If I hadn’t accidentally seen my husband’s phone, I would never have discovered his secret. It turns out that my meticulous husband, Jacob, was living a whole other life on his second Instagram account, posing as some kind of player. They even had a group where they competed to see whose affair was the most thrilling. Wow, I was in for a real eye-opener. When Jacob “Jake” Rivers pursued me back in the day, he put in a lot of effort. Even after we got married, he never changed—always so caring and loving. He would wake up early to make me breakfast and then drop me off at work. One morning, I woke up with an urgent need to use the bathroom. I rushed to the restroom, and I heard the shower running—Jake must have been in the bathroom. I didn’t pay much attention to it and went about my business. Suddenly, I heard a notification chime. I looked over and saw Jake’s phone lying on the bathroom counter, screen lighting up. It seemed like a message had come in. Curious, I picked it up. The screen was flashing, showing an Instagram account I had never seen before. The profile picture was of a shirtless guy flaunting his six-pack abs—definitely not the Instagram Jake normally used. I froze for a second and instinctively tried to unlock it. But something unexpected happened. The password was incorrect. My heart skipped a beat. Jake had always used my birthday as his password, and it had never changed. How could it have changed overnight? There was only one explanation: Jake must have changed it while I was asleep. I tried entering his own birthday, but that didn’t work either. Not wanting to try again and risk locking the phone, I placed it back on the counter and walked out. A few minutes later, Jake finished his shower and came out. He noticed I was awake and came over to kiss me on the cheek, saying he’d make me breakfast. I watched as he busied himself in the kitchen. Something felt off, so I casually asked him for his phone, saying I needed to look something up. Jake handed it to me without hesitation, just like he usually would. I sat down on the couch and unlocked the phone with ease this time. To my surprise, the password was once again my birthday. My instincts told me something was up, so I started scanning through his phone. Everything seemed normal—his apps were all still there. I opened his Instagram, and the first pinned chat was with me, with the note “Your beloved wife.” His profile picture was still the one of the two of us together. Nothing seemed to have changed. Had I imagined the other Instagram account? A little doubt crept into my mind. Jake came out of the kitchen with breakfast and called me over to eat. I got up and handed his phone back, my mind distracted as I ate. Just like always, Jake kept putting food on my plate, encouraging me to eat more. I looked up at his face, and his eyes reflected nothing but love for me. Could I have been overthinking? Doubts continued to swirl in my head.

After breakfast, Jake handed me a handful of prenatal vitamins, which had become part of my daily routine. If there’s one thing I regret in life, it’s that despite being married to Jake for years, we never had a child of our own. We’d tried everything—doctors, treatments, and all kinds of medications, but nothing worked. Then one day, Jake brought home some vitamins from who knows where. He told me that many people at his company had tried them and, sure enough, they had soon gotten pregnant afterward. I believed him, so I took them dutifully every morning. After I swallowed the pills, Jake smiled, ran his hand through my hair, and called me a “good girl” before dropping me off at work. The whole day at the office, I couldn’t concentrate. Something didn’t sit right. I opened my computer and searched: “Can you have two Instagram accounts on the same phone?” I was shocked by what I found. Phones could, indeed, support multiple Instagram accounts. I remembered Jake had just upgraded his phone, and it was capable of running two accounts. That night, when I got home, I grabbed Jake’s phone again. This time, I went straight to Instagram, into settings, and found the dual-app function. I switched accounts, and sure enough—there was a second Instagram account. The profile picture? That same shirtless guy with abs I had seen earlier that morning. I opened the account. Messages flooded the screen, the unread number glowing red. The group chat was titled, “The Best Affairs Start Here.” I clicked into it. Jake was one of the most active members, constantly posting photos of himself with different women. Looking at the pictures, I felt a wave of defeat and heartbreak like I’d never known before. It was as if I had never really known the man I married. From the kitchen, I heard Jake calling me to dinner. I quickly noted the group name, switched back to the original account, and returned the phone to its place. That night, I locked myself in the home office. I created a fake account and spent a little money to join the group chat. As soon as I entered, I saw Jake bragging about his affairs. He had just posted a picture of himself on top of some woman, her face hidden but her body was curvy. After that post, the group chat exploded with excitement. Reading those messages and seeing the pictures felt like a dagger twisting inside me. I could barely breathe. The group buzzed with more activity because of Jake’s post. Someone even suggested a competition to see who could have the most affairs. Without hesitation, Jake was the first to agree. He even said he’d share the time and hotel details for his next affair. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Was this really Jacob “Jake” Rivers—the man who claimed to love and care for me?

Jake and I met in college. He was a year ahead of me and sort of like my mentor. When we were both looking for internships right before graduation, one of my professors suggested I apply to the same firm where Jake was working. When I joined, I didn’t know much, and Jake patiently guided me through everything. That’s when I started feeling something for him. One night, I stayed late at the office to finish some work. I was so busy I didn’t even have time for dinner. When I finally finished, I stood up, feeling dizzy and sick. Before I knew it, I collapsed. The last thing I remembered before passing out was hearing Jake’s voice and seeing him running toward me. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. Jake was sitting beside me, fast asleep. Sensing I had woken up, he opened his eyes, smiled, and said, “You’re awake. The doctor said it was just a bad case of gastritis, but you’re going to be fine.” I looked at the clock; it was nearly 5 a.m. He had stayed with me all night. I was touched. The doctor released me after a night of observation, and Jake even took me out for breakfast afterward. That incident brought us closer, and soon after, we started dating. Jake was incredibly attentive, and with his care, my stomach issues never bothered me again. After graduation, I was offered a permanent position at the firm because of my excellent performance. But shortly after, Jake resigned, and I was shocked. I went down to the parking garage to confront him, asking why he quit. He just stared at me without answering. I was so anxious that I started crying and grabbed his hand, begging to know why he was leaving. He sighed, pulled me into his arms, and whispered in my ear, “Silly girl, the company doesn’t allow office relationships. I had to quit so I could date you.” I blushed like a tomato. After he left the company, we officially started dating. It was like being wrapped in sweetness every day. Not long after, Jake proposed, and I didn’t hesitate for a second—I said yes immediately. I took him to meet my parents, expecting them to love him as much as I did. But they were adamantly opposed. They thought Jake was too complicated, and I was too naive, that I would end up getting hurt. I didn’t listen. I fought with them for a long time before they finally gave in. To prove himself, Jake continued being the perfect husband after we got married, and my parents eventually warmed up to him. My father even pulled some strings to get Jake a job as CFO at a major international firm. Meanwhile, my career was thriving. Within a few years, I became the head of overseas business for our firm. I thought life would stay perfect forever, but then Jake slapped me in the face with reality. Not only had he cheated, but he was bragging about it in a group chat. I was furious and didn’t sleep all night. The next morning, I went to work with two huge bags under my eyes. I sat at my desk, trying to figure out who the other woman could be. I took out my phone and started scrolling through Jake’s Instagram. Most of the pictures were of us, smiling happily together in every shot.

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Three days before the wedding, I received a friend request on Instagram. The profile picture was of a cute cat — the British Shorthair my fiancé used to have. The message attached read: “He loves you, but he raised a cat with me.” This message came in while Daniel was in the shower, and his phone was right there on the nightstand. I always prided myself on being calm and rational, but when I picked up his phone to check the cat in that profile picture, a cold shiver ran down my spine. Her Instagram Stories were public, and they were filled with vague, melancholic posts and endless pictures of the cat. Occasionally, there’d be a hand in the frame — not a woman’s hand, but one I recognized. I had held that hand for five years. When Daniel came out of the shower and saw me wrapped tightly in the comforter, he looked puzzled. “Is the AC too cold?” No, it wasn’t. It was set to 77 degrees, but I couldn’t stop shaking. I couldn’t calm myself. Once a seed of doubt is planted, it grows like a weed. I suddenly remembered the time when Daniel left me at the bridal shop to take a call. He had said it was urgent work, but it was a Sunday. He’s a product manager. There are no suppliers working on Sundays. And then there were the nights he’d come home late from “working overtime,” his clothes covered in cat fur. He said he’d gone to a cat café to de-stress. I hate cats. That British Shorthair was given away because of me. Clutching the blanket around me, I forced myself to be calm. “I feel like having some spicy chili bowl, can you go get it for me?” Daniel sighed, a bit exasperated, “I just got out of the shower, and you’re already sending me out again.” But he grabbed the keys and left, as he always did when I asked for something, patient and kind. But inside, I felt like my heart was being torn apart. I accepted the friend request and immediately sent a message: “How far have you two gone?” Her reply came almost instantly, as if she had anticipated my question. “Don’t worry, we’ve never slept together. But I kissed him, and he didn’t stop me.” I laughed bitterly at her response, but the chill in my heart only deepened. “When did it start?” I asked. She dodged the question with another cryptic reply. “My cat is cute, isn’t it?” A wave of pain hit me, and I gasped for breath. I coughed violently, my chest burning from the effort. By the time the coughing fit subsided, I knew. The cat was the beginning. It was a year ago when Daniel’s heart wandered.

I met Daniel during a college Student Government Association event. He was a year ahead of me, already on the executive committee when we met. By junior year, the SGA starts handing responsibilities over to the younger students. That’s when Daniel finally asked me out. Because he didn’t want any gossip, he spent a long time pursuing me in secret, which, to be honest, was pretty thrilling at the time. We flirted for two years. Two blissful years where I felt like I was living in a bubble of happiness. So, when he officially asked me out, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. Now that I think about it, maybe with her, it was the same thrill of secrecy. Maybe back then, Daniel wasn’t just worried about gossip — maybe he just liked the thrill of the chase. The thought made me sick. He’s good-looking by most people’s standards. Patient, too. Comes from a decent family, the type that can afford to pay for a small house in full. Over the years, he’s had his fair share of admirers. But he never gave anyone else a chance. For the seven years we dated, his friends mocked him for being the “perfect boyfriend.” We fit well together, likely because of the long, slow build of our relationship, so our feelings for each other stayed fresh longer than most couples’. Everyone envied our relationship. If there was one major difference between us, it was that he loved cats, and I hated them. Last spring, he found a tiny British Shorthair at a park. The poor thing looked abandoned or lost. It was filthy, its eyes crusted shut, barely making a sound. Daniel had always wanted a cat but held off because of me. The minute he brought that one home, he fell in love with it. He took it to the vet, got it cleaned up, and begged me to let him keep it. I was exasperated and told him he could keep it somewhere else, just not in our home. A few days later, after I didn’t budge, he gave the cat away. We were cold toward each other for a few days, but then things went back to normal. I thought it was just a minor bump in our relationship. I had no idea it was the start of something much bigger. He had started to develop feelings for someone else, and I was clueless. He still wove this perfect narrative of love and happiness with me, proposing and planning our future together, even preparing our new home. I glanced at the clock. The place that makes my favorite spicy chili bowl is a ten-minute walk from here. It’s on a narrow street, packed with pedestrians, so walking is faster than driving. Daniel would definitely walk. Between ordering and walking back, he’d be gone for about thirty minutes. I had already wasted a few minutes. That left me with about twenty minutes to make a decision. Should I pretend nothing happened? Or should I burst the bubble of this perfect love everyone envied? I wiped my red, trembling eyes, took half a minute to decide, and shoved my credit cards, bank cards, and important documents into my bag. The rest didn’t matter. But as I grabbed my keys, I couldn’t hold it together anymore. The keychain was one we’d bought together after Daniel asked me out. It was a cute cartoon couple, a boy and a girl. I had the boy, and he had the girl. We kept them for five years, and even when the paint chipped, we didn’t replace them. I thought it symbolized happiness. Now I see it as a joke. Frustrated, I tried ripping off the charm, but the harder I tried, the harder it was to pull apart. I broke down, sobbing, before finally grabbing a pair of scissors and cutting the charm in half. The house we were about to move into after the wedding was partly his — he’d paid the down payment, but I had paid for the renovations. Our wedding funds were split between two bank accounts, both of which I had with me now. I’m not stupid. I’d wasted nine years of my life on this relationship; I wasn’t going to leave empty-handed. His car was fully paid for, so I didn’t touch it. I slipped out through the back of the building and headed to the Holiday Inn across the street. I checked into a room, dropped off my things, and then my phone rang. It was Daniel, asking me where I was. I looked out the window at the familiar neighborhood, my heart aching. “We’re breaking up.” He was furious. “Sarah, what the hell are you talking about? We’re getting married in three days! Do you even care about my feelings?” I didn’t answer directly. Instead, I asked, “That cat I told you to give away last year… it must weigh about twenty pounds by now, right?” He didn’t say a word. Suddenly, everything felt meaningless. My youth had been a foolish dream, and now my passion had turned cold. “I’ll tell our families I’m sick. The wedding’s off. Dan, let’s end this with some dignity. I want to hold onto at least a little bit of good memory.” Before he could respond, I hung up the phone. Twenty minutes. That’s all it took to destroy the love story I thought would last forever. Like crashing off a cliff, I hit rock bottom, shattering into pieces.

I don’t know how long I cried, but when I woke up, it was already the next afternoon. My eyes were so swollen they looked like walnuts, and I could barely speak. My whole body felt weak. I didn’t even feel hungry. My head was a mess, thoughts tangled up. I kept thinking about that cat, the wedding two days away, the house we were supposed to live in, and the seven years I had wasted on him. I felt so disgusted I had to run to the trash can and throw up. There was nothing in my stomach, so I just dry-heaved bile. Exhausted, I called room service and forced myself to eat something. Once I had some strength back, I turned my phone on. The notifications came pouring in — missed calls, texts, Instagram messages, everything. I knew I couldn’t avoid this. No matter how awful it all felt, I had to deal with it. I called my dad first. As expected, the moment he picked up, he asked, “Where are you?” “You need to stop acting out. The wedding is in two days! What were you thinking, running off like this? Daniel came over last night, said he screwed up and made you mad. Fine, be angry, but don’t joke around with the wedding!” That confirmed it for me. Dan hadn’t told my parents about the other woman. Of course not. The invitations had been sent, the hotel and catering booked, the guest list finalized. Canceling now would be humiliating for both families. But who in their right mind would let this all go on as if nothing happened? When I got home that evening, my parents were both there. So was Daniel. The moment he saw me, Daniel dropped to his knees. My parents were shocked, and I could feel the lump forming in my throat as I asked, “What are you doing?” His eyes were bloodshot, and stubble had started to grow along his jawline. He looked like he hadn’t slept. He grabbed my hands, his voice trembling with desperation as he apologized. “Sarah, I’m sorry. I’m a horrible person. I messed up. Please don’t cancel the wedding. I can’t lose you. We’re about to get married. You can’t just leave me now.” “Oh, so you remember we’re about to get married?” The hurt and bitterness welled up in me, replacing the sadness. I picked up a mug from the coffee table and hurled it at him. “When you were out there walking her cat, holding her hand, kissing her, did you remember that we were getting married?” I slapped him, not once, but twice, as hard as I could. But even that didn’t bring any satisfaction. I was out of control, pulling at his hair, kicking him. Everything was chaos. My parents tried to pull me away, panicking at my wild outburst. Daniel sat on the floor, taking the beating without defending himself, apologizing over and over again. Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit me, and I doubled over in pain, my hand instinctively going to my stomach. My breathing became ragged, and I slumped down onto the floor, gasping. “I’m pregnant.” The room fell into complete silence. Daniel stared at me, eyes wide with a mix of shock and hope. I looked down, and we all saw it at the same time—the dark red stain slowly spreading beneath me. Daniel’s face turned ghostly white as he rushed toward me, arms shaking as he held me close. “I was going to surprise you on our wedding day,” I said, my voice cold and distant. “Are you happy now?”

The baby was gone. When the doctor confirmed it, it felt like my soul left my body. The pain was so sharp that it numbed me entirely. Daniel collapsed to the floor in the hospital, sobbing uncontrollably, screaming at me for not telling him about the pregnancy earlier. I glared at him, every ounce of hatred I’d been holding back now rising to the surface. I wanted to rip him apart. “What right do you have to question me?” I spat, yanking out the IV from my arm and kicking him in the shoulder. “We’re done. Get out of my life.” But he didn’t leave. He wrapped his arms around my legs, weeping loudly. “We’ve been together for seven years! Seven years! I can’t lose you now! I was an idiot! I never slept with her! Please, give me another chance!” I wanted to vomit. If he really cared about me, if he cared about our child, why did he let another woman slip into our life? The baby was gone now, and all those years of love had turned into nothing. It was only now, when everything had fallen apart, that he wanted to beg for forgiveness. “I swear, I never crossed that line with her. We just talked about cats! If I’m lying, may I be struck by lightning!” He was truly desperate now. He even handed me his phone. The messages he showed me were from someone he had saved as ‘Kelly.’ The chats were innocent — mostly about cats and work, nothing incriminating. “She’s new at my company. We only talked a few times outside of work, and it was just about the cat,” he pleaded. “How did it start?” I asked calmly, though I already knew the answer. I wasn’t stupid. If he was showing me these, it was because he had already hidden the real evidence. While I pretended to interrogate him, I quietly navigated his phone. I opened his battery usage log and found a suspiciously high amount of activity on an unfamiliar Instagram account. It wasn’t his main account. The moment he was distracted, I wrote down the handle. His phone had a dual-account feature, and I knew exactly how to access it. I switched to the other account, where the battery log had revealed his secret. There it was—messages and photos with her. She was the woman who had messaged me, telling me she had kissed him. And there were even more messages. Flirty, explicit ones, with private photos of her. My heart felt like it was being torn apart again, but I forced myself to remain calm. I quickly silenced the phone and acted like I was still angry, throwing a pillow at him. “If you really had nothing going on with her, why didn’t you ever tell me about her? You must like her!” As expected, Daniel panicked and began explaining. While he was flustered, I changed the settings on his Instagram account, linking his backup account to my own phone. Then, I returned his phone, pretending to be exhausted from my outburst. “Just go. Let me think about this.” Thinking I had finally calmed down, he reluctantly left. But I was far from calm. My body was shaking, not just from the physical pain of losing the baby but from the overwhelming emotional devastation. I lay in bed, too drained to cry, my soul feeling crushed. My parents checked in on me later, but they could see how bad my state was. They decided to give me some space, promising to bring me soup later. Once they were gone, I sat up, my mind clouded. I opened Daniel’s secret Instagram account and began reading through the disgusting messages between him and her. I had to think about my next move, but my head was pounding, and my ears were ringing.

The next morning, Daniel showed up at the hospital with his parents. His mother was crying, apologizing for her son’s mistakes. Daniel’s father gave him a few slaps on the back to “make up” for what he had done. It was all for show. They apologized, said how much they regretted everything, but soon enough, they shifted the conversation to the wedding. They couldn’t bear the idea of canceling it. The embarrassment would be too much for both families. I felt sick, my stomach turning at the mere thought of continuing with the wedding. “Don’t worry, we’ll punish him for what he did. We’ll make him delete all contact with that woman. If he ever does anything like this again, his father and I will deal with him ourselves!” Daniel’s mom was crying, clutching my hand dramatically. If this had happened five or six years ago, I might have been naïve enough to forgive him right then and there. But I wasn’t that gullible anymore. They thought they could sweep everything under the rug, that I would swallow my pride and continue life as if nothing had happened. But what about my baby? Was that little life just supposed to disappear without consequence? I couldn’t accept that. Anger pounded in my ears. My head felt like it was going to explode. I shoved Daniel’s mother away from me and ran to the trash can to throw up. She gasped. “Are you still pregnant? Could the baby still be alive?” Her words stabbed at my already raw heart. What was she implying—that I had lied about losing the baby? But I knew it wasn’t the time to lose control. I lifted my head and stared straight at Daniel. “The wedding doesn’t have to be canceled.” I told him that I had just gone through a miscarriage, so there was no way I could leave the hospital anytime soon. Besides, his relationship with that woman made me sick. But if he could promise never to make the same mistake again, I would agree to postpone the wedding. However, I demanded that I be the one to hold the keys to the house. Daniel’s mother beamed. “Of course, of course! Postponing is fine! As long as we’re not canceling, everything will be alright.” Daniel, on the other hand, looked uneasy. He asked if I didn’t trust him. My anger surged again, and my ears buzzed. “You caused me to lose my child because you were off playing games with another woman, and now you expect me to trust you? Either agree to my terms or get out!” My parents started shouting at him too. The whole hospital room erupted into chaos again, and I pressed the nurse’s call button. “I can’t hear. I feel like I’m going to be sick.” Two doctors arrived quickly and asked everyone to leave the room. They checked my symptoms and seemed concerned. After a brief consultation, one of them led me to the ear, nose, and throat department for further testing. After running through my medical history and looking at my symptoms, the doctor finally pulled down his mask. His face lit up with recognition as he said, “Sarah Williams, from Class 3 at Lincoln High? Do you remember me? I’m Michael Freed, from Class 2. We danced together for the school anniversary celebration.”

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Three months into being bullied, I jumped off the rooftop. My tattered school uniform, hair that looked like it had been chewed by a dog, and the dull ache from my bruises all reminded me how worthless I had become. Insulting words were scribbled all over the school rooftop. Madison Pierce grabbed my head and slapped me relentlessly. I shoved Madison away with all my strength and leapt into the air. Like a butterfly with broken wings, I plummeted toward the ground. Let it end. Let it all end… 1． When I opened my eyes again, I was in an unfamiliar room—bright, cozy, and comfortable. Standing in front of a mirror, it didn’t take me long to understand: I had been reborn in a new body. My head was spinning, and nausea swept over me. I ran to the bathroom and threw up before I felt a bit better. I had no memory of her life. Searching through her room, I found a diagnosis of depression, a diary, and a half-empty bottle of sleeping pills. “Claire Harper.” I muttered her name as I traced her picture with my fingers. “She’s so beautiful.” I opened her diary and began reading about her past. September 1st. The first day of school. I was so happy. During my introduction, I didn’t reveal my true identity. I just mentioned I got in as one of the top ten students from the entrance exam. September 2nd. I moved into the dorm today. There’s a girl in my room pretending to be me, claiming she’s the daughter of America’s wealthiest family, with countless companies under her family’s name. I glanced at her cheap makeup and knockoff designer clothes, but I didn’t call her out. I responded politely to her questions, but I wasn’t as friendly with her as I was with the other two girls in the room. She noticed the genuine designer brands in my luggage and couldn’t hide the jealousy in her eyes. September 3rd. Half of my skincare and makeup products were missing. When I asked who had taken them, she said she gave permission for the other two roommates to use them. She told me not to be so stingy, but she hadn’t asked for my permission. I reported it to the teacher, but she wasn’t punished. The teacher only advised me to get along with my classmates. September 10th. It felt like she started to hate me even more. She banded together with the others to isolate me, but I didn’t really care. I stayed in the library until it closed at 10 PM, but when I returned to the dorm, the door was locked. I knocked for what felt like hours, but no one opened it. I had no choice but to stay at my family’s hotel for the night. September 11th. When I got back to the dorm, no one was there. I lay down on my bed to read. They came back later, and when I asked why they locked me out, she covered her mouth in mock surprise, claiming she hadn’t heard me knocking. Was that really possible? September 15th. The photos of me staying at the hotel were posted on the Riverdale Academy Instagram page. The hotel manager came out to greet me, but the caption suggested I was living a shady life, implying I was being “kept.” I explained, but no one believed me. Soon, the whole campus was gossiping about me. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Over the next few days, the insults continued—both directly and indirectly. I put on my headphones to drown them out, but that only made them worse. They trashed my belongings, scattering them all over my bed. I ended up renting an apartment near the school. September 20th. When I walked into the classroom, a smelly trash can was dumped over my head, and I heard laughter all around me. I was shoved onto the teacher’s desk, dirty water dripping down my school uniform. Someone pulled the trash can off my head. I stood there, filthy and humiliated, while they looked pristine and perfect. I ran back to my seat in tears. The word “slut” was carved into my desk, the sight of it searing my eyes. The class president came to my rescue, draping his jacket over my shoulders and guiding me out of the room. I glanced back and caught Madison’s hateful glare. A shiver ran down my spine. He was the one light in this school—the only reason I stayed. I didn’t transfer because I was afraid I’d lose sight of him if I did. October 23rd. My parents and brother, who were abroad, sent me loads of gifts to celebrate my new school year. My brother sent me a designer bag, saying it matched my style. I unwrapped it on the way back to class. As soon as I sat down, Madison was crying, and everyone rushed to comfort her. Then someone snatched my bag, accusing me of stealing. I told them it was a birthday gift from my brother, but no one believed me. One of Madison’s cronies shoved a video in my face. It showed me suspiciously unwrapping a package by the trash can. Within half an hour, word spread that I was a thief. I shoved the receipt in Madison’s face. She didn’t say a word, but she ripped the bag apart in front of me and handed me the pieces. I almost called the police, but she begged for my forgiveness. I forgave her, and she promised it would never happen again. November 16th. The class president invited me to his birthday party. I was thrilled and spent hours trying on different outfits. But when I entered the karaoke room, he had his arm around Madison. Several other girls, dressed in wild outfits, stood by her side. Madison slapped me hard across the face, calling me a pathetic loser and instructing the others to beat me up. She assured them she’d take the blame if anything went wrong. Slaps rained down on me. I fought back, but it only made them hit harder. December 1st. I dragged my aching body back to the apartment. The blade of a knife slid across my arm, and blood trickled down. I hid in the corner of the dark room, sobbing. The deep abyss of the night and the blood spilling from my arm felt like my only salvation. December 10th. Let an accident happen to me! I wanted to forget those people and everything that had happened. The pain was suffocating, and I couldn’t stop crying, barely able to make a sound. I felt abandoned, hated. The world was a lie, deadlier than poison, more crushing than falling off a cliff. There was no empathy left in this world. I bought a bottle of sleeping pills. I was so tired. I just wanted to sleep… The diary ended there. I closed it, overwhelmed by how much I could relate to her. She was just like me—a victim. I hugged her diary and cried. 2. But I didn’t understand. Claire Harper came from an incredibly wealthy family, with powerful brothers and rich parents. She never had to face any consequences. There were always people ready to clean up her messes. Why would a rich girl go to a school like Riverdale Academy pretending to be a normal student? Was it for the beatings? The humiliation? Now that I was Claire Harper, I would make sure her enemies paid. In my previous life, my family was poor, powerless, and subject to endless bullying. But now? Now I was a wealthy heiress. Let’s see who dares mess with me. The next morning, I walked into school with $5,000 in cash. I went straight to the senior bully’s classroom and called him out. I shoved the cash into his hands. “Here’s five grand. Teach someone a lesson for me.” His eyes lit up, weighing the money in his hands. He smirked. “Consider it done. Just give me the time, place, and name. How do you want it handled?” I handed him a note with a carefully thought-out plan. That evening after school, the bully and his crew dragged the girl who had tormented Claire to the rooftop. I followed them up there. “Each of you guys,” I instructed, “give her five hard slaps. My hearing’s a bit bad, so make sure it’s loud enough.” The sound of slaps echoed across the rooftop. Slap! Slap! Slap! After what seemed like an eternity, her face was swollen like a pig’s head, and she could barely speak. She collapsed at my feet, begging for mercy, promising to be my dog if I spared her. I stood above her, towering, holding up my phone, recording every second of it. “Apologize. And tell me exactly how you bullied me.” Half an hour later, I patted her swollen cheek. “If you ever breathe a word about what happened today, I’ll post this video. Let everyone see how you grovel like a dog.” For the next two weeks, she fetched me coffee, did my chores, and cleaned the blackboard. Everyone at school was baffled. They had no idea what had changed. If anyone came for me, she stood in their way first. It was fun! I had finally avenged Claire. Now it was time to get revenge for myself. 3． “This is our new transfer student, Claire Harper.” “Hi, everyone. My name is Claire Harper.” Facing the 39 familiar faces, I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. After taking a deep breath, I scanned the room, one face at a time. The boy with the biggest smile had cut my hair. The one clapping the loudest had poured glue all over my clothes. When I accidentally bumped into the guy in front of me, he would jump back and curse at me, as if I were something filthy. They hadn’t physically hit me, but the isolation, the insults, and the taunts had hurt just as much. The echo of their mocking laughter still lingered in my mind, sending a cold sweat down my back. Words don’t break bones, but they can destroy souls. “Excuse me.” That sweet voice felt like nails on a chalkboard. Madison Pierce walked in, looking every bit the princess she always pretended to be. “Madison, no more being late,” the teacher said, still coddling her like always. Madison stuck her tongue out playfully. “Got it, Miss Wilson. Is this the new student? Wow, she’s so pretty!” In my previous life, I had been assigned to sit next to her. She had tortured me just because a boy she liked had glanced my way. I remember her stabbing me repeatedly with the sharp end of a compass, making the entire class unbearable. My timid reaction had only encouraged her. The moment the bell rang, she dragged me into the bathroom and beat me senseless. That was the day the bullying began. “Megan, you’re just a poor girl from the countryside, and you still think you can win over Jackson? Scratch her face up for me!” Madison’s words dragged me back to the present. She was holding out her hand—the same hand that had slapped me countless times. I stared at her, speechless for a moment. As much as I hated to admit it, Madison Pierce was beautiful, with her perfectly symmetrical face and dimples that appeared whenever she smiled. An angelic face, but the heart of a devil. I fought against the tremor in my arm as I shook her hand, forcing a smile. “Sure.” Madison Pierce was my seatmate once again. 4. Sitting beside Madison made every class feel like torture. “So, Claire Harper, what does your family do?” Madison asked, her voice dripping with the same curiosity from my past life. She was deciding whether I would be her friend or her servant, depending on my answer. Her father was the City Mayor, after all, with enormous power. She didn’t suffer any consequences after she drove me to my death in my previous life. She had just continued living her charmed life. “My family owns a business. We’re doing okay.” “Everyone here’s family owns a business,” she scoffed, giving me a disdainful once-over. I glanced at her but didn’t respond. Suddenly, another girl chimed in. “You look so familiar! You’re the daughter of the Harper Corporation, aren’t you? We met at the gala last summer.” I turned toward the girl and gave a cold, indifferent nod. She was the one who had once stuck gum in my hair. Most of the students at Riverdale Academy were children of Hartford’s elite. It wasn’t unusual for someone to recognize Claire Harper. “The Harpers!” Madison’s eyes lit up. “Isn’t your brother the new department head here?” I didn’t answer, pretending to focus on the teacher’s lecture instead. Madison leaned closer. “Hey, Claire, could you grab something for me after class?” I tilted my head, giving her an innocent smile. “Do you deserve my help?” “Oh wow, the ‘Harper Princess’ sure doesn’t like to play nice, huh?” “Looks like Madison finally met her match!” “Madison’s the Mayor’s daughter! How dare Claire talk back?” The whispers grew louder, drowning out the teacher’s voice. Madison’s face turned bright red with anger. She jumped to her feet and shouted, “Shut up! Can’t you see the teacher is talking?” The classroom fell silent. “Claire Harper, you think you’re untouchable?” Madison asked, her voice as calm as if she were discussing the weather. “Mayor’s daughter, huh?” I chuckled. “Madison, you’ve had things too easy for far too long, haven’t you?” Madison’s face flushed with rage, and she raised her arm, ready to slap me. But I caught her wrist mid-swing and slapped her across the face. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. I lost count. Every strike was payback for the times she had humiliated me in my past life. “Stop this at once!” Ms. Wilson’s voice cut through the chaos, putting an end to my ‘attack.’ “You two, come with me to the Principal’s Office. The rest of you, study quietly.” I massaged my hand, which was stinging from the force of the slaps, while looking down at Madison. Her face was swollen, and she looked like a beaten pig. One word came to mind: satisfaction. “Sorry if I hit you too hard. Does it hurt?” I asked sarcastically, throwing her own words back at her. Leaving her fuming behind, I followed Ms. Wilson to Mr. Matthews’ office. As I walked away, I could hear applause from the classroom and Madison’s angry screams. 5. Standing in the Principal’s Office, I watched as Mr. Matthews calmly sipped his coffee. He was holding my enrollment file in his hand. After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke. “Claire Harper, why did you hit Madison Pierce?” “She deserved it.” He didn’t seem phased. “Do you know who her father is?” Ah, here it comes. “The Mayor.” “Claire, you should know that Madison’s family isn’t one you can mess with. I strongly advise you to leave this school before she returns. Riverdale Academy isn’t for people like you.” Did he really just call the Harper family “small-time”? Without a word, I pulled out my phone and dialed my father. Before I could finish, Ms. Wilson, who had been quiet up until now, suddenly snatched the phone out of my hand and smashed it onto the ground. “Claire Harper, I am your teacher! Do you even understand what respect is?” I glared at her. “Who are you calling disrespectful?” Ms. Wilson flinched, clearly not expecting my defiance. She fumed, “You’re out of control! No wonder you come from such a lowly family. You have no class at all!” “I bet your father’s no better! A man with no manners raises a daughter with none!” She pointed her finger at me, hurling insult after insult—ones I had heard before in my past life. Furious, I shoved her back. “Say that again, I dare you!” I was Claire Harper now. This family—her family—was mine to protect, and no one would insult them in front of me. Just then, Madison stormed into the office, tears streaming down her face. She shoved me aside. “Claire Harper, how dare you push the teacher!” Ms. Wilson pointed at me, her voice shaking with rage. “This girl is out of control! I’m calling the Principal to have her expelled!” As she patted Madison on the back, the Principal walked by. Without hesitation, Madison grabbed his arm, pulling him into the office. Now it was just me and Madison. She crossed her arms, her voice cold. “Claire Harper, if you get down on your knees and beg, I’ll let you stay at Riverdale Academy.” Beg so she could keep torturing me? No way. “Madison, if I don’t get expelled, how about you get on your knees and apologize to me?” I challenged, staring her down. “Who do you think you are to make a bet with me?” Madison sneered. “You’ll be begging before the day’s over, whether you like it or not.” Madison was sure of her victory. In my past life, Madison’s favorite thing was making us kneel and apologize to her, even when we had done nothing wrong. “Who are you making kneel?” “What’s it to you?” she spat back. At that moment, Madison’s expression changed from venomous to fake innocence as she spotted someone entering the room. “Oh, Mr. Harper, I didn’t mean it like that. Claire hit me first. I just lost my temper and said some things I shouldn’t have. Saying that, Madison was about to fall towards that teacher. 6. Mr. Harper ignored Madison’s theatrics and strode over to me. Grabbing my shoulders, he shook me hard. “Little sis, are you okay?” He was shaking me so hard I felt like I might throw up. This must be Claire’s older brother, Ryan Harper, the one Madison had mentioned. “Ryan?” He looked at me, panic in his eyes. “Has this crazy girl hit you so hard that you can’t even recognize your own brother? Let me check for bruises.” I let him turn me around and check me for injuries. “I’m fine, Ryan.” I turned and shot Madison a smirk. “I’m the one who hit her.” The moment Madison realized he really was my brother, she scrambled to her feet, fixing her disheveled hair. “I must’ve done something wrong to upset Claire. That’s why she hit me, right? Ryan, please don’t be mad at her.” Ryan and I spoke in unison: “Who said I’m your brother?” Madison’s face flushed red, swelling further as the bruises began to show. Her pig-like face was almost comical. It would’ve been funny if she looked like that forever. I watched her standing there, dumbstruck and humiliated, like a dirty ragdoll—just as I had been in my previous life. “Claire Harper, are you alright?” Mr. Matthews, the principal, rushed into the room, with Ms. Wilson trailing behind him, looking like a frightened bird. “I’m fine.” I shrugged, gesturing toward the shocked and swollen-faced Madison Pierce. Mr. Matthews put a hand on Madison’s shoulder, speaking in a low, hushed tone. But Madison suddenly exploded, jumping up and shouting, “I’m not apologizing! She hit me first!” She covered her face dramatically and cried, “Uncle, she hit me! You have to expel her! Look at my face! When my dad comes—” “When your dad comes, what?” Mr. Matthews slammed his hand on the desk, cutting her off. “Even if your father himself showed up right now, it wouldn’t change the fact that you were in the wrong!” Madison stared at him, unable to comprehend what she was hearing. “You’re going to hit me, too? You’ve forgotten how you even got this job, haven’t you? If you want to keep it, you better expel this piece of trash right now!” SLAP! The sound of Mr. Matthews’ hand connecting with her cheek echoed through the room. “Enough of your tantrums! You think it’s no big deal to bully someone to the point of death?” Madison clutched her face in disbelief, tears streaming down her cheeks. To them, in my past life, pushing me to my death had been nothing more than “childish antics,” hadn’t it? “Uncle, you actually hit me for this… this nobody?” “Who did you just call a nobody?” Ryan Harper casually cleaned his ear with a finger. “I think I must’ve misheard.” Mr. Matthews, ignoring Madison’s cries, turned to Ryan. “Mr. Harper? When did you arrive?” Ryan stepped forward, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Just in time to see my little sister get treated like this.” Mr. Matthews visibly paled, bowing his head. “My deepest apologies for the misunderstanding, Mr. Harper. This… This was all a mistake.” 7. The principal pulled out his phone and made a call. I could hear the sound of someone shouting obscenities and the clatter of poker chips through the speaker. “Mr. Harper, please give me just a moment to explain the situation to Madison’s family,” Mr. Matthews said nervously. I leaned over to Ryan, whispering, “Ryan, didn’t you buy your college degree?” “Hey! I worked hard for that!” Ryan tried to hide his embarrassment, his good looks now tinged with a little awkwardness. “You think I wanted to be here? The family made me enroll just to keep an eye on you.” “Oh, I’ll make sure David hears about how much you hate it.” Ryan nearly dropped to his knees in panic. “No, please! I’m loving it. Best job ever!” “Claire Harper!” Madison suddenly shrieked, interrupting our conversation. Her face was a blotchy mess from tears and smeared makeup. “Just wait until my dad gets here! When he does, you’ll be expelled!” God, she really was thick-headed. I’d already told her she couldn’t mess with the Harper family. Let her keep going, she’ll destroy her own life. “Fine,” I said, folding my arms. “I’ll wait to see if I get expelled.” Ten minutes later, Mr. Matthews returned, his face pale. “Claire Harper, Madison’s family says they will leave the matter entirely in your hands. They trust your judgment.” “I don’t believe it! You’re lying!” Madison grabbed the phone from him and dialed her father. Mr. Matthews didn’t even bother to stop her. He knew there was nothing left for him to do. I nodded toward Ryan, and he quickly dialed our older brother, David. I passed the phone to Mr. Matthews. “Here. It’s my brother.” Mr. Matthews, trembling, took the phone with both hands. “Mr. Harper, sir! No need for that, really. Yes… Yes, of course, sir. No, no, it’s no trouble at all for you to take time out of your busy schedule. Everything will be handled, sir. Thank you for your guidance!” He nearly looked ready to cry by the time David hung up. Then he handed the phone back to me. “Big brother,” I spoke softly into the phone. David’s voice was tired but warm. “Don’t worry, little sis. I’ve got your back, no matter what. Just don’t break any laws.” He didn’t ask for details. Our family always looked out for each other. “Thank you, David.” Tears welled up in my eyes as I hung up. I had never known this kind of love and protection in my past life. “Put it on speaker, Claire,” David said before I hung up. “Let them all hear this.” I clicked on speakerphone, and Madison, seeing this, did the same with her own call. “This matter is entirely in Claire’s hands,” David’s voice boomed over the speaker. “And tell the Mayor—if his daughter dares to harass my little sister again, I’ll make sure she regrets it.” “Mr. Harper,” Madison’s father’s voice wavered on the other end, “Please, let’s not involve the adults in a petty schoolyard squabble. Surely, we can allow the children to handle this themselves?” Madison’s dad’s supplicating voice clearly reached everyone’s ears, including those eavesdropping at the door.

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As I was cleaning the room over the weekend, I swept under the bed and found a wrapper. Any adult would know what it was. Mia and I had been trying for a baby for over two months without using any protection, so there’s no way that thing was mine. I looked at the wrapper closely—it was clearly used recently. A terrible thought exploded in my mind: Was Mia cheating on me? I found a cigarette butt in the trash can in our bathroom, and I don’t smoke. My wife, Mia, hates the smell of cigarettes—so who smoked it? We hadn’t had any guests over recently. Holding the cigarette butt, I asked Mia who had been here. She stammered, saying it might have been left by the guy who came to fix the water heater. Our water heater had been broken for a while, and it was indeed fixed recently, so I didn’t think much of it at the time. But then, over the weekend, while cleaning, I found a wrapper under the bed. Any adult would know what it was. Mia and I had been trying to have a baby for two months without protection. So, this contraceptive wrapper wasn’t mine. I looked at it again—it was obviously used recently. That horrible thought resurfaced: Was Mia cheating on me? I didn’t confront her right away. With work keeping me so busy, I hadn’t spent much time with her lately, and things between us had become tense. I wanted to believe this was all just a misunderstanding. The next day, I took a day off from work and sent Mia out to hang with her friends on purpose. I called the home appliance repair company, claiming our water heater was broken again, and requested the same guy who had come last time. About fifteen minutes later, he arrived—a tall, clean-cut young man. He smiled confidently as he came in. I led him to the bathroom and, as a test, I pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered him one. To my surprise, he immediately pushed it away, saying, “Sorry, man, I don’t smoke.” I was stunned, but more than that, I was suspicious. The cigarette butt in the trash hadn’t come from him. Mia had lied to me. He checked the water heater and told me nothing was wrong. I mumbled some excuse and sent him on his way. He was polite, but as he was leaving, he said something that completely threw me off: “Hope you’re feeling better, man. Your wife’s been worried about you.” Feeling better? What was he talking about? I pulled him back inside and asked more questions. He told me that when he was here a few days ago, he heard a man coughing in the bedroom. Mia had said it was me—she told him I had a fever and was resting. My mind reeled in shock. That night, I wasn’t even home. I had been working late and didn’t get back until after midnight. So, whoever that man was, it wasn’t me. I asked if he had seen the man’s face. He shook his head. I handed him $500 and told him to keep this between us. I rushed to the nearest Best Buy and bought a hidden camera, planning to gather evidence. I looked all over the bedroom for a good spot, and finally, I noticed the gap between some suitcases on top of the wardrobe—a perfect place to hide the camera. As I stood on a chair, ready to install the camera, I spotted something strange in the gap. I reached in and pulled out a hidden camera—one much more sophisticated than mine. Who had put this here? And when? Someone had been spying on me and Mia. A flood of questions raced through my mind. I didn’t want to alert anyone, so I carefully put the camera back. At that moment, my phone rang. It was Mia. She purred into the phone, “Hey honey, are you home? Are you heading back to work this afternoon?” Why was she asking? Could it be that she was planning to bring her lover to our house? I calmly answered, “No, I just left for work. You’ll have to grab lunch by yourself.” She sighed and hung up. I decided to stay hidden at home and catch them red-handed. I went to the kitchen and grabbed a knife, just in case. Around noon, I heard Mia’s laughter outside the door. I peered through the peephole. Mia was all dressed up—heavy makeup, a revealing outfit—and she was clinging to a man I recognized all too well: Randy Johnson, my coworker. Randy was the type of guy who flirted with half the women in the office. Everyone knew about his affairs. He and I were cordial, but nothing more. But how did he end up with Mia? They were standing so close, his arm around her waist, looking more intimate than I could handle. Inside, I was boiling with rage, gripping the knife so tightly my palms were sweaty. My whole body trembled as I fought the urge to run out and tear them apart. But I held myself back. Instead, I pulled out my phone to take pictures as evidence. Just as I clicked the camera, the shutter sound went off loudly. They might not have heard it, but I panicked and dropped the knife on the tiled floor, which made a sharp, echoing noise. Immediately, they stopped talking. I ran to the kitchen and pretended to be busy. A minute later, Mia slowly opened the door and, hearing me in the kitchen, came to check on me. Seeing me chopping vegetables, she asked cautiously, “Honey, I thought you went to work?” I smiled and said, “I heard you sounded a bit down on the phone, so I figured I’d make you lunch before heading back to work.” But inside, I was thinking: You lying cheat, did I ruin your little plan? Mia wrapped her arms around me from behind, whispering about how lucky she was to have me, saying she was the happiest woman in the world. I swallowed my disgust and played along.

The entire afternoon, I couldn’t stop thinking about how I would deal with those two. I knew I needed solid evidence of their affair. I checked the photos I had taken through the peephole, but they were too blurry to identify anyone. That night, Mia went to take her usual bath. Oddly enough, this time, she didn’t bring her phone with her. The screen was blinking with notifications, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that there might be some incriminating messages. While she was in the shower, I picked up her phone. Her password was her birthday, so I easily unlocked it. I opened WhatsApp and saw a few unread messages from Randy. I hesitated. If I read them, would Mia know? But I couldn’t stop myself. I clicked them open. What I found left me stunned. They had started seeing each other two months ago—right after that company dinner, when Mia had attended as my plus-one. I couldn’t believe it. They had only met once before hooking up, and for the thrill of it, they had done it right here in my home. And they had timed it around when I got off work. It was a complete betrayal of everything I believed. But what shocked me more was that they had a plan. Before Mia and I got married, we had signed a fidelity agreement stating that if either of us cheated, the guilty party would leave the marriage with nothing. All our assets, the house, the cars—they were all paid for by me. Mia was planning to take everything. And it was her idea. Randy had agreed to help her pull it off. They even had a lengthy video call discussing it. What was Randy going to do for her? Were they plotting something even bigger? I had kept myself faithful to this marriage, barely interacting with the cleaning lady, let alone having an affair. How did Randy plan to frame me? I scrolled further through their chat and discovered that the hidden camera in the bedroom had been planted by Mia, following Randy’s instructions. I checked Mia’s spending history and found that they regularly booked rooms at the same Hilton Hotel. When Mia got out of the shower, I put her phone back and carefully observed her reaction when she picked it up. She seemed unaware that I had gone through it. Over the next few days, I continued to go to work as usual. Every time I saw Randy was missing from the office, I pretended to be sick and took the day off, spending my time staking out the hotel, taking pictures to gather more evidence. What I discovered was shocking. Randy wasn’t just cheating with Mia—he brought a different woman to the hotel each time. The guy was a total scumbag. After about a week, I had enough evidence, but I wasn’t ready to confront Mia or file for divorce yet. I had a plan to make Randy suffer first.

One morning, I arrived at work, and Randy was already there, smiling and greeting me like nothing had happened. He looked so innocent, it was disgusting. He had been sleeping with our overweight boss, Mrs. Smith—everyone knew it. She had made advances toward me in the past, but I had rejected her, which had led to her giving me a hard time at work. Lately, Randy’s workload had mysteriously lightened, even though he often showed up late, left early, or skipped days entirely. And yet, he was still being considered for Employee of the Month. It had to be because of his relationship with Mrs. Smith. I couldn’t believe he was willing to go that far for success. Mrs. Smith’s husband was notoriously strict with her. He would stop by the office unannounced to keep an eye on her, and Randy and Mrs. Smith would sneak off to the stairwell for their rendezvous. One day, I managed to snap some photos of them together. I also had pictures of Randy from the hotel with her. Once I had everything ready, I anonymously sent all the photos to Mr. Smith—showing them hugging, kissing, the whole disgusting affair. The very next day, Mr. Smith stormed into the office with several big guys in tow. Randy, sensing danger, tried to run, but he didn’t get far. The men grabbed him and beat him so badly he was spitting blood. A few coworkers threatened to call the police, so they finally stopped. Mrs. Smith, terrified, hid in her office but was soon dragged out by her furious husband. After the chaos, I helped Randy up, pretending to be concerned. Seeing him bruised and barely able to stand was deeply satisfying. That evening, back at home, Mia casually asked, “I heard Randy got beaten up at work. How is he?” I held back a laugh. It was clear she had heard from Randy himself. “Yeah,” I said, “apparently he was hooking up with our boss, and her husband found out. He came in and beat him up.” As I told her this, I watched her closely. Her expression didn’t change much, which made me wonder—did she know about Randy’s other affairs? If she did and still stayed with him, well, that just proved the old saying true: “Birds of a feather flock together.” After dinner, I got up to do the dishes, but Mia stopped me, saying I had been working too hard lately and that she’d take care of them. I found it odd. She hadn’t offered to do this in a while. As I sat back down, I noticed her phone lighting up with a notification. I clicked on it—it was a message from Randy. Their previous chat history was gone. Had she deleted it because she knew I had checked? But the message made my blood run cold: “I got my test results. I have HIV.”

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The trending topics were filled with their public announcement video. My boyfriend said to me, “I need someone who can keep up with me, and all you do is hold me back.” I smiled, hung up the phone, and immediately called all the brands he was working with to cancel his contracts. My boyfriend is a popular actor. We agreed to keep our relationship private for the sake of his career. Today, he was supposed to come celebrate my birthday with me. But instead of him showing up, what I got was a trending video of him announcing his relationship with Lila Preston, the new rising starlet. In the video, he smiled so radiantly, just like when I first met him. The footage was from a recent vacation they took abroad together, one he had told me was for a company-sponsored shoot. I felt like a complete fool. I called him, demanding an explanation. “Dylan Hawthorne, what’s going on with the trending video?” I asked. He scoffed, “Isn’t it obvious? Avery, I’m with Lila Preston now. She can offer me the best resources. I need a partner who can keep up with me, not drag me down.” I hung up and immediately called every brand that worked with Dylan, telling them to terminate their contracts with him. I even offered to cover any breach-of-contract penalties myself. For years, I worked behind the scenes to connect Dylan with major brands, securing resources and partnerships, turning him from an unknown trainee into the rising star he is today. But he never knew any of this. To him, I was just a plain, unremarkable girl who didn’t care much about appearances—a fan who loved him to the bone. We started dating when he was still an unknown trainee. Back then, his company posted a video of him practicing a dance routine—zero views, zero comments. I was the first person to click on it and became his first fan. I followed him on Twitter and sent him messages of encouragement. He told me he cried out of joy. At that time, I found him to be genuine, sunny, and driven. After we secretly got together, I pitied that he wasn’t getting the company’s attention or resources. So, I used my connections to gradually build him into the star he is today. But over time, he became blinded by the applause and the limelight. This isn’t the first time Dylan and Lila Preston have trended together. The last time was when they were caught by the media, spending five hours in a hotel room while filming together. I confronted him with the reports, and he brushed it off, irritated, “We were just discussing the script. What, should we have sat in the hotel lobby instead? Do you really believe those gossip reporters over me? I can’t talk to you anymore.” That fight didn’t end well, and after that, his attitude toward me grew colder. I even questioned if it was my lack of trust that pushed him away. Looking back, I realize now I was just overthinking it. Dylan had long been ready to kick me aside and fly straight into Lila Preston’s arms.

The next morning, several brands announced that they had cut ties with Dylan Hawthorne, and it quickly trended online. People were speculating whether Dylan had done something wrong or offended someone powerful. Of course, no one knew it was all because of me. The brands would never dare to reveal my name. My family is one of the top corporations in the country, and crossing me would be equivalent to cutting off their financial lifeline. Last night, Lila Preston’s fans had been sending them congratulations. But by morning, they were flooding Dylan’s social media with insults. “Can you not drag my girl down with you?” “If you know what’s good for you, break up. Don’t pull Lila into your mess.” “Is he a gold digger or what?” “Trying to stay relevant by using our Lila’s name? Gross. Lila, run while you can!” Some even started speculating: “I heard Lila Preston has a sponsor, and this announcement upset them. That’s why all of Dylan’s endorsements were pulled.” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud when I saw that one. Honestly, it wasn’t far from the truth. Except the one who’s upset was me, and I was Dylan’s real sponsor. That said, Lila also had someone backing her—someone who saw her commercial potential and decided to promote her. That person just so happened to be my childhood friend, the one I grew up with but never quite got along with—Grayson Whitmore. To be honest, before that video was posted last night, I always thought Lila and Grayson would end up together. Sure, Grayson could be a bit cold and had a bad temper, but he wasn’t a bad guy overall. He’s handsome, wealthy—an ideal catch for most women. As I thought about it, I suddenly wondered—should I offer him some comfort? After all, we’ve known each other for so many years. It wouldn’t hurt for two heartbroken people to console each other. I shot him a message: “Don’t be sad. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.” He replied almost immediately: “?” “It’s okay. I know you’re upset. If you need to cry, go ahead.” “You’re nuts.” Well, he just broke up; I’ll let it slide. No point in arguing with him. I glanced at Twitter, and the trending topics had shifted again. This time, it was a statement from Hawthorne Talent Management, essentially telling the public not to spread rumors or face legal consequences. They also announced that all of Dylan’s upcoming events had been suspended. In other words, Dylan was officially blacklisted. I couldn’t help but smile. Sweet, sweet justice. Later, several brand managers called me. Apparently, Dylan’s agent had been blowing up their phones, frantically asking why all his contracts were suddenly canceled. Exhausted, the managers asked me if they should come up with some excuse. I coldly replied, “Just tell him—it’s because his client brought it on himself.” When I love you, I give you everything. But when I stop, I take back every ounce of it.

A few days later, Grayson Whitmore invited me to a charity gala. I rarely attend events like that because I can’t stand the superficial small talk. But I thought, why not keep him company? It would be a nice distraction for both of us. I wore a sleek custom gown, my hair pinned up, revealing my smooth, fair shoulders, and I did my makeup much more dramatically than usual. When Grayson saw me, his eyes narrowed slightly, though his face remained as stoic as ever. He took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders, his tone flat, “It’s cold in the ballroom. I’m not responsible if you catch a cold.” I shrugged it off, tossing the jacket back at him. “It’s ugly with this outfit.” He didn’t say anything, but his face darkened even more. At the event, I ran into an old acquaintance. Dylan walked right past me, wearing the custom suit I had once bought him. I looked so different tonight that he didn’t even recognize me at first. That suit cost six figures, but to avoid making him feel bad, I’d told him it was an off-the-rack design for a few thousand. Now, with all his work suspended, his presence here could only mean one thing—Lila Preston was here too. Suddenly, I realized why Grayson had invited me. He wanted to get under his ex’s skin. Who knew this cold, stoic man had such a cunning side? I hooked my arm through Grayson’s, giving him a knowing look. Since my ex was here, it was time to let Dylan experience some regret. Grayson glanced down at my arm, “So, you’re using me to get back at your ex?” What? He’s the one who wanted to mess with his ex first! I’m just playing along. “Hey, if we’re all gathered here, we might as well help each other out, right? Don’t be so stingy.” He shot me his usual response, “You’re nuts.” But he didn’t let go of my hand. Ah, men. They say one thing, but their actions say another. We spent the evening mingling with business moguls and Hollywood elites, exchanging fake compliments and stiff smiles. I kept glancing around, but there was no sign of Lila Preston. Then, a short, curvy woman approached us. I recognized her. She had inherited her late husband’s vast fortune last year and loved attending these events with a different young man on her arm each time. I noticed a familiar watch on the hand resting on her waist. I looked up. Oh, wow. It’s Dylan. “Well, if it isn’t little Dylan,” Grayson said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You know him?” the woman asked, surprised, looking between Dylan and me. Dylan finally recognized me and pointed, confused, “Avery?” “Yes, Vivian, we’re old friends,” Grayson said smoothly, patting my hand. Though Dylan and Grayson had never met, Grayson knew all about my history with Dylan. “So, Dylan, where’s Lila Preston tonight?” I chimed in, joining in on the sarcastic fun. “Dylan and Lila are ancient history,” Vivian purred, stroking his hand. Her bright red lips stretched into a wide grin, making the heavy makeup on her face even more garish. I saw a brief flash of disgust cross Dylan’s face. Grayson and I exchanged amused glances, sharing a quiet, satisfied smile.

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On my way to meet the lawyer with the will in hand, I was in a car accident. The car was totaled, and I didn’t survive. When I opened my eyes again, I was sitting in a classroom at Brentwood University, back in 2002. Sitting next to me was a 19-year-old Julian Mercer, my boss. “Are you… Julian Mercer?” He was in the same class as me? Julian slightly turned his head, acknowledging that he heard me, though his eyes stayed focused on Professor Dean Foster at the front. “Yeah.” I looked at this young man, wearing a worn-out hoodie and a pair of ill-fitting sneakers. Julian was hurriedly taking notes, and I noticed the bruises on his wrists. This handsome, slender boy would, ten years later, become my boss. He was the one who left all his wealth to me when I was at my lowest. I glanced down at my hands—smooth and delicate. They were completely different from the rough, worn hands I had before. And right there beside me, I spotted a 2002 Chanel handbag. Back when I worked for Julian, my family had fallen into hard times. The few designer bags I owned were gifts from him, given as year-end bonuses. I pulled out a compact from the bag, carefully studying the beautiful young woman reflected in the mirror. I had really been given a second chance.

After class, Julian picked up his books and quickly left. I tried to follow him, but a girl blocked my way. “Sienna, why were you talking to that loser today?” Loser? She must be talking about Julian. “So what if I talked to him?” Her eyes widened, and she reached out to touch my forehead. “Weren’t you the one who used to say he smelled like dirt and was gross?” What? I hated Julian? I tried to recall, but I really had no memory of him from our university days. “I was immature back then. Now I think he’s amazing—an inspiration.” I glanced up, and there he was, standing at the doorway, lips tightly pressed together, looking a bit uneasy. “Did you forget something?” I smiled at him, offering as much kindness as I could. He nodded but didn’t look at me. I grabbed the keys on the desk and handed them to him, following him out of the classroom. His pants were clearly too short, and his shoes too big, revealing the backs of his heels as he walked. There were several blisters on his feet, and I noticed more bruises on his ankles. “Is someone bullying you? Who is it?” He turned around, surprised, as if to say, “Isn’t it you?” I blinked, clarifying, “I mean, someone in your dorm?” He didn’t respond and kept walking. I followed him, and as we passed the West Wing Stairwell, someone suddenly pulled him aside.

“What are you guys doing?” I rushed up to find Julian pinned to the ground. One of the guys had his foot on Julian’s shoulder and looked shocked when he saw me. “Sienna, I thought you hated him.” Julian looked at me too, but his eyes didn’t show fear or a plea for help. “I don’t hate him anymore. In fact, he’s my friend now. So you better move your foot.” The boys laughed mockingly, throwing me challenging looks. I pulled out my phone, pretending to make a call. They started to panic. “What are you doing?” I looked at them innocently. “Calling the dean. My dad donates so much to this school every year, and this is what it produces? A bunch of bullies ganging up on one guy?” They grew scared, knowing I had the power to get them expelled. They glared at Julian and me, muttering curses as they started to leave. “Wait.” They froze. The only defiance they could muster was standing with their backs to me. “Julian is my friend. You got that?” Grudgingly, they nodded and left. I helped Julian up. He wasn’t hurt, just dirtied. In his hand was an unsealed envelope. As he stood, the money inside spilled onto the ground. Some were even coins. “You were going to deposit this?” He looked at me, trying to figure out if I was a friend or foe, then nodded. “I was sending it to my brother.” “You’re this broke, and you’re still giving your brother money?” I realized I’d overstepped as soon as the words left my mouth. Luckily, he didn’t seem offended. “Yeah, he needs it right now.” He had a brother? I had worked for Julian for seven years in my previous life, and not once did I hear him mention a brother.

I had someone look into Julian’s past. It wasn’t an easy path for him. He dropped out in his sophomore year of high school, and it took a lot of convincing from a teacher before his parents agreed to let him retake his exams and go to college. His grades were excellent, and the school waived his tuition. He even received scholarships and financial aid, which won over his parents. But Julian’s younger brother, Mason, had failed his entrance exams, and their family spent a fortune to pull strings to get him into a vocational college. A few days into school, he got a girlfriend and started asking Julian for money to buy her gifts. Their family didn’t give Julian a single cent for living expenses. He had to work at the Brentwood University Dining Hall to earn money and send it back home to support Mason. There was even a picture of Mason in the report. He was leaning against a tree, smoking, with a smug look on his face. But… why did he look so familiar? I racked my brain. Wait… wasn’t this the same guy who was driving the car that hit me in the accident?

A chill ran through me. Maybe the accident wasn’t an accident after all. I had always wondered why Julian left nothing to his parents in his will and gave everything to me instead. Maybe his suicide was tied to his family. Mason’s school was near Brentwood, though it didn’t have the best reputation. Students like Mason, with average grades and family backgrounds, acted as if they ruled the world. Every time I saw their posts, I thought it was some wannabe mob boss living out a fantasy. As I was thinking this, Mason and his group of friends blocked my path, asking for my number. I looked at them coldly. “Why would you need my number? Do you even have a phone?” Mason awkwardly scratched his head and said confidently, “We have a phone booth at our dorm.” When I didn’t respond, he reached for my bag. I shot him a low warning. “This bag is worth ten grand. Are you sure you can afford to pay for it?” They burst into laughter. “No way it costs that much. Is it made of gold?” I didn’t back down. “You’re welcome to try if you’ve got the money.” Mason hesitated but withdrew his hand. Maybe feeling humiliated in front of his friends, he suddenly reached for my arm, but I dodged. “Mason.” A familiar voice came from behind me. It was Julian. He hurried over, pushing Mason away and apologizing to me. I watched as he bent slightly, bowing to me, though just earlier, he hadn’t flinched when others were bullying him. Now, though… I felt a sudden pang of sympathy for him. “Julian, your brother crossed a line. Let’s go back to campus and deal with this.” With that, I walked off. Julian said something to Mason, who looked annoyed, but finally smiled when Julian handed him fifty bucks. Back at Brentwood, Julian was still apologizing. “I’m sorry, my brother is out of line. Please don’t hold it against him.” There was a pleading tone in his voice. I nodded. “Alright, but you owe me tutoring in exchange.”

Julian froze. “Tutoring?” I told him I wasn’t doing well in my classes, especially English. As long as he could tutor me daily and help me pass my finals, I’d let this whole thing go. Plus, I’d pay him for the tutoring. He looked serious as he replied, “I can tutor you, but I won’t take your money.” Of course, I knew he’d say that. But it didn’t matter. There were other ways to help him financially. Thinking back to my past life and how much Julian had cared for me, I had this sudden urge to spend money on him, to return the favor. As a boss, Julian had been great. He’d had a tough life, but he was always kind and considerate with his employees. Once he started making money, he consistently donated to charity, though always in my name. He said he didn’t want any media attention. I understood. After all, it wasn’t like I was losing anything; I was building good karma. Just then, my phone rang. It was my dad. “Hey, Dad.” I greeted him, my voice dry. In my past life, my father had committed suicide by jumping from a building after his company went bankrupt. He hadn’t left a single note behind. I never imagined I would have the chance to speak with him again. “Harper, have you eaten yet?”

His familiar voice, so warm and comforting, made my nose sting, and I had to fight back tears. “I… yeah, I’ve eaten. What about you?” I tried to keep my voice steady, but the emotions were overwhelming. Dad chuckled on the other end. He proudly told me that he’d had Grandma’s pork stew today, knowing it was my favorite dish. That warmth spread through my chest, but I couldn’t forget the real reason for the call. “Hey, Dad, make sure you’re checking the company’s accounts closely. My professor said you should never let just one person handle all the finances—it’s too risky.” In my previous life, my father’s company had been siphoned off bit by bit by his so-called best friend, who eventually fled overseas with millions. Dad had trusted him too much, and even when things went south, he refused to believe it. Dad suddenly turned serious on the phone, saying, “I’ll look into it.” I wanted to keep talking to him, but another call was coming through on his end. He was still Greg Blake, after all. His days were busy. After hanging up, I turned to Julian and discussed my schedule with him.

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In the middle of the night, I opened my eyes and realized my husband wasn’t by my side. I stepped out of the bedroom and searched the house, but there was no sign of him. As I neared the nanny’s room, I heard my husband’s voice inside. My name is Lauren Murphy, I’m 28 years old, and my husband, Eric Murphy, and I both work at St. Luke’s Medical Center, Chicago. I’m the head nurse, and Eric is the senior consultant and professor. We’ve been married for over four years, and our relationship is still great. He’s gentle, polite, and incredibly good-looking, plus he treats me with such care. No matter how busy we are, every year on Valentine’s Day or our anniversary, he never fails to send a bouquet of flowers to my station at the hospital. My coworkers always gather around to tease me, saying how lucky I am to have married such a perfect husband. I basked in their admiration, feeling like I was living in a sweet, blissful bubble. The only thing missing from our otherwise perfect marriage was a child. After a miscarriage early in our marriage, I hadn’t gotten pregnant again. I knew Eric really wanted a baby, too. When I was pregnant, he searched everywhere for prenatal vitamins and even hired a young nanny to help take care of me. I always felt guilty about the miscarriage, but Eric comforted me, saying it was okay. He even helped me take both herbal and prescription medications to help me recover. Unfortunately, after taking those medicines, my body started to change. I began to gain weight, and stretch marks spread across my skin, but I trusted Eric completely. I thought if it meant we could have a baby, it would all be worth it. Five years ago, Eric was a graduate student working under my father, Dr. Howard Preston, who is the hospital’s chief physician. That was during my final year at nursing school, and my father arranged for me to intern at his hospital. The first time I saw Eric, I was immediately drawn to him. Not only was he handsome, but his manners were impeccable, and he carried himself with a quiet, sophisticated charm. I learned from my father that Eric came from a modest background—he grew up in a small town, and he was the only one from his village to go to college. Instead of feeling superior, I admired him even more. His humble, refined demeanor only made me appreciate him further. To me, he was like a lone flower blooming in a harsh winter landscape. I was too shy to ask for his number, even though I was attracted to him. All I could do was make excuses to visit my father’s department, hoping to steal a few glances at Eric. To my surprise, Eric was the one who asked for my number, and after that, he started inviting me out to dinner, the movies, and shopping trips. Our relationship deepened with each date, and eventually, Eric confessed his feelings for me. I accepted, overwhelmed with happiness, thinking I was the luckiest woman in the world. But now, everything has crumbled. The “perfect gentleman” I thought I knew? It was all a damn act.

It wasn’t long after Eric and I started dating that I got pregnant, and he quickly proposed. My father wasn’t thrilled about the premarital pregnancy, but since I was already expecting, he didn’t want any gossip about the family. Plus, he thought Eric was a dependable guy, so he didn’t object. Our wedding was planned and executed in under a month. I entered marriage full of joy, ready to welcome our new baby. But during my first ultrasound after the wedding, I was told that the pregnancy was unstable, and I was at risk of miscarriage. Terrified of losing our baby, I immediately decided to stop working and rest at home. Eric was just as worried as I was, frantically searching for all sorts of prenatal supplements for me. His care and concern helped calm my anxious heart, and I felt safe knowing we both wanted this baby so much. Eric even hired a live-in nanny, Tara Bennett, a shy, 18-year-old girl from a small town. When she first came to our house, she wore simple clothes and two long braids, barely speaking a word unless spoken to. When I called her name, she’d look up with wide, innocent eyes, making her seem sweet and endearing. Eric explained that Tara was from a neighboring town back where he grew up and had just moved to the city to find work. He said he felt a connection with her when he saw her at Midwest Domestic Services and decided to hire her. I had no reason to doubt him, and Tara seemed like a good fit, so I welcomed her into our home. Despite all our efforts, though, I lost the baby. After the miscarriage, my emotional and physical health took a dive, and I stayed home to recover for a long time. Eric was busy with work, and I spent most of my days with Tara. She was quiet but diligent, and she quickly proved herself to be an excellent caregiver. She cooked meals that Eric loved, and no matter how hectic his schedule was, he always made time to come home for dinner. I grew more and more fond of her, and even after I returned to work, I kept Tara on as our nanny. Tara has now been with us for nearly five years, and we’ve given her regular raises. Over time, she’s become much more outgoing and cheerful. As Tara adapted to city life, she began dressing more fashionably, wearing makeup, and following the latest trends. She had transformed from the simple country girl we first met into a beautiful young woman. Meanwhile, after the miscarriage, my body had changed. I no longer liked what I saw in the mirror. Every time I looked at Tara, who was becoming more attractive, I felt a twinge of discomfort. Lately, I’ve noticed Tara becoming more casual and indifferent toward me. When I speak to her, she sometimes acts like she doesn’t hear me. If Eric isn’t home for dinner, the meals she prepares for me are sparse and bland. When Tara first came to the city, she had almost no clothes of her own. After the miscarriage, when my body had changed and I couldn’t fit into some of my designer outfits, I gave her a couple of nice pieces out of pity. But since then, I’ve noticed my wardrobe being disturbed, and some clothes have mysteriously disappeared. What bothered me even more was how differently Tara treated Eric compared to me. I hinted to Tara a few times that she should be more respectful, but she pretended not to understand, brushing off my comments. I even mentioned to Eric that we should let Tara go—that she was becoming careless and disrespectful, and that we didn’t really need a nanny anymore. But Eric dismissed my concerns. “Lauren, you’re overthinking this. Tara’s doing a great job! You’re always misplacing your things—don’t blame the poor girl. And where would she go if we fired her? She’s all alone in the city.” I didn’t want Eric to think I was just a petty, jealous wife, so I dropped the subject.

Recently, there’s been another outbreak of Covid-19 in a neighboring state, and the government was caught off guard by the surge. Medical staff and resources were stretched thin. I was deployed to help on the Illinois Covid-19 Task Force, while Eric stayed behind due to his surgery schedule. The work was grueling, but every night, I received sweet messages from Eric asking when I’d be back. He’d always say goodnight in such a loving way, warming my heart. For years, Eric had been the one to surprise me. This time, I decided to turn the tables and give him a surprise by coming home earlier than planned. I deliberately told him I’d be back a few days later, and I made sure to return on one of his days off. On my way home, I was giddy, feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush. But an hour later, as I walked into our house, I found myself laughing bitterly at my own foolishness. The house was eerily quiet. Had Eric been called in for an emergency shift? Tara wasn’t home either. The curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the bright sunlight outside. The air felt stale, with a strange scent lingering. I turned on a small light and glanced around. Everything seemed normal. I went upstairs, checking the second and third floors, but there was no sign of anyone. Back downstairs, I pulled open the curtains. The sudden brightness made me squint for a moment, but I quickly adjusted. I opened the windows to let in some fresh air and sat down on the couch to rest after the long trip. As soon as I sat, my hand touched something damp on the sofa. I frowned, a growing sense of unease creeping over me. Was it Tara? Or Eric? Or both? Once the seed of doubt was planted, it spread like wildfire. I’m not sure what I was thinking as I cleaned up the mess, but as soon as I was done, a wave of disgust washed over me. I scrubbed my hands repeatedly, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of revulsion. I went to the bathroom and scrubbed again, trying to rid myself of the sensation. Afterward, I sat in the living room, lost in thought. Oddly, I felt a strange calm. It was as if everything was falling into place. Memories of Tara’s increasing disrespect and Eric’s constant defense of her began to piece together, forming a clear picture. What I had dismissed as my own insecurities suddenly seemed much more plausible. The room darkened as the evening set in, and the only light left was the faint glow of the entryway. Finally, I heard the sound of the door’s keypad beeping. It was as if the noise confirmed everything I’d been thinking. Eric and Tara walked in together, laughing. “Tara, did you forget to turn off the light by the door?” Eric said, flipping on the living room lights. The sudden brightness exposed everything—every ugly truth. They froze, their smiles still plastered awkwardly on their faces when they saw me. “Lauren! You’re back early! I thought you were coming home later,” Eric said, quickly regaining his composure. No wonder he kept texting me, asking when I’d be home. He was trying to buy himself time. I forced a smile and replied, “I thought I’d surprise you. I came home early and waited for you.” Eric noticed me glancing between him and Tara and nonchalantly explained, “There was an emergency surgery at the hospital, so I stayed late. I ran into Tara on the way back—she was out shopping, so I gave her a ride home.” I used to believe every word he said. But now, I wondered—had they really just bumped into each other while out grocery shopping? Or had they been out, enjoying time together while I was away? Still, I kept my expression neutral and said, “Why are you explaining all this to me? Oh, Tara, I bought a rotisserie chicken earlier. Could you heat it up for dinner?” Eric seemed to take my lack of reaction as a good sign, as if I were the naïve, easily fooled wife he had always relied on.

Later that night, as usual, Eric brought me a cup of herbal supplements he’d carefully prepared for my health. I stared at the murky liquid, thinking how I used to drink it without question, despite the bitterness. “Leave it here for a bit. I’ll drink it before bed after I read,” I told him. Eric didn’t suspect a thing. “Okay, just make sure to drink it while it’s warm. I know it’s bitter, but it’s for our baby,” he said, kissing my forehead before heading off to his office to work. I held back the urge to push him away, forcing a smile instead. Once Eric left, I poured some of the concoction into a small container and flushed the rest down the toilet, leaving the cup on the nightstand as if nothing had happened. I climbed back into bed, pretending to be asleep when Eric returned. He gently shook my shoulder, checking if I was truly asleep. I remained still. Satisfied, he turned off the bedside light and lay down beside me. I didn’t close my eyes. I was wide awake. Less than thirty minutes later, Eric slipped out of bed.

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At the high-end Ritz-Carlton Hotel, two people were carried out on stretchers, like conjoined twins, unable to part even as they were lifted into the ambulance. And all of it was my doing. I casually called Andy as he was struggling to contain his pain. “Babe, I’m in a meeting right now,” he groaned. I gently reminded him, “Since you two love each other so much, why not stay together forever?” The first sign of trouble came while I was away on a business trip to South Beach, Miami. Andy had posted a photo on his Instagram Stories. His caption read: “Clear skies, gentle breeze, the waters in Hawaii are especially blue today.” While I was working, he was on his dream vacation, spending his days in Hawaii. In the picture, he was with a group of friends and coworkers. The photo looked innocent enough, but something about it stood out to me. He had been wearing the swim trunks I bought him, but in this photo, they were mysteriously replaced with a new pair. After some digging, I noticed another photo he had posted five days prior—this time, a picture of his meal. And in the corner, the edge of a woman’s bikini was visible. It was the same swimwear—held together with a safety pin because it didn’t quite fit. What kind of flirtatious code was this? To confirm my suspicions, I asked Andy about it when he got home. He didn’t stutter or hesitate; he had a story ready. “Babe, I’ve got a funny one for you. Remember those trunks you got me? Well, while I was swimming, I guess I didn’t tie them tight enough, and they got washed away!” He slapped his thigh and laughed like he was telling a joke. He always did that when he wanted to lighten the mood. “I almost flashed the whole beach! Had to run and buy a new pair.” I watched him perform this act, completely detached, on our fifth wedding anniversary—a date he had completely forgotten. I didn’t even bother playing along with his charade. When he realized I wasn’t laughing, he slung his arm around my shoulder. “Cassie, I’ll take better care of the stuff you buy me. Don’t be mad, okay?” He puckered his lips at me, something I used to find cute back when we were dating. But now, staring at Andy’s greasy face, regret flooded me. When he was chasing me, he had been the least attractive of all my suitors, but I’d chosen him because he seemed kind and grounded, with a career as solid as mine. I thought picking someone less conventionally handsome would mean he’d stay loyal and committed. Turns out, a man’s flaws don’t depend on his looks. Later that afternoon, I got called into work for a night shift. I went down to the garage to get the car. Andy and I had our own vehicles, but mine was in for maintenance, so I took his. My instincts kicked in the moment I sat in the driver’s seat. The passenger seat had been reclined, pushed back about 15 degrees more than usual. Someone else had been in our car. We bought this SUV when we were preparing to start a family, thinking it would be perfect for the baby. The air inside still had a faint, fishy odor, hinting at something inappropriate that had happened in that seat. Scanning the seat closely, I noticed a piece of black fabric wedged in the gap by the armrest. I pulled it out—lace, delicate, and suspiciously sexy. I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. How thoughtful of them. I pocketed the evidence without confronting him. A few days later, I found another bikini stuffed in the same spot. This time, though, something was different. The faint smell of perfume lingered on the fabric. I recognized it immediately—it was a summer scent from a designer perfume brand I’d tried while window shopping at the mall. This clue led me to question several suspects—his female coworkers and old friends. Eventually, I realized it was Payne Dalton, his goddaughter, who wore the same scent. When I saw her, she clung to my arm like always, her voice sweet as ever. “Godmother Cassie, did you miss me? I’m job hunting right now. We should grab lunch sometime soon!” I finally noticed how much she’d grown since I first met her. The once-skinny high school girl had blossomed into a tall, curvy woman. I’d heard she’d even had a breast augmentation done earlier this year. The bikini I’d found was exactly her size. Payne was a scholarship student Andy and I had supported for four years, helping her through college. She had always seemed like the perfect student—smart, charming, and determined to make something of herself. Was she really that naive? Despite all her education, did she still believe that money was the only way to “make it” in life?

I smiled as I teased her. “Wow, Payne, you’re looking amazing! The collagen supplements are really doing their job. You’re a real stunner now.” She blushed, playfully pushing my shoulder. “Oh, Godmother Cassie, you’re terrible!” A sly grin flashed across her lips as she responded with pride, “Yeah, those supplements really work! Starlet-worthy, don’t you think?” I nodded. She had the body men fawn over—the kind actresses on TV often flaunt. Compared to her, all my years of Pilates felt like nothing. “Let’s catch up over lunch sometime,” I suggested. “Absolutely!” she chirped, clearly excited. She showered me with compliments about my taste in fashion, admiring my clothes and bags. That’s when I noticed the sparkling Harry Winston ring on her finger and the luxury brands she was sporting. Seems like she’d been doing quite well for herself lately. “Godmother, you’re just getting more elegant with age. I bet Mr. Donovan loves you even more now. That’s the charm of a mature woman!” Payne, the business major, was clearly a master of flattery. Her words were smooth and well-rehearsed. Back home, I calmly threw out everything from Andy’s car and replaced it with fresh items. Coincidentally, Andy came home late, claiming he had to work overtime. When he saw the dinner I had prepared, he hugged me, grinning. “Cassie, you’re amazing. Thank you.” His suit was spotless, and he had masked any suspicious odors with gum and cologne. Honestly, I wanted to snap and ask, “Showered yet? Gotten rid of the stench?” But I held back. Years of working in corporate America had taught me the art of restraint. I smiled and said, “Your package from the office is on the desk.” “Thanks, hon.” Later that night, he tried initiating intimacy. I pretended to be into it but could tell his enthusiasm was lacking. Of course, after sneaking around, there wasn’t much left for me. I told him I was tired and skipped it, scrolling through my phone instead. He leaned in with a grin. “Want to rest your head on my shoulder?” I stayed quiet, thinking to myself: I don’t want to lay my head where another woman’s legs have been. “Oh, by the way,” I said, testing him, “I ran into Payne today. She wants to have lunch with us.” “She’s really grown up, hasn’t she?” Andy froze for a moment but quickly regained composure. “Yeah, I haven’t seen her in a while either.” I closed my eyes. Let’s see how long this act can last. The next day, I took the afternoon off, and Andy and I met Payne at a Texas BBQ Joint for lunch. Payne showed up in a black, low-cut dress, her figure as striking as ever, contrasting sharply with the dark fabric, making her look even more stunning. When we were ordering, Andy casually said, “Waiter, we’ll have the mild and spicy BBQ platter. Light on the spice for her, please.” I caught the shift in his tone as Payne jumped in to explain, “Godmother Cassie, don’t misunderstand! I told Mr. Donovan I’m on my period.” She smiled innocently, but her body language was anything but. Her necklace dipped suggestively between her breasts, the picture of temptation. Andy, finally catching on to my expression, added quickly, “Yeah, Cassie, we shouldn’t go too spicy. Your stomach can’t handle it.” Love or indifference—it’s easy to spot the difference in the little things. That night, I pretended to get drunk. In truth, I poured most of the drinks into the trash. Andy, thinking I was too tipsy to function, draped his jacket over me and escorted me up to a room at the hotel. I lay awake all night, the faint scent of perfume on his jacket reminding me that he didn’t love me anymore. The next morning, I lied about losing something in the car, asking the property manager to pull up the parking garage footage. Sure enough, they had left together that morning. Not only had they defiled my car, but they had taken their affair right into our home. Without the security footage, I might have continued to believe Payne’s sweet demeanor and Andy’s deceitful charm.

I hired a private investigator to dig deeper into Payne’s life. After Andy and I got married, we kept our finances separate. He had no idea how much money I had saved up. Over the years, I’d made a good amount through smart investments—money I originally planned to use for a house in the best school district once we had kids. Now, that seemed unnecessary. A few days later, the investigator reported back: “She’s notorious at Stanford. People say she’s always out with different guys.” No wonder Payne could afford designer perfume and all those luxury items without even having a job yet. “She was kicked out in her junior year for misconduct. Apparently, she tried to seduce the vice principal, but it didn’t work.” “And her grades? She’s barely passing—almost got expelled.” Hearing this broke my heart. I remembered when we first decided to sponsor her. She had been this small, frail girl with yellowed hair, but her eyes shone with determination. She used to tell me that studying hard would change her life. She used to call me “Godmother Cassie” and twirled with joy the first time she wore a new dress I bought her. And now? She’d seen the world and decided that sleeping her way to the top was the faster route. I heard she’s working as a model now, trying to break into Hollywood. No wonder she’s had so much work done. Suddenly, it all clicked. Andy’s connections to the entertainment industry… She was probably using him as her ticket to bigger fish. After all, a girl like her wouldn’t hesitate to drop Andy the moment someone richer came along. Aside from this, the private investigator handed me Andy’s financial records. Our finances were separate, so he had no clue how much I really had. I managed my money through investments and had done pretty well for myself, originally planning to use it for a future home in a private school district once we started a family. But that no longer seemed necessary. The investigator showed me that Andy’s earnings were mostly from his salary and some stock market investments. But it was all clearly outlined in his Instagram transaction history—he had spent close to $100,000 on Payne! How long had they been sneaking around? I asked the investigator for something specific: a small recording device I could install in Andy’s car. He hesitated, reminding me that wiretapping was illegal and wouldn’t hold up in court. I told him I understood. I didn’t need it for legal reasons. I just needed to know how heartless they really were. After a moment, he nodded, handed me the equipment, and I paid him in full. A few days later, I left home for another “business trip.” As expected, they couldn’t resist using our SUV. “Daddy… can I have a hug?” The voice in my earphones was sultry, designed to melt any man’s resistance. “Did you miss me, sweetheart?” Andy chuckled in response. His usual polished, mature tone was nowhere to be found. “I did! You’re so bad.” Then, the unmistakable sound of the seat creaking under pressure. I clenched my fists, a bitter smirk creeping across my lips. These two were beyond shameless. Without hesitation, I called Andy’s phone. He ignored the first few calls. But as I kept calling, the urgency forced him to answer. “Hello? Hey, Cassie… I’m, uh, in a meeting,” he stammered. His voice was trying hard to sound calm and collected, but I heard the zipper of his pants sliding and his heavy, labored breathing. At thirty years old, I wasn’t exactly ancient. I’d taken good care of myself and didn’t look my age. People often remarked on how youthful I seemed. Andy, on the other hand, was an average-looking man whose career was no longer on par with mine. Our friends and family used to joke about our relationship, calling it a “beauty and the beast” situation. But let me tell you, there are plenty of men out there—more than enough to replace him. I laughed to myself and thought, If you love being naked so much, let me help you make that permanent.

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I’ve always been curious—do nude art models ever have physical reactions when they’re up on stage? My wife gave me a very clear answer: Yes, they do, but they have special techniques to deal with it. My name’s Mark Harris. I might not be much to look at, but I managed to marry a stunning model! The first time I saw my wife, Lauren Mitchell, she was up on stage as a car model. What caught my attention immediately were those long legs. My eyes followed the black stockings up to where her short skirt barely covered her curves, and I couldn’t help but swallow hard. Above that was her tiny waist, and her spaghetti strap top that barely held it all together… Then she bent down, covering her chest with her hand and giving me the sweetest smile. At that moment, I was done for. Through sheer persistence, I managed to win her over after three long months. Now, with a wife this gorgeous, there’s no way I was going to let her keep modeling. I convinced her to find another job. She knew I got jealous easily, so after we got married, she quickly quit. But just three days after she left her job, I got a few photos in my email. “See how wild your wife is!” I opened them, and the lighting was sultry. The woman in the photos was covered in body paint, her figure accentuated by every curve as she moved on stage. But something was off. Her eyes were hazy, she was squeezing her legs together, and her hands were wandering over sensitive areas of her body. It didn’t look like modeling—it looked like something else entirely. The pictures kept coming, like a flipbook. Then, a man appeared out of nowhere and slapped her hard on the backside, leaving a clear handprint. At that point, I felt a surge of blood rush to my head. Was that… my wife?! There was no mistaking her body, especially the birthmark on her hip. I knew it was her! My entire body was trembling as I gritted my teeth. My hands clenched so hard, veins bulged across my knuckles, and I nearly crushed my phone. What the hell was going on? Who sent these photos? Were they trying to blackmail me or just mess with me? I shot a message back, asking for an explanation. I got a quick response: “Art models always release tension before going on stage to prevent any physical reactions. Your wife was especially wild today! What, were you two having issues last night?” An art model? I wanted to snap back angrily—Lauren wasn’t like that. She was a regular model, and she had already quit! But as I furiously typed out my response, I suddenly remembered last night. Yeah, Lauren had called me, saying she’d shower and wait for me in bed. But the project I was working on ran into problems, and I didn’t get home until late. When I finally arrived, she was still being playful, but I was too exhausted for anything. And now, there was another email. “Your wife’s got another performance tomorrow. Make sure you’re up for it tonight!” After that, no matter how much I responded, there was silence from the other side. With my mind spinning, I left work early the next day to confront her. I had already downloaded the photos, ready to ask her straight up. “Babe, come rub my legs, I’m dead tired…” Lauren walked in, kicked off her heels, and threw herself onto the couch, stretching her legs over mine. I stared at her legs, wrapped in black stockings, but my mind was filled with images from those photos. I shoved her legs off in frustration. She pouted, looking innocent and hurt. “What’s wrong? Didn’t I quit my job like you asked? I’ve been out all day interviewing at different places, my legs are killing me!” I glared at her. “You really went to interviews?” Lauren stretched lazily, revealing a smooth, flat stomach. “Why would I lie to you? Now come on, rub my legs. I’m exhausted and just want to sleep early tonight…” She even yawned as she spoke. She looked so worn out that I began to doubt myself. Maybe I had it all wrong? I took a deep breath and reached under her shirt, only for her to swat my hand away. “Stop it. I’m really tired! Whatever you want, wait until tomorrow.” She was probably too exhausted, and after just a few minutes of rubbing her legs, she was already snoring lightly. Gritting my teeth, I slid my hand down her leg and carefully lifted her skirt…

I lifted the skirt and checked carefully. No handprint. I let out a long sigh of relief. Whoever sent those photos was clearly just trying to mess with me. I compared the photos again, but they were too blurry. The woman in the pictures was covered in paint, and you couldn’t really make out her face. I carried Lauren to bed, then sat on the couch, smoking cigarette after cigarette. First of all, I couldn’t let a few blurry photos make me question my wife. I worked hard to win such a beautiful woman, and if we lost trust in each other, our relationship would never be the same again. Second, even if the model in the photos was Lauren, it had to be from before she met me. Since we’ve been together, she’s been nothing but loyal. She quit her job, no questions asked. Yeah, the whole thing left me uneasy, but who doesn’t have a past? As long as she stayed committed to our life together, I was willing to accept everything about her. I took a deep breath and stubbed out my cigarette. When the person behind the emails finally showed their hand and demanded money, I’d call the cops and shut them down. Just then, another email came in. “So, was your wife a little extra eager tonight?” Furious, I shot back a reply: “Stop screwing with me! How much do you want?” The response didn’t come for a while. When it did, it read: “Plenty of kind souls out there, helping your wife relieve some stress—and gifting you a nice hat in the process! Here’s the address for tomorrow’s show. You’ll love the spectacle!” Then, nothing. The lack of follow-up was maddening. If they had asked for money, it would have been easier to deal with. But this? It felt like they were purposely stringing me along. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. The next morning, when Lauren was about to leave, still a bit groggy, I asked casually, “Where’s today’s interview?” “Liberty Plaza Tower!” She said, putting on lipstick and slipping into her high heels before walking out the door. I froze. That was the address from the email! I jumped out of bed, barely remembering to grab my hat, sunglasses, and mask as I rushed out the door to follow her. But by the time I made it out of our apartment complex, she was already gone. I hailed a cab and headed straight to Liberty Plaza Tower, hoping to catch up with her. When I got there, I saw a long line of men waiting outside, but no sign of my wife. I handed the security officer a cigarette. “What’s this company hiring for? Why so many guys? And where’s the line for women?” The security guard gave me a sideways glance. “They’re all men. You must be new here. If you’re looking for women, you better line up and pay the fee—$1,888.” My mind went blank for a second. “Pay for what, exactly?” The guard frowned. “You’re here for an interview? Sorry, you’re not what we’re looking for. Move along.” Another guard started heading my way, as if preparing to deal with trouble. I felt my blood freeze, my brain barely processing the information. But I quickly forced a smile. “Relax, man. I’m here for the private art exhibit. Got a little too excited, I guess.” Hearing the words “private art exhibit,” and after slipping the guards a few bills, their attitudes softened. “First time, huh? Don’t know the drill yet? Pay up, and you’re in.” After transferring the money via my phone, my mind was a blur as I followed the line into the building. We were led down a series of winding hallways until we finally entered a large hall. The place was packed—rows of seats, at least a hundred men already there. Suddenly, the lights dimmed. There was a murmur of excitement, and a group of women, each wearing Japanese fox masks, strutted onto the stage. They were barely covered in see-through fabric, and as they moved, the thin fabric began to slip away. I immediately recognized that body. Every inch of Lauren’s skin was familiar to me—there was no mistaking it. My wife was up there as one of the art models!

“Shit!” I jumped out of my seat, fists clenched. I wanted to charge up to the stage, rip off her mask, and confront her on the spot. Why did she lie to me? But as soon as I stood up, the security officers in the room locked their eyes on me, gripping their batons, ready to intervene. The guy next to me, a heavyset man, grabbed my arm. “Hey, buddy, calm down. You’ll get a chance to go up there. If you rush the stage now, they’ll kick you out!” I forced myself to take a deep breath and sit back down. I needed proof—real, undeniable evidence—before confronting Lauren. As I settled back into my seat, the guards relaxed, and I took a moment to scan the room. Everyone around me was dressed like I was—hats, sunglasses, masks—doing everything they could to stay anonymous. It hit me how many men were here for the same thing. The guy next to me chuckled and whispered, “First time at one of these, huh? Don’t be shy. I was just as nervous the first time I saw a show like this. Trust me, you don’t want to mess around here. You could disappear, and no one would ever know.” He then pulled out his phone, snickering as he recorded the performance. “Check out number two. Damn, that body is killer! And look at number five’s legs—man, those things go on for miles! Oh, and number eight… yeah, she’s something else.” I snatched the phone from his hand. “You’re talking about number eight? That’s my wife.” The guy’s face went pale. “Whoa, man, chill! You serious? I didn’t know—” I cut him off. “What do you mean, ‘get on stage’? What are you talking about?” He shot me a nervous look, then shrugged. “They always pick a few guys from the audience to go up there. You know, to help ‘paint’ the models. They call it ‘artistic collaboration.’ You’ll get to spread some paint around and have a little fun. It’s a big part of the show.” Disgusted, I glared at him. “This isn’t art. This is garbage!” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever you say, man. But if you’re up there, you better not fight me for number eight.” I could barely contain my anger. It took every ounce of restraint not to punch him right then and there. But I knew if I acted rashly, I’d be thrown out before I could prove anything. When the host started calling for volunteers from the audience, I shot up immediately, ignoring the heavyset guy’s curses behind me. I marched straight to the stage and, without hesitation, pointed to number eight—Lauren. This was my chance. The host smiled. “Ah, looks like someone’s a true art enthusiast! Remember, folks, we’re here to appreciate the beauty of the human form. Keep it tasteful—don’t touch the models’ more… sensitive areas.”

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Valentine’s Day came, and my husband said he wanted to try something exciting. He decided to take me to an immersive role-playing studio. In one of the intimate scenes, the NPC I was acting with was a pale-skinned beauty. She was crying so pitifully that I thought it was part of the act. But it turned out, she was actually asking for my help. Not long after the New Year, Valentine’s Day arrived. It also marked the fifth anniversary of my marriage to Randall Burns. Unlike other couples whose married life had settled into routine, Randall and I still kept the excitement and passion we had when we were dating. The secret to maintaining this passion was, first, money and second, the sense of “novelty” we brought into our intimate life. We were both people who craved excitement and adventure, which is why we hadn’t had kids yet. But as I hit thirty, I started feeling the fatigue, while he was still full of energy. That day, after work, I was cooking dinner in the kitchen when Randall loosened his tie and slid his arms around my waist from behind, teasing me. After so many years together, he still knew all my weak spots, and I quickly gave in to his advances. “Babe, tonight I’m taking you somewhere I know you’ll love,” he whispered playfully in my ear, grinning wickedly. Blushing, I nodded, but then remembered something and tilted my head, asking him, “By the way, your mom called earlier today. She said she was envious of people with grandkids. We’re both thirty now, and I wouldn’t mind having a baby if you want…” “I don’t want kids,” he cut me off abruptly, his tone a bit tense. “Weren’t you going to get that birth control implant in a few days like we talked about?” he asked, steering the conversation back. Randall was referring to the hormonal birth control implant, which is placed in a woman’s arm to prevent pregnancy for an extended period. I had once suggested he get a vasectomy, but he’d insisted it would ruin his fun as a man. I hadn’t made up my mind about being child-free for life, so I’d been putting it off. “Fine, I’ll schedule the appointment in a few days,” I said, nodding reluctantly. He was thrilled, kissing me and urging me to get ready so we could head out for our Valentine’s Day plans. The place he took me was about an hour and a half away, in an entertainment district far from downtown Los Angeles. It was 9 PM, and the streets were buzzing with neon lights and music. As soon as we walked in, a hostess handed Randall a ticket with a smile. “Good to see you, Mr. Burns,” she said warmly. Her familiarity with him made me pause—had Randall been here before? Sensing my doubt, he quickly explained that he’d scouted the place beforehand to surprise me for Valentine’s Day. “This is only my second time here. I really wanted to bring you to experience it,” he said excitedly, squeezing my hand. At the desk, the staff explained that this was an immersive role-playing studio, offering live-action script experiences with both players and NPCs. Due to its “extremely realistic” nature, the prices were steep, and it operated on an exclusive VIP membership basis. Randall had booked a script called Rose Island. It was about a domineering man who kidnapped a girl named Eva and held her captive on a deserted island for 365 days. It was a tale of twisted, forced love—a very intense and dramatic storyline. The description alone sounded thrilling. I followed my husband into the large space, where over a dozen NPCs and other players were already gathered. From the room next door, I could hear a woman screaming. I suddenly felt a bit anxious. Was this experience really that immersive? Seeing my hesitation, one of the staff members suggested, “Why don’t we have an NPC play with Mr. Burns first, and you can watch from the side?” Randall looked at me, seeking my approval. I nodded. “Okay, honey, you go first. I’ll watch and see how it’s done.” As soon as I said that, the actress playing Eva stepped out. She had pale skin, striking beauty, and wore a light blue slip dress that barely covered her body. Her figure was full and captivating, her expression timid. She looked just like the shy girl from the script. “Mr. Burns, shall we start?” she said softly. “Alright, babe, I’ll show you how it’s done,” Randall replied, unable to keep his eyes from drifting to her exposed chest.

Suddenly, I felt uneasy. The girl couldn’t have been older than eighteen or nineteen, and something about her made me wary. Yet I stood there, watching as my husband stepped into the scene. Through the glass door, I could see the progress of the script. The NPCs were all incredibly dedicated to their roles. Randall, too, was fully immersed, as if he really were the powerful mafia boss from the script. In the middle of a heated scene, Randall and Eva had a confrontation. Suddenly, Randall pinned her down on the ground. It was a scene with just the two of them—none of the other NPCs were around. The dim lighting made it hard to tell what was real and what was acting. I stared at the two of them, watching as her pale legs trembled in the air. Terrifying screams filled the room. “You want to run? You think you can run? If you try again, I’ll break your legs, understand?” Randall’s violent growl sounded way too real! “Please… help me…” The girl glanced my way, her disheveled hair clinging to her damp skin. Her tearful expression looked as if she was begging for help. The performance felt so authentic that I panicked and ran to the staff, shouting for them to stop. But the staff told me once a scene started, it couldn’t be interrupted. In a frenzy, I found the main power switch and pulled it, cutting off all the electricity in the studio! For about ten minutes, we were all plunged into darkness. I had no idea what had happened in the room during that time, but I heard faint, sorrowful sobbing. When Randall finally emerged, he looked disappointed, scolding me, “Babe, why did you shut off the power? What’s the rush?” “I thought it was too real. I was scared watching you two. I tried to get them to stop, but they wouldn’t.” A few minutes later, the girl came out as well, her eyes red with tears, her clothes disheveled, and her legs shaking. It made me wonder if they had really gone too far. I hurried over to her, asking, “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?” That’s when I noticed her name tag. It read Jasmine. Jasmine looked at me, startled. “No, it’s just part of the script. Randall was really into it,” she said, her voice calm, completely different from the terrified girl I’d seen through the glass. I watched as she walked backstage, catching a brief, uncomfortable glance between her and Randall. Because I had shut off the power, several players had their sessions interrupted, and the studio demanded compensation. I ended up paying quite a bit to cover the damages. While I was sorting out the payment and apologizing, Randall sat in the corner, smoking a cigarette—something he never did. But I knew this behavior all too well. It was his after-satisfaction smoke. That Valentine’s Day left a bitter taste in my mouth. We didn’t even bother with the candlelit dinner, ending the night in an awkward rush. Together, Randall and I made over two million a year. We lived in a large, detached house. Financially, we were well off, and I was living the life many women dream of. By all accounts, I should’ve turned a blind eye to his behavior. But I’ve always been a stickler when it comes to fidelity. That night, every time I closed my eyes, I heard those horrifying screams. I couldn’t sleep. Randall blamed me for “not knowing how to have fun,” and started staying out, crashing at other places for days on end. Frustrated, I turned to my best friend, Tina Simmons, and told her everything. Tina tried to comfort me. “Men are always looking for new thrills. Besides, you said it’s a legit business. There’s no way anything shady was going on.” I sighed and told her I was thinking about getting the birth control implant to help smooth things over with Randall. “Randall insists on it. The doctor suggested I think it over first, though. I’m still young, after all. Do I really want to give up on having kids forever?” Tina was surprised. “It’s rare for a man who can have kids to feel that way.” She suggested I talk to Randall again. But my heart sank even more. Was he just avoiding responsibility, or did he truly never want to have a child with me? Recently, Randall had been staying out more and more. I got suspicious and linked my Uber account to his as an emergency contact, allowing me to see his rides and transactions. To my surprise, I noticed that during his workdays, there were several trips longer than usual. I also found some large transactions in the records, payments for various purchases at big shopping malls. The moment I saw this, I knew something was off. That night, I planned to confront Randall about it. When he came home, he gave me a huge hug and surprised me with a diamond necklace—a three-carat beauty. “Happy birthday, babe! You completely forgot, didn’t you? Good thing I went all over town to pick this out for you,” he said with a cheeky grin. I frowned a little, feeling a mix of guilt and gratitude. So that’s why he’d been out so much—he was shopping for me. That night, everything between us was smooth, even intimate. It was almost as if he had learned a few new tricks, maybe from all the online “research” he’d been doing. Before I went to sleep, I casually checked my phone. To my shock, I noticed that Randall had quietly disabled the location sharing and payment notifications I’d set up. He’d switched everything to private.

My stomach dropped. Something was definitely wrong. To clear my doubts, I suggested that we return to the immersive role-playing studio over the weekend, and I invited a few friends along as well. This time, I picked a standard murder mystery script instead of something provocative. It was much cheaper than the dramatic, steamy script we’d done before. My friends were all having a great time, but Randall kept yawning and looking bored. I leaned over and whispered, “Honey, you love role-playing games. Why aren’t you participating? Our friends are here, playing along with you.” Randall looked a bit guilty and gave a half-hearted smile. “Sorry, babe. I’ve been exhausted from work and stayed up late last night finishing a presentation.” I knew right away he was lying. I had watched him fall asleep the minute we finished dinner the night before, snoring like a log. And he hadn’t woken up until late that Saturday morning. The only reason he wasn’t interested was because this game wasn’t stimulating enough for him. Clearly, his thrill threshold had gotten much higher. Annoyed, I excused myself to the restroom, letting a staff member take my place in the game for a while. Leaving the dim game room, I wandered down the hall, finding myself in the same area where Randall had played the intense script the last time. They had set up a translucent curtain here, adding a layer of shame to the public performances, making it even more exhilarating for players. That’s when I saw Jasmine again. This time, she was playing a character from a historical setting, her shoulders exposed and her skin painted with fake bruises. She was wearing a rabbit mask, giving her an air of mystery and fragility. I glanced at the script one of the staff was holding. The title was Midnight Elegance, and the dialogue, full of vulgar innuendos, confirmed that it was another sexually explicit storyline. A group of men dressed as soldiers approached Jasmine, leering at her. One of them sneered, “Your Majesty, even if we die, we’ll die in your bed.” The lead actor reached up and pulled a sharp hairpin from her head, using it to slice through the ties of her dress. Jasmine was left wearing nothing but a scarlet undergarment, her eyes filled with tears as she whimpered, “Please, brothers, don’t…” At one point, she turned to look directly at me. The rabbit mask was ripped away, revealing her terrified, helpless eyes. The curtain suddenly dropped, and I couldn’t see what happened next. All I heard were her agonized cries, mingling with the sound of simulated thunder and lightning. My curiosity grew. Something was very wrong here, and I couldn’t shake the feeling. I started searching online and found that this role-playing studio was indeed a legitimate, registered business. By all appearances, nothing seemed shady. But the unusual nature of this studio and Jasmine’s reactions left me suspicious. One evening, when Randall said he was working late, I pretended to go to the hospital for pre-implantation blood work. In reality, I swiped his VIP Membership Card and went back to the immersive role-playing studio on my own. I disguised myself with a mask, not wanting the staff to report back to Randall. When they asked me what type of script I wanted, I hesitated. Then, on a whim, I picked one that involved a Black male NPC in a dominant role, something along the lines of a twisted love story. The staff smiled knowingly and asked, “Would you prefer the explicit version?” “What do you mean?” I raised an eyebrow. “A lot of working women come here to relieve stress. They usually go for the hidden version of this script—it’s more expensive, though,” she explained with a conspiratorial wink. “Trust me, you’ll love it.” I threw caution to the wind and paid nearly three times the regular price, eager to see what was really going on. Still in my mask, I entered the set. Before long, the NPC I was paired with appeared. His name was Jack—a tall, muscular Black man, built like a bodybuilder. He looked like the kind of guy you’d see on the cover of a fitness magazine. He was only wearing a pair of shorts, his muscles rippling under his dark skin, veins bulging in his arms. I couldn’t help but let my gaze drift downward. When I noticed the bulge in his shorts, my face flushed with heat. Black men certainly came in larger sizes than I was used to. After getting familiar with the script, we all entered the room. I had specifically requested a fully enclosed space, no glass windows to the outside. We ran through the basic parts of the script, but my heart pounded in anticipation of the scene I was most curious about—the explicit scene. My heart raced as I watched the other NPCs leave the room, leaving me and Jack alone. “Baby, you’re so sexy. I’m coming!” he growled, his breathing growing heavier. Before I could react, he had lifted me up, pinning me against the wall. “Help! Somebody, please—!” I screamed, but his strength was overpowering. My dress was ripped from my shoulder, the cold air biting at my exposed skin. A shiver ran down my spine as I realized how truly helpless I was. I couldn’t help but shiver as my skin was exposed to the cool air. An unnameable feeling ran from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. I tried to escape, but he held me firmly, and his rough palms touched my waist and probed upward.

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