eve of our wedding, I was clearing out storage on Sophia’s phone to make room for our professional wedding photos. That’s when I saw it—the “Recently Deleted” folder. At the very bottom lay a dozen screenshots of the same man’s Instagram feed. They were all recent, mundane captures of his daily life: a coffee cup, a blurry sunset, a gym selfie. I handed the phone to her. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw anything. I just wanted the truth. Sophia stood on the balcony for hours, a silhouette against the city lights. When she finally walked back in, her voice was a raspy whisper. “We had a thing in college. It was a long time ago. I heard he was struggling lately, so I pulled some strings to get him a desk job at the branch office. It was just a favor, Dan. I know who comes first.” Seven years of my life were tied up in this woman. I didn’t want to lose everything over a few screenshots. I wanted to believe her. So, the next morning, I walked into City Hall with her anyway. But just as my pen hovered over the marriage license, Sophia’s best friend, Tiffany, called. The car’s Bluetooth picked it up instantly. “Sophia! Corey found out you’re getting married today. He’s on the roof of his building—he won’t come down! He’s losing it!” The pen jerked, tearing a jagged line through the official document. Sophia bolted upright, grabbing her car keys before the call even ended. “Sophia,” I said, my voice deathly quiet. “If you don’t sign that paper right now, don’t ever bother signing anything with my name on it again.” She didn’t even look back. She sprinted through the heavy glass doors and disappeared. … The air conditioning in the City Hall lobby was aggressive, biting at my skin. The clerk sat there with her hand frozen in mid-air, looking at me with a mix of pity and awkwardness. “Are we… still doing this?” she asked. The couple behind us leaned forward, their impatience radiating in waves. “Hey, buddy, you in or out? We’ve got a reception to get to,” the man grumbled. “Seriously,” his fiancée chimed in. “The girl literally ran away. Why are you still sitting there?” I capped the pen and handed it back to the clerk. “We’re not. Please cancel the application.” The clerk blinked, her mouth opening as if to offer a platitude, but she thought better of it. I took the torn marriage license, ripped it down the middle, and walked out without looking back. The sunlight outside was blinding, cruel in its brightness. I hailed a cab. “The Heights,” I told the driver. When I pushed open the door to the apartment we had spent months decorating, the color white hit me like a physical blow. White roses, white ribbons, white guest favors. A pair of custom-made bride and groom teddy bears sat on the sofa, mocking me. The coffee table was buried under a mountain of invitations and silk-wrapped boxes. My phone buzzed. I slid the screen open. Tiffany had just posted on her Instagram Story. In the photo, Sophia was huddled over a man in a white shirt, frantically rushing him into an Emergency Room. The camera only caught the back of Sophia’s head, but you could see the desperation in the way she shielded his head with her hands. The caption read: First love is the only love that leaves a scar. Ten years of ‘companionship’ can’t compete with a soulmate. A few of our mutual friends had already liked it. I stared at the image for a full minute, then, with a steady thumb, I tapped the heart icon. I closed the app and tossed the phone onto the sofa. I stripped off the custom-tailored white shirt I’d bought specifically for today and changed into a plain black tee and jeans. I headed straight for the hotel downtown. At the front desk, I didn’t hesitate. “I need to cancel the wedding banquet for tonight. I’d like a refund on the deposit, returned to the original card.” The manager’s professional smile faltered. He checked the reservation and looked up at me, confused. “Sir, you didn’t get the message?” I frowned. “What message?” “About thirty minutes ago, a Miss Sophia Miller called. She didn’t cancel. She changed the event name to a ‘Recovery Celebration’ for a Mr. Corey Donald.” A cold laugh bubbled up in my chest. She ditched our wedding to save her ex, and then tried to use my money to throw him a party. “That $15,000 deposit came from my personal account. My name is the only one on the contract,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “Who authorized a change to the nature of the event without my signature?” The manager started sweating. “Well, Miss Miller said you were as good as married… that her word was yours…” “We aren’t married,” I interrupted. “Refund the $15,000 to my account immediately. Now. Or I’m calling my lawyer and the police to report a fraudulent unauthorized transaction facilitated by your staff.” The manager’s face went pale. He grabbed his radio and called the finance office. Within two minutes, my phone pinged with a banking notification. As I turned to leave, a commotion broke out at the entrance. A group of women walked in, armed with bundles of balloons and streamers. Leading the pack was Tiffany. She was carrying a massive bouquet of red roses, looking like she was on a mission of mercy. “Dan? What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy. She tossed the roses onto a nearby chair. “Sophia asked us to come early to redecorate. Corey just had his stomach pumped; he’s incredibly fragile. Sophia wants to throw him a little ‘welcome back to life’ party to lift his spirits.” She looked me up and down, her lip curling. “You were always too controlling, Dan. Too intense. Corey has clinical depression—he almost died because he couldn’t handle losing her. You’ve had seven years with Sophia. You can handle losing one day.” I looked at Tiffany’s smug, self-righteous face. I walked over to the refreshments table, picked up a glass of red wine intended for the guests, and walked back to her. She was still talking. “Corey said his biggest regret was never seeing her in a white dress, so Sophia said tonight—” I threw the wine directly into her face. Tiffany shrieked, clutching her eyes as the dark red liquid soaked into her designer dress. Her friends scrambled forward with tissues, gasping in horror. “Tell Sophia the banquet is cancelled,” I said. “If she wants to throw a party for her side-piece, she can find her own damn money to pay for it. And as for you—if you ever show your face near me again, it won’t be wine. It’ll be boiling water.” I walked out of the hotel, ignoring the screaming behind me. The moment I stepped onto the sidewalk, the sky opened up. A torrential downpour slammed into the pavement. I pulled out my phone to call an Uber, but the wait time was over forty minutes. I decided to walk to my office a few blocks away just to get out of the rain. But as I crossed the second intersection, a white-hot pain seared through my abdomen. I leaned against a bus stop sign, my vision blurring into static. My legs gave out, and I slumped into the freezing puddles on the sidewalk. Before I lost consciousness, I heard a distant voice shouting, “Call 911! Someone’s down!” When I woke up, I was staring at the sterile white tiles of a hospital ceiling. A doctor in a white coat was standing over me, flipping through a chart. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?” I struggled to sit up, clutching my stomach. “What happened?” “Exhaustion, severe dehydration, and an acute stress-induced gastric episode,” the doctor said, adjusting his glasses. “We need to run more tests, but you’re in bad shape. Where’s your family?” I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The door burst open. Sophia rushed in, breathless. She marched to my bedside, and the moment she saw me leaning against the pillows, her brow furrowed into a knot of frustration. “Dan, are you serious right now? Is this enough?” She didn’t ask how I was. She didn’t ask why I was hooked up to an IV. She went straight to the interrogation. “Corey just stabilized. Why did you ‘like’ Tiffany’s post? He saw your notification and it triggered him. He started crying and trying to pull his IV out!” She pointed toward the door, her chest heaving. “You need to come downstairs to his room right now and apologize. Tell him the wedding didn’t happen so he can rest in peace.” I looked at this woman. I had loved her for seven years. I knew every curve of her face, yet the expression she was wearing was so alien it terrified me. I let out a jagged, hollow laugh. “Sophia… I’m in a hospital bed.” She paused, her eyes flickering to the tubes in my hand. Her voice softened, but only by a fraction. “I know you have a fever because of the rain, but Corey has a mental illness. He could die. You’re strong, Dan. You’ll be fine after a couple of bags of saline. Corey is different.” She sat down, sighing as if she were the one being inconvenienced. “You’ve always been the sensible one. Just do this for me. Corey feels so insecure. I’m thinking of buying him that small studio apartment downtown—putting it in his name. If he has a home, he’ll heal faster.” She looked at me, her tone completely matter-of-fact. “As for our wedding… let’s just push it back a year. Once Corey is stable, we can talk about us again.” My stomach turned. Seven years. From college dorms to the corporate grind. We had shared ramen, cramped studio apartments, and saved every penny for our first down payment. I thought we were a team. I pulled my hand out of hers and pointed at the door. “Sophia, you don’t love me anymore.” Her face hardened. She stood up. “Don’t be dramatic, Dan! He’s a patient! He needs me right now, and I can’t just abandon him.” She ran a hand through her hair, agitated. “Just calm down. I’ll check on you later.” She walked out without looking back. The next morning, I checked myself out against medical advice. I took my discharge papers and went down to the lobby to settle the bill. Passing a private room on the corner, I saw them. Sophia was sitting by the bed, holding a bowl of soup. She was blowing on a spoonful, her expression tender and focused. Corey was propped up on pillows, looking pale and fragile. He opened his mouth and took the soup from her. “This is so good, Sophia. Did you make it yourself?” She wiped a stray drop from his chin. “If you like it, I’ll make it for you every day.” I stood in the hallway, my fingers crushing the hospital bill. Seven years. Every time I had the flu or a migraine, Sophia would just order DoorDash. She always said she couldn’t even boil an egg without burning it. It turned out she could cook. She just didn’t want to cook for me. Corey glanced toward the door and saw me. He let out a sharp cry, flailing his arms and knocking the bowl out of Sophia’s hands. He scrambled under the covers like a terrified child. “Dan… don’t be mad at her. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t be sick. I shouldn’t be a burden.” Sophia didn’t even notice the hot soup splashing onto her own hand. She gathered Corey into her arms, stroking his hair to calm him. Then she turned and glared at me with pure venom. “Dan! Is there no end to this? I told you to stay in your room! Why are you stalking us?” She stormed over and shoved my shoulder. Hard. I was still weak. I stumbled back, my lower back slamming into the sharp edge of the hallway railing. A jolt of agony shot through my gut. I slid down the railing, clutching my stomach, gasping for air. Sophia froze for a second, her hand reaching out as if to help, but then Corey started sobbing again. She pulled her hand back, her face twisting into a mask of annoyance. “Stop acting. I didn’t even push you that hard. Just go home, Dan. Stop making a scene in a hospital.” I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stand despite the cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. “Sophia, look at the paper.” I held up the bill. “I was on my way to the cashier. I have zero interest in your little melodrama.” I didn’t wait for her response. I walked toward the elevator. That night, I went back to the apartment. I had just finished showering when my phone lit up. A Venmo notification from Sophia: $100. Then came two voice notes. “I was stressed earlier. I shouldn’t have pushed you. Use that money to get that lobster bisque you love. Consider it an apology.” I listened to the message, staring at the $100. I typed out a single sentence: I’ve been deathly allergic to shellfish for the entire seven years we’ve been together. You never remembered. She replied almost instantly: Sorry, I’m just exhausted. My head is spinning. I’ll go to the mall tomorrow and pick out something nice for you. Just stay home and wait for me. I didn’t reply. I threw the phone on the bed. Sophia didn’t come home that night. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling until 2:00 AM. Then, I got up, went to the storage closet, and pulled out several large moving boxes. I started with my life. My clothes, my books, my laptop. I stood in the living room and looked at the charcoal grey sofa. We had spent three weekends picking that out. The 75-inch TV—we’d saved our bonuses for six months to buy it. I remembered the day it was delivered; Sophia had danced around the room. Back then, her eyes were full of light. Now, the house was still here, but the light was gone. I swept the “His and Hers” mugs off the counter into a trash bag. I took down every framed photo of us and threw them into a box marked “Junk.” By dawn, the apartment felt hollow. My heart felt the same. I taped the last box shut and wiped the dust from my hands. The sun began to bleed over the horizon. I took a long, deep breath and let it out. I was done. At 9:00 AM, the movers arrived. They began hauling my boxes and my furniture out. The door was propped open when my soon-to-be mother-in-law walked in, carrying a bag of groceries. Her face dropped. She slammed the groceries onto the table. “Dan? What the hell is this?” “Sophia didn’t tell you? The wedding’s off,” I said, not looking up from my clipboard. “So she missed one appointment because she was busy! You’re going to tear the whole house apart over that?” she screamed at the movers. “Put that down! Who told you you could take that?” She turned back to me, her voice sharp. “You’re twenty-seven, not a child! Call Sophia right now and stop this before you make our family the laughingstock of the neighborhood!” I didn’t even bother arguing. “Keep moving,” I told the guys. “Take the desk next. Careful with the corners.” Footsteps echoed in the hall. Sophia walked in, leading Corey by the hand. He looked perfectly fine today, dressed in a fresh button-down. Sophia ignored the movers entirely. She led Corey to the center of the room. “Corey, look around. The furniture is all high-end. Pick whatever you like, and I’ll have it moved to your new place.” Her mother blinked, looking between Sophia and Corey. “Sophia… who is this?” “Just a colleague, Mom. He just got out of the hospital, I’m helping him get settled.” Corey broke away from her and walked to my bedroom door. He pointed at the mahogany standing desk—a custom piece I’d flown in from an artisan in Vermont. Sophia hadn’t paid a cent for it. “I like this one, Sophia. This would look great in my study.” I stepped in front of him. “That’s mine. Nobody touches it.” Corey’s lower lip trembled. He grabbed Sophia’s sleeve. “Maybe I should just go. I’ll just buy something cheap at IKEA. I don’t want to cause trouble.” Sophia’s face darkened. She stepped toward me, her hand raised to shove me again. “Dan, don’t be so petty. I’ll Venmo you the cash for it, for God’s sake!” Before she could touch me, a shadow fell over the doorway. My father came charging in, face red with fury. Without a word, he swung. SLAP. The sound of his hand hitting Corey’s face echoed like a gunshot. Corey hit the floor, wailing. My father pointed a trembling finger at Sophia. “You ungrateful, heartless girl! My son gave you seven years of his life, and you not only ditch him at the altar, you bring your little pet into his home to scavenge his things? Do you think he has no one left in his corner?” Seeing Corey on the floor, Sophia’s eyes turned murderous. She helped him up, shielding him, and then she actually squared up to my father, her fist clenched. I grabbed a heavy porcelain vase from the entryway table and smashed it at her feet. She jumped back, startled. I stepped into her space. SLAP. SLAP. SLAP. Three strikes. Every ounce of my betrayal, my wasted years, and my physical pain went into those hits. Sophia was stunned. she stumbled back, clutching her reddening cheeks. “Dan! Have you lost your mind?” she screamed, the veins in her neck bulging. “It’s just a wedding! Corey didn’t do anything wrong! You’re trying to kill him!” I looked at her distorted, ugly face and felt nothing but cold, hard clarity.

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Five hundred dollars for my mom to show up at the PTA meeting and give me some “social standing.” Two hundred dollars for her to post a single photo of us together on her Instagram feed. She even charged me by the minute for bedtime stories—ten dollars every sixty seconds, flat rate. I paid for all of it. I pulled the bills out of my savings, one by one, and handed them over. My mother called it “Monetizing the Aesthetic.” She told me that a beautiful woman has a market value, and that in this world, love was never a free lunch. 1 My ceramic piggy bank was stuffed with every cent I’d ever managed to scrape together. It was my “Motherhood Fund.” The school’s Family Sports Day was tomorrow. Every other kid would have their parents cheering in the stands, but I just had a price list. I emptied the bank onto my bed, coins and crumpled singles scattering across the duvet. I counted it three times. Four hundred eighty dollars and fifty cents. I was nineteen dollars and fifty cents short. According to my mom’s rate sheet, “Outdoor Public Appearances” started at a base fee of five hundred, and that didn’t even cover the “SPF Surcharge.” I grabbed the wad of cash and ran to her room. She was sitting at her vanity, massaging a three-hundred-dollar night cream into her skin. She caught my reflection in the mirror, her gaze cool and detached. “Do you have the full amount?” she asked. I piled the money onto her marble tabletop, standing on my tiptoes. “I’m nineteen-fifty short, Mom… can I do the dishes for a week to make up the difference?” I asked, my palms slick with sweat. She stopped what she was doing. Turning her chair, she looked me up and down with a flicker of disdain. “Lucy,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Rules are rules. If I start giving you a discount, I’m devaluing my own brand. Who’s going to maintain my worth if I don’t?” “But… I really want you to be there.” My head dropped, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. “No pay, no play,” she said, turning back to the mirror to continue her routine. “Or, you could always call that father of yours. The one who thinks a monthly wire transfer is a substitute for a personality.” My dad? I saw him maybe twice a year. He was just a notification on a bank app. I gritted my teeth and ran back to my room. I took a hammer to the piggy bank, shattering it completely. A single gold commemorative coin rolled out. My grandfather had given it to me before he died, telling me it was a “rainy day” fund. I grabbed it and sprinted back to her room. “This! This is worth a lot!” I held it out to her. She glanced at it, and her eyes sharpened. She took it from my hand with two fingers, inspecting the edge. “It’s decent. I’ll give you two hundred for it.” She tossed it carelessly into her velvet-lined jewelry box. “So, tomorrow?” I looked at her, my heart hammering with hope. She finished her makeup, stood up, and smoothed out her designer silk dress. She looked down at me with a smirk that felt like a slap. “The appearance fee just went up. The UV index is going to be high tomorrow, so I’m adding a three-hundred-dollar ‘Skin Damage Premium.’ Your little pile of change? That’s barely enough for me to look at you.” She picked up her Birkin, stepped into her stilettos, and walked out without a backward glance. I stood there alone in the middle of the room, listening to the hollow click-clack of her heels fading away. In that moment, something inside me didn’t just break—it shattered. I was alone that night. She was off at some gala, “maintaining her social capital,” as she put it. I was hungry, so I tried to boil some ramen. I turned on the gas stove, but a flame suddenly shot up, igniting the grease-caked vent hood above. The fire spread with terrifying speed. My legs went weak. I ran for the front door, screaming, but it wouldn’t budge. The deadbolt was jammed. Mom had refused to call a locksmith last week because he “quoted her a price that insulted her intelligence.” Smoke began to billow, thick and black, clawing at my throat. I pounded on the door, shrieking for help. I truly thought I was going to die. Then, I heard heavy footsteps outside. It was her! I heard the key fumbling in the lock. “Mom! Help me! Please!” 2 I pressed my face to the crack of the door, gasping. The door finally swung open. A wall of smoke rushed out. My mother stood there, covering her nose and mouth, her eyes wide with terror as she looked at the flames. She saw me on the floor. But then, her gaze shifted past me—to the vanity in the bedroom, where her jewelry box sat glowing in the reflection of the fire. That box held her diamonds, her necklaces, and the gold coin I’d just given her. That box was her “net worth.” I reached out a hand toward her. “Mom…” She looked at me. For one second—a second that felt like an eternity—our eyes met. And then, she ran. She lunged past me, shielding her face as she grabbed the jewelry box. She turned and sprinted back out the door, never once looking back to see if I was following. I collapsed, coughing violently, tears and soot masking my face. I realized then that on her price list, my life didn’t even make the cut. The heat began to sear my ankles. I closed my eyes, waiting for the end. Suddenly, a dark, grimy figure burst through the smoke. It was Rick, the guy who was doing the renovations on the apartment next door. My mom hated him. She said he smelled like “manual labor and failure.” Every time we passed him in the hall, she’d hold her breath and pull me away like he was contagious. But now, this “filthy” man was charging into the furnace with a wet moving blanket over his shoulders. He scooped me up in one motion. His grip was rough and it hurt, but for the first time in my life, I felt safe. I heard the roar of the fire. A ceiling beam cracked and slammed onto his back. He let out a gutteral groan, but his hold on me only tightened. “Don’t let go! Hang on to me!” he roared, his voice raspy from the smoke. He carried me, step by agonizing step, through the inferno. We burst out into the hallway. The moment we were clear, his knees buckled and he fell, but he used his own body to cushion my head. I lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness, looking at his face—masked in soot and ash. I did the only thing I knew how to do. “How much…” I wheezed. “How much do I owe you for saving me? My mom… she took all my money…” Rick froze. He looked down at me, his face contorted with a mix of anger and pity. “You’re worried about money when you almost died?” he barked. “Forget the damn money! Just stay with me, kid. I’m getting you out of here!” In his arms, I finally let out a sob. It hit me then: some things don’t have a price tag. The ambulance arrived. Both Rick and I were rushed to the ER. I had minor burns and smoke inhalation, but Rick was in bad shape. His back was mangled from the beam, and his arms were severely burned. In the emergency room, I saw my mother. She was untouched. Not a hair out of place. She was sitting on a bench, clutching her jewelry box, frantically checking to see if her precious gems had been discolored by the smoke. When she saw the nurses wheeling my gurney out, she finally stood up. Her first words weren’t “Are you okay?” She pointed a finger at Rick and screamed: “What the hell did you do? You got her filthy! Look at her clothes!” She turned her fury on the paramedics. “And he probably ruined my new Persian rug when he went in there. That rug cost five thousand dollars. Can a grease monkey like him even afford the cleaning bill?” I lay on the bed, feeling a chill that went deeper than the hospital AC. Rick struggled to sit up, but a nurse pushed him back down. He looked at my mother with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. “Lady, your kid is alive. That’s all that matters,” he said, his voice weak but firm. “I’ll pay for your damn rug.” “You won’t pay for anything!” I rolled off the gurney, ignoring the nurses’ protests. I stumbled over to Rick and stood in front of him, facing my mother. “You ran away!” I screamed. “You left me in the fire for a box of rocks! Rick saved me! Don’t you dare talk to him like that!” 3 It was the first time in my eight years of life that I’d ever raised my voice to her. My mother’s face went livid. She stepped forward and her hand flew out—CRACK—a sharp slap across my face. “Lucy! Is that how I raised you?” she hissed. “You ungrateful little brat! Who do you think I do all this for? Without me maintaining our image, you’d be living in a gutter. This man is covered in bacteria. If you catch something from him, do you have any idea how much the medical bills will be?” She sneered at Rick. “Stay away from my daughter. Poverty is a disease, and I won’t have her catching it.” Rick’s fists clenched, his veins bulging under the soot. But he looked at my bruised cheek and forced himself to relax. “Honey, listen to the doctors. Go back to bed,” he said softly. His voice held more tenderness than my mother had shown me in a lifetime. I shook my head, sobbing. I didn’t want this woman to be my mother anymore. I wanted to give everything I had—my money, my life—to this stranger. Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the ER swung open. A man in a tailored suit stormed in. It was Douglas, my “father.” He glanced at my mother’s rage, then at my disheveled state, and finally at Rick. He frowned, pulled a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, and tossed them onto Rick’s chest. “Here’s for the medical bills and the lost wages. Take it and keep your mouth shut. I don’t want this in the tabloids.” The bills scattered over Rick’s lap. Rick didn’t touch them. He just stared at the two of them—the power couple of the year. Then, he started to laugh. It was a dark, jagged sound. “You two,” Rick said, picking up the bills one by one and folding them neatly. “You’re really something else.” He threw the money back, hard, right into Douglas’s face. “Get lost.” Douglas was stunned. I doubt anyone had ever dared to treat him with such contempt. My mother started shrieking: “He assaulted you! Call the police! I want him arrested! I want to sue!” Douglas held her back. He was a businessman; he hated a scene. “Forget it. Why bother with someone of his class? Let’s just go.” He wiped his face with a silk handkerchief and looked at me. “Lucy, if you’re fine, we’re leaving. The house needs a full renovation. We’ll be staying at the Four Seasons.” I looked at him, then at her. They felt like cardboard cutouts. “I’m not going with you,” I said. “What did you say?” Douglas’s brow darkened. “I want to stay with Rick.” I reached out and grabbed Rick’s uninjured hand. It was rough, calloused, and stained with work, but it was warm. It was real. My mother let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Fine, Lucy. You want to be a martyr? Go ahead. Stay with the handyman. But don’t you dare come crawling back for your allowance. Let’s see how you enjoy eating canned beans in a trailer.” She was certain I’d break. She’d spent years molding me into a pampered princess. But I didn’t let go of his hand. “I don’t care.” Douglas lost his patience. “Enough of this. Get in the car.” He reached out to grab my arm. Rick suddenly sat up, knocking Douglas’s hand away. “The kid said she doesn’t want to go. Are you deaf?” His eyes were fierce. Douglas sneered. “I’m her legal guardian. Who the hell are you? A kidnapper?” “I’m the guy who saved her life!” Rick roared, the effort causing him to wince as his back wound reopened. The tension was suffocating. Just then, a doctor walked in holding a manila folder, his expression unreadable. “Excuse me,” the doctor said, looking at Douglas. “Mr. Henderson, you asked us to run a standard panel including the blood type verification we discussed earlier. The results are back.” Douglas paused. “And?” He glanced at my mother. My mother’s face shifted for a split second, a flicker of panic crossing her features before she smoothed it over. The doctor handed over the report. “Based on the genetic markers… Mr. Henderson, there is a zero percent chance that you are Lucy’s biological father.”

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The moment I walked in on my “frigid” wife being intimate with our home’s AI butler, my world fractured. Nauseated and blinded by betrayal, I dragged the machine to the disposal plant to be incinerated. I didn’t know that Camille Sinclair would lose her mind, racing after the transport truck in a desperate pursuit that ended in a horrific, fatal crash. From that day on, I became the “clutching, jealous widower” of our social circle—the man whose envy had supposedly killed his wife. Five years passed. Five years of waking up in cold sweats, wondering if I had just been less petty about a piece of silicon, she might still be alive. Until today. I was at a private members’ club in Manhattan to close a deal when I passed a VIP suite with the door ajar. Inside, I heard the playful, mocking voice of her best friend: “So, Camille, how much longer are you going to play dead? This whole ‘tragic accident’ ruse has to have an expiration date.” Then came a voice I would know in the depths of hell—cool, poised, and laced with a hint of indulgent laughter. “Until Oliver’s heart is fully healed. If Adrian hadn’t had that psychotic break and sent the butler to the scrap heap, Oliver wouldn’t have had to fake a system short to escape. I wouldn’t have had to stage my own death just to get him out from under Adrian’s thumb.” Her friend clucked her tongue. “I still can’t believe you pulled it off. Having Oliver wear that custom-made synthetic skin, pretending to be a robot right under your husband’s nose for a year… the kink of it all is legendary.” Fake death? Oliver Whitlock? She wasn’t just alive. The “machine” she had fallen for wasn’t a machine at all. It was my best friend. A passing waiter accidentally bumped into me, his tray clattering to the floor. The conversation inside the suite stopped dead. Camille turned toward the sound, her eyes locking directly onto mine. … She looked at me, and for a second, there was no panic. Instead, her body moved instinctively, stepping sideways to shield a man sitting on the sofa. He was wearing an oversized cashmere cardigan, looking pale as he looked up. It was Oliver Whitlock. My best friend. The man who had sobbed until he collapsed in my arms at Camille’s funeral five years ago. My breath hitched. I gripped the doorframe so hard my nails dug into the wood. “You’re alive,” I whispered, my voice trembling like a wire under tension. Camille looked at me with a faint, mocking amusement. “Well, you heard the highlights, didn’t you?” I stared at her face. For five years, this face had been my ghost. I’d seen it on a headstone, in the hollows of my dreams, and in the hallucinations born of severe clinical depression. I hadn’t slept a full night in three years because of her. I had withered away to nothing, a skeletal hundred-and-ten pounds, consumed by the guilt that I had murdered the woman I loved. I stepped forward, my hand swinging through the air in a blur. The slap echoed through the room. Camille’s head snapped to the side. “Are you done?” she asked coldly, her cheek blooming red. “Why?” I choked out. Tears I couldn’t control spilled over, hitting the plush carpet. “Why lie to me? You gave up your entire life, your identity… you stayed dead for five years just for him?” “Because you’re a goddamn lunatic, Adrian.” Camille took a step toward me, her eyes flashing. “Five years ago, you knew Oliver was inside that skin. You sent him to the incinerator anyway. You tried to burn him alive!” I froze. My mind went blank for a heartbeat. “I didn’t know…” I shook my head violently. “I thought it was a machine! How could I have known there was a person inside?” “Liar,” Camille spat. “The foreman at the disposal plant said you specifically told them to crank the heat to the maximum. You were always jealous of Oliver. You saw through the disguise and decided to murder him under the guise of ‘scrapping a droid.’” I hadn’t. Five years ago, I didn’t even know Oliver had returned to the States. I only knew my wife was choosing a silicone-faced butler over her husband. I was disgusted, I was heartbroken, so I got rid of it. Looking at Camille now, I realized the futility of it. She didn’t believe me. To her, I was already a killer. Oliver reached out and caught Camille’s sleeve, his eyes rimmed with red. “Camille, don’t blame Adrian. It was my fault. I was the one who insisted on wearing the skin just to be near you. I couldn’t control my feelings. If he wanted to burn me, maybe I deserved it.” Camille immediately turned to him, her movements tender, almost reverent. “Go back inside, honey. There’s a draft here, and you can’t risk a chill with your condition.” Her voice was a soft caress. Five years ago, when I was coughing up blood from a stress-induced ulcer and called her in the middle of the night, she told me she was too busy and to call an Uber to the ER. That night, while I was being stabilized in a cold hospital room, she was at home watching movies with a “robot.” “Why did you let me grieve?” I whispered. “You watched me cry for you, and for him, every single day. You stayed in the shadows and laughed at me!” “You both make me sick,” I said, the words heavy with bile. Camille’s expression hardened into stone. “Since you’re so clearly alive, I’m calling the police,” I said, pulling out my phone. “Insurance fraud, faking a death certificate—that’s a felony.” Camille didn’t try to stop me. Instead, she sat down on the sofa, crossing her legs with agonizing composure. “Go ahead. Call them. Just be prepared to watch your father die.” ——– The gala was held at the most opulent hotel in Midtown. When I pushed through the double doors, every head turned. I felt the weight of their gaze—the derision, the mockery, the sheer spectacle of my presence. Camille stood in the center of the ballroom in a perfectly tailored black gown. Oliver was draped on her arm, looking like the picture of refined grace. They looked like the perfect couple. “Camille, Adrian is here,” Oliver whispered, tugging at her sleeve. Camille turned. Her eyes raked over me, lingering on the side of my waist where my suit jacket didn’t quite hide the sloppy, hand-stitched repair I’d made to the fabric. A flash of irritation crossed her face. “Get over here,” she signaled with a tilt of her chin. I dragged my leaden feet toward them. The giant screens in the room lit up, displaying wedding photos of Camille and Oliver. They had apparently married abroad years ago. “Thank you all for coming,” Camille said into the microphone, her voice carrying that effortless authority. “I want to clear the air. The accident five years ago was real, but I survived. I spent years recovering in a private clinic overseas.” “As for Mr. Mercer,” she paused, using my full name like a stranger’s. “The trauma of the accident caused him to suffer a severe psychotic break. He developed a delusional obsession, imagining we were still married and harrassing my current husband.” A collective gasp rippled through the room. People looked at me like I was a rabid dog. “So he really is crazy.” “No wonder he’s been a ghost these past few years. How pathetic.” “Camille is a saint for not committing him to an asylum.” I stood there, my nails drawing blood from my palms. I forced myself to stand straight. Oliver took the mic, tears glistening in his eyes. “I don’t blame Adrian. He’s sick. When he tried to put me in that incinerator years ago, it was the illness talking.” The murmurs grew louder, more hostile. “Attempted murder? Why isn’t he in jail?” I looked at Oliver. He was a master of the craft. “If Adrian apologizes to me today, in front of everyone, I’m willing to let the past stay in the past,” Oliver said, his eyes gleaming with the triumph of a predator. Camille leaned in close to me, her voice a low hiss. “Apologize. Now. Or I pull the funding for your father’s heart transplant before the next hour is up.” I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. Then I bent my body into a ninety-degree bow. “I’m sorry. I was unstable. I am sick.” The crowd jeered. Oliver smiled. He picked up a glass of neat, high-proof bourbon from the table. “Since you’ve apologized, drink this. A peace offering.” He held it out. I stared at the amber liquid. I have a perforated gastric ulcer. Years ago, while trying to secure an investment for Camille’s startup, I drank myself into the ICU. Camille had stayed by my bed for three days then, slapping herself in grief, swearing she would never let a drop of alcohol touch my lips again. I looked up at her now. Her lips were pressed into a thin, indifferent line. “Not going to drink?” Oliver asked, sounding wounded. “Camille, I don’t think he’s actually sorry.” “Drink it,” Camille said coldly. “Drink it, and the wire transfer goes through.” I didn’t hesitate. I took the glass and drained it. The liquid felt like molten lead searing its way down my throat and into my gut. I couldn’t help it. A violent, racking cough tore through me. A spray of bright red blood splattered across my white dress shirt. The crowd gasped. My legs gave out, and I hit the marble floor. Camille’s face flickered for a fraction of a second. She instinctively took a step toward me, her hand reaching out. “Adrian—” “Ah!” Oliver suddenly clutched his chest, crying out in pain. “Camille! My heart… I think I’m coughing blood too…” Camille’s hand froze in mid-air. She spun around, seeing a tiny red smudge on Oliver’s lapel. She didn’t look at me again. She barked orders for someone to carry Oliver out and sprinted after them. “Call an ambulance! Move!” Her voice was filled with a terror she had never once felt for me. I lay on the cold marble, watching her back disappear into the night. Finally, I felt a sense of peace. I woke up on a plastic bench in the hospital corridor. No private room. No bed. Just a thin, discarded coat a kind nurse had draped over me. “You’re awake?” A janitor mopped the floor nearby. “Your wife dropped you at the ER and left. Said she had to be upstairs in Cardiology for a man who was actually dying.” I didn’t say anything. I sat up, clutching my stomach. It burned like an ember. I pulled out my phone. One unread message. [PATIENT RECORD: Robert Mercer. Due to non-payment of medical fees, life support and medication were suspended. Patient went into cardiac failure at 2:14 AM. Pronounced dead. Please contact the morgue.] My hand shook. The phone clattered to the floor. 2:14 AM. That was when I was forced to drink that glass. When I was vomiting blood while everyone laughed. Camille had lied. She didn’t pay. She used my father’s life to break me, then let him die anyway. I felt a chill settle into my bones, but no tears came. I was empty. Loud footsteps echoed from the end of the hall. Camille was marching toward me, flanked by a swarm of reporters and paparazzi with their phones out. “Adrian Mercer! You staged that little performance at the gala to distract me, and then you pushed Oliver in the confusion! You almost killed him!” Camille stood over me, her voice booming for the cameras. “Get on your knees and apologize to him. Now.” The reporters began shouting questions, accusing me of being a monster. I didn’t hear them. I only looked at Camille. “My father is dead. 2:14 AM. You cut the funding, and he died.” Camille’s brow furrowed. “How long are you going to keep up this act? I checked—you haven’t even been to the morgue. You’re using his life as a pathetic shield for your own violence.” Oliver stood behind her, looking frail. “Adrian, please don’t lie about your father’s death. Just admit you were jealous and tried to hurt me. I won’t press charges if you just confess.” The flashes of the cameras were blinding. Everyone was waiting for my confession. I stood up. In one swift motion, I snatched a phone from a reporter who was live-streaming. “Adrian! What do you think you’re—” Camille started, reaching for it. I bolted. I shoved through the fire exit and ran up the stairs. I didn’t stop until I reached the roof. The wind was howling. I walked to the very edge, stepping over the railing onto the narrow concrete ledge. I held the phone up, looking at the screen. The comments were a blur of “psycho,” “killer,” and “jump.” “My name is Adrian Mercer,” I said to the lens, my voice flat. “My wife, Camille Sinclair, is alive. Five years ago, she faked her death to commit insurance fraud and embezzle millions from our joint estate.” The comments paused for a second, then exploded. “Oliver Whitlock is my former best friend. For a year, he lived in my house disguised as an AI butler to carry out an affair with my wife. I am not insane. Last night, Camille blackmailed me with my father’s life. She stopped his treatment at 2:14 AM. He is dead.” The rooftop door was kicked open. “Adrian! Get the hell down from there!” Camille screamed, her voice cracking with fury. I looked back at the camera. “I’m jumping today to prove I’m telling the truth. I ask the authorities to investigate Camille Sinclair for fraud, embezzlement, and the wrongful death of my father.” With a massive thud, Camille burst through the final barrier. She saw me on the edge and froze. “Adrian! Don’t move!” She reached out, her hand actually shaking for the first time. “Come down! I’ll pay for your father! I’ll take you to see him right now!” She was still lying. She was still using a dead man to trick me. I looked at Camille. I didn’t smile. I didn’t cry. I let go of the phone. It tumbled toward the street below. And then, looking her right in the eyes, I leaned back and let gravity take me.

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Seventy-two hours until the next Scourge tide hits. I pushed open the heavy steel doors of the Meta-Testing Lab. Holden was leaning against the peeling paint of the corridor wall. He tossed me half a ration bar. “Let’s go. Debby arrives at the Citadel tonight. I need to be at the gates.” I caught the bar, took a dry bite, and looked at him. “Holden, I actually…” “She’s a new Gifted,” he interrupted, pushing off the wall. “By the way, I haven’t been entirely straight with you.” The casual tone of his voice made my chest tighten. “The only reason I kept you around this long was because your healing abilities were somewhat useful to the Citadel.” The dry ration turned to ash in my mouth. I couldn’t swallow. “What are you talking about?” “Cara, you can’t compare to her. From now on, stop telling people you’re my girlfriend.” He looked at me, his eyes devoid of the warmth that had anchored me for three years. “Debby is a Purifier. Starting today, she is the most vital asset this base has. You’re obsolete.” He reached out, catching my wrist. His thumb brushed my pulse point, a phantom gesture of a dead romance, his tone sickeningly innocent. “If it’s too hard for you to see us together, you can request a transfer out of the Core Sector. It’ll save us both the trouble of awkward run-ins. You won’t have to be sad, and I won’t have to deal with it.” He dropped my hand. “Anyway, what were you trying to say?” I lowered my eyes, staring at my scuffed boots. “Nothing.” In the depths of my heavy canvas pocket, my fingers curled tightly around the crisp edges of my new test results. It didn’t say Healer. It said Purifier. For three months, the entire Citadel had been turning the wasteland upside down for the hope of humanity. And she had been standing right in front of him. 1. At dusk, Holden really did bring Debby home. I stood in the shadows of the second-floor catwalk, watching the armored convoy roll through the reinforced gates. He stepped out first. I watched the man I loved walk around the hood, open the passenger door, and place a protective hand over the roof frame so she wouldn’t bump her head. He used to do that for me. Debby was younger than I expected. She wore her hair in two loose braids, and when she smiled, deep dimples bracketed her mouth. She looked devastatingly untouched by the end of the world. The Citadel’s brass swarmed them. Holden stood at the epicenter of the crowd. He cleared his throat, wrapping a heavy, possessive arm around Debby’s waist. He smiled—a brilliant, triumphant thing. “Debby is a Purifier, and she has graciously chosen to join our ranks. From this moment on, her word is my word. Her orders are absolute.” Purifier. The word sucked the oxygen from the courtyard. A beat of stunned silence was immediately shattered by a collective gasp. It had been three years since the Scourge wiped out the old world. Purifiers were ghosts, myths whispered around oil-drum fires. A Purifier didn’t just heal; they eradicated the Blight from the bloodstream. They could pull the infected back from the brink of mutation. They were the holy grail of every surviving faction on the continent. And now, she was standing in our dirt courtyard. A few of the inner-circle lieutenants, men who prided themselves on knowing which way the wind blew, dropped to their knees. It started a domino effect. Ring by ring, the hardened survivors of the Northern Citadel sank to the ground in reverence. Seeing this, a perfectly calibrated blush crept up Debby’s neck. She rose on her tiptoes, pressing her glossed lips against the pulse of Holden’s throat. “You’re terrible,” she whispered loudly. The courtyard erupted in cheers and wolf-whistles. I stared at the intimate curve of their bodies pressed together. It felt as though a phantom hand had plunged into my ribs and crushed my lungs. I wrenched my gaze away, a wave of pure, unadulterated nausea rising in the back of my throat. Down below, Holden’s eyes swept over the cheering crowd. For a fraction of a second, his gaze flicked up to the second-floor catwalk. He saw me. And with the indifference of a man looking at a smudge on a windowpane, he looked away. It was as if my presence—our shared history—was entirely irrelevant to the space he now occupied. The welcome banquet was held in the Citadel’s Grand Hall. I had planned to stay in my quarters, but Debby had specifically requested my presence. “You must be Cara!” The moment I walked in, Debby waved at me from the head table. Her voice was pitched just high enough, carrying over the hum of the room. Instantly, every pair of eyes in the hall snapped toward me. I had no choice but to walk over. On the table in front of her sat the base’s dwindling supply of hot, freshly cooked food—steaming rice, canned peaches, real meat. In front of my empty chair sat a tin cup of purified water and a single compressed ration block. “Cara, I am so sorry,” Debby said, pouting her lips in a grotesque pantomime of sympathy. “Hot meals are strictly rationed by tier now. With your current rank… this is all you’re allotted. You don’t mind, do you?” When I didn’t answer, she leaned her head against Holden’s broad shoulder, looking up at him through her lashes. “Holden, I’m just following the rules… You’re not mad at me, are you?” Holden chuckled, shaking his head. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Never. Whatever you say goes.” Satisfied, Debby giggled and turned her doe eyes back to me. “Oh, right! Holden mentioned you were a Healer?” “A Healer… isn’t that basically just a walking blood bag? That sounds exhausting.” She sighed, feigning profound pity. “But it’s okay. You won’t have to come to the Core Sector anymore. They’re desperately short on Healers out on the Perimeter. You’ll be… somewhat useful out there.” My fingers dug into the edge of the wooden table. Debby peeked over her shoulder at the man beside her. “Right, Holden?” Holden didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. The Core Sector belongs to you alone.” I remembered, with sickening clarity, the day he had said those exact words to me. It was when the Citadel was first built. He had hammered the wooden sign for the Core Sector onto the door himself, turned around, pulled me flush against his chest, and murmured into my hair, “Cara, this place belongs to you. Only you.” I had held onto that promise like a lifeline. Only now did I realize that the promise was a template. The words remained the same; he just swapped out the girl standing in front of him. “Fine. I’ll pack.” I pushed back from the table, swallowing the battery acid burning in my throat, and turned for the door. “Not going to eat, Cara?” Debby called out, her voice dripping with fake concern. “The food in Sector C is practically sludge. You should really take a bite while you can!” As I pushed through the heavy double doors, I heard her voice shift into a whiny, spoiled drawl. “Holden, does she hate me?” “No. She’s always been cold. Don’t waste your energy on her.” Cold. He could actually say that about me. The audacity of it turned my stomach. The icy night air hit me the second I stepped outside, forcing me to pull my collar up. When I reached the outermost edge of the base, I discovered someone had already moved my meager belongings into a dilapidated supply closet. The bed was a makeshift cot. The blanket was so thin I could see the weave of the fabric through the moonlight. The corners of the room were piled high with rusted scrap metal. The moonlight spilled across the concrete floor, stinging my eyes until they watered. I slid down the rough concrete wall until I hit the floor. Pulling my knees to my chest, I reached into the depths of my pocket and pulled out the crumpled lab report. I stared at it in the dark for a long, long time. Then, carefully, I folded it back up, and shoved it as deep into my pocket as it would go. 2. The next morning, the aggressive pounding on my door startled me awake. Two perimeter guards I didn’t recognize stood outside, tossing a heavily patched, stained hazmat suit at my feet. They looked at me with dead eyes. “Orders from the Purifier. Starting today, you’re assigned to debris clearing in Sector D. All mutant carcasses are your responsibility.” I froze. “Sector D? The toxicity levels there breached the safety threshold weeks ago.” One of the guards nudged the suit with his boot. “The Purifier says Healers have a higher resistance to the Blight than normal folks. Makes you the perfect fit.” I knelt and picked up the heavy, foul-smelling canvas. “Where’s the rest of the protective gear? Masks? Gloves?” “That’s all you get.” The second guard pointed at the suit. His voice softened, just a fraction. “Look, Cara. I wouldn’t cross her if I were you. The whole Citadel dances to her tune now. You—” Before he could finish, his partner grabbed him by the tactical vest and yanked him away. As they walked off, I heard the partner hiss, “Why are you talking to her? You want the Purifier to hear about this and throw us out there with her?” The whisper was quiet, but it rang in my ears like a gunshot. Sector D was the absolute fringe of the Citadel, a wasteland of shattered concrete and twisted rebar. It was the most heavily contaminated zone we had. The carcasses of the Scourge were scattered everywhere. The air was thick with a putrid stench—a sickening cocktail of rotting meat and rusted iron that made me dry heave the moment I arrived. I had no gloves. No respirator. The side seam of the hazmat suit tore open the first time I bent over. Within an hour, the jagged edges of the infected debris had sliced my hands open in half a dozen places. The blood welled up, immediately mixing with the toxic gray ash covering the bones, making the cuts burn and itch with a fiery intensity. I stopped, chest heaving, and looked around the desolate landscape. When I was in the Core Sector, whenever I used my energy to heal a scout, they would look at me with weary gratitude. Thanks for keeping us alive, Cara. Someone would always save me a bowl of hot soup. Someone would always take over my shift when I looked like I was about to pass out. Now, there was nothing. The same scouts walked past the perimeter wire today, but when they saw me, they ducked their heads and quickened their pace. Suddenly, my foot slipped on a patch of slick ash. My hand shot out to catch myself, and a jagged shard of infected bone drove straight into my palm. Blood sprayed. I sucked in a sharp, ragged breath, falling to my knees in the dirt. My fingers trembling, I ripped a strip of fabric from the torn sleeve of the suit, wound it tightly around my palm, and bit down on the end to pull the knot tight, cutting off the circulation. Crouched behind a pile of rotting debris, my mind drifted back to the first year of the collapse. I had been running from three mutated hounds. I had lost my shoes miles back, and the soles of my feet were shredded by broken glass, leaving a trail of bloody footprints. I had backed myself into a corner, curled into a ball, shaking violently. I was so sure I was going to die. And then Holden dropped from the sky. His blade cleaved cleanly through the skull of the lead hound. Black blood splattered across his jaw. He didn’t even wipe it off. He just rushed over, dropping to his knees in front of me. “Where are you hurt?” “Don’t be afraid. You’re radiating meta-energy. Stay with me. I will never let anyone hurt you.” He was so fiercely sincere back then. I believed him. I turned down the recruitment offers from three other major factions just to stay by his side. By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, I shoved the final cart of contaminated debris into the incinerator pit. My legs shook uncontrollably as I dragged myself back toward the residential ring. In the distance, the main compound glowed with warm, buttery light. As I walked past the Grand Hall, silhouettes danced against the frosted glass. Laughter bled through the walls. Tonight was day two of Debby’s welcome festival. Holden was throwing her a private banquet. “I want you to feed it to me.” “Alright. Open up.” Holden’s voice, a low rumble I used to feel against my spine in the dark. “Is it sweet?” “So sweet.” “Are you talking about the fruit, or me?” “You’re awful~” Then, the unmistakable, sickening sound of shifting fabrics and wet kisses. I didn’t stop to listen to the rest. I pulled my collar up and vanished into the freezing dark. The laughter chased me down the dirt road. It felt like I was running through a field of arrows, and every single one had my name on it. 3. Day three in Sector D was colder. The crude bandages on my hands were soaked through. The old scabs had split open, accompanied by a fresh layer of raw cuts. I was hunched over, trying to tighten the bloody strip of fabric with my teeth, when a sickly-sweet voice floated over the toxic wind. “Cara?” Debby stood a few feet away, bundled in a pristine, white down coat that looked entirely out of place in the apocalypse. “Oh my god. Why are you out here doing this kind of grunt work?” Before I could answer, she practically skipped over the debris and crouched in front of me. When she saw the ruined state of my hands, she let out a dramatic gasp. “Holden is just too much sometimes. How could he leave you out here all alone?” She knitted her perfectly plucked brows together, reached out, and pressed her gloved hands directly over my bleeding palm. “Let me heal you. Don’t move.” I didn’t have the strength to pull away before a surge of meta-energy rushed from her palms into my veins. Instantly, my entire body went rigid. That energy… it was completely alien to my own. This wasn’t purification. I could feel it with absolute clarity. The energy was thick, sluggish. It was merely suppressing the pain receptors and forcing the skin to stitch itself together. But the Blight—the toxic source—was still festering underneath. It was the equivalent of slapping duct tape over a bullet hole. It looked pretty on the outside, but underneath, the poison was multiplying. “Cara, Holden told me about you,” Debby murmured. Seeing my frozen expression, the corner of her mouth ticked up into a nasty, triumphant little smirk. “He said you were so easy to manipulate.” She paused, tilting her head as if considering her words. “Sorry. I’m just a really blunt person. Don’t take it personally.” “I won’t,” I said, my voice dead flat. She stood up, daintily brushing a speck of gray ash from her designer coat. She looked down at me, her eyes cold. “But you really can’t blame Holden. It’s the end of the world. Everyone has to look out for themselves. He couldn’t drag dead weight around forever, right?” “Right,” I muttered, my mind racing a million miles an hour. Debby beamed, pleased with my submission. But her smile vanished the second I opened my mouth again. “Are you really a Purifier?” I locked eyes with her, refusing to blink. “I felt your energy.” “What you just put in my body isn’t a purification reaction. It’s a temporary suppressant. The Blight is still inside me.” Her breath hitched. She took a quick step back. “Cara, you’re just a low-tier Healer. What do you know about purification mechanics?” “I know enough,” I said, slowly rising to my feet. “And I definitely know more than you.” I reached out and grabbed her wrist—the one dripping with silver bracelets she’d likely looted from the Core’s vault. Just then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a familiar broad-shouldered silhouette striding toward us through the fog. In a split second, Debby’s entire demeanor violently shifted. She recoiled as if she’d been burned, her eyes instantly welling with fat, desperate tears. “Cara, please don’t do this…” The tears spilled over flawlessly. “I know you hate me, but the Citadel needs me! If you hurt me, you’ll doom everyone…” I blinked, momentarily stunned by the sheer cinematic quality of her pivot. Before I could even process it, the heavy crunch of combat boots slammed into the gravel behind me. “Cara!” And then came the deafening crack of a palm striking bone.

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On the bus home, I suddenly got a message from a Q&A app. “My younger daughter graduated college seven years ago and is still freeloading at home. Should I kick her out?” I tapped on the app, and the comments section exploded. The poster continued to complain. “My younger daughter is 28, has no job, is lazy and stupid. She drives me crazy every single day. How can I force her to leave?” “My older daughter, Sarah, is so successful. When I had my stroke, she got me the best doctors. My younger daughter is useless! I birthed them both, how can they be so different?!” “Sarah’s family is coming home for the holidays, and there’s no room. I’ve already packed my younger daughter’s bags. I hope she gets the hint.” I sighed silently to myself. Good thing my mom, who had a stroke, isn’t like that. Good thing I can make money from home, so I’m not freeloading. The bus announcement sounded, and I got off, carrying my bags. As soon as I got home, I saw suitcases neatly stacked by the entrance. And Sarah’s family sitting on the couch.

The suitcases by the door looked familiar, but I didn’t think much of it. “Sarah, you’re back.” I hadn’t expected Sarah’s family to return so early. After greeting them, I headed toward my room. But Sarah suddenly spoke. “What are you doing?” Her voice was tense, and I stopped. “Just tidying up my room. Usually, when you guys visit, I sleep on the balcony, and you take the bedroom, right?” We only had two bedrooms. Mom and Dad always had one, and Sarah had the other. I always had to make a small bed on the balcony. It wasn’t until Sarah got married and moved out that I temporarily got to use the bedroom. But whenever Sarah came back, I still had to sleep on the balcony. “Chloe, no… no need.” Sarah refused, a hint of guilt in her voice. I assumed Mom had already prepared the room, so I didn’t insist. Turning around, I handed the toy I’d bought to my nephew. “Leo, look, Aunt Chloe bought you a toy!” But the next second, five-year-old Leo threw the toy on the floor. “No! Aunt Chloe is a freeloader, a parasite! I don’t want anything you buy!” My hand froze in mid-air. Instantly, the air in the living room froze. After a few seconds, Sarah chuckled lightly. “Chloe, kids say the darndest things, don’t take it to heart.” Seeing my expression still stiff, Sarah pretended to be angry and lightly slapped Leo’s bottom. “Leo, apologize to Aunt Chloe right now.” Leo immediately burst into tears. Mom, who always doted on her grandson, immediately looked displeased. “Apologize for what? Leo’s not wrong. Your sister just sits at home doing nothing all day, what else would you call it but freeloading?!” My heart was pierced, and I instinctively replied. “Mom, when have I ever freeloaded? I told you, I make money online from editing!” Mom, comforting Leo, grumbled at me. “You call that a job?! I’ve never seen you contribute a single penny to the household, and I still have to support you with my pension. What else would you call it but freeloading?!” Mom’s monthly rehab costs were around $8,000, our living expenses were $1,500, plus other costs, totaling almost $10,000 a month. I took on jobs day and night, but the money I earned each month was barely enough to cover expenses. There was never any extra to give her. It wasn’t until last month, when Mom fully recovered, that I finally had a little savings. A wave of injustice washed over me. “Mom, your pension is $2,000. You give Sarah $1,200 a month and me $300. Do you really think our mother-daughter living expenses are covered by just $300?” Hearing this, Mom impatiently cut me off. “Sarah has a tough life in the city, what’s wrong with me helping her out financially? If you’re so capable, go get a job in the city too.” “And you’re complaining about $300? I think you’re just after my pension!” I never imagined that seven years of meticulous care would, in Mom’s eyes, become a calculated move. My heart turned cold inch by inch, watching her in disbelief. “Mom, have you forgotten? I was working in New York, and I was about to get a promotion and a raise. You had a stroke and pleaded with me to come back.” “I hired caregivers for you, but you drove three of them away, insisting I had to come back…” Mom coldly interrupted me. “Enough, Chloe. I was just sick and needed you to take care of me for a bit. Do you really need to keep bringing it up?!” That “bit” Mom mentioned? It was the most precious seven years of my life. A bitter ache spread through my heart. “Besides, isn’t it normal for children to care for their parents? Why else would I have raised you?!” My eyes welled up, looking at her, unwilling to give in. “If that’s the case, why didn’t you let Sarah come back to care for you then? Why did you even make me keep it a secret from her?” When Mom had her stroke, she was partially paralyzed and hospitalized for six full months. Every morning, I’d help Mom with her daily routine – washing, eating, sponge baths, changing clothes, medication, turning her over, and physical therapy… In the scorching summer, to prevent bedsores, I’d get up seven or eight times every night to turn her. Finally, I collapsed from exhaustion and had to call Sarah, only to be met with Mom’s grumbling. “Sarah is busy with work, why are you bothering her? You’re so inconsiderate!” … Now, faced with my distress, Mom’s eyes held only disdain. “How dare you compare yourself to Sarah? Why don’t you compare who’s more successful?” “Besides, when Sarah found out, didn’t she immediately arrange for me to go to the best rehab hospital and have specialists consult on my case? How else could I have recovered so well?” “With your clumsy hands, who knows how long I would have been stuck in bed?!” As soon as she finished speaking, Sarah’s eyes darted away, a flicker of guilt crossing her face.

My heart gradually cooled, and I just stared intently at Sarah. “Was it you who arranged it, Sarah?” I had booked that specialist at the rehab hospital three months in advance. I even paid an extra $300 to a fixer to rush the appointment. But I never told Mom any of this. “Sarah, Mom’s monthly $8,000 rehab fees, you didn’t pay those either, did you?” I stared at Sarah. “If not Sarah, then who? You?” Before she could answer, Mom interrupted again. Sarah managed a stiff smile. “Chloe, these are… minor things, not worth… mentioning.” Hearing this, Mom again looked at me with displeasure. “Chloe, can’t you learn from your sister? You only took care of me for a few years, put in some effort, and you keep bringing it up all the time.” “Your sister contributed both money and effort, and she doesn’t complain at all. If I’d known you were so useless, I wouldn’t have bothered giving birth to you!” Finally, my last shred of reason was shattered. I rushed back to my room, intending to retrieve all the medical bills and payment records from the past seven years to prove my capabilities. But the moment I pushed open the door, I froze. All my things were gone from the room. I stood stunned for two seconds, then turned to Mom’s room. My things weren’t there either. I slowly backed out, my gaze falling on the suitcases by the entrance. Suddenly, I remembered the post I’d seen on the bus. Those weren’t Sarah’s bags for coming home. They were Mom’s signal to kick me out. I felt like plunging into an ice pit, unable to snap out of it for a long time. Until Mom’s calm voice rang out. “Sarah’s family is back, there’s no room. You should move out for now.” “It’s good, you need to learn to be independent. I don’t want to always have a daughter freeloading.” Seeing I still hadn’t reacted, Sarah spoke again. “Chloe, David and I are planning to start a business back home. You’ve taken care of Mom for so long, you can trust us to take over now.” “Don’t worry, we’re still family. You have to come home for Christmas dinner, okay?” Hearing this, Mom disagreed. “Forget it, Chloe. This year, I don’t want relatives gossiping about me because of you again.” “Just let us have a peaceful holiday as a family.” So they were the family, and I was just an outsider. So Mom always thought I was an embarrassment. I gave a mocking laugh, utterly heartbroken. “Fine, I’ll go.” Hearing this, both of them visibly relaxed. “But from now on, Mom and I have nothing to do with each other.” Sarah froze, her voice trembling. “Chloe, what… what do you mean?” I twitched my lips. “Since Mom thinks having me as a daughter is such an embarrassment, then let’s just pretend she never gave birth to me.” As soon as I finished speaking, Mom shot up from the couch. “Chloe, you… you… what do you mean? Are you disowning me?!” I looked at her coldly. “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?” Mom was furious. “Good! I wish I never had a daughter like you!” “From this day forward, I have nothing to do with you ever again!” I said nothing, just dragged my suitcase out the door. Downstairs, Sarah ran after me, breathless.

“Chloe, don’t blame Mom. She just wanted to push you a little. How could you really cut ties with her?” “You’re old enough now, you should find a job. Staying home all the time isn’t right.” Listening to Sarah’s seemingly caring words, I gave a cold laugh. “Sarah, when I quit my job to care for Mom, didn’t you praise me for being so devoted?” “After Mom was out of danger, I suggested hiring a caregiver and splitting the costs between us sisters. Didn’t you say a hired caregiver wouldn’t be as devoted as her own daughter? Didn’t you tell me not to work and to keep taking care of Mom?” Sarah’s face stiffened, her lips trembling for a long time, unable to utter a single word. “Seven years, a full seven years. When Mom was bedridden and unable to care for herself, did you ever feed her a single meal, or empty her bedpan even once?” “You graduated from a prestigious university, worked for an international company, earning hundreds of thousands, but you wouldn’t even pay Mom’s monthly $4,000 rehab fees. What right do you have to accuse me?” Sarah’s face flushed crimson. “I… I have… my own family, you know.” I gave a cold laugh. “So, you can righteously abandon your sick mother, yet claim all the credit for yourself?” Sarah’s face turned beet red. I continued. “Sarah, more than Mom’s blatant favoritism, I despise your hypocrisy!” “But since you want to play the devoted daughter, then play it well. Don’t let anyone see through your hypocritical facade!” With that, I dragged my suitcase away. The moment I turned, tears I had suppressed for so long spilled out. The biting wind felt like knives against my skin, but it couldn’t compare to the pain in my heart. Just then, my phone buzzed. That post from earlier had been updated. Every word oozed with the poster’s happiness. “Alright, I’ve kicked my younger daughter out. This year, we can finally have a joyful holiday!” I tapped on the poster’s profile. The background image was a picture of my nephew’s back. I silently wiped away my tears and took my suitcase to a nearby convenience store. I picked up a cup of instant noodles and a hot dog. After checking out, I quietly calculated my account balance. After buying holiday essentials, I only had $3,000 left. I needed to find a job and start before the holidays, otherwise, in another week, all companies would be on break. I pulled out my phone and called Lily, my best friend. “Lily, you said your company was looking for an editor, could I try?” “Chloe, you finally came to your senses?! You wouldn’t believe how impressed my boss was with your previous edits.” “But, it’s almost the holidays, why are you suddenly looking for a job? Aren’t you always worried about your mom?” Lily asked hesitantly. A faint ache throbbed in my heart. I swallowed all my emotions and slowly spoke. “My mom kicked me out.” After a few seconds, Lily’s indignant voice came from the other end. “What?! Chloe, how could your mom do that to you?!” I managed a bitter smile. “She said I was freeloading at home all day with no job, and she couldn’t hold her head up in front of others. Plus, Sarah’s family was coming home for the holidays, and there was no room, so she kicked me out.” “‘Freeloading’? You edit videos day and night, earning two or three thousand a month, and she calls that freeloading? What if Sarah’s successful? From the moment Mom got sick until now, she hasn’t contributed a single penny or a single bit of effort!” “If it weren’t for you, paying and putting in all the work to care for her, how could Mom’s stroke recovery have been so good?!” Lily grew angrier as she spoke. “Chloe, why didn’t you explain? You did all the work, how did the credit go to Sarah?! Your mom is too biased!” I took a deep breath, calming the indignation in my heart. “It’s no use. She wouldn’t believe me.” “Forget it, we have nothing to do with each other anyway. Now I can pursue my own life without any strings attached.” There was a moment of silence on the other end, then a sigh. “You’re such a fool. So, when are you coming to New York?” I thought for a few seconds. “Give me a day to get some good sleep. I’ll be in New York the day after tomorrow.” After chatting with Lily for a bit, I hung up. Immediately after, I booked a plane ticket. Just then, messages popped up in the family group chat. Mom had posted a picture of herself eating seafood. “My older daughter is so good, she takes me out for lavish meals as soon as she’s back.” Immediately, relatives in the group chat chimed in. “Sarah is so successful, well-educated, and has a great job! She’s truly the pride of our family!” “Exactly, Eleanor, you’re so lucky! To have such a wonderful daughter!” “I always tell my granddaughter to learn from Sarah, not Chloe…” The relative’s words trailed off. I knew that because my education wasn’t impressive and I didn’t have a “proper” job, relatives had always looked down on me. “That’s right, don’t learn from Chloe, freeloading at home at her age.” “And always going on about not getting married or having kids, she should look at herself, what right she has to be so picky. She’s an embarrassment to me, but thankfully, from now on, I only have Sarah as a daughter! I won’t have to feel ashamed because of her anymore!” Mom finished the relative’s unspoken words. Her tone was full of disdain. I said nothing, just quietly left the group chat.

I ate my instant noodles completely, not even leaving a drop of broth. After eating, I found a motel, checked into a room, and took a hot shower. Before getting into bed, I turned off all the alarms on my phone. 6:30 AM: Prep breakfast for Mom; 7:00 AM: Give Mom her medicine; 8:00 AM: Take Mom to physical therapy; 10:00 AM: Cook lunch; … 8:00 PM: Massage Mom; 10:00 PM: Help Mom with her nighttime routine… For seven years, my life was filled with alarm bells. Now, I could finally get some proper sleep. After doing all this, I turned off my phone, snuggled under the covers, and comfortably drifted off to sleep. I woke up a full day and night later. I packed my luggage and headed to the airport. While waiting for my flight at the airport, I idly scrolled through my SnapChat feed. I happened to see Sarah’s latest post. “Today, I personally cooked all of Mom’s favorite dishes.” The dining table was incredibly lavish: pot roast, creamy mashed potatoes, fried chicken, bacon, a rich lasagna… Mom’s bowl was piled high with rich, high-fat, high-sodium foods. My brow furrowed. After Mom’s stroke, the doctor specifically warned her to eat less high-fat, high-sodium foods to prevent another stroke. I instinctively left a comment, “Seniors should eat lighter.” Three seconds later, Sarah replied with a crying emoji. Immediately after, Mom’s voice message came through. I tapped it open, and a harsh, shrill voice filled my ears. “Chloe, who told you to criticize your sister?! Are you jealous of me living well, is that it?!” “When I was with you, I ate bland food every day. Sarah came back and felt sorry for me, giving me good nutrition. What’s wrong with that?” “You’re such a killjoy! Besides, we’ve cut ties, why are you still bothering with me?!” I took a deep breath, about to type an explanation. But the next second, a red exclamation mark appeared after my message. It was glaring. Mom had blocked me. I scoffed at my own foolishness. Just then, the boarding announcement sounded. I grabbed my bag, passed through security, and from that moment on, I had no connection to that city anymore. A few hours later, I arrived in New York. Lily came to pick me up and took me straight to the company. After the interview, I signed the contract on the spot. I immediately breathed a sigh of relief. “Chloe, you can stay at my place first. Once your probation period is over, you can move out.” After leaving the company, Lily spoke directly. I was about to politely decline, but she pulled me into her car. “It’s fine, Chloe. I also started out struggling in the big city.” With that one sentence, I knew she understood my predicament. I no longer hesitated, but that day, I sent her a $1,500 e-red envelope via PayPal. After that, I completely said goodbye to my past, throwing myself into work, even applying for overtime during the holidays. Soon, the holiday break began, and I was the only one left in the office. My SnapChat feed was filled with photos of family reunions. Only I went to and from work, and ate, alone every day. Though it was a bit lonely, my heart was incredibly peaceful. Eight days later, the company reopened. Lily often took me out to dinner with her friends, and my life gradually became more lively. Just as I thought my life would continue this way, the day after Valentine’s Day, I received a call from Sarah. Her voice on the other end was frantic. “Chloe, it’s terrible! Mom had another stroke and is in critical condition, hurry back!”

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