In response to the question, “Just how powerful is the memory of a first love?”, I saw my boyfriend’s answer. “Too powerful. That’s why I proposed to her younger sister. I want to protect her under the guise of family.” I am that younger sister. But I wasn’t as devastated as you might think. Because the top-voted answer under that same question… was written by me. I have an unspeakable secret of my own. 1. The doorbell rang. At the door stood my blackout-drunk boyfriend—and fiancé. He proposed to me last week, and I said yes. Right now, his eyes were bloodshot, and he reeked of alcohol. He looked like he had been crying. His buddy was holding him up. “Hey, sorry. He was just so overwhelmed with emotion about marrying you that he started crying, and then he just drank too much celebrating.” “It’s fine. Thank you for bringing him home.” The moment the door clicked shut, Liam grabbed me and pulled me into his arms. “We’re finally going to be family.” After I hauled him onto the couch and laid him down, I noticed his phone screen constantly lighting up with notifications for likes and comments. I used his fingerprint to unlock it. I discovered he had answered a question on Quora: Just how powerful is the memory of a first love? His answer read: “Too powerful. I only started pursuing her younger sister so I could have a legitimate reason to see her, and call her ‘sister.’ Now, her younger sister loves me deeply and is incredibly gentle with me, but I don’t really love her. Or rather, I don’t even know if I love her or not. My first love will always be her older sister. No one can replace her. Proposing to her younger sister is just my way of protecting her under the guise of family.” 2. I thought back to the first time I introduced him to my sister. Before I could even introduce her, he smoothly said, “Nice to meet you, sister.” I didn’t think much of it at the time. But looking back at her shocked, frozen expression, and Liam’s deeply meaningful look… The tension in the air was practically suffocating. 3. Actually, Mia isn’t my biological sister; she’s my stepmother’s daughter. She moved into my house when I started high school. She was a year ahead of me. My dad absolutely adored her. With my stepmother in favor, Mia used that leverage to constantly compete with me, practically stealing my father’s love. Whenever we were home, we clashed. It wasn’t until we grew up that our relationship somewhat eased. On the surface, we were harmonious, but underneath, the rivalry remained. Looking at it now, she won completely. I picked up the man she discarded, and worse, he was still hopelessly in love with her, treating her like his untouchable first love. I suddenly remembered the Instagram post Liam made when I accepted his proposal. I’ll become your family and protect you forever. Mia even commented underneath: Congratulations to you both. Reading his Quora answer, I finally understood the hidden meaning. Ninety percent of his answer detailed how he couldn’t let go of her after they broke up, how he stalked her social media and discovered she had a younger sister—me. And so, he started pursuing me. So that’s how it was. On the couch, Liam suddenly grabbed my wrist. “Mia, don’t leave me…” I expressionlessly yanked my hand away. What Liam didn’t know was that he wasn’t the only one who answered that question. The top-voted answer under that question, with over twenty thousand upvotes, was written by me. I had written it casually years ago and hadn’t checked it since. Honestly, it was time for me to wake up. Liam was never him to begin with. But I couldn’t leave yet. I still had unfinished business. 4. When Liam woke up the next morning. I had made breakfast, but without eating a bite, he frantically put on his shoes, grabbed his keys, and rushed to the door. I called out to him, “Weren’t we going to look at wedding dresses this morning?” He tossed back over his shoulder: “We can go this afternoon. I have something to take care of right now.” I didn’t need to ask to know who had texted him. Years ago, my sister got her wish and married into a wealthy family. But her husband treated her terribly. He was a notorious playboy with violent tendencies. Yet, she loved the money and the status, so she kept dragging her feet, refusing to get a divorce. She had posted an Instagram story this morning: “Hangovers are the worst. My head feels like it’s going to explode.” I didn’t even need to think to know who Liam was in such a rush to comfort. 5. In the afternoon. Liam called and told me to come downstairs. When I opened the car door, my sister was sitting in the passenger seat. Liam said, “I bumped into your sister downstairs. She said she’d come help give you some advice.” He had a tiny, fresh cut on his lip. My sister’s lips were also very red, her lipstick slightly smudged. She chimed in, “Yeah, I’ll help you pick. I have a pretty good eye for these things.” I nodded faintly. “Sure, you have plenty of experience.” Seeing my unusually calm reaction, she added, “I get a little carsick, so sitting in the front passenger seat makes me feel better. You don’t mind, do you?” Before I could answer. Liam spoke up first: “Why would she mind? A seat is a seat, right, Chloe?” “Yeah.” Halfway there, my sister suddenly said: “Oh, by the way, let me share some good news with you both. I got a divorce.” The car slammed to a sudden halt, throwing me forward. Liam’s voice was hoarse. “You got a divorce?” My sister smiled, her lips curling up. “Yeah, I got a divorce. I couldn’t do it anymore. I want a fresh start.” Liam stared at her for a long time. The two of them looked like they were shooting a soap opera. I had to interrupt: “What are we waiting for? Why aren’t we moving?” 6. The car ride was thick with unspoken tension until we finally arrived at the bridal boutique. I tried on the first dress. When I stepped out of the fitting room… Liam was still talking to my sister, completely ignoring me. It wasn’t until the consultant praised me out loud that he finally turned his head to look at me. I looked him dead in the eye with a polite smile. “It looks great. Really beautiful. Let’s just go with this one.” I clenched my fists. “Just this one?” My sister flipped her hair and said, “Come on, you’re not even trying. Let her try on a few more.” Suddenly, my sister’s ex-husband, Derek, burst through the doors. Derek grabbed my sister’s wrist, glaring at her furiously. “You got me drunk last night and tricked me into signing the divorce papers! How the hell did you dare?!” My sister immediately hid behind Liam. “You signed them yourself. Stop harassing me.” Liam lunged forward and threw two punches at him. “You’re divorced! How dare you harass her? Back the fuck off!” Derek was knocked to the floor. But as he fell, he crashed into me. In my high heels, I lost my balance and fell hard to the floor. A sharp pain shot through my ankle. Liam grabbed Derek by the collar and told him to get out. When Liam rushed back in, he ran straight to my sister. “Mia, are you okay?” The consultant looked at me with a complicated expression and helped me up. “Mr. Carter, Miss Chloe seems to have sprained her ankle.” Only then did he run over to check on me. But the very next second, my sister fainted. He turned around without hesitation, picked her up, and said, “Chloe, I’m taking your sister to the hospital. You just… keep trying dresses on yourself.” 7. “Okay. Remember to come back.” My ankle throbbed, but after standing up, it felt manageable. I could still walk. The consultant asked me with a hesitant look, “Miss Chloe, should we… try on some other dresses?” “No need. Maybe another time.” As expected, Liam never came back to the bridal shop that entire day. He texted me to go home and rest, saying my sister was very weak and needed to be hospitalized, so he was staying to take care of her. 8. Late in the dead of night, I took off my phone case and pulled out a photograph. Ethan, did you see? I wore a wedding dress today. However, the only answer I got was the endless, silent night. The next day, I drove alone to a cemetery outside the city. Standing in front of Ethan’s headstone were a married couple and a little boy. I was a bit surprised. “Excuse me, who are you?” The couple looked visibly moved when they saw me. “Ethan was our savior. You must be his girlfriend, right?” I nodded, bewildered. “Your boyfriend donated his corneas to our son. I really don’t know how to properly thank his family. Please, take this bank card…” My heart violently clenched. I looked down at the little boy with big, bright eyes, and my vision instantly blurred with tears. “Little guy, is your name Liam Carter?” The little boy nodded. “Yes, miss. My name is Liam.” So I was wrong this entire time. I found the wrong person. The man who possessed Ethan’s eyes was never the Liam Carter I had been dating. The couple kept talking, but it felt like all the sound was sucked out of the world. I smiled through my tears and patted the little boy’s head. “Liam, it’s so nice to meet you. You have to grow up strong, okay?” 9. The little boy nodded, looking up at me. “Miss, what kind of person was the big brother?” “Him? He was the coolest, gentlest person in the world. He would beat up anyone who tried to bully me.” The little boy handed me his umbrella. “Don’t be sad, miss. I’m giving you my umbrella. The big brother will definitely protect you from up in heaven.” I patted his head. “Thank you.” I didn’t take the bank card. After they left, I slowly crouched down and traced the photograph on the headstone. “Ethan, are you mad at me for finding the wrong person?” The Liam I found wasn’t the Liam I was looking for. He was just a completely irrelevant stranger. While I was trying to figure out how to meet him, he actually approached me first, so we ended up together. Every time I looked into his eyes, I forced myself to show him my best self. But when he closed his eyes, I didn’t even have the strength to smile. In this moment, the obsession that had haunted me for so long simply dissolved into thin air. Liam called my phone. I hung up without a second thought. The wind howled past my ears under the heavy, pouring rain. The man on the headstone had sharp, striking features. His dark eyelashes drooped softly, his eyes filled with an ocean of tenderness. I took that photo of him. But when I took it, I never imagined it would be turned into a black-and-white portrait glued to a freezing headstone. I whispered to him, “Ethan, when are you going to wear a suit for me?” “Do you think maybe this is all just a dream? That tomorrow I’ll wake up, and you’ll be alive?” “If you can hear me, make the rain stop. Please?” 10. Suddenly, the raindrops began to lighten. The rapid drumming against the umbrella slowly faded away. The rain… actually stopped. A breeze from the distance ruffled my hair. And dried the tears at the corners of my eyes. It felt so incredibly gentle. The strands of hair brushing against my cheek felt exactly like him stroking my face. “Don’t cry. I’ve always been right here beside you.” I was suddenly pulled back to the summer I was seventeen. That day, my sister and I had a huge fight. She moved her stuff into my bedroom without asking, taking over my space. We got into a physical fight, and my stepmother couldn’t pull us apart. When my dad got home, he didn’t even ask what happened. He just slapped me across the face so hard my head whipped to the side. “Look at your sister’s face! You scratched her up!” I slammed the door and ran away, sprinting straight to Ethan. Inside his tattoo parlor, I kept my head down the entire time. But he walked over and ruffled my hair. “Why are your eyes so red? Who’d you get into a fight with?” “No one. I just tripped and fell.” But he grabbed a first-aid kit. With his long, tattoo-covered fingers, he gently cleaned my scratches. “Tell me who bullied you.” I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I threw myself into his chest and sobbed uncontrollably. I soaked the thin black shirt he was wearing. He usually kept a polite distance from me, but that time, he didn’t push me away. He just gently patted my back. Eventually, I fell asleep in his arms. Ever since my mom passed away, that was the warmest embrace I had ever felt. I fell hopelessly, incurably in love with him. Of course, it was a secret crush. On the outside, he looked tough and cold, but in reality, he was gentler than anyone I had ever known.

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1 I had a flash marriage. My bargain of a husband is a college professor, 29 years old, with a PhD. He’s rich, gorgeous, and has tenure. The key point is: he has a car, a house, and no parents to deal with. My mom said a top-tier catch like him is like hitting the jackpot. I was momentarily blinded by his good looks, and after just half a month of blind dating, we got our marriage license. But half a month into the marriage, I regretted it. He is too cold, our differences are too vast, and we have absolutely nothing to talk about. He sleeps early, wakes up early, leaves early, and comes home early. I sleep late, wake up late, and am basically nocturnal. The day we got our license, I was on my period, and he consciously went to sleep in the guest room. Half a month into our marriage, we’ve been living like platonic roommates. I didn’t want to live like a nun anymore. After hesitating for a long time, I prepared to go find Elias Thorne to talk about divorce. Just as I reached the door of his office, a young female student beat me to it, knocking and walking in. “Why are you closing the door? Leave it open.” Elias’s voice carried a hint of irritation. The young girl, looking wronged, opened the door back up. I stood in the doorway, momentarily at a loss for what to do. “Hey, if it’s nothing major, I’d advise you to come back another day.” The girl sighed, kindly warning me. I stood there, a little curious and a little surprised. “Professor Thorne, have you looked at my thesis? I need your signature in the final column…” Inside the office, Elias was wearing a black dress shirt that outlined his tall, athletic build, the cuffs rolled up to his elbows, revealing a pair of veined, strong wrists. He flipped through a thesis, his brows furrowing deeper and deeper. “With what you’ve written here, even George Washington wouldn’t dare sign his name on this. “I asked you to submit a rough draft, not a brain dump. “The title is nice. It uses the entire English alphabet, but put together, I don’t understand a word of it.” I stood there, completely dumbfounded. Half a month into our marriage, the number of conversations Elias and I had could be counted on one hand, not to mention he naturally had a man-of-few-words personality. I never expected that a man who looked so refined and elegant could have such a venomous tongue. When intellectuals insult people, it truly is on another level… He flipped through the pages, his face growing darker. “What is this formatting? Did you invent it yourself? “Take a guess at my mental state when I read this part? “I feel like your mind was completely blank. “What exactly are you researching? “Remove my name from the acknowledgments. Don’t try to morally blackmail me. “Do you still want to graduate?” The young girl stood there, looking like she was about to cry. Help, the sheer terror of being dominated by a graduation thesis instantly washed over me. It was hard not to empathize. Moreover, what shocked me was that a man who usually treated his words like gold around me could actually speak this much! With a cold face, he slammed the thesis onto the desk and, upon lifting his eyes, locked gazes with me. He looked slightly surprised for a moment. “Chloe, why are you here?” His expression softened as he walked over to me and took my hand. “Why didn’t you come in?” The female student looked at me like I was her savior, her eyes suddenly filled with pure gossip. I awkwardly raised my hand and gave a little wave. Elias glanced at her and introduced me: “Your professor’s wife.” The young girl instantly turned into a gossip-hungry hound. “Hello, Mrs. Thorne!” “Wow, Professor, you’re married…” “You look so young.” “When did you guys tie the knot?” Elias unhappily reminded her: “If you put this much energy into your studies, your thesis wouldn’t read like a Wattpad fanfiction.” “Sorry to bother you, Professor. I’ll take my leave now…” She left, leaving just the two of us in the office. Staring at each other, things felt inexplicably awkward again. “How did you find the time to come by today?” He looked at me, his voice softening a few degrees. I couldn’t quite gauge his mood. After hesitating for a moment, I felt now was not the right time to bring up divorce. “Just… passing by…” I lied. The corners of his lips hooked up into a smile, and he raised his hand to pat my head. “I just got off work. Let’s go home.” Elias is tall, with chiseled, model-like features. Paired with those gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, his unapproachable, ascetic vibe was pushed to the absolute max. With just one smile and a head pat, my resolve began to waver. With a face like that, getting a divorce feels like taking a massive loss… 2 He held my hand as we walked out of the office, bumping into a few colleagues who were also leaving for the day. He nodded politely, smiling as he introduced me. “Yes, my wife.” “Yes, we just got the certificate. We’ll invite everyone to the wedding.” Blushing, I got into the car with him. The ride was quiet. As a chatterbox, I really couldn’t stand this kind of atmosphere, so I took the initiative to break the ice: “Um, why are you so strict with your students?” He sighed helplessly. “They’re too dumb…” “When you tutored me on my thesis back then, you weren’t this mean…” Elias was a former student of my dad’s. Though I hadn’t seen him much, his name was legendary in our house. A genius boy who skipped grades continuously, a brilliant student who breezed through his Master’s and PhD, a rare young talent. My dad spent his life cultivating brilliant minds everywhere, but sadly, the one he grew at home was a total dud. Me. I’ve been a terrible student since childhood. I went to a bottom-tier state college for my undergrad, bombed my grad school entrance exams, and went abroad to buy a fluff Master’s degree. Back then, after reading my thesis, my dad’s blood pressure spiked. Out of desperation, he handed me over to Elias. At that time, Elias corrected my work word by word, incredibly patient. Now that he’s a professor himself, he’s totally changed his tune. He suddenly smiled, his voice deep: “You’re different.” As he spoke, he parked the car in front of a pharmacy. “Wait for me a second, I need to buy something.” I was a bit curious: “Are you sick?” Could it be that he got so mad at his student today that he needed to buy blood pressure meds? He didn’t answer, just gave me an unreadable glance. He wasn’t gone long before returning, and I couldn’t even see what he had bought. 3 We drove home in silence, and as soon as we walked in, he went straight to the kitchen to cook. I have to admit, this habit of Elias’s is truly wonderful. Even though I often sleep until noon, there are always fresh meals in the fridge every day. His cooking skills are great, and soon, several dishes were placed on the table. Garlic shrimp with broccoli, beef with enoki mushrooms, tomato and egg stir-fry, and a zucchini soup. All my favorites. I buried my head and ate while he continuously put more food into my bowl. “That’s… that’s enough…” I was getting a bit too full before he finally stopped. “Okay.” Another bout of silence. I silently sighed in my heart. He really just doesn’t share a common language with me. I still don’t think I can live like this. After dinner, he silently cleared the table and did the dishes, while I turned and went to the bathroom to wash up. While showering, I thought long and hard about how to bring up the divorce. The steam clouded the room, and my brain felt a bit deprived of oxygen. Reaching out to grab my towel, I lost my focus for a second. My foot slipped, and with a heavy thud, I crashed onto the floor. I let out a miserable shriek, tears springing to my eyes from the pain. I felt like my entire body was shattered… “Chloe, what’s wrong?” Elias’s anxious knocking sounded from outside the door. It hurt so much I couldn’t even speak properly. “Chloe, are you okay? I’m coming in.” “I…” Realizing I was still naked, I panicked through the pain. “I slipped, don’t…” Before I could finish, he actually opened the door and rushed in. The moment our eyes met, I watched his face visibly flush red all the way down to his neck. My face instantly burned up, and I didn’t know which parts of myself to cover first. “Elias, you… you…” Realizing he had lost his composure, he coughed lightly. He quickly pulled down a bath towel, wrapped my entire body in it, and carried me into the bedroom. He gently placed me on the bed, looking worried: “Where did you get hurt?” I clutched the towel tightly, my face flushed. “My foot.” As my gaze fell to my foot, I instantly wanted the earth to swallow me whole out of sheer embarrassment. Maybe I slipped too hard, but right now, my shower slipper was shoved completely past my heel and wedged tightly onto my ankle… Elias clearly wanted to laugh, but he held it in. “I bought them a size too big. I’ll get you a better pair tomorrow,” he explained. He placed his hand on the slipper. “Let’s get the shoe off first.” And so, both of us pulling with all our might, we began the “Great Slipper Extraction.” I was nervous and mortified. We struggled for a long time, but the shoe remained firmly stuck. “It’s too tight.” He sighed helplessly, guiding me. “Chloe, relax a bit, keep your foot straight.” Me: … God, just destroy me right now… 4 A few minutes and several attempts later, it finally came off… Elias half-knelt in front of me, massaging my foot. “Can you move it?” His slightly messy bangs fell over his forehead, and his glasses hid his downward gaze. I moved my foot, blushing. “It’s fine now…” It hurt terribly when I first fell, but now that the shock passed, it was much better. He gently rubbed my ankle. As he slowly looked up, I met his eyes. I couldn’t help but feel flustered and awkward again. Especially right now, when he wasn’t speaking, the atmosphere was indescribably weird. Unable to bear it any longer, I took a deep breath and tentatively spoke up: “Elias, why don’t we… get a divorce…” His hands stopped, and his gaze darkened: “Chloe, what did you just say?” I avoided his eyes. “I said… divorce…” He stood up with a cold face, casting a shadow over me. He closed his eyes briefly, but it couldn’t hide the anger brewing beneath them. “Chloe, do you think marriage is a game?” I twisted my fingers tightly, feeling a bit guilty: “But we… we’re clearly not a good match…” “How are we not a good match?” “We’re not a match in any way. We don’t even act like a married couple…” He kept his cold face, didn’t say a word, turned around, and walked out. I was stunned for a moment. Before I could even process it, he actually came right back. Then, he tossed a small box onto the bed. Me: ??? “E… Elias, what are you doing?” His shirt was already gone. I only glanced up once, and my face felt scalding hot… His voice was husky: “We haven’t even tried. How do you know we aren’t a match?” “I…” His glasses bumped against the bridge of my nose, his burning skin contrasting with the cool metal frames. He quickly took off his glasses. My eyes met Elias’s beautiful brow and eyes. It turned out that taking off his glasses made him look a few degrees gentler. Try it then. A top-tier guy like this, I’m not losing out… … Except, three minutes later. I lay on the bed, somewhat questioning the meaning of life. All that aggressive buildup like a tiger, only to strike out immediately… That’s it? Someone covered his eyes, looking humiliated. “Chloe… it’s my first time…” I forced a bitter smile to comfort him, trying to preserve his final shred of dignity. Inside, I was losing my mind: We tried it, are we a match? Do YOU think we’re a match? WTF, divorce, we absolutely must divorce. I’ve done good deeds my whole life, I don’t deserve this. His face was flushed red. “Can we try one more time?” “Whatever you want…” I figured I could just grit my teeth and get through it…

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Right before the wedding, the male lead finally remembered I existed and came to the mansion to see me. [Has Harper realized her mistake?] The butler looked devastated: “Miss Harper is already dead.” He didn’t believe it. He rushed into the bedroom, only to find my long-cold corpse. Before my mission failed, I refused to give up. I sent Carter one last text message, asking: “Do you really have to marry Chloe?” A reply came quickly: “If you keep throwing these tantrums, we can’t even be brother and sister anymore.” I didn’t even have to guess; I knew Carter was frowning as he typed that, annoyance written all over his face. My heart turned to ash. I resigned myself to my fate, tossed the phone aside, and waited for death. I watched helplessly at the countdown hovering above my head— From ten, all the way down to zero. The system’s mechanical voice echoed in my mind: “Failure to capture the male lead’s heart. The host will now be erased.” As soon as the words fell, I felt it with agonizing clarity— My soul was being peeled away from this body, inch by excruciating inch. It was an unbearable sensation. A hundred, a thousand times worse than when I was tortured and whipped in my past life. I gritted my teeth as hard as I could, but a muffled groan of agony still slipped through my lips. The experiences of this lifetime flashed before my eyes like a speeding movie. I was supposed to be the vicious secondary character in a billionaire romance novel, but I was handed the script to win the male lead’s heart. To better nurture our feelings, I chose to enter this world as his childhood best friend. For the first eighteen years of our lives, we were inseparable. Whenever it was my time of the month, Carter would buy me pads and make me hot tea with a heating pad ready. He would endure a twenty-four-hour flight, rushing all the way back from overseas just to say: “I wanted to see you.” Almost everyone thought we were a sure thing, a match made in heaven. Including me. That was until the female lead, Chloe, appeared. Only then did I profoundly understand that a lifetime of friendship could never compete with love at first sight. At my twentieth birthday party, I confessed my feelings to him. Unsurprisingly, he rejected me. He summarized over a decade of our bond into a single sentence: “Harper, I only see you as a sister.” From that moment on, my “vicious secondary character” persona awakened, and I began to cling to him desperately. And from the sidelines, I witnessed his on-again, off-again five-year saga with Chloe. Leading up to today, where they finally got their happy ending. If I didn’t win Carter’s heart, I would die. But at the same time, I genuinely loved him! Back then, I was stubborn. I refused to believe that eighteen years of devotion couldn’t rival a single fleeting glance. Facts proved that I was wrong. Completely, absurdly wrong. But Carter, it really hurts! After the immense tearing sensation faded, my body became light, no longer confined to flesh and blood. Strangely, I didn’t disappear immediately. Instead, guided by some bizarre force, I was pulled straight to Carter’s corporate headquarters. Dressed in a tailored black suit, he exuded the aura of an elite executive. It was almost laughable. That suit he was wearing? I tailored it for him myself. I majored in fashion design in college. Back then, my eyes and heart were entirely filled with Carter. I naively told him: “I’m going to gift you a custom-tailored suit for your birthday every year, so you can be the spokesperson for my brand.” He promised to invest in me, to take my brand global. I kept my promise, but he broke his. [Mr. CEO, Miss Chloe is calling to remind you about the wedding photoshoot.] Carter’s executive assistant, Hayes, walked in to inform him. [I know.] Carter replied, placing a photograph face-down on his desk before standing up in silence. When he left, I was forced to follow. I watched as he and Chloe laughed and smiled, shooting an entire gallery of wedding photos. On the way back, Carter uncharacteristically did not drop Chloe off at her place. The atmosphere in the car was inexplicably heavy, suffocatingly so. Carter’s brows were locked in a tight frown, lost in thought, as if some unsolvable problem was bothering him. After a long while, he spoke abruptly: “Where is Harper?” “What is she doing today?” Usually, I was incredibly clingy. I’d call him countless times a day and send an endless stream of texts. Even if he ignored me, I would always find a way to pry his itinerary out of Hayes. This time, however, Hayes simply replied calmly: “Miss Harper hasn’t reached out to me at all today.” Hearing this, Carter’s frown deepened fiercely. He pulled out his phone. Our chat history was still stuck on yesterday’s screen. Me: “Do you really have to marry Chloe?” Carter: “If you keep throwing these tantrums, we can’t even be brother and sister anymore.” He furrowed his brows and sent me a text, acting as if he was granting me a grand favor: “Where are you?” Normally, I would have jumped for joy and immediately started rambling to him, not wanting to make him wait a single second. But this time, ten minutes passed without a single reply. Carter finally sensed something was off and ordered Hayes: “Go to Oakwood Manor.” Oakwood Manor. This estate was Carter’s coming-of-age gift to me. I had lived here ever since and refused to move out. Even the butler was handpicked by him. When Carter arrived, the mansion was terrifyingly quiet. Only the butler was in the living room, busying himself aimlessly. Carter casually adjusted his cufflinks and ordered: “Tell Harper to come down and see me.” Hearing my name, the butler’s rigid expression cracked, revealing an incomprehensible layer of sorrow. He cast a resentful glance at Carter and slowly spat out the words: “Miss Harper is already dead.” Carter froze for a second, then his face returned to a mask of indifference. He scoffed: “What kind of new trick is she playing now?” I might have been willful and mischievous, but I would never joke about life and death. Yet his trust in me was so incredibly thin that he wouldn’t even bother to verify it. Carter was absolutely certain I was just throwing a tantrum. Before leaving, he told the butler to pass on a message: “Tell her not to come to my wedding. Chloe doesn’t like her, and she’s an eyesore to me.” The butler’s eyes flickered, his gaze toward Carter tainted with pity and a hint of hatred. Carter stayed in my mansion for barely ten minutes. He came in a rush and left in a hurry. He climbed into his car, irritated. When Hayes saw no one following him out, he paused: “Sir, did Miss Harper not come down to see you?” After all, the old me wouldn’t have let him wait for even a second. Setting the system’s mission aside… it turned out I was just a shameless, desperate lapdog begging for his attention. Harper, you didn’t die unjustly. Carter’s brow twitched, his mood growing even more foul as he warned: “Never mention that name in front of me again.” Hayes hesitated, glancing at the thoroughly impatient Carter, and finally swallowed all his words of persuasion. I was sitting right there in the back seat, right beside Carter. He seemed extremely agitated. He made the driver circle the entire city several times. His thin lips were pressed into a tight, straight line. He gripped his phone tightly, glancing down at it every so often. But the screen remained pitch black; it never lit up. I didn’t know what he was hoping for. Was he still expecting me to call or text him? Oh, I remembered. Carter once said I was his anchor; he only felt truly at peace when I was around. Once, after a bitter fight with Chloe, he got drunk and ran over to my place in the middle of the night, acting like a madman. He held me so tightly, the scent of alcohol mixing with his warm breath against my neck. He nuzzled me, full of intimacy. [Harper, what would I ever do without you?] His tone was tender, as though I were the lover he had yearned for all his life. That was the closest I ever got to completing the mission. If I had slept with him then, given Carter’s rigid, traditional mindset, he would have taken responsibility for me. But I didn’t want to use such dirty tricks to chain him to my side. I wanted to stand before him with my head held high. So, I always appeared whenever he was depressed and defeated. I saw him at his absolute lowest countless times, but I was never allowed to share the glory when he was standing at the peak. During the five years he was entangled with Chloe, they loved and tortured each other. Every time he achieved a victory, he would childishly run to her side, lift his chin proudly, and provoke her: “Chloe, you’re my defeated opponent.” Chloe would get furious, her eyes turning red. Then Carter would frantically apologize and coax her until she smiled. And I just stood a short distance away, staring blankly at that eye-piercing scene. Five whole years. I lost count of how many times I had to endure that. I thought about giving up, but every time the thought crossed my mind, the system would blare a piercing warning of my impending erasure. The morning light was faint. The distant, foggy blue sky gradually turned pale, and the morning sun struggled to break through. Carter waited for me all night, but he never got my surrender. He closed his eyes and ordered coldly: “To the office.” “Yes, sir.” Upon arriving at the office, Carter paced irritably around the executive suite. His gaze shifted and suddenly landed on the photograph placed face-down on his desk. Things had been too rushed yesterday; I never got a clear look at who was in the picture. Was it Chloe? They had been practically inseparable these past few days. Did he miss her so much that he needed to look at her photo? Over the past five years, he and Chloe had a toxic, passionate romance, but the one who was always by his side was me. Right before my twentieth birthday, Chloe came up to me and declared with absolute certainty: “Harper, the one who will end up with Carter is me.” I froze, not taking her declaration of war seriously. How could she? Carter and I had a deep bond. He planned my entire birthday party himself, making it a grand, luxurious affair. So, we made a bet. At the party, I confessed to Carter: “I like you.” The entire room erupted, people clapping and cheering: “Be together! Be together!” I waited for his answer, full of anticipation and anxiety. But Carter looked hesitantly into the crowd, and finally gave me a helpless reply: “Harper, I only see you as my sister. If I did anything to make you misunderstand, I apologize.” In an instant, the mocking and shocked stares of the crowd shattered into thousands of sharp blades, stabbing ruthlessly into my heart. An invisible execution. I forced a smile, having no idea how to salvage the humiliating situation. I thought it was a mutual romance naturally blossoming; I didn’t realize it was just my own pathetic, one-sided delusion. To make matters worse, Chloe walked up to the stage, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Carter. She crossed her arms, gave me a disdainful look, and said: “Harper, I told you. Carter doesn’t like you. You’re just asking for misery.” Carter turned and started arguing with her, criticizing her for acting on her own, entirely forgetting that I was still standing there, drowning in embarrassment. [Sir, Miss Chloe is here.] Hayes’ calm voice echoed in the spacious, quiet office, jolting both of us out of our shared trip down memory lane. [Let her wait outside for now.] Carter nodded expressionlessly and turned to walk into the private lounge. The lounge had a massive walk-in closet filled with all kinds of clothes, every single one carefully paired and picked out by me. It was so he’d always be prepared for any occasion. Now, he was meticulously picking an outfit from the dazzling array of clothes I bought him, all to go on a date with another woman. How laughable! I did so much, yet failed to unlock his heart, only managing to pave the way perfectly for someone else. It was truly pages of absurdity, a handful of bitter tears. Chloe, who was supposed to wait outside, entered the office without permission and picked up the photo on the desk. When Carter walked out and saw this, he flew into a rage, his voice sharp and severe: “Who told you to touch my things?” This sudden burst of anger caught her off guard. Chloe froze for a second before firing back accusingly: “Wow, Carter. We’re about to get married, and you’re hiding a picture of another woman? What exactly is the meaning of this?!” Another woman’s picture? It wasn’t Chloe. Hearing this, I burst out laughing, clutching my stomach and giggling. I didn’t know Carter was such a player! But it was for the best. Let Chloe taste the bitterness I once swallowed. They got into a fierce argument and eventually parted on bad terms. The massive office was left in a mess, leaving behind only… Carter’s profound loneliness. He bent down to pick up the photo from the floor. I leaned in curiously, wanting to know who this woman hidden in his heart was. Even Chloe had lost to her. But he deliberately covered the photo with his hand, guarding it so tightly that I couldn’t see a thing. I sighed in defeat. But on second thought, I let it go. What business did the dead have with the affairs of the living? Besides, I was going to disappear soon anyway. [Ring— Ring—] The ringing of the landline shattered the momentary silence of the office. Carter looked over, his eyes landing on the old-fashioned phone on his desk, the corners of his lips curving up slightly. He purposely waited a while. Just as the call was about to drop, he leisurely picked up the receiver and said, “Hello.” The butler’s calm, numb voice came through the line: “Sir, how should we arrange the young lady’s funeral?” Not hearing the voice he expected, Carter frowned heavily, his annoyance flaring up: “Is Harper addicted to playing dead?!” “Tell her that these cheap tricks won’t fool me, and I won’t cancel the wedding because of them!” The other end went completely silent. Just as Carter thought the call had been disconnected, the butler’s voice echoed faintly.

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When Liam flew halfway across the world chasing the one that got away, I begged him not to leave. He didn’t even look back. A year later, I got married, and Liam flew straight back. Seeing my wedding ring, the habitually arrogant young heir completely broke down. He forced a smile. “Lily, are you going to take it off yourself, or should I do it for you?” His voice was trembling. “If you want a ring, I’ll buy you one. Throw this one away, I’m begging you.” I didn’t invite many people to my wedding, just a dozen or so close friends and family for a nice dinner. My husband doted on me. He didn’t let me lift a finger the entire time, taking it upon himself to entertain the guests so I could just sit and chat with my best friend. Watching me get married, my best friend Emma sighed deeply. “I honestly thought you were going to wait for Liam for the rest of your life.” I looked down and smiled. “I thought so too.” She asked, “Does Liam know you’re getting married?” I shook my head. “No. And there’s no need for him to know.” She paused. “I heard Liam booked a flight like an absolute madman last night, flying back from the States overnight.” I didn’t say anything. If he was in such a rush, it was probably because his “first love” had run off again. Just like back then. She had gotten mad at him and ran off to Europe. Liam booked his flight right in front of me to chase after her. It was my time of the month, and I was wrapped tightly in a blanket, still feeling freezing cold. I sat shivering in front of him, watching his long, elegant fingers tap the screen without a second of hesitation, booking a ticket for that very night. I gritted my teeth, still wanting to make him stay. “Liam, can you just… not go?” Liam’s dark, gleaming eyes looked at me, a careless smile on his lips. “Be a good girl and stay home. I’ll bring you back a present.” He tilted my chin up, pecked me lightly on the lips, and tucked the blanket tighter around me. “Do you want a necklace or a bracelet?” I stayed silent. Liam loved giving people jewelry. He had given me countless pieces, but never a ring. He didn’t give Mia many gifts, but whenever he did, it was always a ring. I took a deep breath, looking at his lean, handsome face and pale skin, and tried one last time. “Do you really have to go?” The smile on Liam’s lips faded a fraction. He patted my head. “You know what our relationship is.” I froze in place, utterly speechless. I was the one who had actively chased Liam. He only had one condition: our relationship couldn’t be public, especially not in front of Mia. To put it bluntly, I was just a rebound. A backup plan. I had absolutely no right to stop him. Even though we lived together, and he had even taken me to his family gatherings. Seeing that I wasn’t going to argue, Liam smiled and kissed my forehead. “Be good. I’ll bring you something nice.” I lowered my head. “When are you coming back?” He stood up, slowly buttoning his dress shirt. “Just a few days.” At the time, he probably didn’t expect that his dream girl wasn’t just going abroad to clear her head—she was going for a year-long study program. Which meant he ended up staying there with her for a whole year. I looked at Liam’s tall, broad back as he walked to the door, and I let out a soft sigh. Sensing my unhappiness, Liam turned back. “Before I leave, think of something you want me to do for you. I’ll make it happen, whatever it is.” I looked at his face and thought for a moment. “Could you look into someone for me? His name is Noah. He’s a war correspondent.” Liam’s face instantly darkened. “What’s your relationship with him? If you can’t explain it clearly, I’m not helping.” I pressed my lips together. “He’s my brother. From my foster family.” Liam’s expression relaxed, and he nodded. “Wait for my news.” He turned and left. I watched his silhouette disappear, then pulled a photograph out of my wallet. In the photo was a lean, handsome man who looked strikingly similar to Liam. I gently rubbed the photo with my thumb. Liam really was a forgetful person. I had told him I grew up in the foster care system. Where would I get a biological extended family? I had also told him that there was an older boy in the group home who always took care of me, and that we grew up together. But he heard it and immediately forgot. He also never suspected why I loved staring at his face so much. I only loved his face. Liam really, truly loved Mia. Even though Mia’s attitude had been wildly inconsistent for years, and she simply refused to settle down with him. He still loved her willingly and wholeheartedly. And I really, truly loved Liam— Or rather, that face of his. The face that looked just like Noah’s. I always held a deep sense of gratitude toward Liam. He had saved me from the absolute abyss. When I met him, I had already lost contact with Noah for three years. Many people said Noah was dead. I was a walking corpse, completely devoid of life. Until I saw Liam, a guy a year below me in college. When I saw that face, so devastatingly identical to Noah’s, I cried. I did everything I could to get close to Liam, treating him well unconditionally. Everyone knew I was Liam’s little shadow. I carried his bag, held his jacket, bought his things, passed messages when he fought with Mia, and helped him walk home when he was drunk. Perhaps I was just too good to him, so good that he could no longer ignore it. So, one drunken night after a massive fight with Mia, he pulled me into his arms. “You like me?” I looked at that lean, handsome face and nodded. From that day on, I became Liam’s secret girlfriend. If a rebound could even be considered a girlfriend. This “relationship” lasted for years. Things never worked out between Liam and Mia, and eventually, Liam and I moved in together. Sometimes, Liam would hold me and sigh romantically, “Lily, you’re the best woman I’ve ever met. You don’t even care about my money.” I laughed. “If you wanted to give it to me, I wouldn’t say no.” “But you don’t spend it.” Liam stared at me with those deep, intense eyes. “You don’t spend my money, you don’t wear the jewelry I buy you, and you don’t push me to go public.” He said, “Sometimes I honestly feel like you’re treating me like a rebound, too.” I tapped his nose, laughing as I buried my face in his chest. Rebound or not, it didn’t matter. People aren’t made of stone. We had already spent six years together. Those six years meant a lot to me. But Liam didn’t see it that way. Liam still loved Mia just as much. If Mia called him drunk in the middle of the night, Liam would throw his clothes on and rush out to pick her up. In the past, Liam would leave without a word, never explaining himself to me. But later on, he started offering explanations, a hint of guilt flickering across his face. I thought this meant I was finally becoming someone special in his heart. But I was wrong. He still chased Mia out of the country, not giving me a single chance to make him stay. And he was gone for a whole year. Liam actually came back once during that year. He got incredibly drunk and called me to pick him up. When I arrived, he was sitting in a VIP booth at a club, video-calling Mia. Seeing me walk in, he waved me over. “Lily, come here.” He turned the phone to show me to Mia. “Let me introduce you. This is my girlfriend of six years, Lily.” Mia still wore her usual look of cold indifference. But her eyes swept over me, pausing on my face for a few seconds. Then she smiled. “Liam, have you moved on?” Liam smiled back. “Yeah. Why should I keep chasing someone who doesn’t want me, when I’ve got a gentle, perfect wife right here?” Mia watched Liam wrap his arm around me and asked how long we had been together. I answered honestly: six years. Mia hung up the video call. The usually arrogant and poised Mia lost her composure so badly she didn’t even say goodbye. The hand Liam had wrapped around me suddenly went rigid. That night, Liam was holding me as we slept. Halfway through the night, he took a phone call. When he came back to bed, he held me tight, kissing me endlessly. He didn’t sleep a wink, just staring at me until dawn. By morning, his voice was hoarse. “Lily, we’re at the end of the line.” I hadn’t slept either. I had already guessed it. I heard the phone call he took. Mia casually told him to break up with me. She said as soon as he dumped me, she would be with him. I knew I wasn’t as important as Mia. I nodded, not wanting the scene to get ugly. I turned my back to him and wiped the corner of my eye. Liam hugged me from behind, squeezing me so tight I could barely breathe. He whispered in my ear, “The boy from your foster family… I found news about him. He’s not dead. He just has amnesia. He’s overseas.” My entire body went stiff. I turned around. “Can you bring him back?” Liam kissed my lips one last time. “I can. I owe you this much.” The very same day, he got on a plane to be with Mia. And a few days later, I saw Noah. He was in the best hospital in the country, being treated by top-tier specialists. Soon, his memory returned, and he remembered me. Noah had lost his memory from a head injury while saving a child in a bombing zone. The moment he woke up, the first thing he did was pull me into his arms. His gentle voice echoed by my ear. “I’ve been gone for ten years. I’m so sorry I made you suffer.” My tears instantly spilled over. My empty heart was quietly, completely filled. Noah and I had missed out on ten years, and neither of us wanted to waste another decade. We got engaged very quickly. Noah did ask me if I had fallen in love with someone else during those ten years, telling me not to make an impulsive decision I might regret. Liam’s face flashed vaguely in my mind. But it disappeared just as fast. I shook my head, smiled, and said no. I traced the scar Noah got from saving that child in the war zone, and repeated, “No.”

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The day Caleb Thorne’s high school sweetheart returned to the States marked exactly three years of me playing Support for him. He told me to step aside and advised, “Your macro awareness is just too poor. Riley is a much better fit for me.” Everyone in the league said that if it wasn’t for Caleb, someone of my skill level would never have made it onto a pro roster. They said I was dragging him down. And Riley? She was the one who actually had a chance to help him win the World Championship. So, on the day I packed my bags and left, a friend asked him, “You’re not going to go after her?” Caleb just laughed it off, completely unbothered. “Let her learn her lesson. She’ll be back.” Until one day, someone jokingly suggested they wanted to hear me grovel and apologize to him over the phone on speaker. Uncharacteristically, Caleb agreed and dialed my number. But the moment the call connected, a lazy, raspy male voice answered instead: “She’s in the shower. “In… my room.” Rumor has it that Caleb shattered his wine glass right then and there, bolting from the banquet like a madman. 1 The day Caleb’s high school sweetheart flew back from the European circuit was exactly our three-year anniversary as a bot-lane duo. He threw a massive welcome party for her at the team facility. He invited everyone. Except me. He told me to stay in my room and “reflect on my mistakes.” Pop— Confetti cannons erupted in the living room downstairs. Every word drifting up the stairs was dripping with praise for Riley Mercer. “You’re a legend, Caleb! You actually managed to poach the top female Support in the West!” “With Riley backing us up, next year’s World Championship is practically in the bag!” “Cheers to the birth of our new golden bot-lane couple!” Riley Mercer. The star female Support player. She had a glowing track record and great mechanics. Though she hadn’t secured a World title yet, the entire organization believed her addition would be the push Frost Wolves (FW) needed to break their bottleneck. After all, everyone assumed that if I hadn’t been dragging them down, the championship trophy would already be sitting on Caleb’s shelf. Even Caleb himself had said it: “Your macro awareness is just too poor, Chloe. Riley is a much better fit for me. “Only Riley has the potential to help me win Worlds. “Chloe, give up your starting roster spot.” …… 2 Caleb knew exactly what a starting roster spot meant to a professional esports player. Yet, when he heard me refuse, he just stared at me with cold, calculating eyes. “Chloe, can you stop throwing a tantrum for once? “Can’t you be a team player? Just stay in your room and think about your attitude.” Because of that, when I walked out of my room and appeared suddenly at the top of the stairs, Caleb’s eyes flashed with the impatience of someone whose authority had been challenged. “What are you doing down here?” Riley peeked out from behind him, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Caleb, who is this?” “No one,” Caleb frowned, his tone instantly softening to reassure her. “Just a substitute.” As he spoke, he subtly took a step forward, using his body to block my line of sight to Riley. It was a defensive posture, as if I were some kind of monster about to strike. Just a substitute… My hands balled into fists at my sides, a sharp, suffocating ache spreading through my chest. Satisfied with Caleb’s answer, Riley let out a soft “Oh,” then stepped out from behind him and enthusiastically extended her hand toward me. She smiled. “Hi, I’m Riley Mercer. I’m FW’s new starting Support.” Her smile was laced with condescension, and she made sure to heavily emphasize the word starting. Looking at her bright, beautiful face, and then at Caleb standing in front of her with a warning glare fixed on me, my mind flooded with memories. I remembered the countless fights Caleb and I had after Riley announced her return to the States. “Look at other teams’ Supports, and then look at you! “Chloe, why can’t you just learn from Riley? “If you had even a third of her game sense, we wouldn’t have lost that last match!” He had probably been planning to replace me for a long time. Suddenly, the questions I had been agonizing over didn’t need to be asked anymore. I already had the answers. A strange sense of relief washed over me. I had known Caleb for ten years. Chased the esports dream with him for seven. Dated him for five. Fought alongside him on the professional stage for three. I thought we’d be partners forever. I never expected the cord to snap this easily. …… 3 I raised my eyes and looked at Riley calmly. “Hi, I’m Chloe Bennett. I’m nobody’s substitute. As of this exact second, I am officially leaving FW.” The entire team house went dead silent. Caleb’s head snapped toward me, his brows knitted in fury. “Do you even know what you’re saying?” His expression was dark. I knew exactly why he was furious. He was warning me not to test his patience. If this were the past, out of respect for his position as Captain and to avoid causing drama for the team, I would have lowered my head and backed down. But now… “I’ve already spoken with upper management to terminate my contract.” I bypassed him, handing a stack of folders to Manager Davis. “These are all the signed release forms. Keep them safe.” “Chloe!” Caleb’s sharp voice stopped me in my tracks. “Think this through. If you leave me, what organization is going to want you? Do you have any idea—” “I know,” I chuckled lightly, cutting him off. I shot a meaningful glance at Riley standing behind him and answered a question he hadn’t asked. “Don’t worry. I won’t bother you anymore.” The subtext was clear: We’re breaking up, Caleb. I’m dumping you. Caleb’s face turned an ugly shade of pale. He was so furious he practically gritted his teeth as he delivered his final warning: “I’m not going to tolerate your little temper tantrums this time, Chloe. If you walk out that door, do not regret it!” He honestly believed this was just a bluff, that I would eventually crawl back and apologize like I always did. The only answer he got was the sight of my back as I walked away. In every single argument we’d ever had, the conflict only ended because I was the “good girlfriend.” Whether it was our synergy in the game or our dynamic in real life, Caleb had never compromised for me. Not even once. So what was this about him tolerating me? As I pushed open the front doors of the facility, I raised my hand to block out the blinding sunlight, walking away without a single ounce of hesitation. Behind me, I could faintly hear the sound of something shattering violently against the floor. …… 4 After leaving the FW facility, I wandered the streets aimlessly for three days. During that time, I reached out to numerous teams, but every single one of them gave me polite, evasive rejections. It wasn’t until a female manager from a mid-tier team took pity on me that I found out the truth. She called me privately and confessed that Caleb had already put the word out. He had blacklisted me across the league. No one was going to take me in. After hanging up, I clenched my fists until my knuckles turned white, eventually letting out a hollow, self-deprecating laugh. So this was what he meant by “do not regret it.” Caleb came from old money. His family was rich and deeply connected. When he first started playing professionally, it was little more than a hobby for a bored rich kid. But as he started winning, that hobby evolved into a dream. Even though more and more female players have been entering the esports scene in recent years, the mountain of prejudice still forces most women into the Support role. The community loves to act magnanimous, patting themselves on the back for allowing a woman on the roster. But at the same time, they are incredibly stingy. They only feel comfortable placing women in roles they perceive as “low-impact.” It’s an unspoken rule: everyone just assumes female players are biologically inferior to men when it comes to mechanical skill. They’d rather strip women of their infinite potential than trust them to carry the game. Just like with Caleb and me. No matter what actually happened on the server, whenever we lost a match, the vitriol was always aimed at me: “This is why girls shouldn’t play. Why did they draft a female Support?!” “Is she sleeping with the managers to keep her roster spot?” “Go back to the kitchen, stop ruining our games!” Not once did anyone question if Caleb made the wrong macro call. Compared to other male ADCs in the league, Caleb faced almost zero criticism. And the only reason for that was because his Support was me—and I happened to be a woman. …… 5 On the fifth day of my fruitless job hunt, just as I was starting to doubt whether I was truly cut out for esports, someone completely unexpected showed up. Captain of Ghost Town (GT) and FW’s biggest rival. Hunter Vance. Before I could even process what was happening, he casually greeted the owner of the local burger joint, grabbed two cans of soda from the cooler, and slid into the booth across from me. He cracked one open with one hand, slid it over to me, and lounged back, sipping from the other. He looked so relaxed you’d think he was nursing a cold beer on a beach. I just stared at him, totally bewildered. Seeing me frozen, he lazily lifted an eyebrow. “Our org bans alcohol during the season.” He paused, frowning slightly. “Did you want a beer? I mean, I can pay the fine if we get caught…” He muttered something else under his breath that I didn’t catch. The whole situation felt absurd. “What are you doing here?” I asked. Hunter and I weren’t exactly friends, but we weren’t strangers either. As opponents, we’d nod at each other backstage and shake hands after matches. That was the extent of it. But I knew his reputation. Just like Caleb, he was the face of his franchise. A superstar. But where Caleb played the gentle, polished nice guy for the cameras, Hunter had a very different label: “A serious face hiding a totally chaotic, trash-talking esports bad boy.” And he had a venomous tongue. Just like right now. He set his soda down, looking at me with a half-smile. “Unemployed? Packing up to go work on a farm? “Getting too old? Hands too slow? “Honestly, watching you and Caleb play the bot lane… I could scatter birdseed on my keyboard, and a pigeon would have better movement than you two.” Me: “……” And here I thought he came to comfort me. Hunter seemed to read my mind. He scoffed, giving me a side-eye. “What are you expecting? I’m not that fake nice-guy Caleb, playing to the cameras and running a charity.” Me: “……” In the span of thirty seconds, he absolutely verbally dismantled me. It was a stark reminder of why pro players are often called “keyboard warriors.” I tried to argue back at first, but eventually, I was reduced to just nodding aggressively like a turtle, deeply agreeing with his roast. Hunter found this highly amusing. He laughed and muttered, “Useless.” Then, he pulled an unlit cigarette from his pocket, held it between his lips, and asked me with the casualness of discussing the weather: “Hey, loser. Wanna join our team?” I nodded numbly, taking a solid ten seconds to process the words before my head snapped up. I stared at him in utter shock. “W-what did you just say?” My heart started hammering against my ribs. I was terrified. Terrified that he was just mocking me in my lowest moment, but also terrified that my own cowardice would make me miss this lifeline. I nervously fumbled for words. “B-but your roster is full, isn’t it?” GT was a stacked roster. They didn’t even need substitutes. “Management is making some roster changes,” Hunter said smoothly. He picked up his soda again. But when he met my wide, panicked eyes, he slowly set it back down. He ground his teeth. “What is that look? Give me a straight answer. Yes or no. Or I’m taking the offer off the table.” He looked incredibly annoyed, like a dad scolding his disappointing kid. But I didn’t care. The only words that registered in my brain were taking the offer off the table. Instinctively, I lunged forward and grabbed his hand across the table, shouting, “I’m in! I’m in! Please don’t take it back!” My yelling earned us some weird looks from the other tables. Hunter just stared down at where my hands were gripping his for a solid thirty seconds. Then, he cleared his throat awkwardly and muttered, “Keep it down.” Thinking he was disgusted by the physical contact, I quickly pulled my hands back and sat up perfectly straight. But as I followed him out of the diner and walked behind him toward the GT team house, I noticed the back of his neck was violently red. Hunter reached up, rubbed the back of his neck, and cursed under his breath, “Damn heat. It’s too hot today.” ……

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It was the third year of the Extreme Cold Apocalypse. I barely kept the indoor temperature above freezing, thanks to my stash of anthracite coal. My mother-in-law, Eleanor, who had fled to my house, dumped all the coal down the drain while I was asleep. I woke up freezing and confronted her. She just pointed indignantly at the “lucky crystal” she’d brought. “The spiritual advisor said all these dark, gloomy things in the house were blocking our luck and prosperity. They had to go.” To “attract good fortune” in this apocalypse, she even tore off the insulation panels I’d used to seal the windows. “Good luck has to come in through the windows! You sealed them all off, do you want us all to starve to death?” Ethan, my husband, wrapped in my warmest down jacket, stood by, nodding and praising his mother for doing the right thing. He had stuck all my remaining hand warmers onto his rare collectible action figures, terrified the plastic might become brittle and crack. “These are limited editions. Our future depends on them appreciating in value. What’s a little chill for you?”

At three in the morning, I woke up, shivering. An icy cold seeped through my heavy sleeping bag, biting into my bones. The digital thermometer on the wall showed a chilling red number: -5°C. Just half an hour ago, when I fell asleep, it had been +8°C. The only heat source, the coal stove in the living room, was out. I grabbed my jacket and rushed out of the bedroom. In the living room, Eleanor was using my last iron shovel, laboriously prying open the sewer cover, dumping shovelful after shovelful of black coal into it. The ton of anthracite coal I’d piled in the corner, enough for the three of us to survive the winter, was already more than half gone. The sewage mixed with coal dust gave off a nauseating stench. “Stop!” I yelled, my voice hoarse from the cold and fury. Eleanor jumped, and the shovel clanged to the ground. Instead of looking guilty, she straightened up, pointed at me, and snapped, “You jinx! What are you doing up in the middle of the night? Trying to scare me to death?” I looked at the coal, now turned into sludge in the sewer, and my vision blurred with rage. “That’s our coal! Our only way to survive the cold! What are you doing?” “Of course I know!” Eleanor put her hands on her hips, indignant, and pointed to a brand new golden idol of prosperity she had enshrined in the center of the table. “The mystic said there were too many dark things in the house blocking our luck! Look how gloomy this place is. How is the God of Prosperity supposed to come in?” That golden idol was the only “luggage” she and Ethan had brought when they fled to my house yesterday. The bedroom door opened, and Ethan, my husband, walked out, wrapped in my thickest goose down jacket. He yawned sleepily, saw what was happening, and didn’t stop Eleanor. Instead, he frowned at me. “Sarah, why are you yelling at Mom? She’s only trying to help us.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh, pointing at the half-empty coal pile. “Trying to help us? She threw away all the coal! We’ll freeze to death tonight, the three of us. Is that ‘helping’ us?” Ethan waved his hand impatiently. “It’s just a little coal, isn’t it? Go find some more. Mom brought the idol so we can turn our lives around. What do you know?” As he spoke, he carefully walked to the glass display cabinet by the wall, pulled out a few hand warmers from his jacket, and meticulously stuck them to the bases of his precious action figures. “These are all limited editions. With the temperature outside, the plastic can easily get brittle. What if they crack?” He didn’t even look up. “If these appreciate in value, our whole family will rely on them to make a fortune. You’re just a woman, what’s a little chill to you?” I looked at his self-righteous face, then at Eleanor, who wore a ‘I’m thinking of you’ expression. A shiver ran down my spine, though not from the cold. Just then, Eleanor started a new action. She walked to the window and began ripping off the multi-layer thermal reflective film I had painstakingly installed three years ago, a task that had taken incredible effort. “This has to go too!” she said, tearing it. “Windows are where good luck enters! You sealed them off completely! How’s the God of Prosperity supposed to come in? Do you want us all to freeze to death?” “Screech—” A harsh tearing sound echoed, and a large gap appeared in the thermal film. Instantly, a white stream of icy air surged in through the opening, and the indoor thermometer plummeted. -6°C… -8°C… -10°C… Ethan shivered, pulling my down jacket tighter. But he still nodded. “Mom’s right. This really should come off.”

I didn’t argue with them anymore. I silently watched the numbers on the thermometer drop from -10°C all the way to -15°C. Eleanor and Ethan finally started to feel the cold. “Oh no, why… why is it so cold?” Eleanor rubbed her arms, her teeth chattering. Ethan was also shaking with cold. He looked at me, his voice demanding, “Sarah, don’t you have other things to warm us up? Get them out now! Do you want to freeze us to death?” Three years ago, when the Extreme Cold Apocalypse hit, they, mother and son, immediately took all my savings and fled into an official climate-controlled human base. They abandoned me in this house, which I had personally renovated, leaving me to fend for myself. For three years, they thought I had died in some forgotten corner, never once checking on me. But then, three days ago, they appeared at my door, looking haggard and defeated, claiming the base had kicked them out. I looked at their thin clothes and faces, purple with cold, and actually felt a moment of weakness, relenting and letting them in. Now it seemed this was the most foolish mistake I had made in three years. I ignored Ethan’s shouts and turned to my tool shed, dragging out a disassembled solid wood table. I had originally planned to use it to reinforce the fences once spring arrived. I took out an axe and silently chopped the table legs and tabletop into pieces suitable for the stove. “Thump!” “Thump!” “Thump!” Dull thudding sounds of chopping wood echoed in the silent, cold room. Eleanor and Ethan watched me, their eyes filled with confusion and disdain. “Sarah, what are you doing? Burning furniture? Are you crazy? That’s terrible luck!” “You’ve managed to survive this long, so your conditions can’t be bad. Are you just trying to provoke us?” Eleanor shrieked. “Exactly! You must be hiding good stuff; don’t think we don’t know!” Ethan chimed in. “Quick, get out the good coal! This rotten wood creates so much smoke, it’s suffocating! What if it damages my action figures? Can you even afford to replace them?” I said nothing, just mechanically chopped the wood. Soon, the stove was re-lit. Orange flames surged, bringing a long-awaited warmth. But the thick smoke from burning wood quickly spread, filling the entire house with a choking smell. The thermometer numbers slowly climbed back to -8°C, but didn’t rise further. The heat value of burning wood was far inferior to anthracite coal. Eleanor and Ethan coughed repeatedly, tears streaming from their eyes. “Cough, cough, cough… Sarah! I order you! Put this fire out immediately! Get out your good stuff!” Ethan yelled at me, covering his mouth and nose. “Yes! Hurry! If it ruins my God of Prosperity, can you bear the responsibility?” Eleanor echoed. I stopped chopping wood and slowly lifted my head, my gaze sweeping over their faces, red from lack of oxygen. Then, I walked to the corner and picked up a 20-liter spare gasoline can. I unscrewed the cap, and the heavy smell of gasoline instantly overpowered the smoke from the wood. Eleanor and Ethan’s faces changed. “You… what are you going to do?” Ethan’s voice held a trace of fear. I didn’t answer. I just carried the gasoline can, step by step, to his glass display cabinet. His “limited edition” action figures inside the cabinet looked cold and rigid in the dim firelight. “Don’t… don’t touch my action figures!” Ethan’s body tensed. I tilted the gasoline can slightly. “Splash—” Amber liquid poured onto the top of the glass cabinet, slowly seeping through the cracks.

“Ahhh—! My action figures!” Ethan let out a desperate shriek, lunging at me like a madman to snatch the gasoline can from my hand. I sidestepped, easily avoiding him. His emaciated body couldn’t even touch a single one of my fingers. “Sarah! You lunatic! If you touch my action figures, I’ll kill you!” His eyes were bloodshot, his face contorted in a grimace. Eleanor was also dumbfounded, pointing at me, her lips trembling, unable to utter a word. I watched Ethan coldly, placed the gasoline can on the ground, and then pulled a lighter from my pocket. “Click.” A small, orange flame danced at my fingertips. “Both of you, go get all the coal from the sewer. Not a single piece missing,” I said, my voice calm. Ethan’s body froze. Eleanor’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You want us to dig in the sewer? That’s disgusting! No way!” “Exactly! Sarah, don’t go too far!” Ethan snarled, though his voice lacked conviction. “Do you think I’m afraid of you? Go ahead and light it! These action figures are worth a house! If you dare to burn them, I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life in jail!” He was talking about pre-apocalypse prices. In this era, a house was worth less than a single compressed food bar. I didn’t bother with more words. I simply moved the lighter forward gently. The flame instantly licked at the gasoline-soaked glass cabinet. “Whoosh—” Blue flames roared to life, engulfing the entire cabinet in an instant. Choking black smoke billowed upwards, and the stench of burning plastic was nauseating. Ethan’s pupils contracted violently in the firelight. “No—!” He let out a desperate wail, collapsing to the ground, watching in despair as his “limited editions” twisted and melted in the fierce flames, turning into puddles of black liquid. Eleanor also collapsed to the ground in terror, a foul odor emanating from her pants. She had actually peed herself. I watched it all until the entire cabinet was reduced to a charred skeleton, then extinguished the flames with a fire extinguisher. The room was a mess. The temperature began to drop again. I turned around, looked at the dazed mother and son, and repeated my words. “Go, retrieve the coal.” This time, no one argued. Ethan looked like his soul had been sucked out, his eyes vacant. Eleanor, in extreme fear, trembled uncontrollably. I walked up to her and shoved the cold iron shovel into her hand. “Go.” Eleanor flinched, almost dropping the shovel again. She looked up at me, her eyes full of fear and pleading. They had personally destroyed our shared path to survival; they would have to personally retrieve it. Under my stare, Eleanor tremblingly picked up the shovel and a bucket, and with a zombie-like Ethan, walked towards the foul-smelling sewer. The cold, viscous sewage quickly soaked their pant legs. Eleanor retched, but seeing me standing not far away, she gritted her teeth and plunged the shovel into the sludge. The task of retrieving the coal was harder than expected. The sewer contained not only coal dust but also three years’ worth of various household waste and excrement. Every shovelful Eleanor and Ethan pulled out was like digging up a putrid piece of evidence from hell. Eleanor threw up several times, eventually even spitting up bile. Ethan remained silent throughout, mechanically repeating the digging and dumping motions. Suddenly, Ethan tripped over something in the sewer and let out a terrified scream. “Ah! Something! Something’s biting me!”

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Getting our family portrait taken at the end of every summer was an unbreakable tradition in our household. This year was no exception. We stood in the familiar, cramped studio of Gary’s Lens & Light on Main Street, posing against a mottled gray backdrop. The shutter clicked, the bright flash momentarily blinding me. Gary pulled his head out from behind the camera, flashing a wide, satisfied grin and giving us a thumbs-up. “Absolute perfection,” Gary declared, his voice booming in the small room. “What a beautiful family of three!” His words had barely landed before a sharp frown carved its way onto my face. “Did you miscount, Gary?” I interrupted, a flicker of irritation lacing my tone. “My sister, me, and my parents. We are clearly a family of four.” The moment the words left my mouth, the air in the room seemed to solidify. Gary’s practiced smile froze, turning brittle. Beside me, my parents slowly turned their heads. The way they looked at me—eyes wide, expressions utterly blank—made the hair on my arms stand up. It was a deeply unsettling, hollow kind of stare. “Sweetheart, what on earth are you talking about?” my mother said. Her voice carried a faint, almost imperceptible tremor. “You have always been our only child. What sister?” They practically dragged me out of the studio and into the car, but my mind was already racing, heavy with a suffocating dread. The second we got home, I sprinted to the hallway closet, tearing through boxes until I found the heavy leather-bound albums holding our past family portraits. I was going to find the proof. I was going to show them Haley’s face. But as I flipped open the thick pages, a wave of pure, glacial terror rushed from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head. The blood in my veins felt like ice. Between my fourth and eleventh birthdays, there were eight family portraits. My fingers trembled as I touched the plastic sleeve of the first one. There were ten people in the photo. I turned to the second page. The number of people had dropped to nine. … I shoved the pages over, my breath coming in shallow gasps, until I reached the eighth photo—last year’s portrait. There were four people. For seven years, counting my sister who vanished today, seven children had disappeared from our family photos. Who were they? And where, dear God, did they all go? 1 “You’re lying to me!” I stormed into the living room, hurling the heavy album onto the coffee table with a resounding smack. My father looked up from his armchair, the TV remote hovering midway to the side table. My mother poked her head out from the kitchen, wiping flour onto her floral apron. “Lying about what, Kate?” she asked softly. “The portraits! Haley is right here! Look at all these people! Why are you telling me I’m an only child?” My parents exchanged a long, heavy look. My mother’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “Kate, honey… your condition is flaring up again.” “I don’t have a condition!” I slammed my finger against the glossy paper. “This is Haley! She’s right here in the braids! She’s two years older than me, she has a tiny freckle above her left eyebrow, and she has to drink warm milk every single morning, she—” “That is enough.” My father stood up. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight that brokered no argument. He reached over and calmly slid the album out from under my hands. “You are an only child, Kate. You always have been.” “No!” I snatched the album back, frantically flipping it open to shove Haley’s face into his line of sight. My hand froze mid-air. There were only three people in the photograph. My father, my mother, and me. I flipped the pages like a maniac. The second photo—three people. The third photo—three people. Every single page, just a perfectly neat, smiling family of three. “Kate…” My mother walked over and crouched in front of me, her voice trembling with what sounded like genuine heartbreak. “Listen to me, baby. When you were little, you had a terrible fever. A hundred and five degrees. It lasted for three days.” She reached out, gently touching my knee. “The doctors told us there might be lingering effects. You’ve always blurred the lines between your dreams and reality. Remember in third grade? You swore you had a classmate named Daisy, but the teacher told us she didn’t exist…” No. I don’t believe it. I shoved her hands away, spun around, and bolted out the front door. Mrs. Gable next door. She had watched us grow up. She would remember Haley. I hammered on her wooden door a dozen times before the deadbolt finally clicked. Mrs. Gable stood there in her reading glasses, looking utterly bewildered by the sight of me panting on her porch. “Oh my stars, Kate, what’s wrong? You’re sweating through your shirt, child.” She smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling. “Come inside, let me get you a piece of candy.” I lunged forward, grabbing her wrinkled, fragile hands. My voice shook violently. “Mrs. Gable, please, tell me the truth. I have an older sister, don’t I? Haley! She’s three years older, she wears her hair in a ponytail, and she always wears a red butterfly barrette!” I was begging now, tears spilling hot down my cheeks. “She disappeared today! And my parents are saying she never existed!” Mrs. Gable stared at me. For a few agonizing seconds, she just looked at me. Then, her gaze deepened into something inscrutable. “What on earth are you babbling about, sweetheart?” Slowly, deliberately, she pulled her hands out of my grasp. “Kate, you’ve been an only child since the day they brought you home. I’ve watched you grow up. What sister?” My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the porch planks. How was this possible? Just last week, Mrs. Gable had complimented Haley on the sweater she was knitting. She gave both of us candy. Just then, a heavy, warm hand clamped down on my shoulder from behind. “Mrs. Gable, I am so sorry for the disturbance this late,” my father said. I hadn’t even heard him cross the lawn. He offered her an apologetic, weary smile. “She’s been under a lot of pressure with school lately. A bit of a nervous breakdown. She’s been talking nonsense all evening.” Mrs. Gable waved him off, her face practically melting with pity. “Get that sweet girl inside and let her rest. Poor thing. Don’t push her too hard.” I was half-carried, half-dragged back into the house. Later, my mother brought a steaming mug of chamomile tea into my bedroom, gently stroking my hair. “Drink this, Kate. Be a good girl. Just sleep. Everything will make sense after you sleep.” When the mug was empty, I lay in the dark, my mind replaying the shifting images in the photo album. Was I actually losing my mind? Was Haley—and the seven other missing children—just a phantom created by a broken, fever-fried brain? I curled into a tight ball, my hands mindlessly searching under my pillow, desperate to anchor myself to something real. Suddenly, my fingertips brushed against something cold and hard of plastic. I pulled it out into the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds. It was a tortoiseshell butterfly barrette. The tears came instantly, hot and fast, choking me. It was Haley’s favorite clip. Her best friend, Brooke, had given it to her for Christmas. I gripped the barrette so tightly the plastic dug into my palm. I wasn’t crazy. My sister was real. But why was everyone lying to me? Wait. Brooke. She went to our high school. There was no way Brooke would forget her. 2 The next morning, I forced myself to eat a bowl of cereal like everything was normal. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and headed out. The moment I hit the school grounds, I bypassed my locker and sprinted toward the junior hallway to find Brooke. She and Haley had been inseparable since kindergarten. If anyone remembered my sister, it was her. “Brooke!” I called out, breathless. “Hey, Kate! What are you doing in the upperclassmen wing?” Brooke grinned, affectionately ruffling my hair. I didn’t smile back. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the butterfly barrette, and held it flat on my palm. “Do you remember this? It’s Haley’s. She wears it every day.” Brooke glanced down at the clip, and then she laughed. “Kate, you don’t have a sister. That’s yours.” She looked at me like I was making a weird joke. “I gave that to you for your birthday last year, remember? You said the butterfly shape was your favorite. You wouldn’t take it off for a month.” My hands started to shake. “You didn’t give this to me. It’s my sister’s! You and Haley shared a desk in kindergarten! How can you not remember?” Brooke tilted her head. There was no hesitation in her eyes, no flicker of a lie. Just pure, unadulterated confusion. “Kate, we grew up together. You’re like a little sister to me. But I don’t remember you ever having a real sister.” Her smile faded into concern. “You’ve always been an only child. Are you okay?” She reached out to touch my forehead. “Are you sick? Let me take you to the nurse.” I gripped the barrette and backed away, stumbling over my own feet. When she reached for my arm, I turned and bolted. I flew down the stairs, running until my lungs burned, and collapsed into my desk in the sophomore homeroom. My head was a hive of buzzing static. Maybe they were right. Maybe there never was a Haley. Maybe the barrette had always been mine. Maybe my mind had fabricated this entire person to cope with my own loneliness. Maybe I really did need to see a psychiatrist. I have no idea how I survived the rest of the school day. When I got home, the house was empty. My parents were still at work. I locked myself in the bathroom, turning the faucet to cold, and violently splashed water on my face, praying for clarity. The girl staring back at me in the mirror was pale, her eyes hollow and unfocused. I looked insane. I slid down the bathroom wall, wrapping my arms around my knees as the dam finally broke. I wept until my ribs ached. I was sick. I was deeply, fundamentally broken. And then, through my blurred vision, I saw it. On the edge of the wooden doorframe, about five feet off the ground. Two faint, jagged lines carved deep into the wood, one slightly higher than the other, maybe two inches apart. Next to the higher notch, clumsily carved into the paint, was the letter H. Next to the lower notch was an M. It was from when we were kids. Haley and I used to stand back-to-back against the doorframe, using one of Dad’s spare razor blades to secretly mark our heights, measuring who was growing faster. The blood roared back into my ears. My scalp prickled with a sudden, electric heat. You can alter digital photos. You can fake text messages. But you cannot fake physical scars carved into the very bones of a house. I scrambled up and ran my fingers over the rough, splintered wood. My knuckles turned white. I was not crazy. Haley existed. She stood right here, pressing her back against this wood, going up on her tiptoes just to be a little taller than me. Someone was erasing her. My parents, Mrs. Gable, Brooke… every single one of them was in on it. I stood up, wiping my wet face with the back of my sleeve. They could force the town to play along, but they couldn’t force the actual law. I needed to go to the police. 3 “I need to report a missing person!” I threw myself against the high counter of the local precinct, my words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “My sister is gone! And my parents and everyone else are pretending she never existed!” The duty officer, a heavyset, middle-aged man with a permanent scowl, looked down at me. “Whoa, slow down, kid. Take a breath. What’s your name? What’s your sister’s name? When was she last seen?” I spilled everything. The photos, the denials, the barrette, the doorframe. The officer listened, his expression tightening. He turned to his computer and typed in my information. “You’re Kate. Father is Richard, mother is Susan, right?” He squinted at the monitor, clicking his mouse. “Yes! Please, search for Haley! Look her up! She’s really gone!” I pleaded, leaning over the counter. The officer was silent for a long moment. Then, he grabbed the edges of his monitor and swiveled it to face me. His face was stone-cold. “Look for yourself, kid.” Right there on the screen, the official state registry glowed blue and white: Head of Household: Richard. Spouse: Susan. Dependents: Kate (Only Child). He opened another tab, searching the county school records, scrolling down page after page. “There is no record of a Haley in this entire county. Not a birth certificate, not a school file. Nothing.” “No… no, that’s impossible…” I stumbled backward, the air knocked out of my lungs. Seeing my distress, the officer immediately picked up the desk phone and called my parents. They arrived fifteen minutes later. My mother burst through the precinct doors and threw her arms around me. Her eyes were bloodshot, her voice cracking with raw emotion. “Kate, you ran off again. Do you know how terrified I was? I was losing my mind looking for you!” My father stood behind her, taking off his glasses to wipe the lenses. He looked exhausted. He turned to the officer. “I am so sorry, Officer. When she was young, she had a terrible fever. It didn’t break for three days. Ever since then, she gets these… episodes. She hallucinates people. We’ve taken her to doctors, they call it hysteria. She’s on medication.” The officer sighed and gave me a pitying look. “Look, kid, stop working yourself up. Look how fast your folks rushed down here. They love you.” The ride home was suffocatingly quiet. I sat in the back of our old station wagon. My dad drove in silence, the streetlights rhythmically casting shadows over his face. My mother sat in the passenger seat, turning around every two minutes to check on me with worried, mournful eyes. As we drove down Main Street, my dad pulled over. Mom hopped out and bought a candy apple from a corner vendor. “Here,” she said, handing it to me through the window. “Your favorite.” I took a bite. The sugary, crimson shell cracked, and the tart juice flooded my mouth. Without warning, a tear slipped down my cheek. The police database was connected to the state. It was the ultimate, undeniable truth. Maybe they were right. Maybe I really was sick. There was no sister. I was an only child. I had these wonderful parents, and I was torturing them with my broken brain. I wiped my face aggressively. I’m done, I promised myself. Starting today, I will never mention Haley again. But just as the car rolled past the dark, narrow alleyway at the end of Main Street, a faint, chilling sound drifted through the open window. It was the sound of children singing a jump-rope rhyme: One, two, wash them clean, walk them down the street unseen. Three, four, stand in line, follow the stranger, you’ll be fine. Five, six, close your eyes, don’t look up into the skies. Seven, eight, on the wall, in the studio, we hang them all. A hazy, fragmented memory flashed in my mind: a group of children, holding hands, singing in the dark. … From that day on, I became the perfect daughter. I didn’t speak Haley’s name. The oppressive tension in the house visibly evaporated. My mother started humming while cooking dinner again. My father would read the morning paper and chuckle, reading snippets out loud to me. It was as if, as long as I kept the ghost buried, life was picture-perfect. During breakfast on Saturday, my dad suddenly tapped his forehead. “Ah, the portraits from last week should be ready. Kate, do you mind swinging by Main Street this afternoon to pick them up? I’ve got overtime today.” “Sure,” I said, keeping my eyes on my oatmeal. At three o’clock, I pushed open the glass door of Gary’s Lens & Light. The bell chimed into an empty room. “Hello?” No answer. I called out again, stepping up to the front counter. Several brown envelopes were scattered across the glass display case. I sifted through them until I found the one marked with my father’s name. I pulled the photo out. It was the three of us. Me in the middle, my parents flanking me, against that mottled backdrop. Just the three of us. I stared at it until the faces blurred, then shoved it back into the envelope. As I turned to leave, something caught the corner of my eye. Tucked beneath the counter, in a small, shadowy compartment, the edge of a stack of photo negatives was sticking out. There were strange, microscopic scratches on them. Frowning, I picked the negatives up and held them to the light. They weren’t random scratches. They were deliberate, tiny grooves dug fiercely into the film with a fingernail. The scratches were of varying lengths. Irregular, but patterned. I froze, the breath dying in my throat. 4 It was Morse code. When Haley and I went through a detective novel phase, we memorized Morse code to pass secret notes that our parents couldn’t read. It was a language only the two of us shared. My hands shook so violently the negatives rattled against each other. I squinted at the tiny marks. Dash… dot… dash… I… WAS… SOLD… Dot… dot… dash… RUN… I WAS SOLD! RUN!

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My wife and I had been living in different cities for an entire year. I was wandering through an upscale mall on a mundane Tuesday afternoon when I quite literally bumped into a guy from her corporate office. He beamed, clapping me on the shoulder, and offered his warmest congratulations. “Man, another girl! A daughter! You must be over the moon,” he laughed. His words hit me like a physical blow. The mall’s ambient noise faded into a high-pitched ringing, and my feet felt glued to the polished tile. He didn’t notice the blood draining from my face. He just kept talking, oblivious, mentioning how he wouldn’t miss the baby’s sip-and-see party this weekend for the world. As he spoke, he casually waved a thick, cream-colored invitation with gold-foil edging. “Beautiful design, by the way,” he added. I forced my facial muscles into something resembling a smile. With trembling fingers, I reached out and took the heavy cardstock from him. There, under Mother, was my wife’s name: Alisa. My stomach plummeted into an endless dark void. And under Father, printed in elegant cursive, was a name I had never seen before: Kieran. I memorized the address of the country club printed at the bottom, handed the invitation back, and choked out a hollow, “See you this weekend.” When Saturday arrived, I pulled up to the sprawling estate of the country club. The banquet hall was alive with the hum of a lavish party. Standing near the entrance, greeting guests, was a tall, handsome man cradling a newborn baby girl. He caught my eye and offered a warm, easy smile. Assuming I was one of his partner’s colleagues, he chuckled. “Alisa’s firm really hires them sharp, huh? Grab a drink, make yourself at home.” … A violent storm was raging in my chest, threatening to tear me apart from the inside. I forced myself to look at the infant nestled against his chest. She was pale and delicate. Around the eyes, there was an unmistakable echo of Alisa. “Where is Alisa?” I asked, my voice flat, devoid of the hurricane inside me. She wasn’t in the room. But out of the corner of my eye, I spotted several older faces I recognized—relatives from Alisa’s side of the family. I had only met her extended family once, at our wedding seven years ago, but I have a mind like a steel trap. I remembered those distinct, weathered faces. I couldn’t fathom the sheer audacity of it. She was openly parading her illegitimate child in front of her extended family. “Alisa just ran to pick up my in-laws,” Kieran said easily. “She’ll be back any minute.” Another jagged piece of my reality shattered. The pain was immediate, sharp, and suffocating. Just two days ago, my mother-in-law and father-in-law had told me they booked a two-week senior cruise to Alaska. I had been worried their retirement fund wouldn’t stretch far enough to let them actually enjoy the excursions, so I had transferred them an extra thousand dollars, telling them it was their “vacation fund.” For years, their health had been failing—constant doctor visits, endless prescriptions—and they rarely traveled. When they said they wanted a change of scenery, I supported them completely. For the last seven years, I had treated them like my own flesh and blood. To my face, and supposedly behind my back, they constantly praised me. Such a devoted son-in-law, they’d say. A rare find. Now I realized they were treating me like the same gullible fool Alisa took me for. Kieran, entirely blind to the devastation in my eyes, led me over to a cluster of Alisa’s coworkers. The moment we approached, a middle-aged woman sighed wistfully. “I’m so jealous of Alisa. Not only is her husband gorgeous, but this baby is an absolute angel.” The group chimed in, a chorus of validation. “Kieran, you really made the right bet. When you quit your job to be a stay-at-home dad, I was a little worried for you!” “It’s been, what, six years? And you and Alisa are just as obsessed with each other as day one. Now you have this beautiful little proof of it. So happy for you.” My hands curled into fists at my sides, my fingernails digging crescents into my palms. I had been married to Alisa for seven years. She had been having an affair with Kieran for over six. The most pathetic part? Through those long, winding seven years, I had suspected absolutely nothing. Even this morning, she had sent me her usual text: a string of heart emojis and a voice note saying, Morning honey, miss you so much. For seven years, I believed we had the perfect, modern marriage. She never lost her temper with me. She told me her take-home pay was around $3,000 a month, and she kept only a small allowance for her coffees and lunches, transferring the rest to our joint account. Every year, she insisted on putting her “annual bonus” into treasury bonds and mutual funds for our family’s future. I had built up quite a nest egg for us, or so I thought. A year ago, she sat me down and pitched a relocation. A corporate assignment in Chicago, she said, that would bump her salary significantly. It’s for our son’s future, she had argued softly, holding my hands. College, his first house, his wedding. It all costs money. Let me do this for us. After agonizing over the distance, I agreed. Looking back now, I realized Alisa was like the night sky—vast, dark, and impossible to truly see through. “Alisa is a powerhouse,” another coworker was gushing. “Top sales rep every year. Her base salary alone is crazy, and she’s pulling in commissions hand over fist.” “Makes a killing and still treats her husband like a king. Women like that are one in a million.” Another gut punch. The salary she had been transferring to our joint account? That was just her base pay. All her massive commission checks had been funding this alternate life. Kieran beamed, practically glowing with domestic bliss. “We’re just really lucky.” “Time flies,” an older colleague mused. “Six years since we were all at your wedding, and now look at you guys.” They even had a wedding. A big, lavish, public wedding. When Alisa and I got married, we had a quiet, modest ceremony in her small hometown. She didn’t invite a single person from her firm. I stood frozen in the crowd, a ghost at a feast, absorbing the secret history of my own wife. A younger guy in a sharp suit leaned toward Kieran. “Man, you’ve got her trained well. Teach me your ways. How do you keep a woman that successful so devoted?” I felt a dark curiosity bloom inside me. I glanced at Kieran, my face an emotionless mask. He looked perfectly unburdened, untouched by the gritty, exhausting realities of real life. “It’s just who Alisa is. I’m blessed,” Kieran said smoothly. “But it’s about mutual trust. If you’re really worried about a woman straying, you manage the finances. Alisa gives me her entire paycheck. She keeps maybe a hundred bucks a week for incidentals. Her big bonuses? They all go straight into our investment portfolios and real estate. You know what they say—where a woman puts her money, her heart follows.” My shattered heart was ground into dust. Her bonuses went to Kieran’s investments? Then what the hell were the “bonds” she had been buying for me? A wave of pure, unadulterated rage clawed at my throat. They kept laughing and chatting, completely oblivious to the fact that I was standing among them like a block of ice—silent, jagged, and ready to sink the ship. Kieran’s phone buzzed. He smiled down at the screen. “It’s Alisa.” Without a second thought, he turned to me and gently passed the baby into my arms. “Do you mind? Just for a second.” I stiffened. The baby, as light and soft as a bundle of cotton, settled quietly against my chest. She blinked up at me with bright, clear eyes, completely serene. I stared down at her, a chaotic storm of emotions warring inside me. Even though I was standing on the absolute edge of a mental breakdown, looking at this fragile, innocent little thing… I forced the darkness down. I took a breath. Kieran stood right next to me, the phone pressed to his ear. Alisa’s voice drifted clearly through the speaker. “Hey babe, you’ve been running around all morning. Please tell me you’re resting.” “I just picked up Mom and Dad. Traffic is a nightmare, so don’t stress if we’re a few minutes late.” Kieran’s voice was dripping with affection. “I’m fine, honey. Take your time, drive safe. I love you.” He hung up, and the coworkers practically swooned. “You guys are sickeningly cute. She texts you every hour at the office!” “All these years and the honeymoon phase never ended.” “She watches over you like a hawk. Kieran, you found the unicorn. Every woman on earth could cheat, and Alisa still wouldn’t!” I had thought Alisa was so attentive. She called me every single day. She texted me every morning. Sure, the calls were brief—usually less than a minute—but I never doubted her. I was balancing a demanding job, raising our son, managing the household… my time was packed. She was a busy executive. Short calls made sense. I never realized she was saving the intricate, intimate details of her day to share with another man. Holding the baby, I found a quiet chair near the edge of the room and sat down. As I adjusted the infant’s blanket, a flash of gold caught my eye. Clasped around the baby’s tiny wrist was a custom-made gold charm bracelet. The charm was a delicate, intricately carved dove. My breath caught in my throat. I recognized it instantly. Seven years ago, right after we found out Alisa was pregnant with twins—a boy and a girl—my mother went to a legacy jeweler in the city. She had them custom-cast a matching set of gold medallions. A sparrow for the boy, a dove for the girl. My mother then took them on a Catholic pilgrimage to Italy, having them blessed by a cardinal at the Vatican for protection. But life is cruel. There were complications during the delivery. We only saved our son. I had been entirely destroyed by the loss, hollowed out by a grief I couldn’t fix. The sparrow medallion went around my son’s wrist, where he wore it every day as he grew. The dove medallion went into the velvet-lined safe in my bedroom. Whenever the grief of the daughter I never got to meet threatened to drown me, I would sit on the floor of my closet, clutching that gold dove, and weep until I couldn’t breathe. My hands shook. I ran my thumb over the raised wings of the dove, then gently flipped it over. Engraved clearly on the back was one word: Joy. It was the name I had chosen. I had spent months poring over baby books, trying to find the perfect name for the daughter who never made it. Joy. Because I wanted her life to be full of it. “Her name is Joy,” Kieran said, walking over with a smile and taking the seat next to me. “Alisa chose it. She even gave her her own maiden name. I didn’t mind.” He pointed to the bracelet. “Alisa had that custom made, too. You have no idea how much she’s always wanted a daughter.” The cracks in my heart splintered into a million microscopic shards. I kept my voice dead level. “She really takes care of you.” Kieran laughed, settling into an easy, conversational rhythm. “You must be new at the firm, right? I know most of the veterans.” “People come and go,” I murmured, staring straight ahead. “Alisa said there’s been a lot of turnover.” I offered a noncommittal hum. “The benefits at her company are great, but man, the travel used to be brutal,” Kieran sighed. “Thankfully, she hasn’t had to travel at all this past year. But before that? She was on the road two weeks out of every month. It was tough, but we survived.” A bitter, cynical smile touched the corners of my mouth. “Yeah. Survived.” Before Alisa took her “relocation” assignment this past year, she used to travel for “work” for about fifteen days every single month. I had felt so terrible for her, living out of suitcases, exhausted by airports. Because I wanted her to rest when she was home, I took on everything. I did all the cooking, all the cleaning, the school runs. When her parents got sick, I was the one sleeping in the vinyl chairs at the hospital. I managed their homecare. I never asked her to lift a finger. Even as our physical intimacy dwindled to almost nothing over the years, I never complained. I thought she was just burning out. She wasn’t on business trips. She was playing house in another zip code. Kieran made no move to take the baby back. He was busy waving at arriving guests from his seat. He looked down at the infant in my arms and raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Wow, she really likes you. Usually, when I hand her to my buddies, she screams the house down. You’ve been holding her for ten minutes and not a peep. It’s like magic.” “Probably just muscle memory,” I said quietly. “I have a kid of my own.” “Oh, awesome! Do you mind holding her just a little longer? I need to go greet my college buddies over by the bar.” I gave a single, curt nod. He trotted off, completely at ease. I sat alone, holding his child, staring at the massive banner draped across the back wall. Welcome to the World, Joy! With love from her proud parents, Alisa and Kieran. It felt like someone had injected crushed glass into my veins. My son never had a christening or a welcome party. When he was born, we were so consumed by the devastation of losing his twin sister that Alisa begged me not to throw a party. My parents had pushed back, saying our son deserved to be celebrated, but Alisa was adamant. She said she was too heartbroken over the daughter we lost to celebrate anything. And yet here she was, throwing a lavish, joy-filled banquet for her new daughter. I was the only one still mourning the ghost in the safe. My phone vibrated in my pocket. Mother-in-law. Without hesitating, I answered. “Evan, did you not see my text?” Her tone was as demanding and entitled as ever. “No,” I replied, my voice colder than dry ice. “Are you at the grocery store? It sounds loud,” she snapped. “Read your messages. I can’t hear you anyway. Just text me back.” She hung up. I opened the text thread. Twenty minutes ago, she had written: Evan, a distant cousin just had a baby. We need to send a gift. I don’t have enough in my checking account right now, so wire me $2,000. It’s family obligation, we can’t look cheap. The blood rushed to my head so fast I felt dizzy. My knuckles turned white against the phone. These people were not only playing me for a fool, they were actively trying to get me to fund the gift for my wife’s bastard child! A dark, humorless laugh escaped my throat. I didn’t reply. A minute later, another text popped up. Evan, hurry up. We can’t embarrass the family. I left her on read. I would wait for her to walk through those double doors. A third text arrived. I always thought you were a respectable, generous man. I guess I was wrong. Never mind. If you won’t do it, I’ll figure it out myself. A sneer twisted my lips. I treat you like my own son. You’re the best son-in-law in the world. We are so blessed to have you in the family. It had all been a punchline. And I was the joke. Kieran wandered back over, pressing his phone to his ear. I could hear Alisa’s voice vividly through the receiver. “Honey! Mom just surprised us with another piece of gold jewelry for the baby.” “She didn’t have to do that,” Kieran laughed softly. “Joy has enough jewelry to open a store.” Alisa’s voice took on a serious, reverent tone. “No, this one is different. It’s a gold sparrow. Mom had it blessed at a cathedral years ago. It’s highly protective, not just regular jewelry.” My vision tunneled. The roaring in my ears returned. Two days ago, my son had packed his bags for a summer camp. Right before he got on the bus, my mother-in-law told him to take off his gold sparrow medallion so he wouldn’t lose it in the lake. My son, trusting his grandmother, handed it over to her for safekeeping. She had stolen my son’s protective charm—the very symbol of his survival—to gift to Alisa’s illegitimate child. Kieran smiled warmly into the phone. “Tell Mom thank you. That’s incredibly thoughtful.” I heard my mother-in-law’s voice in the background, muffled but clear. “Don’t mention it! It’s what a grandmother is supposed to do. We’re pulling up now. Thanks for handling the crowd, sweetie.” Kieran hung up and reached out to take the baby from me, but then another group of guests waved at him from the entrance. He got distracted and hurried over to them. I remained seated, the child resting heavily in my arms. She was so unnervingly quiet. I stared down at her soft features, a bitter, hollow smile touching my lips. I whispered to her, “Your welcome party is going to be something people talk about for the rest of their lives.” Finally, a commotion at the front doors signaled the arrival. Through the parting crowd, I saw Alisa and her parents making their grand entrance. I stood up, holding the child, and began walking methodically toward the small stage at the front of the room. As I stepped onto the platform, I heard Alisa call out over the chatter, “Babe, where’s our little girl?” I picked up the microphone from the podium. When I spoke, my voice was an arctic wind that froze the entire room instantly. “Hey, honey. Your little bastard is right here in my arms.”

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After living with the broke, impossibly gorgeous campus crush in a cramped shoebox apartment for three months, I wanted out. He was suffocatingly clingy, and behind closed doors, his dominance was relentless. Desperate, I begged my best friend to help me execute an utterly unhinged exit strategy. She marched right up to him, a bank card in hand. “There’s five grand on this,” she told him flatly. “Leave her alone. She’s just a trust-fund kid playing poor for kicks. You are entirely out of her league.” He didn’t say a word. He just quietly took the card. The next morning, the universe played a massive, cruel joke on me. He was leaning casually against a pristine black Maybach, looking utterly in his element. With deadpan sincerity, he looked at me and asked, “So, you were faking it too? Does this mean I’m finally in your league?” I froze, my brain short-circuiting. He was faking being poor? But I was actually broke! … 1 I dodged his kiss. “Can we skip tonight?” Holden arched an eyebrow, his long, elegant fingers already hooking the hem of my slip dress. “Why? Bad timing?” He smiled, a wicked, knowing curve of his lips. He knew exactly where I was in my cycle. Back when my periods were agonizingly irregular, he’d spent weeks babying me, bringing home fancy, nutrient-dense organic broths every single day. I’d asked him back then, “Where are you getting the money for this?” He had paused mid-sip of his water, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he instinctively licked his lips. “One of the girls at the warehouse has the same issue. I just asked her to make an extra batch. She didn’t charge me.” I was curled up under a mountain of blankets at the time, my cramps blinding, my head thick with brain fog. Holden had scooped me up out of the covers, spoon-feeding me the warm broth. “Just eat a little, baby. It’ll make you feel better.” It was his favorite line. Even now. His cheek rested against my thigh. His lips were damp. “Just let me, baby. You’ll feel better.” His knuckles were sharp, his fingers leaving faint, possessive marks against my pale skin. I gasped. He let out a low laugh. “And you said you didn’t want to?” The truth was, my defenses had already crumbled into dust. The bed was a cheap, secondhand nightmare. It squeaked and groaned with every movement. The rhythmic, obnoxious noise finally broke Holden’s concentration. He swore under his breath—a rare occurrence. “I’m throwing out every piece of furniture in this place tomorrow.” My head was spinning, my arms locked tightly around his neck. “With what money?” I breathed. Holden lowered his eyes. “I hit my performance metrics this month. The bonus isn’t bad.” That sobered me up a fraction. “How much?” He blinked, caught off guard. Then he kissed me again, silencing me. “Don’t talk about money in bed. It’s tacky.” I cursed him in my head. I didn’t know what was wrong with him. He was broke, yet he acted like he was slumming it by choice. I really needed to break up with him. 2 I looked around the room. It was a decaying apartment on the edge of the city limits. The paint was peeling, and one corner of the ceiling had a suspicious water stain that looked vaguely like black mold. The internet likes to romanticize this. They call it the “starving lovers” aesthetic—two people with no money and too much chemistry, making it work in a shoebox. I hated it. I checked both boxes. I only went after Holden in the first place because he was breathtakingly beautiful. I still remember the first time we met. We were juniors in college. He was the new hire at the convenience store where I worked the graveyard shift. I already knew who he was. He was the guy—the one every girl on campus openly fantasized about. He walked in wearing a plain white tee, faded Levi’s, black-rimmed glasses, and a pair of scuffed-up sneakers. Even swallowed up by our ugly, neon-blue polyester uniform, he looked like a runway model on his day off. We didn’t talk much that first shift. He messed up the inventory count multiple times. The store manager, a permanently enraged man, dragged him outside. Through the glass storefront, I watched them. Holden was tall; the manager was short. Holden naturally had to look down at him, which probably only made things worse. A customer came to the register. As I scanned their items, my eyes flicked back to the window. Holden was getting ripped apart. He kept rubbing his face, sniffing occasionally. The manager was jabbing a finger at Holden’s uniform, then pointing aggressively at his face. It was humiliating to watch. When I first started, that same manager had chewed me out until I cried in the stockroom. Looking at Holden, my chest tightened with an unexpected pang of empathy. Once the manager finally stormed off, Holden walked back inside. His eyes were rimmed with red. He was swiping a hand roughly over his neck and face. I gave him a look of pure, unadulterated pity. He caught it. His voice was deadpan, completely devoid of emotion. “I’m fine. This polyester is just making me break out in hives.” “It’s okay to cry,” I said, sliding a packet of tissues across the counter. His face flushed crimson. A single, traitorous tear spilled over his lashes. Holden arched a brow and snatched the tissues. “Thanks.” He paused. “But I wasn’t crying.” Stubborn idiot. “Right, sure. You weren’t crying. Better?” “You don’t believe me? I was literally just—” His defense was cut off by the bell above the door. Another customer. 3 Eventually, we became friends. And I quickly realized he was even poorer than I thought. Once, when my favorite celebrity got exposed in a massive scandal, I called my best friend, Bex, sobbing. “I’m so mad I’m not even going to use my DoorDash multiplier code tonight!” Bex laughed. “Whoa, throwing away free money? You really are going through it.” But Holden, who was sitting next to me, just looked confused. “What’s a multiplier code?” “Huh?” I stared at him. Was he doing a bit? “It’s an app promo. It multiplies your discount if you order within a certain time.” “Oh.” For a second, I wondered if he was some rich kid doing a poverty immersion experiment. I harbored a deep, burning resentment for the wealthy. So I tested him. “Do you not order delivery?” He licked his lips. “No.” “Then what do you eat?” “The dining hall. I have a subsidized meal plan. It’s cheap.” Ah. He’s poor. My anti-capitalist heart relaxed. Another time, a guy came into the store and clearly liked what he saw. When he handed Holden his snacks, he traced a slow, deliberate circle over the back of Holden’s hand. “You’re cute,” the guy purred. Holden smiled politely, withdrew his hand, and muttered through gritted teeth, “Not a chance in hell.” He was so broke he couldn’t even afford to buy a clue. But Holden was a walking contradiction. He had the bank account of a peasant, but the sensibilities of a prince. I invited him to split a two-dollar discount pizza combo once. He declined, claiming the last time he ate cheap takeout, his stomach didn’t recover for days. When he worked his second job at the warehouse, he showed up wearing gloves and a mask. “Why?” I asked. “Germaphobe.” Yet the few pairs of shoes he owned were either filthy or yellowing with age. I made fun of them. He told me they were “vintage distressed.” Once, his college roommate dropped by the store while Holden was doubled over, laughing at a terrible joke I’d just made. The roommate shook his head with profound solemnity. “Man, I haven’t seen His Highness smile like that in a long time.” I laughed until my sides hurt. 4 But I really, truly had to break up with him. It wasn’t just the clinginess. It was the fact that we could barely make rent, yet he had zero concept of saving. When summer hit and he decided my rattling box fan was too loud, he bypassed my protests and had a brand-new AC unit installed. I tolerated the financial illiteracy because, well, look at his face. But his physical appetite was insatiable. It was like an addiction. That might have been part of his “prince” syndrome, too. He was used to getting exactly what he wanted. A few times, he absolutely refused to stop. I’d hit him, I’d scratch his beautiful, broad back until it was covered in red half-moons. It only seemed to turn him on more. Finally, I’d break down and cry in sheer frustration, and only then would he let me go. After that, I set a hard limit. Three times a day. Max. So, he just started making each time last twice as long. “Why did you stop?” I sobbed once, completely unspooled. Holden, who was usually so gentle and refined outside the bedroom, was an absolute menace inside it. “Beg me, baby. Tell me I’m yours…” He’d hold me hostage, forcing me to whisper humiliating, desperate things into his ear before he’d finally give me what I wanted. And whatever miracle ointment he bought for those scratches? It worked like magic. By the next morning, his skin would be flawless. No redness, no swelling. It only enabled his bad behavior. I had reached my breaking point. I vented to Bex over coffee. “I literally have to dump him. Please, you have to help me figure out a way out of this.” “We’re adults, Josie,” she said, stirring her latte. “Just tell him it’s over.” “I tried that!” “And?” “I tried to break up with him once, and he cried so hard I thought he was going to warp my hardwood floors!” There was another time we got into a fight. We were giving each other the silent treatment. In a fit of rage, I texted him that we were done. Back then, whenever we fought, my go-to move was a metaphorical slap to the face: I threatened to dump him. Holden had his pride. He texted back a cold, Fine. Less than an hour later, my phone lit up. Where are you? Out finding a rebound, I replied. Are you trying to kill me? I literally do it for free. …You’re acting unhinged. He went quiet. A minute passed. Honestly, I think we can still make this work. The circus is in town. Tell the clown to step down so you can take his place. If you just take me back, I’ll do anything you want. Then we’re going celibate. Absolutely not. … Anything besides that. You can hit me. You can tie me up. I’ll even buy you the whip. Stop rewarding yourself, weirdo. I had dozens of screenshots just like that. When I showed them to Bex, she nearly choked on her coffee laughing. “This is premium content for my TikTok,” she wheezed. Then, her eyes lit up. “Wait. I’ve got it. What if we pretend you’re actually rich? Like, stupid wealthy. Tell him you were just playing poor to see how the other half lives.” She leaned in. “Guys have massive egos. If you humiliate his pride and make him feel inferior, he won’t crawl back.” “Bex,” I said, awe in my voice. “You’re a genius.” 5 The next day. Bex and I showed up to see Holden wearing rented designer power suits. I stayed completely silent. Bex took the lead, fully committing to the bit. “Ms. Lin, your father the CEO insists you stop playing these games. It’s time to return to the board and assume your duties.” I felt so intensely guilty I couldn’t even look Holden in the eye. Bex stepped protectively in front of me. She pulled out a prepaid debit card loaded with five thousand dollars and shoved it toward him. “The PIN is her birthday. Our heiress was just having a little fun. You are completely out of her league.” Holden’s face darkened. The air around him dropped ten degrees. “So this whole time… you were just pretending to be poor? Playing me?” Why do you look so genuinely heartbroken? I screamed internally. “Yes,” I forced myself to say. “Sorry. The socio-economic gap between us is just too vast. It’s over.” Holden’s eyes reddened. “So… if I could prove I was in your league, we wouldn’t have to break up?” I sighed, trying to look suitably tragic. “Perhaps.” Holden let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Don’t count a guy out just because he’s down on his luck.” I patted his shoulder. He was still so naive. Ten years from now, he’d realize he was just middle-aged and still down on his luck. I turned to walk away. But Holden’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist like a vice. “Wait.” I knew it. He wasn’t going to let it go that easily. Then, a sharp rip echoed in the air. Holden had just torn the tag right off the collar of my blazer.

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I was standing with my wife on her family’s sprawling estate, watching the contractors pour the final layer of concrete for the new ancestral mausoleum, when my stomach dropped. Sammy was gone. I was spinning in circles, my heart hammering against my ribs, scanning the manicured lawns. That was when Ken—my wife’s childhood friend, a twenty-eight-year-old man who claimed to have a “highly sensitive, child-like soul”—strolled over. He was popping a bubblegum bubble, a sly, sickening smirk playing on his lips. He casually mentioned that he’d told my five-year-old son to play hide-and-seek inside the crypt’s foundation. Just until the concrete sets, he laughed. Then he can hide forever. I scrambled to the edge of the pit, dropping to my knees. Staring into a narrow gap in the thick, wet cement, my breath caught in my throat. A tiny, pale finger was sticking out of the gray sludge. My vision went entirely red. I screamed at my wife to call 911, my voice tearing my vocal cords. I told her Ken was a dead man, that he was going to pay for this with his life. But Jill only hesitated for two seconds. Two seconds, before she stepped squarely in front of Ken, shielding him with her body. She told me Ken was young. That his anxiety couldn’t handle prison, that it would ruin his life. She looked at the wet concrete and whispered that if Sammy was already gone, it was an honor for him to be entombed with her ancestors. She told me to stop making a scene. A violent tremor wrecked my body. Before I could process the sheer depravity of her words, I raised my hand and slapped her hard across the face. Right at that second, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I answered it with trembling, cement-stained fingers. Through the speaker, my son’s sweet, unmistakable voice chirped. He told me Uncle David had taken him to the spring carnival in town, that they were eating funnel cake, and not to worry. I froze. The phone nearly slipped from my grip. If my son was at the carnival, safe and sound… then whose child was sealed inside the concrete? 1 The mausoleum foundation was sealed tight, an impenetrable tomb of wet, heavy gray. And beneath it, a child had just been suffocated to death. I stood before the crypt, violently shaking. A few feet away, the murderer, Ken, was cowering behind my wife, loudly chewing his peppermint gum as if he were waiting in line at a grocery store. Jill’s eyes were rimmed with red. She glanced at the cement, then quickly looked away, unable to hold the stare. “Paul, look, I’m devastated about Sammy too,” she said, her voice dropping into that soothing, corporate tone she used in boardrooms. “I promise, we will give him the most beautiful, lavish funeral. But Ken… you know how fragile his mind is. He has the emotional age of a toddler. You hit me, you yelled at him. Can we please just let this go?” The sheer, unadulterated audacity of her words made my ears ring with a deafening pitch. A twenty-eight-year-old man. A married man. And she was treating him like a fragile infant. Summoning every ounce of rage pooling in my gut, I stepped forward and struck her across the face a second time. “Listen to me, Jill,” I snarled, my voice unrecognizable. “My son is a child. The kid Ken just suffocated in that concrete is a child! Not him!” Seeing me step toward them, Ken hiked up the legs of his designer chinos and jogged forward, throwing his arms out wide to protect her. “Don’t you hit Jill!” he whined. But when he met my eyes—feral, bloodshot, and murderous—his shoulders instantly caved. He shrank back, his lip trembling. “If the mean man won’t forgive Ken… then…” He dramatically slapped his hands over his mouth. “Then Ken will just stop breathing too! He’ll suffocate himself!” He shook his head, making muffled, fake sobbing noises through his fingers. “Stop it, please!” Jill panicked. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling his head to her chest. “Your heart condition, Ken. You can’t get worked up! What if you go into tachycardia?” I watched them, utterly paralyzed by the grotesque absurdity of the scene. There was a dead child in the ground. And my wife was worried about this giant, overgrown man-child having a panic attack. My hands balled into fists. I took a slow, deliberate step toward them. “Ken is an adult. He knew exactly what he was doing when he lured a child who didn’t understand the danger into a construction pit. That is murder.” My voice was a low, fatal scrape. “He’s going to prison for the rest of his life. There is no escaping this.” All the color drained from Ken’s face. He clutched fistfuls of Jill’s cashmere sweater. “Jill, protect me! I don’t want to go to jail!” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “If I die, I can’t play my video games! I won’t get to eat barbecue anymore!” “Shh, shh, I know, sweetie,” Jill cooed, stroking his hair, her eyes blazing at me with defensive fury. The intimacy between them, the sickening codependency, made bile rise in my throat. I lunged forward, grabbing Ken by the collar of his polo shirt, dragging him toward the crypt. “Tell me!” I roared. “Who is the kid you tricked into the concrete? Who is it?!” “Paul, you’re terrifying him!” Jill shrieked. She slammed her hands into my chest, shoving me with all her strength. My boots slipped on the wet mud. I fell backward, the back of my head cracking hard against a marble headstone. A dull, sickening throb radiated through my skull. Ken peeked out from behind Jill’s shoulder, blinking his large, innocent eyes. “It’s Paul’s little boy in there. I’m a good boy, I always tell the truth. I don’t lie.” Truth? My son was miles away, winning stuffed animals at a ring toss. Whose child had Ken just murdered? I touched my forehead. My fingers came away wet with blood. Seeing the crimson stain, a flicker of guilt finally crossed Jill’s eyes. “Paul, honey,” she softened her voice, taking a tentative step toward me. “I know the shock of losing Sammy is destroying you. I know. But it’s done. Can’t we just keep this quiet? Make this a private family matter?” She offered a small, pleading smile. “You’ve always wanted to go to the Maldives. Once the holiday weekend is over, I’ll book us the best overwater villa. The ocean air will help. Give it a few days, and the grief will pass.” I stared at her. My jaw went slack. A private matter? A human being had just been buried alive. The dam inside me finally broke. Even if the boy in the cement wasn’t my flesh and blood, I was going to tear the world apart to get him justice. I took a deep, ragged breath, standing up tall. I looked down at the woman I had married. “I am done playing this sick, twisted game with you, Jill. We are at the end of the line, and only two things are going to happen.” I wiped the blood from my brow. “One, I am finding out exactly who is in that grave. Two, I am filing for divorce.” 2 “Divorce?!” Jill let out a sharp, mocking laugh, looking at me like I was a beggar who had just demanded the keys to her mansion. “Paul, if you want a payout, just say so. Don’t use the D-word to extort me.” Ken’s eyes suddenly lit up with profound realization. “Oh! I get it now!” He pointed at me. “The mean man isn’t sad about the little boy. He just wants a lot of money!” Jill scoffed, the disdain in her eyes thickening. “God, and here I thought you actually loved Sammy. You’re just trying to cash in on his death. Unbelievable.” She reached into her designer bag, pulled out a checkbook, scribbled something down, and threw the check into the mud at my feet. “Two million dollars. That should cover the loss of a child, right?” Her lips curled into a cruel sneer. “I recall when your dad died, you spent seven years in court just to get a three-hundred-thousand-dollar settlement.” It felt like she had just driven a knife straight into my ribs. How dare she bring up my father. My dad had died pushing Jill out of the way of a drunk driver. The driver had deep pockets and refused to plead guilty. Back then, Jill had held my hand through every agonizing court hearing. She helped me find lawyers, track down witnesses. On the day the driver was finally sentenced, she had looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, Paul, I know you believe in justice above all else. As long as I’m here, no one will ever wrong you again. Now, to protect the pathetic man she was having an emotional—and likely physical—affair with, all her morals had evaporated. She honestly believed two million dollars could buy away the rotting corpse of a child. “Take your blood money and rot!” I screamed, picking up the check and throwing it back in her face. “You want to know what I want? I want a murderer behind bars. I want justice for the kid who died in the dark!” The blood was roaring in my ears. I lunged forward, grabbing Ken by his belt, dragging him violently toward the churning cement mixer. “You think burying people in concrete is a fun little game?” I shouted, my muscles burning. “Let’s see how much you like playing it!” Ken shrieked, his face turning an ashen gray. He scrambled backward, his expensive loafers slipping in the mud, crying hysterically. “Paul, have you lost your mind?! You could kill him!” Jill tackled me from the side, her manicured hand striking my cheek. A stinging heat blossomed across my skin, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. So that was it. Ken’s life mattered. The child he murdered didn’t. By now, Jill’s extended family had gathered. Her aunts, uncles, and cousins stood in a tight circle, whispering and pointing. “Jeez, Jill,” her aunt muttered, arms crossed. “Your husband is completely unhinged. Always screaming about murder. Do you think he’s inherently violent?” Jill’s younger cousin, a sharp-tongued trust-fund kid, shook her head. “I told you, Jill. You give a man who married into the family an inch, he takes a mile. You’ve coddled him for too long. He doesn’t respect who actually runs this estate.” Jill’s face flushed with embarrassment. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my flesh, and dropped her voice to a vicious hiss. “Look, I’m sorry I hit you. Let it go. But you are making a scene in front of my entire family. Do not humiliate me like this.” A deep, bone-chilling cold settled over me. Ever since I married into this wealthy, established family, I had been the outsider. The charity case. Jill had never once defended me against their snide remarks. Her “image” was her religion. But I didn’t care about their petty suburban drama right now. There was a dead kid in the ground. I ripped my arm out of her grip and turned to the crowd of relatives. “The boy in the concrete is not my son!” I yelled, my voice echoing over the manicured lawns. “Check your kids! Which one of you is missing a child?!” Jill’s younger brother stepped up, his face twisted in offense. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? If it’s not your kid, who is it?” He pulled his own son closer by the shoulder. “Every kid in the bloodline is standing right here. Your son is the one who’s dead. Are you trying to curse our children just because yours is gone?” The other relatives immediately murmured in agreement. “Exactly! It’s your kid who was dumb enough to crawl into a foundation!” I ignored their venom. I scanned the faces of the children huddled around their parents. I counted them. One by one. Then, the blood froze in my veins. Wait. Someone was missing. 3 A terrifying chill crept up the base of my neck. If the kid buried in the foundation was who I thought it was… then Ken, Jill, and the entire family empire were about to burn to the ground. I grabbed Jill’s shoulders, shaking her. “We have to break the concrete! Now! You have no idea who is in there!” Jill rubbed her temples, letting out an exhausted sigh. “Paul, your son is dead. Why are you dragging out his trauma? Just let him rest in peace.” I shoved her back, a mixture of profound disappointment and white-hot anger burning in my chest. “Jill, if you truly believed that was your flesh and blood in there, wouldn’t you want to see his face one last time?” “I…” Jill stammered, caught off guard. Her brother sensed her hesitation. He marched forward and grabbed her arm. “Jill, don’t listen to him. The guy is manic. The astrologer gave us the exact hour to seal the crypt for good fortune. You break that concrete now, you curse the entire family’s finances!” Jill stood between us, paralyzed by indecision. I stared at her, holding onto a final, microscopic shred of hope. If she broke the concrete now, if she took accountability and called the police, maybe she wouldn’t lose her soul entirely. But then, Ken tugged on the sleeve of her blouse, his lip quivering. “Jillie… dead things are scary… Ken-Ken doesn’t want to see a dead body.” Those pathetic, crocodile tears were all it took. Jill patted his hand, her face hardening. She looked at me with cold resolution. “I am not going to turn my family’s estate into a crime scene just because you’re having a mental break. And frankly, aren’t you to blame? Where were you when your son wandered off?” She stepped back, her eyes softening as she looked at Ken. “Besides. Ken is sensitive. Digging up a corpse would traumatize him.” She stood in front of him like a human shield, looking at me as if I were the monster in the story. I swallowed the rising nausea. “Fine. I’m calling my brother right now. I’ll let a police officer tell you whether my son is dead or alive.” The second I dialed David’s number, Jill lunged. She slammed into me, knocking the phone from my hand. She scrambled in the mud, grabbed the device, and pressed it to her ear. “David? Hi. No, things are chaotic here at the estate, don’t drive out. I’m bringing Paul back to the city tomorrow, I promise!” Through the receiver, I could faintly hear David’s voice. “Wait, but I have your—” Before he could say the word son, Jill hung up. She glared at me, her chest heaving. “Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing. Your brother is a cop. You want to dig up that foundation just to find “evidence” to lock Ken away.” She stepped closer, her voice a deadly whisper. “Let me make this perfectly clear. As long as I am breathing, Ken is not going to prison.” I felt entirely untethered from reality. Ken had committed an atrocity, and she honestly believed her money and influence could just erase it. I was done talking. I walked over to the contractor’s equipment truck, grabbed a heavy-duty jackhammer, and marched toward the crypt. Today, by god, I was bringing that child back into the light. “What are you doing?!” Jill screamed. She threw herself at me, wrestling the heavy machinery out of my grip. Because I was exhausted and bleeding, she managed to push me down. She pinned me to the cold earth. She turned to her cousins. “Get the rope from the shed! Tie him up!” “Jill, I don’t want to do this,” she panted as they bound my wrists with rough hemp rope, “but you are completely out of control. Put him in the old greenhouse. You can stay in there until you calm down and we can talk like adults.” Her family hauled me up by my armpits and dragged me across the lawn toward the abandoned glass greenhouse at the edge of the property. My knees scraped against the gravel, leaving a trail of blood. Night fell. The temperature dropped. I was left in the dark, without food or water, the cuts on my face throbbing with a dull, infected heat. In the corner, I saw my phone, which must have slipped from my pocket when they threw me onto the dirt floor. I dragged myself across the room, using my nose to wake the screen. I just needed to hit David’s contact. But my trembling nose tapped the Instagram icon instead. Ken’s story popped up at the top of the feed. Such a scary day for my anxiety. But Jill took me to the farmers market to buy strawberries to make me feel better! Love you! The photo showed Ken holding a rustic woven basket, smiling brightly into the camera. Jill was standing next to him, looking at him with absolute, radiant adoration. My vision blurred. A heavy darkness pressed down on my brain, and I collapsed against the dirt. A child was dead in the cold, wet dark. And his murderer was out picking strawberries. I closed my eyes, a bitter prayer echoing in my mind. I just hoped that when they finally discovered who they had buried, they wouldn’t regret the choices they made today.

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