The day the company announced my overseas transfer, I told Liam. I emphasized that the new position was three thousand miles away and asked him if he wanted me to go. He was sitting on the sofa, reading a book. He barely paused as he turned the page: “Whatever you want.” It was the exact answer I expected. Liam never participated in any of my decisions. When another guy hit on me and I asked him how I should handle it, he said, “Whatever you want.” On our one-year anniversary, I asked him if we should do something special. He said, “Whatever you want.” Even when we talked about something as massive as getting married, he just looked at me blankly and said, “Whatever you want.” I always thought it was just his personality. Until one day, I accidentally saw his text history with his ex-girlfriend, Sarah. In the chat, Sarah told him her parents were setting her up on a blind date. His response was immediate: [Absolutely not!] Looking at those two words, I suddenly remembered that I had said something similar to him once. I told him that if he didn’t treat me right, I’d just find some random guy and marry him instead. His response back then? “Whatever you want.” In that moment, it all finally clicked. He wasn’t respecting my independence. He simply didn’t care. He didn’t care who I hung out with. He didn’t care if we were long-distance. He didn’t even care who I married. So, when he gave me that signature “Whatever you want” this time, I just replied, “Okay.” I’d give him exactly what he wanted. … I turned around, walked into the bedroom, and smoothed out the transfer agreement I had originally planned to decline. I signed my name at the bottom. I picked up my phone and texted my company’s HR Director.[Hey Mr. Wallace, I’m accepting the overseas transfer. Please go ahead and start the visa and onboarding process.] He replied instantly, clearly thrilled.[Fantastic! The branch out there really needs a strong leader like you. I’ll have admin book your flights in advance. Departure is set for the 15th, two weeks from now. Does that work for you?] The 15th. Looking at that date, my knuckles turned white as I gripped the phone. Because that was the exact day Liam and I had agreed to go to the courthouse to get our marriage license. Just last month, I had excitedly checked my calendar, circled that date in red, sent him a screenshot, and asked if that day worked for him. His response was a profoundly dismissive, [Whatever you want.] Yes, for years, he had always been exactly like this. When it came to any major decision in my life, he never participated. No matter what it was, “Whatever you want” was always his default answer. Once, when a male coworker wouldn’t leave me alone at a company dinner, I hid in the bathroom and texted Liam, asking if he could come pick me up. He replied: [Whatever you want.][If you need me to, I’ll go.] On our one-year anniversary, when I asked if we should celebrate. It was still, [Whatever you want.] He never got jealous, he never crossed boundaries, he never showed any emotion whatsoever. My friends were all jealous of me. They said I had the perks of a relationship with all the freedom of being single. At first, I thought they were right. I thought he just had great boundaries and respected my autonomy by never interfering with my choices. But as time went on, I just felt drained. A bone-deep, suffocating sense of exhaustion that seeped out from the inside. If you asked me where it came from, I couldn’t pinpoint a specific reason. I even started wondering if I was just being overly sensitive. But slowly, the truth dawned on me. As a partner, he was too calm. A calmness that bordered on absolute apathy. He didn’t care if I got caught in the rain without an umbrella. He didn’t care what other men I talked to. He didn’t even care if we got married. Because he didn’t care, it was effortless for him to say “Whatever you want” to everything. My life had absolutely nothing to do with him. The only person he truly cared about was his ex-girlfriend, Sarah. They were childhood sweethearts, tangled up with each other for seven years. It only ended because Sarah moved abroad. But now, she was back. I remembered perfectly how, when he found out her family was setting her up, Liam—the man who was never fazed by anything—charged over there and did everything in his power to stop it. He grabbed her wrist tightly: “You are not going!” He forbade her from talking to other guys, interfered in every major decision she made, and micromanaged every detail of her life. But for me, there was only ever “Whatever you want.” Because he didn’t care, it didn’t matter. Looking at it now, that phrase, “Whatever you want,” was actually going to save me a lot of trouble. I didn’t even need to explain myself to him anymore. I took a deep breath and typed my reply.[No problem. The 15th works perfectly.] I put my phone down, pushed the bedroom door open, and walked into the living room to get a glass of water. Liam was holding his iPad, frowning slightly, clearly dealing with something tricky. I stood nearby with my glass and asked casually, “Work keeping you busy?” He didn’t even look up, his fingers flying across the screen. “Not work. Sarah is having some issues with her new apartment lease. The property manager is ignoring her, so I’m walking her through how to handle it.” There was a subtle, unmistakable undertone of anxiety and genuine concern in his voice. Sarah again. And the emotion in his eyes was something I had never, ever seen directed at me. I took a sip of the warm water, letting it settle in my stomach. “Oh. Take your time, then.” I turned around, went back to my room, and shut the door, completely cutting off the sound of his voice. The next morning, my alarm woke me up right on time. The kitchen was dark and cold. There was no smell of breakfast. Usually, by this time, I’d be bustling around the kitchen, coming up with new recipes to make something easy on Liam’s sensitive stomach. But today, I bypassed the kitchen entirely. I walked straight into the bathroom and took my time doing my makeup. Liam walked out of the bedroom, his hair a mess. Seeing me fully dressed and ready to leave, he frowned in annoyance. “Why didn’t you make breakfast today? You know I have stomach issues.” I grabbed a pair of heels from the entryway closet, not even bothering to look back at him. “I have an early meeting today. No time. Order something on DoorDash or make yourself some oatmeal.” He froze, clearly shocked that I was brushing him off so casually. In the past, even if I was running a 102-degree fever, if he mentioned his stomach hurt, I would force myself out of bed to make him soup. “Delivery is greasy,” he said, his face darkening with clear displeasure. “No matter how busy you are, you have ten minutes to boil some pasta.” I slipped on my heels, stood up straight, and looked him dead in the eye. “I said, I don’t have time. If you think delivery is too greasy, then cook it yourself.” With that, I pushed the door open, leaving his stunned expression locked inside the apartment. When I got to the office, I immediately started handing off my projects. The branch office three thousand miles away was a massive new challenge. I needed to archive and organize all my current files before I left. I spent the entire morning in the conference room coordinating with different department heads. I barely had time to take a sip of water. It wasn’t until my lunch break that I finally checked my phone. I had two notifications. One was a short text from Liam: [Pick up my suit from the dry cleaners on your way home tonight.] The other was a bank notification for a massive charge. I had linked my credit card to Liam’s Apple Pay years ago, so most of our shared household expenses came out of my account. The notification showed a $300 charge at an ultra-exclusive, reservation-only organic restaurant. The memo attached to the order read: Custom digestive broth. Low oil, zero sugar. I stared at that transaction record for a long, long time. This morning, he was complaining that DoorDash was too greasy and demanding I boil pasta for him. By noon, he was dropping $300 on custom, stomach-soothing broth from a private chef. I highly doubted he ordered that for himself. After work, I didn’t go to the dry cleaners. I went straight home. Liam had beaten me there. He was sitting on the sofa, talking on the phone, his voice hushed and incredibly gentle. “You need to drink that broth while it’s hot. I specifically told the chef no cilantro because I know you’re allergic. Stop worrying about work for a minute. Your health is the most important thing. And no staying up late tonight, you hear me?” I stood in the entryway, quietly listening to him shower her with affection. I couldn’t help but remember a time when my own stomach was killing me. He had just looked at me coldly and casually dropped a single sentence: “You’re an adult. You need to learn how to take care of yourself.” The hypocrisy was suffocating. Hearing the door close, Liam quickly hung up the phone. He turned to me, his eyes immediately dropping to my empty hands. “Where’s my suit?” I slipped off my heels and tossed my purse onto the sofa. “I forgot. You’ll have to get it yourself.” Liam’s face instantly darkened. He didn’t even try to hide the accusation in his tone. “You forgot? I literally texted you this morning to remind you, and you still forgot? Do you not realize I have a massive industry conference this weekend?” I stopped walking and turned to face him. “Yes, I forgot.” “My job is incredibly demanding right now. I don’t have the mental bandwidth to keep track of your errands. If you knew it was so important, why didn’t you pick it up yourself? The dry cleaner is literally two blocks from your office.” Liam stared at me in disbelief. It was like he was looking at a complete stranger—a woman who actually had the nerve to talk back to him. “What is wrong with you today? Why the hell are you acting like this? It was a simple favor. I asked you to grab it on your way home.” I didn’t have the energy to argue with him. I walked straight into the walk-in closet and dragged out my massive hardshell suitcase. Starting today, I was going to systematically strip every single trace of myself from this apartment. I opened the closet doors and shoved all the ties, dress shirts, and watches I had bought for him to one side. Then, I started pulling out my own clothes, folding them neatly, and stacking them in the suitcase. Liam walked over and leaned against the doorframe, watching me work. “What are you doing? Spring cleaning?” I didn’t even look up as I vacuum-sealed a few heavy winter coats. “Just organizing my seasonal clothes. I’m getting rid of the stuff I don’t wear anymore.” “Whatever you want. Just don’t mess up my files.” Whatever you want. Again. He didn’t even offer to help. He let out a yawn and turned to walk away. Halfway down the hall, he stopped. “Oh, by the way, you need to come to that conference this weekend. Spouses are expected.” My hands paused for a second. I shoved a wool coat forcefully into the suitcase. “I can’t. I’m working overtime this weekend.” Liam turned his head, his eyes flashing with a clear warning. “I told you, this is a major networking event for my industry. You have to be there. Don’t throw a tantrum right now.” I stood up straight and looked at him coldly. “And I told you, I’m busy. If you need a plus-one, find someone else.” When the weekend rolled around, I didn’t go to the conference. Instead, I spent those two days listing almost everything I owned in that apartment on Facebook Marketplace and Craigslist. From the high-end espresso machine I had carefully picked out, to the thriving collection of succulents on the balcony, to the absurdly expensive ergonomic chair I bought for the home office. If it couldn’t fit in my suitcase, I sold it dirt cheap. Buyers trickled in and out all weekend to pick things up. Liam happened to be gone for the conference, which saved me the headache of having to explain myself. Watching the apartment—once so crowded and full of life—slowly become barren and hollow, I actually felt an overwhelming, unprecedented sense of relief. On Monday afternoon, I had to physically go to Liam’s architectural design firm to get his signature on a time-sensitive legal contract. The moment I walked into the firm’s lobby, I noticed the atmosphere was off. The receptionist saw me, her eyes immediately darting away, her expression incredibly awkward. “Ms. Hayes, you’re looking for Liam? He’s… he’s in the second-floor conference room.” I nodded, clutching the folder, and headed straight up the stairs. The second-floor conference room had floor-to-ceiling glass walls. As soon as I turned the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks. Inside, Liam was standing in front of a projector screen, using a laser pointer to highlight sections of a blueprint. Sitting right below him, in the prime seat, was his ex-girlfriend, Sarah. She was surrounded by a messy pile of documents, rubbing her temples in frustration. Liam stopped his presentation, walked over to her, and smoothly slid the pencil right out of her hand. His tone was strict, but heavily laced with indulgence. “You’ve miscalculated this load-bearing wall three times. I told you yesterday, you can’t just guess the thickness. Recalculate it. And do it right this time.” Sarah pouted, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “I was up until 2 AM revising these drafts! My brain is completely fried. Please, can’t you just do the math for me?” Liam kept his face stern, reaching out to gently flick her forehead with his knuckles. “No. This is your project. If you can’t figure it out, you’re not leaving the office today.” Despite his words, he immediately pulled up a chair next to her, grabbed a notepad, and started writing out the complex equations, walking her through every single step. The afternoon sun caught his profile, making him look incredibly patient and tender. It was an expression he had never, ever worn around me. I stood outside the glass wall, quietly watching the scene play out. A bitter, acidic ache slowly spread through my chest, swallowing me whole. My fiancé was currently playing the role of a strict, devoted mentor—and a deeply protective boss—for another woman. Meanwhile, I, his actual fiancé, couldn’t even beg a single word of concern out of him. A few junior designers walking past noticed me standing there. They immediately lowered their voices, whispering to each other. “That’s Liam’s fiancé, right? She looks so intense. No wonder he never talks about her.” “Right? Sarah is so much softer. She makes you want to protect her. Look at how Liam treats her—he’s practically holding her hand through the whole project.” “I mean, everyone knows Sarah is the one that got away. If she hadn’t moved abroad, this Hayes girl never would have had a chance.” Every single word pierced straight into my ears. I didn’t storm into the room and cause a massive, screaming scene. Nor did I turn around and run away crying. I simply adjusted my collar, pushed the heavy glass door open, and walked in with steady, measured steps. The loud thud of the door opening shattered their quiet intimacy. Liam’s head snapped up. When he saw me, his brow instantly furrowed, and he subconsciously leaned away from Sarah. “What are you doing here? This is a restricted workspace. Who let you in?” I walked right up to the table, slamming the legal contract down directly in front of him. I didn’t yell, but my voice carried a heavy, undeniable weight. “The legal department needs your signature right now. You ignored all my calls, so I had to bring it myself. Review it, sign it. I’m on a tight schedule.” Liam glanced at the contract, his face darkening. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the screen. I had indeed called him multiple times. Sarah chimed in, her voice incredibly soft and delicate. “Clara, please don’t be mad at Liam. He put his phone on silent because he was helping me with some calculations. It’s all my fault. I’m just so slow, I ended up wasting his time.” I turned to look at Sarah, a cold, mocking smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth. “You are pretty slow, aren’t you? Calculating the load-bearing capacity of a structural wall is freshman-year architecture. And you need the Director of Design to hold your hand through it? Has this firm’s hiring standard really dropped that low?” All the color instantly drained from Sarah’s face. Her eyes welled up with tears on command. Liam violently pushed his chair back and stood up, placing himself squarely between me and Sarah. He glared at me, his voice sharp and aggressive. “Clara, what the hell are you talking about?! You don’t know the first thing about this industry! Get out!” I watched him fiercely defend another woman while glaring at me with absolute hostility. Whatever tiny, lingering flicker of emotion I had left for him died completely in that moment. I held a pen out to him, my tone completely dead. “Sign the paper, and I’m gone.” Liam stared at me with pure venom in his eyes. He snatched the pen and aggressively scribbled his signature across the line. I took the file, turned on my heel, and strode out of the conference room. The whispers in the hallway continued as I passed, but I didn’t care anymore. They were entirely irrelevant. The visa process for my transfer went incredibly smoothly. A week before my scheduled departure, Liam’s childhood friends organized a group dinner at an upscale restaurant. Usually, Liam would never invite me to these things. I always had to beg to tag along, desperately trying to integrate into his inner circle. But this time, out of nowhere, he actually told me to come. His tone sounded like he was doing me a massive favor. “The guys are putting together a dinner this weekend at the Imperial Pavilion. Get ready and come with me. And dress nicely, don’t embarrass me.” My first instinct was to say no. But then I realized this would be the absolute last time I would ever have to see these people. Why not go? When we walked into the private dining room, I realized Sarah was already there. She was sitting in the seat directly to the left of Liam’s usual spot, laughing effortlessly with his friends. The moment I walked in, the lively atmosphere in the room instantly evaporated. One of his friends forced a painfully awkward laugh and gestured to a couple of empty chairs. I took the hint and sat in the seat furthest away from Liam, right at the edge of the table. Liam glanced at me, frowning slightly, but didn’t say a word. He walked right past me and took the seat directly next to Sarah. The food started arriving. The spread consisted almost entirely of incredibly spicy, oil-heavy Sichuan dishes. I have a severe sensitivity to spicy food. Even a small amount triggers violent stomach cramps and cold sweats. Liam knew this perfectly well. He just never cared enough to remember. I picked up my chopsticks, took a few bites of some plain, stir-fried greens, and then quietly put them down. I sat there in silence, playing the role of an invisible ghost. Halfway through the meal, Sarah took a bite of some spicy boiled fish. The second she swallowed, she covered her mouth and started coughing violently, tears streaming down her face. Liam, who had been in the middle of a toast, immediately slammed his glass down. He leaned in close, anxiously patting her back. “Are you okay? Did you choke?” Sarah’s face was bright red. She coughed and waved her hand dismissively. “I’m fine… the fish is just way too spicy. My stomach has always been sensitive, I just can’t handle it.” Liam’s face instantly shifted. He shot up from his chair and yelled for the server waiting outside the door. “Hey! Get in here! Take this fish back to the kitchen right now! Swap it out for a mild tripe soup! Make sure it’s warm, not boiling! Go! Now!” His friend nervously tried to defuse the tension. “Whoa, Liam, man, chill out. It’s just a dish. If Sarah can’t eat it, the rest of us will finish it.” Liam sat back down, his expression cold and uncompromising. “The smell of the spices is making her sick. If you guys want spicy food, order it next time when you’re eating alone.” The entire room fell dead silent. Everyone exchanged knowing, significant glances, before subtly shifting their eyes toward me, the actual fiancé, to see my reaction. I kept my head down, staring at my phone. The HR director had just sent me the final flight itinerary.[Flight details confirmed. Departing the 15th, 10:00 AM, direct to Paris.] I tapped out a quick reply: [Received.] Sarah took a sip of water. Perhaps feeling the heavy, awkward tension in the room, she turned to me. She deliberately picked up a glass of red wine. “Clara, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to ruin the vibe for everyone. Let me toast you as an apology. You don’t eat spicy food either, right? Let’s have a drink.” I looked up at her perfectly crafted, pitiful expression. I didn’t say a word, and I definitely didn’t pick up my glass. Liam immediately reached out, physically blocking Sarah’s glass, and snatched it out of her hand. He turned to me, his brow heavily furrowed in anger. “Sarah has a terrible stomach, and she’s still nice enough to offer you a toast. Why are you sitting there sulking like a brat? Do you genuinely have zero social awareness?” I stared at Liam’s furious, accusatory face, and suddenly felt a wave of intense physical nausea wash over me. I stood up and grabbed my coat off the back of my chair. “You’re right. I don’t understand your ‘social awareness.’ You guys enjoy your dinner. I have things to do. I’m leaving.” Without bothering to look at the shocked expressions of the people in the room, I pushed the heavy wooden door open and walked out. When I stepped into the hallway outside the restaurant, the cool night wind hit my face. I took a deep, long breath, and the heavy, suffocating weight that had been crushing my chest finally dissipated. The door to the private room ripped open behind me. Liam stormed out and grabbed my wrist aggressively. “Clara, what the hell is your problem?! You just had to humiliate me in front of all my friends, didn’t you?!” I violently yanked my arm out of his grip, staring at him with absolute, freezing contempt. “My problem? Liam, get a grip on reality. Your friends ordered a table full of spicy food knowing I can’t eat it. Your precious ‘little sister’ tried to play the victim to make me look like a bitch. And you, without a second of hesitation, blamed me for the entire thing.” I paused, my voice dropping to a perfectly calm, detached whisper. “But honestly, none of that matters anymore.” Liam froze. He seemed to pick up on the bizarre, unsettling calmness in my voice, but his annoyance quickly overpowered his confusion. He yanked at his tie in frustration. “You are acting completely insane! What is going on with you lately?! We’re literally going to get our marriage license on the 15th! Why are you throwing these massive tantrums right now?!” Hearing him mention that date, a mocking smile tugged at my lips. He clearly had no idea that the 15th… was also the day I was leaving the country. Right at that moment, his phone buzzed. It was a voice note from Sarah. In the quiet hallway, Sarah’s sweet, delicate voice played loud and clear. “Liam, my landlord just texted me. I have to be completely moved out by the 15th. I have way too much stuff to move by myself. Could you come help me that day?” Liam didn’t even hesitate for a fraction of a second. He held down the microphone button and replied: “Yeah, of course. I’m completely free that day. I’ll be there.” He let go of the button, looked up at me, and spoke with absolutely zero guilt. He sounded like he was stating a simple, indisputable fact. “I have to help Sarah move on the 15th. We’ll have to push getting the license back a few days. It’s not a big deal anyway.” I looked at him, and finally, genuinely smiled. “Okay. Have fun helping her move. Make sure you aren’t late.” Liam frowned. My easy acceptance seemed to confuse him, but he just scoffed, turned around, and walked back into the private dining room. I turned my back to him and walked out into the dark city night.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “574848”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After the emergency landing at Blue Ridge Airport, my girlfriend, Captain Claire, became the hero of our entire airline. Only I knew that the real hero—the one that almost didn’t hold together—was the plane itself. Left hydraulic system warning. Landing gear indicator fault. A massive fuel leak in the belly. As an aircraft maintenance technician, I was out on the tarmac, frantically repairing that plane from 1:00 AM until the sun came up. When she finally climbed down from the cockpit, she just gave me a passing glance: “Good work. Go get some sleep.” I thought she was just exhausted. Until the commendation ceremony. She held the microphone, her gaze completely bypassing me to land on flight attendant Ryan. “If it weren’t for Ryan that night, I wouldn’t have had the peace of mind to handle the emergency.” Thunderous applause erupted. Not a single person mentioned me, the guy with engine grease permanently stained into his hands and scraped-up knuckles. After the ceremony, Ryan practically shoved his phone in my face to show me his texts with her. [Thank God for you.] [When you’re there, I feel grounded.] The next day, I submitted my transfer request. Claire cornered me in the hallway: “What kind of tantrum are you throwing now?” I looked at her, my voice perfectly calm: “Captain Claire, from now on, you can go to Ryan when you need to feel grounded.” From this moment forward, I was done being the invisible foundation she took for granted. … “Ethan, your transfer request was denied by the Flight Operations department.” My manager looked at me, clearly uncomfortable. I froze, a cold knot forming in my chest. “Why the hell does Flight Ops have a say in maintenance transfers?” At a commercial airline, departments are managed entirely separately. How could my request get blocked by them? My manager sighed heavily. “Captain Claire pulled some strings. She said you’ve been emotionally unstable lately and wouldn’t be a good fit to take on a leadership role at the new base.” She used to tell everyone I was the most reliable technician she had ever worked with. Now, just to keep me leashed to her side, she effortlessly slapped the “emotionally unstable” label on me. I let out a bitter, cynical laugh. With a single sentence, she managed to reduce my entire professional career and expertise to an emotional outburst. I turned around and marched straight out of the office, heading directly for the flight briefing room. The door wasn’t fully closed; it was left cracked open. From inside, I heard Ryan’s voice, dripping with fake concern. “Claire, is Ethan mad at me?” “Honestly, that trophy should have gone to him. The maintenance guys are always behind the scenes, they don’t understand the pressure we face on the front lines. I guess it makes them a bit… stubborn.” Claire’s voice was totally flat. “He’s usually not one to cause a scene. Acting like this today means he actually feels wronged.” I raised my hand and violently shoved the door open. It slammed against the wall with a deafening thud. Claire whipped her head around to look at me, her brow instantly furrowing in annoyance. “Don’t you know how to knock?” Ryan was sitting in the chair right next to her. Seeing me walk in, he immediately stood up and pushed the commemorative trophy across the table toward me. “Ethan, please don’t be mad. Why don’t you take the trophy?” “I didn’t do my job just to win an award anyway.” I stared at the base of the trophy. RYAN WEST was engraved in bright, gleaming letters, sitting there like a deliberate joke waiting for me to punch line. I reached out and shoved the trophy right back. “Keep it. You risked your life for it, apparently. I’m not worthy.” Claire’s face darkened. “Ethan, this is the Flight Ops briefing room. Don’t make a scene.” I raised my eyes, locking my gaze dead onto her face. “After the plane touched down that night, who was the first person to crawl into the belly to inspect the fuel leak?” “Who risked getting struck by lightning in a thunderstorm to verify the landing gear wiring?” She was silent for two agonizing seconds. “I know exactly what you did that night. But the pressure on the front lines is completely different from what you do.” My job meant risking my life. His job meant getting a company-wide commendation. It felt like a physical weight was crushing my windpipe. In her eyes, my life and my professional expertise were just basic expectations. My duty. Nothing more. Ryan pulled a wet wipe from a dispenser and held it out to me. “Ethan, your hands are filthy. Try not to touch Claire’s uniform, hydraulic fluid doesn’t wash out.” I looked down at the black grease permanently embedded under my fingernails. He was clean. I was dirty. I didn’t deserve to touch her. I turned my head back to Claire. “Do you think I’m dirty too?” Claire’s eyes flickered down to my hands, her brow knitting tightly. Her voice dropped to a low, defensive whisper: “I never said that.” She looked away. My throat felt like it was packed with shattered glass. I couldn’t force a single word out. The AC in the hallway was blasting, the freezing air cutting straight through my collar. Back in the maintenance manager’s office, I pulled out a fresh form. A formal letter of resignation. My manager panicked, begging me to reconsider. “It costs the airline a fortune to train a tech who can independently sign off on aircraft releases at your age. Don’t throw your entire career away over this.” I signed my name at the bottom and set the pen down. I turned to look out the massive bay windows. Out on the tarmac, Claire and Ryan were walking shoulder-to-shoulder toward the shuttle bus. The heroic captain in her crisp, flawless uniform, and the guy who crawled through the greasy belly of the plane. Those were the roles assigned to us in this little play. The airport I had dedicated five years of my life to suddenly felt more suffocating than the inside of an engine during a summer thunderstorm. Someone walked past in the hallway, muttering under their breath. “Ethan literally took the lightning strike for them, and those two walked away with the glory.” No one agreed. But no one argued with it, either. My phone vibrated. A text from Claire. [Can you meet me tonight? We need to talk.] I flipped my phone face down on the desk and didn’t reply. I skipped the crew dinner that night. There was a turnaround flight in the hangar with an oxygen system fault code. I stayed behind to troubleshoot it. The space near the cabin door was incredibly tight. I was crouched on the floor, holding a flashlight in my mouth to illuminate the wiring. My hand slipped, and a jagged edge of exposed metal sliced deeply across the back of my hand. The pain was instantaneous and searing, cutting right down to the bone. Beads of blood welled up instantly, blooming into a bright red stain. I gritted my teeth and kept tightening the screw. The hangar door opened. Footsteps echoed across the concrete. Claire walked up behind me and reached out to take the wrench from my hand. Her brow was deeply furrowed, radiating irritation. “Can’t you see your hand is bleeding?” I ignored her. I didn’t even blink as I reached for another tool. She dodged my hand, expertly popped open my toolbox, and pulled a bottle of iodine and gauze from the false bottom compartment. Only she knew that compartment was there. My first year on the job, one of the veteran mechanics was making my life hell. In the middle of the night, I was sitting alone on the tarmac, clutching my toolbox, exhausted and furious. Claire had run all the way from the flight ops building, crouched down in front of me, and bandaged a cut on my hand. That night, she told me: “Ethan, you make sure the plane is safe, and I’ll make sure you feel safe.” When I was studying for my certifications, she stayed up with me until 3:00 AM, drawing massive engine schematics across an entire wall of the study room. The very first time I independently signed off on a plane, she was more nervous than I was. She waited for me in the jet bridge holding a hot coffee, telling me my name was going to be stamped on thousands of flight logs in the future. Those sweet memories… they weren’t fake. Claire looked down, gently wrapping the gauze around my hand. “The commendation list was decided by corporate PR. It was entirely out of my hands.” I looked at the familiar lines of her face. “If it was out of your hands, then how exactly did you have the power to block my transfer request?” Her hands paused. “You are the technician I trust the most. I wasn’t going to let you gamble your career over a petty argument.” I opened my mouth to fire back. But the hangar doors opened again. It was Ryan. Whatever tiny shred of warmth that had just returned to the freezing hangar vanished instantly. Ryan walked in carrying a thermos. “Claire, I know your stomach has been acting up, so I made you some soup…” He trailed off, spotting Claire holding my hand. He immediately slapped on a look of profound, apologetic guilt. “Ethan, I’m so sorry. Am I interrupting something?” Claire’s hand hesitated for a fraction of a second before releasing mine. She stood up. Her eyes lingered on my bandaged hand for a moment before she turned and took the thermos from him. I stared at my hand, suspended in empty air. Any trace of hesitation I still harbored was brutally extinguished on the spot. Ryan handed her a paper bag. “Oh, and I had your jacket dry-cleaned. You left it in my car last night.” I stared dead at the captain’s jacket. Last night, Claire had texted me saying she was too exhausted to drive home after her flight and was just going to sleep in the company dorms. No matter how late she landed in the past, she always came home. She had never, ever spent the night away from home before. But last night, she apparently did. Claire noticed my stare and her eyes darted away guiltily. “I caught a ride with him last night, and I spilled coffee on the jacket. He just offered to drop it off at the cleaners for me.” Ryan quietly slipped the knife in deeper. “Please don’t misunderstand, Ethan. Claire was just worried that if you saw the coffee stain, you’d overthink it. She knows how obsessive you are about those little details.” Listening to their pathetic performance, I felt sick to my stomach. She was weaponizing my “obsessive” nature to cover up their blatant boundary-crossing. I ripped the sloppy gauze off my hand and re-wrapped it tightly myself. I stood up, looking Claire straight in the eye. “You don’t need to approve my transfer request anymore. I’m resigning.” Claire’s face went completely glacial. “Ethan.” She paused, her voice dropping to a low, threatening register. “If you leave, who is going to sign off on these planes?” She was trying to rebrand the cage she built for me as a protective shelter. The very last, pathetic ember of hope I had for us died in that moment. I slammed my toolbox shut. I hit it hard enough that the metal latch snapped with a sharp, definitive crack. “I don’t need your protection.” “I just need you to get the hell out of my way.” I grabbed my toolbox, walked right past them, and out of the hangar. That night, I went back to my dorm and spent hours on the phone with the recruiting director for the newly constructed Oakfield International Airport. I packaged my maintenance licenses, my sign-off logs, and my troubleshooting incident reports into a single file and hit send. The next day, the airline hosted a massive Public Aviation Open House. I had been assigned to lead the media tour, demonstrating routine aircraft maintenance procedures. It was the first time I was actually given a platform to stand in front of the cameras and talk about the technical expertise I took so much pride in. I arrived at the display booth early and opened my toolbox. I reached for my torque wrench. It was the wrench Claire had bought me the day I got my certification. Engraved on the handle was a simple phrase: “Ethan, Safety First.” But the lock on my toolbox was mangled. It had been pried open. The torque wrench was gone. I dug frantically through the entire box. Nothing. My palms started sweating. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat heavier than the last. Ryan strolled over, trailing several news crews behind him. He flashed a warm, camera-ready smile. “Ethan, are you ready for the presentation?” I glared at him, my eyes like ice. “Where is my wrench?” He blinked, his eyes darting away for a microsecond. “What wrench? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “I saw your toolbox looking a little greasy this morning, so I wiped down the outside for you. Didn’t want it looking bad on camera.” I took an aggressive step forward. “You don’t have clearance to touch my toolbox. Give it back right now.” His face instantly fell. He looked deeply, profoundly insulted, like he was the victim of a vicious hate crime. His entire body went rigid. “Ethan, how can you throw out baseless accusations like that?” The Open House was being broadcast on a live stream. The camera was shoved right in my face, and the live chat was scrolling frantically. “Who is this guy? Why is he so aggressive?” “Are all maintenance guys this unhinged?” I didn’t give a damn about his performance. I pulled out my phone and accessed the hangar’s security access logs. I shoved the screen directly into the camera lens. “At 6:00 AM this morning, you swiped your badge to enter the restricted maintenance zone.” “Flight attendants do not have security clearance for maintenance equipment storage. What the hell were you doing in there?” The air seemed to get sucked out of the room. The expressions on the faces of my coworkers morphed from confusion to deep suspicion. People exchanged loaded glances and instinctively took a half-step away from Ryan. Ryan’s eyes immediately welled up with tears. He instinctively clenched his fists. “I swear to God, I was just trying to help you clean off your tools.” “I never thought you would publicly humiliate me like this.” Claire pushed her way to the front of the crowd and violently grabbed my arm. “Ethan, tell them to cut the live feed right now.” I violently yanked my arm out of her grip. My eyes were dead, pinning her in place. “I want his bags searched immediately.” Claire lowered her voice. The moment she met my gaze, her breath hitched. “The media is here today. Ethan, step down from the stage. I will personally investigate this.” She chose to believe in his innocence, but completely refused to validate my demands. In her eyes, I didn’t even deserve the benefit of the doubt. It felt like a giant, invisible hand was crushing my heart. The Maintenance Director ran over, sweating profusely. Desperate to kill the brewing PR disaster, he looked right at me. “Ethan, go back to the breakroom. Ryan, you’re stepping in to handle the cabin safety demonstration.” I was benched on the spot. I stood in the shadows behind the display booth, watching Ryan hold the microphone, basking in the spotlight. He spoke with effortless, practiced charisma. “Safety is a collaborative effort. But we, the flight attendants, are the last line of defense in the cabin.” He had literally stolen my moment to showcase my professional expertise. I pulled out my phone and checked the live stream chat. The comments were absolutely tearing me apart. “No wonder he didn’t get an award. How can a guy this emotionally unstable be allowed to touch airplanes?” “He almost ruined the entire PR event.” I looked down at Claire, standing in the front row. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pressed into a tight line. She purposefully avoided making eye contact with me. She saw my face turn white with rage. She saw my fists shaking. But she just looked away, using her silence to validate the mob’s condemnation of me. After the event ended. I found my torque wrench tossed next to a dumpster outside the maintenance zone. It was bent. The polished metal was covered in deep, jagged scratches. The engraving on the handle had been maliciously filed down with sandpaper. The only word still barely legible was “Safety.” My throat felt like it was packed with sand. My eyes burned. Ryan appeared behind me, his voice slick and quiet. “Tools break. You can always buy a new one.” “Don’t make Claire’s life miserable over a stupid piece of metal.” He held out a paper cup of water. I took the cup, and without missing a beat, threw the water directly into his face. “Go to hell.” Ryan let out a low, angry shout. Claire rushed over, wedging herself between me and Ryan. She grabbed my wrist—the hand holding the mangled wrench—with an iron grip. “ETHAN!” I held up the wrench, staring directly into her eyes. “You gave this to me.” She stared at the ruined engraving. The color drained slightly from her face. In the distance, a jet engine roared to life. “…I know.” So the thing I cherished most in the world was nothing more than a cheap, replaceable piece of hardware to her. She never understood what that wrench actually meant to me. The corner of my mouth twitched into a bitter smirk. I violently ripped my arm out of her grasp. Back in my office, I dropped the ruined wrench into a plastic evidence bag. I booted up my computer and started meticulously compiling my resignation paperwork and my project handover logs. And, most importantly, I downloaded every single original file that proved my flawless work history. That afternoon, Ryan edited the footage from the open house live stream. He spliced together the clips of me shoving him, demanding his bags be searched, and accessing the security logs, and posted the supercut online. The clickbait title read: Hero Captain’s Boyfriend Throws Jealous Tantrum at Male Flight Attendant, Ruins Public Safety Event. When I woke up from a nap, my DMs were overflowing with vitriol. People were telling me I was garbage, that I didn’t deserve to touch an airplane, that I needed to be blacklisted from the aviation industry forever. The airline’s PR Director called me into his office. He slammed a pre-written public apology letter onto the desk and demanded my signature. “Just write that personal relationship issues caused a lapse in your professional judgment, and apologize to the public.” I set the pen down and looked him in the eye. “I’m not signing that.” I slapped all of my compiled evidence onto the desk. “I was set up. Why the hell should I apologize?” The PR Director didn’t even glance at the evidence. “Ethan, the public doesn’t give a damn about technicalities. They only care about who looks like the victim.” “Right now, Ryan is the victim, and you are the aggressor.” Claire pushed the office door open. She glanced at the apology letter on the desk. “Just sign it. I’ll handle everything after this.” I looked at her. Perfectly calm. “Handle what? How exactly are you going to handle it?” “Are you going to compensate me for my destroyed reputation? Or are you going to compensate me for the engraving you let him file off my wrench?” She rubbed her temples, looking profoundly exhausted. “Ethan, stop throwing a tantrum. If you keep pushing this, you’re the only one who’s going to end up getting hurt.” I was being character-assassinated online, and her only concern was that I was causing her an inconvenience. Ryan walked in a few seconds later. He eagerly held out a handwritten “forgiveness” letter. “Ethan, as soon as you sign that apology, I’ll post this letter to help clear your name.” I stared at him, watching him perform. Sure enough, the second he walked out of the office and into the lobby where the press was waiting, his eyes turned red, and his voice cracked with emotion. “I forgive Ethan. He’s just so deeply in love with Captain Claire, he acted out of impulsive jealousy.” His weaponized pity acted like a scalpel, meticulously carving away the last remaining shreds of my professional credibility. The public narrative flipped entirely. I went from a violent, unhinged mechanic to a pathetic, desperately jealous boyfriend. The younger guys on my maintenance crew tried to comfort me. “Ethan, maybe you should just take some PTO. The internet is tearing our whole department apart, everyone is stressed out of their minds.” The airline issued a formal, internal mandate. My sign-off authority was temporarily suspended. I was ordered to undergo a mandatory psychological evaluation. I logged into the company portal. I watched my status change from Cleared for Sign-Off to Access Frozen. I clenched my fists so tightly my knuckles turned white. A massive, suffocating weight dropped onto my chest. I didn’t waste any more breath arguing. While Claire was flying a trans-oceanic route, I handed in my badge, my uniform, and my security keycards. I went back to the apartment and packed every single thing I owned into a suitcase. The only thing I left behind was the mangled wrench. I booked a ticket on the redeye to Oakfield. Right before the plane took off, I blocked Claire’s number and permanently disabled our shared location tracking. The exact second I powered down my phone. The flight Claire was piloting suffered a critical mechanical failure mid-route. The plane was forced into a terrifying, emergency turnaround back to the origin airport. The Flight Ops department descended into absolute chaos. They desperately needed the technician who was intimately familiar with that specific aircraft’s maintenance history. The Maintenance Director immediately dialed my number. “We’re sorry, the number you have reached is powered off.” The Director yelled frantically at Claire, who had just rushed down the jet bridge. “Where is Ethan?! He was the one who diagnosed the fault on this plane last time! Anyone else is going to take too long to catch up!” Claire stumbled, her hand instinctively grabbing the railing of the stairs to steady herself. “Tell him to get down here right now. I will talk to him myself.” The Maintenance Director’s face was purple with rage. “Captain Claire, he resigned! His system access was terminated hours ago!” Claire froze, her brain short-circuiting as a deafening, high-pitched ringing filled her ears.

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The day my biological father sent me to a reality TV bootcamp, the production crew already had the trending hashtag written out: “Billionaire Father Sends Spoiled Son to Farm to Cure Affluenza.” For the first meal, the producers deliberately served hard, dry cornbread, fully expecting to film the “rich kid” throwing a tantrum over peasant food. But while the other cast members grimaced and put their food down, I grabbed the basket and started stuffing my face, unable to stop. The live stream comments ripped into me, calling my acting pathetic. The host saw me shivering as I choked on the dry bread and quickly handed me a glass of water. “Have you… never eaten a full meal before?” she asked, surprised. Clutching half a piece of cornbread in my shaking hand, I finally told the truth. “My food budget for the entire month is three hundred dollars.” In the observation room, the glass in my father’s hand shattered on the floor. He shot to his feet. “Who the hell told him I only give him three hundred dollars?!” Chapter 1 Before we pulled into the farm location, my mom parked her SUV on the side of the road. She didn’t unlock the doors immediately. Instead, she turned to look at me in the passenger seat. “Liam, listen to me. Once we get in front of those cameras, you keep your mouth shut.” I gripped the straps of my backpack and nodded. She frowned deeply. “Don’t just nod. Did you hear me?” “I heard you.” “And specifically, do not mention money.” She locked her eyes onto mine, dropping her voice to a harsh whisper. “Your dad hates it when you beg for cash. If you say something stupid on camera, he might cut off the little bit he’s giving you right now.” My fingertips went ice cold. Three hundred dollars a month. Food, bus fare, haircuts, phone bills… it all had to come out of that. My mom, Sarah, always told me he was too busy, too strict, and absolutely despised it when I acted ungrateful. She told me that I lived with her because my dad didn’t want me after the divorce. Later, when his business exploded and he became wealthy, she claimed he only sent a tiny, symbolic amount every month out of residual guilt. “Don’t expect too much,” she would tell me. “Just because he has money doesn’t mean he wants you wasting it.” Last night, my dad, Richard, had actually called me. I had just walked out of the college dining hall. My meal card balance was $3.20. Through the glass, I saw warm, fresh dinner rolls for $1.50 each. I stared at them for a long time, but I didn’t buy one. Because I had to take the bus back to my mom’s house. Bus fare was $2.00. The money I had left was only enough for a one-way trip. When I answered the phone, Richard’s voice was freezing cold. “Liam, your mother tells me you’re throwing another fit about money?” I gripped my phone tight. “I’m not.” He paused for a few seconds. “You’re not? Then why did she tell me your allowance ‘wasn’t enough’ again this month?” I couldn’t speak. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. But I hadn’t dared to ask for more. I had simply asked Sarah if she could front me next month’s three hundred dollars a few days early. My hair hadn’t been cut in over a month, and it was poking into my eyes. I literally couldn’t scrape together twenty bucks for a haircut. On the other end of the line, Richard suppressed his anger. “I’m not telling you not to spend money.” “But you have to have some sense of boundaries. Money doesn’t grow on trees.” “It’s not easy for your mother to manage you.” After he hung up, I stood outside the dining hall for a long time. The wind stung my eyes. I just didn’t understand. I was already being so incredibly cheap. Why, in his eyes, was I always so terrible? Outside the car window, the show’s host, Chloe, walked over. She knocked lightly on the glass with a bright smile. “Sarah, we’re ready for you.” My mom instantly shifted her expression. Her eyes dropped, her mouth tightened into a strained line. She played the part of the exhausted, heartbroken mother perfectly. “Chloe, thank you so much for this.” “His father really didn’t want to do this, but the boy genuinely needs to experience some hardship.” The cameraman zoomed in. Chloe asked me: “Liam, do you know why you’re here at the Fresh Start Bootcamp?” I stared into the black lens of the camera. It looked like a bottomless well. My mom pressed her finger subtly into my shoulder. I answered mechanically: “To experience the real world.” Chloe pressed further: “And?” I hesitated for two seconds. “To learn how to appreciate what I have.” Sarah smiled, looking deeply satisfied. “He’s just stubborn,” she told the camera. “His father gives him an allowance, but he always complains it’s not enough.” “When I try to correct him, he thinks we’re just being controlling.” “That’s why his dad finally made the tough decision to send him here to build some character.” I stood next to her, letting her slap a massive, public label on my forehead. Spoiled. Picky. Ungrateful. But last night, before I went to her house, all I had eaten for dinner was half of a cold, stale roll. It was completely flattened in my backpack. When I took a bite, crumbs fell all over the table. I carefully picked up every single crumb and put it in my mouth. Because I couldn’t afford to waste it. Chapter 2 When Sarah left, she put on one final performance for the cameras. She held my hands, her eyes rimmed with red. “Liam, Mom isn’t asking you to become some massive success.” “I just want you to stop breaking your father’s heart.” The camera panned down to my shoes. They were cheap, gray canvas sneakers, and the sole was tearing away from the fabric on the side. Last night, I had wrapped a layer of clear packing tape around the shoe to hold it together. When I walked, the cold air still leaked in. The production crew probably assumed I was wearing trashed shoes on purpose just to play up the “reality TV” aesthetic. No one asked. Chloe led the five cast members into the farmhouse courtyard. One guy dragged a pristine white suitcase covered in anime keychains. A girl wearing limited-edition headphones immediately asked if there was Wi-Fi. A brother-and-sister duo complained loudly about the sun and the dirt roads. The courtyard wasn’t terrible. Brick walls, wooden doors. In the outdoor kitchen, there was firewood and sacks of cornmeal. The second I walked in, the smell of raw grains hit me. Just the faint, dusty scent of dry cornmeal. But my stomach violently contracted. Chloe announced our first tasks. Sweep the yard, carry water from the well, chop wood, feed the chickens. Only when we finished would we get dinner. Someone immediately protested: “What about lunch?” The director laughed from behind the monitor: “You’re here to experience the real world. That starts with reducing your reliance on others.” A chorus of groans erupted from the group. I didn’t make a sound. Reduce my reliance? I hadn’t relied on anyone for a very long time. At the start of my freshman year, Sarah sent me the usual three hundred dollars. The memo read: Make it stretch. I had to buy a mattress pad, textbooks, a washbasin, laundry detergent, and pay my dorm fees. I calculated every single item. I bought a used mattress pad from a senior for $25. I borrowed textbooks whenever I could; the ones I couldn’t, I bought used for $86. I bought the cheapest plastic washbasin at Walmart for $6.90. A travel-sized bottle of shampoo for $9.90. Dorm fees were $50. I recalculated the remaining cash three times. It wasn’t enough to eat. During the mandatory two-week freshman orientation, I ate one meal a day. For lunch, I bought two plain bread rolls and asked for a bowl of the free, watery broth from the cafeteria line. For dinner, I drank hot tap water. When my blood sugar crashed and my vision went black, I would just crouch down and wait for it to pass. One day, an RA asked me if I was feeling sick. I said, “I just didn’t sleep well.” The truth was, I was starving. Starving until my chest physically hurt. The cafeteria worker saw me constantly taking the free broth. One day, he quietly slipped an extra scoop of wilted cabbage into my bowl. I almost cried. After that, I stopped going to his line. I was terrified he would remember me. Terrified someone would realize I literally couldn’t afford to eat. During a scheduled break that afternoon, the producers orchestrated a “call home” segment. I didn’t expect Richard to actually answer. When the screen lit up, he was sitting in an immaculate, high-rise office. Tailored suit, perfect posture. I quietly said: “Dad.” He looked at me. His very first sentence was: “Was the manual labor exhausting this morning?” I was just about to shake my head, but he cut me off: “It’s good for you to be exhausted.” “Your mother tells me you’ve gotten far too comfortable at college. You complain about everything.” My throat seized up. “I don’t complain.” Richard frowned deeply. “Liam, I am tired of you denying everything.” “Your mother showed me the text logs of you constantly begging for things.” “You are nineteen years old. You can’t spend your entire life just thinking about indulging yourself.” My brain completely short-circuited. Indulging myself? But the cameras were rolling right next to me. My mom’s vicious warning was still ringing in my head. I dug my fingernails so hard into my palms they almost broke skin. “I understand.” Richard went quiet for a few seconds. He seemed even angrier. “You always say you understand.” “Liam, I hope this time, you actually mean it.” The call ended. The screen went black. I sat on the small wooden stool, suddenly feeling freezing cold. My college roommate, Tyler, used to tell me I was too stubborn for my own good. But I wasn’t stubborn. I was terrified. I was terrified that if I spoke up, I would lose the pathetic scraps of money keeping me alive. Chapter 3 At 2:00 PM, the production crew started eating their catered boxed lunches. The food wasn’t for us cast members. But when the smell drifted over, my head snapped up involuntarily. White rice. Braised beef and potatoes. Scrambled eggs with peppers. When they cracked open those plastic containers, the hot steam rolled out into the yard. I stared at it for a full second, then violently forced myself to look away. My stomach felt like it was being twisted in a vice. I turned around, went to the well to wash out the buckets, and splashed freezing water on my face. A few drops trickled down to the corner of my mouth. I almost stuck my tongue out to lick it up. It was pathetic. I kept my head down so the cameras wouldn’t catch my expression. The guy with the anime suitcase was named Leo. He walked over and handed me a tissue. “You look super pale, dude.” I took the tissue. “Thanks.” He studied me for a second. “Did you skip breakfast this morning?” I said, “I ate.” My fingers were visibly shaking as I lied. Leo wanted to ask more, but the director called him over for a solo shot, so he had to leave. I leaned against the stone well, trying to let the dizziness pass. Black spots swam in my vision. I had always been incredibly good at enduring things. In fifth grade, my school organized a field trip. The fee was $120. I brought the permission slip home. Sarah glanced at it once and shoved it into a drawer. “These kinds of activities are a complete waste of money.” “Your dad hates it when you bother him with random, pointless expenses.” The next morning, my entire class got on the charter bus. I sat alone in an empty classroom doing worksheets. When a teacher asked me why I didn’t go, I lied and said I got severe motion sickness on buses. In middle school, the uniform policy changed for the winter, but my old uniform jacket’s sleeves were two inches too short. During the winter months, my exposed wrists would turn purple from the cold. The teachers reminded me to buy a new one several times. I went home and told Sarah. She said: “If it still fits over your shoulders, don’t waste money.” “Your dad is incredibly busy with work right now. Do not bother him with trivial garbage like this.” So I wore that short-sleeved jacket through the dead of winter. My deskmate asked me if I was freezing. I said I was fine. In reality, every time I tried to take notes, my fingers were so numb I could barely hold the pencil. By dusk, the chores were finally wrapping up. I went to gather the chopped firewood. The second I hoisted the heavy bundle of wood into my arms, my vision went completely, terrifyingly black. I stumbled, and the wood crashed onto the dirt. Chloe rushed over immediately. “Liam?!” I braced myself against the brick wall, forcing a weak smile. “I’m fine. Just lost my grip.” She stared at me for a few seconds. “Take a break.” “I don’t need one.” “Your lips are literally white.” Her tone turned authoritative. “Sit down.” I had no choice but to sit against the courtyard wall. A crew member handed me a paper cup of warm water. I held the cup with both hands, taking tiny sips. The water hit my empty stomach like a drop in an abyss. Drinking it only made the agonizing hunger worse. Just then, Richard’s feed patched through the crew’s earpieces into the courtyard speakers. Watching me on the monitor, he asked: “Liam, are you pretending to be tough again?” I froze. His voice was hard and unrelenting. “Your mother told me you are an expert at playing the victim in front of strangers.” “I expect you not to bring that manipulative behavior onto national television.” My brain short-circuited. Playing the victim? I looked down at my violently trembling hands. I wanted to say: Dad, I’m not acting. I am genuinely starving. But I opened my mouth, and the only words that came out were: “I’m not.” Richard went dead silent. His silence hurt exponentially more than his accusations. It meant he had already acted as judge, jury, and executioner. At 6:30 PM, the long wooden dinner table was set up. Wooden bowls were placed down. A massive basket of steaming, dense cornbread. A pot of watery cabbage soup. A small dish of pickled vegetables. A few chunks of steamed sweet potato. The other cast members’ faces instantly dropped in disgust. “You have got to be kidding me. We’re actually eating this?” “This stuff is dense enough to choke someone.” “Is there literally no protein? Not even eggs?” “I starved all day chopping wood for this?” I couldn’t hear a word they were saying. My eyes were locked onto the basket of cornbread. Golden yellow, thick steam rolling off the top. They were piled high in the bamboo basket. There were so many of them. So many, it almost felt like a hallucination. Chapter 4 The first piece of cornbread was scalding hot. I ducked my head and took a massive bite. The coarse grain was dry, scratching my throat as I swallowed it down. But it was warm. The exact second that dense, hot food hit my stomach, my eyes instantly welled with tears. Terrified someone would notice, I ducked my head lower and ate even faster. Second bite. Third bite. The first piece was gone in seconds. I immediately reached out and grabbed a second one. Someone at the table let out a mocking laugh. “Wow, this guy is really committing to the bit.” “The cameras are right in his face, obviously he has to overact to get screen time.” “Didn’t his mom literally just say he was a picky eater? Now he’s rebranding as the humble country boy?” One of the guys scoffed loudly. “He definitely knows the live chat is ripping him apart for being a spoiled brat, so he’s trying to do damage control.” “The pampered rich kid angrily inhaling peasant food. So inspiring.” I heard them. I heard every single word. But I couldn’t stop. When you’ve been starving for as long as I have, your dignity is the absolute last thing that keeps you full. I wasn’t trying to go viral. I wasn’t trying to build a reality TV persona. I was just terrified the food was going to disappear. Terrified that this massive basket of warm food would be snatched away from me at any second. I picked up the bowl of cabbage soup and took a massive gulp. The broth was clear. Not a single drop of oil or fat in it. But to me, it tasted incredible. It tasted infinitely better than the free seaweed broth at the college cafeteria. I started eating a third piece of cornbread. Then a fourth. Then a fifth. The cameras pushed in closer and closer. The expressions on the production crew’s faces shifted from cynical amusement to genuine shock. The live stream chat was absolutely exploding. The comments scrolled furiously across the director’s monitor. “LMAO, did he forget he’s supposed to be a billionaire heir?” “The acting is way too forced. No rich kid looks at dry cornbread like it’s a Wagyu lobster.” “Bro, stop eating, the script is too obvious.” “His mom literally just said he orders DoorDash five times a day, and now he’s pretending he’s starving to death?” “I bet fifty bucks he starts fake-crying about how ‘ungrateful’ he used to be in about two minutes.” “Rich kids cosplaying poverty is disgusting. Actual poor people want to puke watching this.” I couldn’t see the text. But I could feel the suffocating weight of their stares. Their gazes felt like layers of plastic wrap, slowly suffocating me. Sticky, airless. My mouth was packed full of dry bread. I couldn’t articulate a single word of defense. Halfway through my seventh piece, I started choking. My throat felt like it was blocked by concrete. I desperately tried to force it down. Tears exploded from my eyes, streaming down my face. Chloe immediately handed me a glass of water. “Drink some water, Liam. Slow down.” I took the cup and chugged it. My stomach was painfully bloated and distended. But when a crew member reached out to slightly adjust the position of the bamboo basket, my hand shot out on pure, primal instinct and pinned the basket to the table. The entire courtyard plunged into stunned silence for a full second. Then, someone muttered quietly: “He’s actually food-guarding.” “Wow, this guy is a dedicated method actor.” “The director better give him an Oscar for this.” Chloe crouched down next to my chair. She wasn’t laughing. Her voice was incredibly soft. “Liam… no one is going to take it away from you.” No one is going to take it away from you. That sentence was utterly, completely foreign to me. I looked up at her, tears still tracking down my cheeks. The set medic was called over. She pricked my finger to check my blood sugar. When the number popped up on the monitor, she frowned deeply. “It’s dangerously low.” “Is this the only thing you’ve eaten all day?” I kept my head down, refusing to speak. Chloe asked me: “Liam, have you not been eating properly lately?” I still didn’t say a word. My mother’s vicious warning was echoing like a siren in my head. But right at that moment, the audio feed from the observation room cut through the speakers again. Richard’s voice echoed across the courtyard, dripping with barely suppressed disappointment. “Liam Hayes.” My entire body went rigid. He asked: “Why are you acting like this?” “Your mother told me you have never wanted for anything. Clothes, food, luxury items.” “I have never skimped on your allowance.” “And now you’re aggressively hoarding cornbread in front of national television cameras. Are you intentionally trying to make the world believe your family starves you?!” My knuckles turned white as I crushed the half-eaten piece of bread in my hand. Every single person in the courtyard was staring at me. I finally snapped. “But you do.” Richard froze on the other end of the line. I looked directly into the camera lens, the tears flowing uncontrollably now. “I am actually, genuinely starving.” I gripped the crushed bread so tightly my fingertips went numb. “My mother gives me exactly three hundred dollars a month.” “That three hundred dollars has to cover three meals a day, bus fare, haircuts, and my phone bill.” “I was too terrified to ask you for more because I was afraid you would hate me for bothering you.” Richard stared at the live feed of my face on the monitor. The heavy glass tumbler he was holding slipped through his fingers. CRASH. It shattered into a hundred pieces on the studio floor. His assistant jumped up in panic. “Mr. Hayes!” Richard acted like he didn’t even hear him. The next second, he violently launched himself out of his chair. His voice was trembling violently, yet razor-sharp and terrifying. “What number did he just say?” The director froze in shock. Richard stared dead at the monitor. “Who the hell told him I only give him three hundred dollars?!”

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My wife’s friend, a grieving widower, showed up at our door in tears. He pleaded that his child was critically ill and begged my wife, Sarah, to co-sign a $50,000 loan. In my previous life, I knew the actual principal on that shady loan was a staggering $2 million. To stop her from ruining our lives, I locked her inside the house. Unable to secure the funds, the widower took his child to the roof of a hospital and jumped. From that day forward, my wife and our daughter never spoke another word to me. Ten years later, Sarah’s business took off. She wore $50,000 watches and ate at Michelin-star restaurants. Meanwhile, I was plagued by chronic illness, and she refused to give me a single dime for medical treatment. She said I deserved it. She said I should spend eternity living in the shadow of my unforgivable sins against that widower and his child. When our daughter, Mia, got accepted into Harvard, she never came home. The only thing I received was a letter on my birthday. Inside was her official university withdrawal form. “Did you think you won?” the note read. “I got into Harvard just so I could drop out. I want you to watch the last eighteen years of your blood, sweat, and tears go down the drain. I’m joining the Peace Corps in Africa, and I’m never coming back to the States. Consider this your punishment for leaving them to die.” Eventually, severe depression consumed me, and I died a miserable, agonizing death alone in a cheap motel. Sarah buried me in the plot right next to the widower. She said that even in death, I needed to keep atoning. As they lowered my casket, she shed a single tear in front of his gravestone. “I finally have money now,” she whispered to him. “But you aren’t here.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back in my living room, right on the day the widower came knocking. Sarah stood up immediately, her face full of fierce resolve. “I’ll co-sign for you. Let’s go right now.” A profound, chilling calmness washed over me. I pulled out my phone and texted my attorney. “You can co-sign for him,” I said, my voice steady. “But we’re getting a divorce first.” Chapter 1 No one seemed to process what I had just said. Sarah snatched her car keys off the coffee table. “Julian, let’s go. The child’s treatment is the only thing that matters right now.” My eight-year-old daughter, Mia, stood protectively in front of Julian, glaring at me like I was a monster. “Don’t come near him, Dad!” I didn’t look at either of them. Instead, I dialed my lawyer. “Mr. Davis, I need a divorce. Draft the paperwork immediately. I’ll email you our complete asset portfolio within twenty minutes.” Then, I called my dad. “Dad, I’m getting a divorce. Come pick me up. Right now.” I hung up the phone and looked up. “If you want to co-sign for him, I won’t stop you. But we sign the divorce papers first.” The living room fell dead silent. Sarah’s face darkened with fury. “Arthur, are you seriously threatening me with a divorce over this?” I pulled out my camera, set it on the TV stand, and adjusted the angle to capture the entire room. Julian burst into pathetic tears. “Sarah, no… I don’t want your signature anymore. I’ll just leave…” He choked on a sob and turned toward the door, but Sarah reached out and grabbed his wrist. Julian’s frail frame trembled like a leaf in the wind. “I don’t want to be the reason your family falls apart.” Sarah straightened her spine, planting her flag firmly on the moral high ground. “Arthur, you know perfectly well that Julian’s late wife saved my life years ago. Now that she’s gone, it is my moral obligation to take care of her husband and child.” She paused, her voice dropping to a stubborn, icy register. “I am co-signing this loan today. Period.” Mia bit her lip. In an unprecedented move, she walked over, tugged on my sleeve, and put on her sweetest voice. “Daddy, please just say yes! I promise I’ll never misbehave again! I’ll get straight A’s in every subject!” I looked down at her, remaining completely silent. Every ounce of effort, love, and sacrifice I had poured into raising her had just been weaponized against me for the sake of a stranger. Mia, mistaking my silence for hesitation, doubled down. “As long as you’re nice to Uncle Julian, I promise I’ll stop being a picky eater! I won’t stay up late playing on my iPad! I’ll do whatever you say!” Sarah looked at me, her tone softening slightly in a manipulative pivot. “Arthur, once Julian’s emergency is handled, we can try for that second baby. I know you’ve always wanted a son. Now, go get the checkbook and come with us to the bank…” I actually laughed out loud. Both mother and daughter froze. I hit ‘Record’ on the camera. “Sarah, let’s get everything crystal clear on camera. I don’t want you blaming me for not stopping you later, and I sure as hell don’t want your debt bleeding onto me.” Sarah’s brow furrowed in deep disgust. “A child’s life is on the line, and you’re standing here running the numbers?” She reached out to smack the camera away, but I blocked her hand. “You know that Mia’s congenital heart condition will eventually require a massive six-figure surgery, yet you are voluntarily handing over our entire life savings to Julian, even if it means your own daughter might die from a lack of funds?” Sarah stiffened. Mia exploded. “Don’t use me as an excuse! My heart is fine! You are so selfish, Dad! Uncle Julian is literally dying inside, and you’re trying to do math!” My phone chimed. It was an email from Mr. Davis. I opened the attachment—a stark warning about the legal liabilities of co-signing private loans. I held the screen up to Sarah. She aggressively swatted my hand away. “You don’t need to try to scare me. I’m a grown woman. I know the risks.” I stared at her. “Sarah. What is your monthly take-home pay?” She frowned. “Four thousand dollars.” “And how much do we have in our joint savings?” She paused, growing visibly impatient. “Sixty thousand. If you’re trying to make me back down, don’t waste your breath.” I ignored her attitude and kept going. “How many years are left on the mortgage and the car loans?” Sarah remained silent. I answered for her. “Twenty-six years. You know exactly how much debt we carry. You know we live paycheck to paycheck. You know your daughter has a serious medical condition. But you are still willing to drain our entire net worth and put your name on a high-interest loan for him?” A look of profound annoyance washed over her face. “Arthur, is doing math the only thing you’re capable of?” I chuckled bitterly. “I’m doing the math to show you your own reality. If you guarantee a $50,000 loan today and the sharks come collecting, how exactly do you plan on paying it back?” Her voice rose defensively. “I’ll pay it off slowly! We’ll figure it out—” I cut her off. “Slowly? On four grand a month? Will you pay it off in thirty years? Fifty years? You might be willing to pay it back slowly, but do you think loan sharks are willing to wait?” A vein throbbed in Sarah’s temple. “Arthur, do you have any idea how cold-blooded and terrifying you sound right now?” Julian let out a loud, pathetic wail, his knees buckling as if he were about to collapse. “Arthur, please, stop pressuring Sarah! It’s all my fault…” I turned my gaze to him. “How much was your late wife’s life insurance payout, and when is it depositing into your account?” He stammered, looking away. “It… it hasn’t been approved yet…” “What’s the principal on the promissory note, and what’s the monthly APR?” Julian froze, shaking his head frantically. “I don’t know! I swear I don’t know! Sarah, I’m so scared…” Sarah pulled him behind her defensively, while Mia rushed forward and screamed at me. “Dad! Uncle Julian is sick! Stop bullying him!” I looked at the three of them with absolute ice in my veins. “Sign the divorce papers. You can take your half of the assets and throw it into his black hole for all I care.” Sarah glared at me. “You’re really going to force my hand with a divorce?” I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” She let out a cold, arrogant scoff. “You really have the guts to walk away? Are you just going to abandon your daughter?” “You get full custody.” The moment those words left my mouth, Sarah froze. She knew exactly how much I loved Mia. She knew better than anyone how many sleepless nights I had spent researching pediatric cardiologists and driving to out-of-state specialists for her condition. Suddenly, Mia shrieked at the top of her lungs. “Fine! Get a divorce! Mom doesn’t want you, and I don’t want you either! Get out of our house!” She glared at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. It felt like a jagged knife had been twisted into my chest. My expression faltered for a fraction of a second. And in that brief second, Mia smiled—a triumphant, vindictive smirk. Sarah avoided my eyes. “Arthur, you’re emotionally unstable right now. We’ll talk when you calm down.” She grabbed Mia’s hand and turned toward the door, Julian trailing closely behind. I backed up the video footage, uploaded it to the cloud, and called my lawyer. “Execute an immediate freeze on all assets under my name.” I stayed up half the night cataloging our finances. The next morning, I met with Mr. Davis to finalize the terms of the divorce and the asset division. My phone rang. It was Sarah. I answered, and her voice exploded through the speaker, brimming with rage. “Why is the joint account locked?!” “If you think you’re taking marital assets to fill his bottomless pit, you’re delusional,” I said coldly. “We finalize the divorce first. Once the assets are split, you can throw your half into whatever fire you want.” The line went dead silent for a second, followed by Sarah’s icy, menacing tone. “Divorce, divorce. Is that your only trick? Arthur, a man throwing a tantrum is one thing, but if you actually cross the line with me, you won’t be able to handle the consequences.” I hung up on her. At noon, I stopped by the house to grab my passport and birth certificate. The moment I pushed the door open, I heard the sound of muffled weeping. Julian was leaning heavily against Sarah, his forehead resting on her shoulder, his body shaking with dramatic sobs. Sarah was looking down at him, murmuring soft, comforting words. Her face held a tender, devoted expression I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. When they heard me walk in, they sprang apart like they’d been burned. Sarah spoke rapidly, her tone dripping with irritation. “Why didn’t you knock?” I stared at her. “I pay the mortgage here. Why the hell would I knock?” Julian scrambled to stand up, looking panicked. “Arthur, it’s not what it looks like…” Suddenly, he let out a sharp gasp, his ankle giving out, and collapsed right back into Sarah’s arms. “Did you twist your ankle?” she asked, immediately concerned. She half-carried, half-dragged him to the sofa and helped him sit. Then, she crouched down, slipped off his shoe, and began massaging his ankle. “How can you be so clumsy?” she murmured, her voice laced with intimate reproach. Julian’s ears turned bright red. He tried to pull his foot away, but Sarah held onto his ankle firmly, pulling it back into her lap. He looked up at me helplessly, his voice weak. “Arthur, please don’t misunderstand. It was an accident…” I grabbed a half-full glass of water from the coffee table and splashed it directly into their faces. Sarah shot up, her chest heaving with rage. “Arthur, have you lost your damn mind?!” I tossed the empty glass onto the rug. “If you two are in heat, sign the divorce papers first. Then you can hump on the sofa all you want.” Julian’s eyes welled with tears, and he struggled to stand. “I’ll leave right now. Arthur, please don’t be angry…” Sarah immediately grabbed his waist to steady him. “Look at the state you’re in! Where are you going to go? You’re staying here to rest.” She shot me a venomous glare. “This is my house too. You can stay as long as you need.” Thinking about the thousands of dollars I dumped into this mortgage every month, I let out a dry, bitter laugh. Before I could reply, my phone rang. It was Mia’s teacher, sounding incredibly stressed. “Mr. Hayes, Mia just beat up another student. The other parents are already here. We need you to come to the school immediately.” My expression darkened. I grabbed my briefcase and sprinted out the door. At the school, Mia was standing stubbornly in the corner of the principal’s office. The second she saw me walk in, she broke away from the wall, ran over to the crying child sitting in the chair, and punched him in the arm again. “Mia!” Both the teacher and the other parents erupted in fury. Mia just looked at me, a provocative, challenging smirk on her face. The teacher was shaking with anger. “Mr. Hayes, look at her! She has the audacity to assault a student right in front of the faculty and the parents!” I walked over and stood directly in front of her. “Why did you hit him?” She tilted her head up, screaming so loudly the entire hallway could hear her. “You taught me to do it! You’re selfish, and you bullied Uncle Julian! So I’m going to bully people too!” Sarah, who had followed me to the school, marched into the office, her face red with embarrassment and anger. “Arthur, is this the kind of toxic garbage you’re teaching our daughter?!” Julian, hovering weakly in the doorway, let out a heavy, theatrical sigh. “Arthur… parents are a mirror for their children. When you behave so immorally, it’s only natural that your child picks up your bad habits.” Mia grinned triumphantly. “Dad, for every day you bully Uncle Julian, I’m going to bully another kid at school! And I’m going to stop eating my vegetables, and I’m going to stay up all night playing on my phone, and I’m going to run until my heart explodes!” Sarah immediately scolded her. “Apologize to the parents right now! Then give all your allowance money to Uncle Julian! Don’t you dare grow up to be a selfish, cold-blooded monster like your father!” I stared at the daughter who thought she had successfully found my Achilles’ heel. I couldn’t help but smile. “Do whatever you want.” I turned around and started walking away. Sarah lunged forward and grabbed my wrist, the veins bulging in her forehead. “Do you have a single ounce of paternal decency left in you?! Are you really going to stand by and watch her destroy herself?!” I pried her fingers off my arm, enunciating every syllable. “She’s not just my child. It’s your turn to discipline her.” The second the words left my mouth, Julian let out a sharp shriek in the hallway. He collapsed, his legs giving out as he fell against the wall, weeping uncontrollably. “The hospital just texted me… they said if I don’t pay the surgical deposit right now, they’re going to kick my son out into the street…” Sarah’s face drained of color. She turned to me and roared: “Transfer your half of the $60,000 to Julian immediately! I’m going to apply for the guarantor loan—” Julian threw himself onto the floor, grabbing my pant leg and aggressively slamming his forehead against the linoleum tiles. “Arthur, I am begging you! Save my son! I swear I’ll pay you back! My late wife’s life insurance check is clearing any day now…” He clung to my leg like a drowning man. I took a sharp step backward. Julian shrieked as if I had physically kicked him, collapsing onto the floor and dramatically scraping his elbow against the tile. Sarah’s eyes turned blood red. She slapped me hard across the face. “Arthur, you have everything, and he has nothing! All he has left in this world is his son! Why do you insist on torturing him?!” My cheek went numb, and the metallic taste of blood pooled in my mouth. Mia charged at me like a battering ram, headbutting me right in the stomach. “If you don’t give him the money right now, I don’t want you as my dad anymore!” I stumbled backward a few steps, reached into my briefcase, and pulled out the divorce papers. “Sign these, and I’ll wire you the funds immediately.” Sarah’s chest heaved. She snatched the papers, furiously scribbled her signature, and threw the stack of papers directly at my face. “Are you satisfied?!” The pages scattered across the floor. I knelt down and gathered them calmly. “Now, to the courthouse.” Chapter 2 After signing the mandatory waiting period documents at the courthouse, Sarah stormed out. I followed her to the hard-money lending office. The massive guarantor contract was laid out on the mahogany desk. I stood off to the side, pulled out my phone, and hit record. “Write this out by hand: ‘I, Sarah, assume full and sole liability for this debt. It is entirely separate from my estranged spouse, Arthur.’ Sign it, and ink your thumbprint on it.” Sarah looked up at me, her eyes bloodshot with rage. “We’re already getting a divorce.” “We’re in a state-mandated cooling-off period,” I said calmly. “Write it clearly. I am recording this for the legal record.” She froze, her voice dropping to a terrifying, venomous whisper. “Arthur, do you really have to be this ruthless and calculative with me?” “Yes.” She gave me a long, searing look, then wrote out the statement, pressing down so hard the pen nearly tore through the paper. “You are going to regret this.” I let out a massive, soul-cleansing sigh of relief. I wired exactly $30,000—my half of our joint savings—into her checking account. “You bought the house and the car before we got married, so you keep them. I’m forfeiting my claim to the equity I paid into the mortgage. You get full physical custody of Mia, and I will pay standard child support.” I turned on my heel and walked out without a second thought. I rented a small, furnished studio apartment near my office. That same night, Julian posted an update on Facebook. It was a picture of him, Sarah, and Mia sitting around a dining table. Three home-cooked dishes and a soup. It looked like a picture-perfect family. The caption read: “Sarah and Mia haven’t felt the warmth of a loving home in years. Seeing them tear up over a simple meal I cooked absolutely breaks my heart.” The top comment was from Julian himself, adding a laughing emoji: “Little Mia keeps insisting on calling me ‘Dad.’ I literally can’t stop her! Haha.” I stared at the screen for a few seconds. I thought about the last eight years—rushing home from work every single day, doing the laundry, cooking the meals, maintaining the household. Apparently, in their eyes, that wasn’t “household warmth.” Only Julian’s cooking counted. The gossip spread like wildfire through our mutual friends’ circle. Everyone praised Sarah for her selfless, heroic act of saving a dying child. When my name came up, they all suddenly got quiet. “He’s supposed to be the man of the house, but he’s so petty and small-minded.” I didn’t care. The 30-day waiting period flew by. I packed up the divorce papers, my ID, and the backup drives of the video recordings. When I arrived at the courthouse, Sarah was already waiting by the entrance. When she saw me, she walked over, her tone surprisingly soft and conciliatory. “You’ve had a month to reflect on your behavior. It’s enough. Come back home with me. Mia really misses you.” I stopped in my tracks. “Are you backing out of the divorce?” Sarah’s expression faltered. “Arthur, haven’t you thrown a big enough tantrum? If you keep pushing this, there won’t be a place for you in our home anymore.” I ignored her, walked straight to the clerk’s window, and slid a pen toward her. “Sign.” Sarah glared at me. Finally, she let out a cold scoff and ruthlessly slashed her signature across the final decree. “Fine. Maybe you need to suffer a little to learn right from wrong.” She turned around and stormed down the courthouse steps. Just as she reached the sidewalk, a battered gray passenger van screeched to a halt right in front of her. Three heavily tattooed women stepped out. “You Sarah?” One of them slapped a heavy, notarized promissory note directly against Sarah’s chest. “Julian Vance’s debt. You co-signed. Two million dollars. Today is the final deadline. Pay up.” Sarah’s voice spiked in panicked disbelief. “What two million?! He only borrowed fifty thousand!” The woman snatched the contract and unfolded it, shoving it in her face. Sarah’s eyes frantically scanned the text. $2,000,000. Borrower: Julian Vance. Guarantor: Sarah. Her breathing turned erratic. She frantically pulled out her phone and dialed Julian’s number. “We’re sorry, the number you have reached has been disconnected…” In a fraction of a second, all the blood drained from Sarah’s face. She looked like her spine had been ripped out. She kept staring at the promissory note, her hands shaking so badly the paper rattled. “He told me it was only fifty thousand…”

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Exhausted from a grueling work week, I couldn’t fight off the heavy drowsiness and eventually fell asleep against the window. When I finally woke up, the seat next to me was empty. Jessica was gone. I checked my phone to call her, but her phone went straight to voicemail. I looked out the window at the unfamiliar station sign—Buffalo. Panic set in. I flagged down a passing conductor, frantically asking how many stops were left until Albany. “Albany?” The conductor looked at me in confusion. “You missed Albany hours ago. The next stop is the end of the line.” He frowned, trying to place me. “Wait, weren’t you sitting next to your girlfriend? Didn’t she wake you up before she got off?” My heart plummeted into my stomach. Half an hour later, I was standing on the platform of a desolate, unfamiliar terminal station, staring blankly into the cold night. Finally, my phone buzzed. It was the person whose phone had been turned off for hours. “Ethan got into a car accident,” Jessica’s voice came through, rushed and unapologetic. “I had to take the first train back to the city to be with him. I was in such a hurry I forgot to wake you.” “Just take a cab to my parents’ house and wait for me there. Gotta go.” Before I could even process what she was saying, a deafening, earth-shattering explosion ripped through the station. A massive shockwave slammed into my chest, lifting me off my feet and hurling me violently onto the concrete platform. In the final, agonizing second before everything went completely black, I could still hear Ethan’s voice through the dropped phone, softly whining and clinging to her for attention. A bitter smile crossed my face. If I get another chance at life, I thought as the darkness swallowed me, I’m never taking you along for the ride again. … 1. When I finally opened my eyes, two days had passed. A nurse was adjusting my IV when she noticed me blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights. She immediately rushed out to get the doctor. After a thorough examination, the doctor let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Thank God you’re awake. You’ve been in a medically induced coma for forty-eight hours.” She placed a clipboard on the bedside table. “Once you feel a bit more lucid, we just need a signature on these billing forms.” The nurse standing next to her chimed in, looking deeply uncomfortable, almost embarrassed on my behalf. “We actually used your phone to call your emergency contact when you were brought in,” she said softly. “But the woman who answered… Jessica? She hung up on us immediately. And then her phone was turned off.” I nodded slowly. My throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper, and speaking physically hurt. “I understand. Thank you.” After they left the room, I painstakingly propped myself up against the pillows and reached for my phone on the tray table. Two full days. Forty-eight hours. Jessica hadn’t called once. She hadn’t sent a single text message. I opened Instagram. The very first post on my feed was from Ethan, posted two days ago. The caption read: [When someone has hands this beautiful, even watching them peel an apple is an absolute luxury.] The photo was of my girlfriend. She was looking down, a soft, concentrated expression on her face as she carefully peeled an apple for him. Jessica hated apples. She despised the sticky, sugary juice getting on her fingers. When I was hospitalized for an emergency appendectomy last year, I asked if she could cut up some fruit for me. She just sat in the uncomfortable hospital chair, looking at me coldly, her voice laced with deep annoyance. “Just deal with it, Ryan. You know I hate getting my hands sticky.” But now, sitting next to Ethan, she seemed more than happy to do it. I kept scrolling down the feed. I saw a comment from a mutual friend: [Wait, didn’t Jess go upstate with Ryan for the holidays?] Ethan had replied to the comment, his tone dripping with blatant, calculated ambiguity. [My dad called her in a panic to say I was in an accident. Honestly, even I didn’t expect her to just immediately…] Immediately abandon me. I knew exactly what he was implying. A heavy, suffocating sorrow pooled in my chest. This exact “pick one” scenario had played out countless times over the last five years. And every single time, without fail, the story ended with me being the one left behind. Suddenly, a call from my dad popped up on the screen. “Ryan! Oh my god, you finally answered!” My dad’s voice was frantic, trembling with sheer panic. “Your mom and I have been losing our minds for two days!” “Your phone was going straight to voicemail, and we don’t even have Jessica’s number! We didn’t know what to do!” I squeezed my eyes shut, desperately trying to swallow the massive lump in my throat. “I’m okay, Dad. Everything is fine. I’ll be home soon.” He finally let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. Then, his voice dropped, becoming hesitant and incredibly careful. “Ryan, son… do you think… could we maybe get Jessica’s phone number? Just for emergencies? Because if something like this ever happens again, your mom and I…” My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white. My nose burned fiercely. It wasn’t that I was keeping her number a secret. It was that Jessica explicitly forbade it. Everyone in our circle knew that I had spent years relentlessly pursuing her before she finally agreed to date me. So, when we finally made it official, she immediately established her boundaries. “I have no interest in getting involved with your family. And please, do not give my phone number to them. It’s just unnecessary drama.” It felt like a slap in the face. It was humiliating. But I swallowed my pride, buried the hurt deep down, and agreed to her terms. Now, reading Ethan casually mention that his dad had called her… and listening to my own father practically beg for permission just to have her emergency contact… That stubborn, desperate devotion that had kept me going for five years suddenly just… evaporated. “Dad.” “You don’t need her number. And I promise you, nothing like this is ever going to happen again.” I hung up the phone. I reached over, grabbed the medical billing clipboard, and signed my name—Ryan Cole. Then, I checked myself out of the hospital. The next day, I took a flight back to New York City. The very first thing I did was take my parents to a private clinic for full cardiovascular checkups. I was terrified that the stress of the last two days had taken a physical toll on them. As we were walking through the outpatient lobby, I stopped dead in my tracks. Standing right in front of the pharmacy was Jessica. She was gently, attentively supporting Ethan by the arm. When Jessica saw me, her eyes went wide with genuine shock. “Ryan? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at my parents’ house in upstate New York?” A dark, bitter irony flashed through my eyes. So, not only did she not care enough to check on me, her parents clearly hadn’t bothered to inform her that I had never even shown up. “I didn’t go.” Her face immediately darkened. She didn’t care in the slightest that my parents were standing right next to me. She launched into her usual, entitled reprimand as if it was her absolute right. “Are you seriously throwing a tantrum right now?” “Ryan, how old are you?! I already explained to you that Ethan was in a horrible car accident! Why are you acting like a petty, jealous child?!” Without waiting for a response, she tightened her grip on Ethan’s arm and dragged him toward the exit. I stood frozen in the middle of the crowded hospital lobby, enduring the bizarre, judgmental stares of everyone walking past. My parents let out a heavy, synchronized sigh. “Son… are you absolutely sure you still want to marry this girl?” I watched Jessica use her own body as a shield to protect Ethan as they walked through the sliding glass doors. I let out a cynical, exhausted laugh. “No. We’re not getting married.” “Actually, yesterday I applied for that fully-funded Ph.D. program in London. It got approved this morning.” My dad’s blood pressure was slightly elevated, so the doctor recommended we keep him for observation for a few days before they went back home. After getting him settled into his room, I took a walk down the hallway to clear my head. As I passed one of the VIP recovery suites, my footsteps slowed to a halt. Through the partially open door, I saw Ethan dramatically grimacing and refusing to take a small cup of liquid medication. Jessica was leaning over him, speaking in a sickeningly sweet, patient tone. “Come on, Ethan. You have to take your medicine if you want to get better.” Ethan aggressively shook his head, clamping his mouth shut like a petulant toddler. Jessica sighed softly, but there was no anger in her voice. “Just be a good boy and drink it. Once you’re discharged, I promise I’ll take you on that trip to Aspen you’ve been talking about.” Ethan’s face instantly lit up with a victorious grin. Jessica let out a relieved breath. I stood in the sterile hallway, quietly watching this domestic, heartwarming scene. Unbidden, a memory flashed into my mind. A time when I was severely sick with the flu, running a high fever, and just wanted her to sit with me for five minutes. I remembered her cold, severe expression. She never coddled me. She never offered a single word of comfort. She just stared at me, completely devoid of empathy. “Ryan, you’re an adult. Stop acting like a dramatic child. It’s your body, your responsibility.””I’m not going to sit here and baby you. Take the pills or don’t, I really don’t care.” Seeing her coddle Ethan now, I actually felt a profound sense of disorientation. So, she did know how to be gentle. She did know how to comfort someone. It was just that as her boyfriend, I simply hadn’t earned the right to experience it. Ethan finally downed the medicine. “Hey Jess… do you think I should text Ryan and apologize? I feel awful that you had to abandon him on the train because of me.” Jessica didn’t even hesitate for a fraction of a second. “Why would you do that?” “He knows you’re my oldest friend. If he’s throwing a jealous fit over this, it just proves how incredibly immature and insecure he is.” I stood in the doorway, feeling the last remaining warmth in my heart freeze over, inch by inch. Perfect. The more I heard her say things like this, the easier it was to completely, permanently rip her out of my soul. That evening, my parents insisted I go back to the apartment to get some real rest. They didn’t need me sleeping in a stiff hospital chair. When I exhausted-ly unlocked the front door, the apartment was blazing with light. Laughter and the sounds of a movie playing echoed from the living room. When I walked in and saw Ethan sitting comfortably on our sofa, clutching my favorite throw pillow, my entire body went rigid. Jessica didn’t even bother to look up. She kept her eyes glued to the TV, offering a dismissive, airy explanation. “Oh, I forgot to mention it. Ethan lives alone and needs someone to monitor him while he recovers, so he’s crashing with us for a while.” Ethan popped a piece of pre-cut fruit into his mouth—fruit she had prepared. He looked at me with a sickeningly sweet, innocent smile. “I hope I’m not intruding, Ryan. You don’t mind, do you?” I took a deep, steadying breath, forcefully suppressing the violent wave of nausea rising in my chest. “If I said I minded, would you actually pack your bags and leave?” Ethan’s smug smile instantly vanished. “Ryan!” Jessica whipped around. She finally deemed me worthy of direct eye contact, but only so she could glare at me with furious condemnation. “What is your problem?! Why do you always have to be so incredibly toxic and passive-aggressive?! Do you honestly expect the entire world to cater to your fragile ego?!” I met her furious, impatient stare with absolute, dead-eyed calm. “Did it ever cross your mind to ask me where the hell I’ve been for the last three days?” Her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Where have you been?” I opened my mouth. I looked at this woman—the woman I had spent five years relentlessly pursuing, the woman I had compromised my own self-respect for, the woman I had allowed to disrespect my own parents just so I could be with her. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming, crushing wave of stupidity. I didn’t want to say another word. It was pointless. “Never mind. Stay as long as you want. Both of you.” I was exhausted. I was done fighting this pathetic, losing battle. Late that night, I was lying in the guest bedroom alone. The sounds of a horror movie drifted through the walls from the master suite. I heard Jessica’s voice, laced with fond exasperation. “If you’re so terrified, why did you insist on watching a scary movie?” Ethan’s voice was tight, purposely playing up his vulnerability. “Because I’m too scared to watch them alone in my apartment. Since I’m here, I wanted to catch up on all the ones I missed.” After a long pause, Jessica’s voice filtered through the drywall, incredibly soft and reassuring. “It’s okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” In the guest bathroom, I was trying to change the dressing on my arm. My hand trembled violently, and the sterile cotton swab accidentally dug directly into the raw, unhealed blast wound. A searing, blinding pain shot up my arm. But the physical pain was brief. I got into the guest bed. Over an hour later, I heard the master bedroom door open, and Jessica finally walked in. She paused, sniffing the air a few times. She crawled into the bed next to me, her voice tinged with mild curiosity. “Why does it smell like antiseptic ointment in here?” I closed my eyes. My voice was a flat, dead monotone, devoid of a single ripple of emotion. “You’re imagining things.” “Hmm.” She accepted the lie effortlessly. Because she didn’t actually care enough to investigate. If she had bothered to turn her head even slightly, she would have seen the trash can right next to the bed, overflowing with blood-soaked gauze and medical tape. The next morning, I was rudely awakened by a cacophony of voices in the living room. When I opened the bedroom door, I realized Jessica’s parents had arrived. They were currently huddled around Ethan on the sofa, overflowing with excessive warmth and suffocating parental concern. “Oh, Ethan, honey! We were so worried when we heard about the accident! You need to be more careful!” “If you need anything—anything at all—you tell Jessica. I promise you, with me here, she wouldn’t dare say no to you.” Jessica stood nearby, watching them with a gentle, affectionate smile. “Dad’s right. You have absolute immunity in this house. I wouldn’t dare cross either of you.” Ethan’s ears turned a shy, embarrassed pink. In the five years Jessica and I had been together, her parents had never once spoken to me with that level of genuine warmth. I only ever received stiff, obligatory pleasantries. I didn’t walk into the living room. I didn’t have the energy to subject myself to their blatant disrespect. I was leaving for London in a few days anyway. What was the point? But as I turned to go back into the bedroom, Ethan spotted me. “Ryan! Good morning, man!” I froze. Having no other choice, I slowly walked out into the open living room. The second Mr. Davis—Jessica’s father—laid eyes on me, the warm, jovial smile vanished from his face, replaced by a look of sheer, undisguised contempt. He shook his head, clicking his tongue in aggressive disapproval. “Look at this. Ethan is recovering from a severe trauma, and he still manages to wake up early. And you? Sleeping in until noon on a weekday?” “What a pathetic display. Honestly, I’ve been telling Jessica, maybe it’s time you two…” “Dad.” Jessica cut him off sharply, her lips pressed into a tight line. She walked over to me. “Are you going to eat breakfast?” I shook my head slowly. “No. You guys go ahead without me.” The explosion at the train station had caused significant internal bleeding and organ contusions. While it wasn’t life-threatening, the trauma surgeon had been explicit: absolutely no solid food before noon for at least a month. Hearing my refusal, Mr. Davis immediately flared up again. “Fine, starve then! We practically have to beg him just to sit at the table. He’s incredibly lazy. Jessica, how is a man like this ever going to provide for you?” I took a deep, steadying breath. I had zero desire to get into a screaming match with a sixty-year-old man, but I was absolutely done standing there taking his abuse. I turned around and headed straight for the front door. Jessica rushed forward and grabbed my arm in a vice grip. “My dad is just trying to look out for you! Why are you acting like such an ungrateful, petty child?! Walking out on them is incredibly disrespectful!” I stood perfectly still for a few seconds. “Looking out for me?” If he genuinely gave a damn about me, why hadn’t he mentioned to Jessica that I never showed up for Thanksgiving dinner? If he actually cared, his first question would have been, “Where the hell were you for the holidays?” She stared up at me. The annoyance and impatience in her eyes were unmistakable and raw. “Ryan, we are getting married soon. You are going to be my husband. I need you to stop being so incredibly emotional and dramatic.” “If you storm out right now, Ethan is going to feel terrible, thinking he’s the one causing problems. And you’re going to completely alienate my father.” “Grow up.” I violently ripped my arm out of her grip. For years, I had tried so hard to “grow up.” I tried to “grow up” and suppress my insecurity while she paraded around with her “childhood best friend” and constantly blurred the lines of fidelity. I tried to “grow up” and swallow my pride while her father treated me like a repulsive peasant who wasn’t worthy of breathing the same air as his daughter. But now? I was done growing up. “What exactly does ‘growing up’ look like to you?” She thought about it for a second. “Look at Ethan. You could learn a lot from him.” A chilling, cynical smile spread across my face. Without another word, I walked out the door and let it slam shut behind me. I picked up my parents from their hotel and drove them to the hospital to finalize my dad’s discharge paperwork. While driving, I calmly informed them that my departure date was rapidly approaching. My dad looked at me in shock from the passenger seat. “You’re leaving today?! That fast?!” I nodded, keeping my eyes on the road. “Yeah. It’s a two-year program.” My parents exchanged a worried, hesitant glance. “Son… did you tell Jessica?” My grip on the steering wheel tightened, the leather creaking slightly under the pressure. My voice dropped ten degrees. “No. And we aren’t getting married. There’s no reason she needs to know.” When a relationship is over, it doesn’t require a mutual agreement. A unilateral notification is more than sufficient. I took my parents to an upscale, highly-rated dim sum restaurant near the hospital for a farewell lunch. We had just ordered our food when I heard a chorus of painfully familiar voices coming from the private booth right next to ours, separated only by a thin, decorative wooden screen. A deep, suffocating sense of exhaustion washed over me. It felt like no matter where I went, I couldn’t escape the toxic orbit of these people. Jessica was hosting a massive lunch. Her parents were there. Ethan was there. And Ethan’s parents were there. She was orchestrating the entire meal flawlessly, anticipating everyone’s needs. She looked exactly like a devoted, perfect daughter-in-law. Not only did she know Ethan’s exact dietary restrictions, she even knew precisely what specific breed of imported crab Ethan’s parents preferred. I stared blankly into my cup of jasmine tea, my fingers curling into tight fists under the table. She didn’t know a single thing about me. She didn’t know what I was allergic to. And as for my parents? She couldn’t even be bothered to meet them for a five-minute coffee. The conversation in the adjacent booth inevitably drifted toward me. Mr. Davis’s voice boomed through the thin screen, dripping with absolute, unfiltered disgust. “Ryan?” “I’ve never approved of him. I honestly have no idea why Jessica is wasting her youth on a nobody like him, especially when a boy as successful and well-bred as Ethan is right here.” He was just getting warmed up. “And his parents? Good lord. I met them once, briefly. They looked like they just crawled out of a trailer park. I was honestly terrified they were going to track mud all over my Persian rugs.” At my table, my parents immediately lowered their heads, their faces burning with profound, humiliating shame. My hands began to shake uncontrollably. A white-hot, blinding rage surged through my chest, making it physically difficult to breathe. And Jessica? The woman who claimed to love me? She sat there in complete silence. She didn’t offer a single word of defense. She didn’t attempt to stop her father’s vicious, classist tirade. I couldn’t take it anymore. I shoved my chair back, bypassed the decorative screen, and walked directly into their private booth. My voice was absolute zero. “I don’t give a damn about you, and I certainly don’t give a damn about your daughter. Are we clear?” The entire table froze in sheer, paralyzed shock. None of them expected the target of their cruel gossip to be standing three feet away. Mr. Davis’s face flushed a deep, embarrassed crimson. But he didn’t offer a shred of an apology. Jessica stared at me, frozen for exactly one second, before immediately stepping forward and trying to physically drag me out of the room. “It was just a harmless joke! Why do you always have to make everything so incredibly awkward and dramatic?!” My heart physically seized in my chest. The sharp intake of breath violently pulled at my healing internal wounds. The pain was so intense all the color instantly drained from my face. “A joke?!” I violently shoved her away. Looking at the face of the woman I had loved so deeply for five years, I felt nothing but pure, unadulterated revulsion. “If you want to make jokes, make them about yourselves! You don’t have the right to breathe a single negative word about my parents!” My mom and dad rushed into the booth, desperately trying to pull me back. “Ryan, please, let’s just go. It’s okay, we…” But Mr. Davis, recovering from his initial embarrassment, immediately reverted to his arrogant, elitist persona. His words became even more venomous and degrading. “What, are we not allowed to speak the truth now? If you can’t handle criticism, it just proves how incredibly small-minded and uncultured you are.” “Let’s be brutally honest here. You manipulated your way into a relationship that is leagues above your social standing.” “As for Ethan? He and Jessica grew up together. They belong together. If you ask me, you’re the shameless homewrecker who forced his way into their relationship!” My parents immediately stepped in front of me, furious. “How dare you say something so vile about our son?!” I slowly raised my eyes, locking onto Jessica. A raging inferno of pure, unfiltered fury was incinerating whatever rational thought I had left. I stared at her slightly furrowed brow. My voice was trembling with rage. “Is that what you think too? That I’m the interloper?” She didn’t deny it. Instead, she looked at me with a patronizing, exhausted sigh. “You know my dad has no filter. Why are you taking it so personally? You’re just looking for a reason to be a victim.” Ethan, seizing the opportunity, stood up next to Jessica, placing a protective, territorial hand on her shoulder. He looked at me with a sickeningly condescending smile. “Come on, Ryan. Stop throwing a tantrum. You’re embarrassing yourself.” A crowd of curious onlookers had begun to gather outside the open booth doors. The whispers and judgmental stares were all aimed directly at me. “Wow, male homewreckers are getting bold these days.” “Look at the gorgeous guy standing next to the girl. He’s clearly the real boyfriend. This other guy just looks unhinged.” Someone in the crowd actually yelled out: “Hey, homewrecker! Why don’t you do us all a favor and crawl back into the sewer you came from?!” My entire body turned completely, terrifyingly rigid. It was September, but I felt like I was standing naked in a blizzard. A sharp, icy dagger was repeatedly plunging into my chest. Hearing the vicious insults hurled at me by total strangers, Jessica’s brow furrowed deeply in discomfort. But she looked at Ethan, then looked back at me, and ultimately chose to remain completely, utterly silent. My parents stood next to me, completely paralyzed, terrified and humiliated by the escalating mob. I stared at Jessica for one long, final, defining moment. Then, I turned around and walked away. “Ryan, wait—” Jessica finally called my name, taking a step as if to follow me. But Ethan immediately let out a sharp gasp of pain, dramatically clutching his “injured” leg and buckling slightly against her side. “Jess… it hurts.” Jessica instantly froze in her tracks, her attention immediately snapping back to Ethan. Once again, without fail, she chose him. My parents hurried after me, apologizing profusely the entire way to the parking lot. I stopped by the passenger door of my car and turned to them. “You guys didn’t do anything wrong. This is entirely my fault.” From the very first day, I never should have lowered my standards to be with someone who didn’t respect me. After dropping my parents off at their hotel, I checked my phone. I had received a barrage of texts from Jessica. Every single one was a furious reprimand. [Ethan’s leg is acting up because of the stress you caused. Both sets of parents were too upset to even finish their meals. Ryan, you are acting incredibly selfish and immature!][When you get home tonight, I expect you to formally apologize to my father and Ethan’s parents.][We are getting married in less than a month. I am warning you, do not ruin this.] Not a single word of concern for my feelings. Not a shred of empathy for the fact that my parents were publicly humiliated and degraded. Only desperate, fierce protection for Ethan and her own ego. I stared at the screen for exactly three seconds. Then, I deleted her contact profile. I blocked her number on my phone, blocked her on all social media, and deleted her email address. I drove back to the apartment, threw my pre-packed suitcases into the trunk of my car, and drove straight to JFK Airport. Before takeoff, I opened Instagram one last time. I posted a single, public status update and pinned it to the top of my profile:[The engagement is officially off. The wedding is canceled.] Then, I powered down my phone. As the massive jet engines roared and the plane broke through the cloud cover, I felt a profound, exhilarating sense of weightlessness. The next chapter of my life had officially begun. And she would never, ever be a part of it again.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “574844”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When I was eight, my foster mother made a habit of stealing Amazon packages off people’s porches. She told me to keep a lookout. I patted my chest confidently. “Don’t worry! If anyone comes, I’ll tell you!” Then I immediately turned around and squatted by the curb to watch a colony of ants. Twenty minutes later, my foster mother and a trunk full of stolen cardboard boxes were shoved into the back of a police cruiser. When I was fourteen, I was abducted. The kidnapper shoved me into the passenger seat and told me to sit still and keep my mouth shut. I nodded furiously. “You got it, ma’am!” Then I rolled down the window and screamed at the top of my lungs to every pedestrian we passed: “Hello everyone! The nice lady told me to be very quiet!” Three blocks. A dozen 911 calls. When a female police officer dragged the kidnapper out of the vehicle, the woman broke down sobbing. “I’ve been in the game ten years, and I’ve never had a job this absurd!” Because of that incident, my DNA was entered into the national missing persons database. Four years later, against all odds, my ultra-wealthy biological parents actually found me. The Welcome Home On my very first day at the Vance estate, the adopted son, Julian, approached me holding a vintage Patek Philippe watch. “Brother, this is a Vance family heirloom. You are the true biological son… I’m giving it back to you.” I accepted it without a second thought. “Awesome, I’ll take it!” He immediately spun around, buried his face in our father’s chest, and sobbed that I had violently snatched the watch their late grandfather had left specifically for him. My biological sister, Chloe, stormed in, her eyes red with fury, and kicked my bedroom door open. “Leo Vance! What gives you the right to steal Julian’s watch and humiliate him like this?!” I looked up from my phone, completely blank. “What watch?” “Stop playing dumb!” Chloe was just about to order the maids to tear my room apart when Thomas, the estate manager, hurried in from the hallway. “Miss Chloe, that vintage watch has been sitting on the entryway console this entire time. A maid nearly packed it away thinking it was misplaced costume jewelry.” The room instantly plunged into dead silence. Chloe froze in place, the foot she used to kick the door still hovering awkwardly in the air. Julian panicked for a fraction of a second before turning his head, his eyes welling with fresh tears. “I… I must have misremembered. I was just so terrified that my new brother wouldn’t like me, my brain got all scrambled.” He sniffled pathetically. “I just didn’t expect him to be so disgusted by Grandpa’s watch…” My father, Robert, immediately pulled him into a comforting embrace. Chloe’s expression remained incredibly ugly. “Even if you didn’t steal it, what kind of attitude is that? He offered you a heartfelt gift, and you just tossed it in the foyer like garbage?” I looked up, genuinely confused. “Did I toss it?” Robert sighed heavily, rubbing Julian’s back while looking at me with profound exhaustion. “You just got here, and you’ve already terrified him. He’s lived in this house for eighteen years, and overnight, you’re threatening to completely replace him. Can’t you understand why he’s insecure? Could you please just try to be a little nicer to him?” I thought about it for a second, then nodded. “Okay.” Chloe glared at me. “Then apologize to him right now!” “Sure.” I answered crisply and cleanly. But my body instinctively flopped back onto the mattress, and I went back to scrolling on my phone. Minutes passed in agonizing silence. A vein throbbed visibly in Chloe’s forehead. “Why are you still laying there?!” I looked up, the picture of perfect innocence. “I agreed to do it. I just haven’t decided exactly when I’m going to do it.” Chloe took a deep, furious breath before Robert finally dragged her out of the room. The Setup That evening, Julian knocked on my door, his eyes still red. “Brother, Dad said he left a welcome gift for you in his master suite. It’s in a small velvet box on top of the display cabinet.” I set my phone down and sat up. “Got it. I’ll go grab it right now.” Julian offered a sweet, fragile smile and walked away. His footsteps sounded incredibly light. I turned around… and went downstairs to unbox my Amazon packages. I had just moved into a billionaire’s mansion. Obviously, I went on an online shopping spree. I was only halfway through a mountain of cardboard when I heard Julian sprinting frantically down the stairs, tears pouring down his face. “Dad! Dad! Leo rummaged through your display cabinet… your eight-million-dollar sapphire cufflinks… they’re shattered!” Robert’s face turned lethal. He was just rising from his armchair to storm upstairs when Thomas’s calm, measured voice echoed from the hallway. “Sir, the young master has been sitting on the living room rug opening packages for the last hour. He hasn’t set foot on the second floor.” Thomas paused smoothly. “We can review the security footage if you’d like.” Julian’s tragic expression completely glitched. The living room was dead silent for several agonizing seconds. My parents pulled up the security feed. The screen showed me squatting on the floor, aggressively slicing open cardboard boxes with a pocket knife. I hadn’t stood up a single time. Julian quickly ducked his head, his voice trembling. “I… I must have been mistaken. Maybe the cleaning staff accidentally knocked them over… I was just so on edge, I’m so sorry…” Robert pulled him close, looking heartbroken for him, gently ruffling his hair. He shot me a deeply disappointed look. “Do you see how much anxiety you’re causing him? Could you please just be more mindful and help him feel secure in his own home?” I sat on the sofa, clutching a tiny sample bottle of cologne I had just unboxed. I nodded enthusiastically. “You got it. I’ll pay attention.” I watched my mother, my father, and my sister completely surround Julian, comforting him like a fragile victim. The whole dynamic felt incredibly bizarre. But whatever. It didn’t really bother me. Ten minutes later, the door to Julian’s bedroom slammed shut with a deafening bang. The muffled sound of glass shattering against a wall echoed through the second floor. The Paper Trail I was sleeping soundly in the guest room when Julian knocked on my door yet again, playing the martyr. “Brother, the master suite on the second floor was always supposed to be yours. I selfishly occupied it for eighteen years, but it’s time to give it back.” He kept his head bowed, his voice a soft, tragic whisper. “You should move in. I’ll just sleep in the storage closet. It’s fine.” I glanced over his shoulder down the hallway. The door to that master suite was cracked open. It had floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, and an en-suite private study that was larger than the entire apartment I grew up in. “Awesome, thanks!” The corner of Julian’s mouth twitched downward for a microsecond. Then he pressed his lips together and walked away. I closed my door and went back to sleep. Early the next morning, I was woken up by loud, hysterical sobbing. I walked downstairs to find a dozen designer suitcases piled by the front door. Julian was sitting on the marble floor, clutching a pillow and crying so hard he could barely breathe. “It’s okay… Leo is your real son… If he wants my room, I should just give it to him…” Robert’s eyes were red as he hugged Julian tightly. “Don’t talk nonsense! You will always be the little prince of this family!” Chloe was kneeling beside them. When she saw me, her eyes looked ready to shoot daggers. “Leo Vance! You’ve been here for two days and you’re already trying to kick him out of the house?!” My mother, Eleanor, glared at me as well. “He grew up in that room. Are you seriously going to force him out just to mark your territory?” I opened my mouth to speak, but Julian cut me off, his voice thick with tears. “Don’t blame him! He just got here, he just wants his own space, it’s completely understandable…” Chloe’s fury exploded. “He has the guest room! What gives him the right to steal yours?!” Robert sighed in disgust. “Leo, you have severely disappointed me.” I simply pointed up the stairs. “Do you guys want to go up there and actually take a look?” Chloe let out a cold, venomous laugh. “You think looking at it is going to make you look like a saint?!” She stormed up the stairs. A few seconds later, she stood frozen outside my door, completely silent. My cheap suitcases were still sitting untouched in the corner of the guest room. The door to Julian’s massive master suite was firmly shut, completely devoid of any signs of a move. Thomas stepped forward. “The young master slept in the guest bed all night. He snored quite loudly.” The foyer was dead silent. The color drained from Julian’s face in a terrifying rush. He shot to his feet, glaring at me, his voice pitching into a hysterical shriek. “If you weren’t going to move in, why did you agree to it?!” The second the words left his mouth, he realized his mistake. He slowly raised a trembling hand to cover his mouth. I looked at him, and my mind drifted back to my childhood. In my foster home, saying ‘no’ meant getting slapped across the face. Agreeing to do something and failing meant getting beaten. One time, my foster mother stole cash from her husband’s wallet and told him I took it. I said I didn’t. No one believed me. She beat me senseless while screaming, asking if I had any proof it wasn’t me. I didn’t. That beating left me bedridden for two days. After that, I learned to be smart. I was terrified of refusing, so I enthusiastically agreed to everything. I was terrified of making mistakes, so I did absolutely nothing. And most importantly, whatever people said to me, whatever tasks they assigned, whatever items they gave me—I documented it. The clearer my records, the fewer beatings I took. That night, Robert came to the guest room. He sat on the edge of the bed, showing me a rare glimpse of genuine paternal warmth. “Leo, all those years you spent out there… you suffered so much.” He paused for a long time. “Things will get better. We’ll adjust, slowly.” I nodded. “But Julian has been in this house for eighteen years. That room is his childhood sanctuary. Could you just stay in the guest room for now? Is that okay?” “Okay.” Robert let out a massive sigh of relief, closed the door, and left. I sat on the mattress and looked around. The guest room was perfectly fine. The bed was incredibly soft, and it had a window. It was infinitely better than anywhere I had ever lived before. I pulled out my phone and slowly walked around the perimeter of the room. The oil paintings on the wall. The ceramic vases on the desk. The decorative figurines in the display case. I photographed every single item, assigned them serial numbers, and uploaded them to a dedicated, encrypted cloud album. It wasn’t a malicious plot. It was just a habit. Leaving a paper trail was my ultimate survival rule. At the far end of the second-floor hallway, the door to Julian’s suite was locked tight. The muffled sound of shattering glass echoed through the walls once again. The Safe Harbor Foundation The Vance family threw a massive, opulent gala to formally introduce me to high society. Crystal chandeliers, towering floral walls, and a massive welcome banner that read: The Safe Harbor Anti-Trafficking Charity Gala. Slapped right in the center of the banner was a massive, professionally retouched photo of Julian. His title read: Vance Family Heir & Chief Charity Ambassador. Half an hour before the opening remarks, Julian approached me. “Brother, there’s been a slight change in the schedule. The formal introduction has been pushed back. Just wait in this VIP side room for now.” I flashed him an okay sign. “You got it!” This time, he didn’t just walk away. He personally escorted me into the VIP lounge, practically shoved me onto the leather sofa, and ordered two female private security guards to block the door. “Ensure my brother’s safety. Do not let him leave this room under any circumstances.” Before stepping out, he turned back with a gentle smile. “Oh, by the way. The foundation wants to use your abduction and rescue story for a promotional campaign. Is that okay?” “Absolutely!” He smiled triumphantly and left. Two minutes later, the security guards’ radios crackled to life. “Mr. Vance needs you at the South Entrance immediately. High-profile VIPs are arriving.” Before leaving, the guards shot me a warning glare. “Don’t move a muscle, kid.” I nodded furiously. “You got it, absolutely!” The second the door clicked shut, the rich, intoxicating aroma of melted chocolate drifted through the air vents. I peeked through the crack in the door. A massive dessert cart was being wheeled down the corridor. A towering chocolate fountain, a pyramid of macarons, rows of exquisite petit fours. I had never seen food like this in my entire life. While I was stuffing my face in the hallway, the lights in the main ballroom dimmed, and Julian took the stage. “Many of you don’t know this, but the reason my brother is finally home is deeply intertwined with our foundation.” “Three years ago, I founded the Safe Harbor Foundation with one specific goal: to find him. We coordinated with local police, funded DNA testing across the country, and relentlessly tracked down every lead… It was a grueling journey, but I never gave up.” He choked back a theatrical sob. “Bringing my brother home is the single greatest achievement of my life.” The ballroom erupted in thunderous applause. “Julian is incredible.” “He’s not even blood-related, but he moved heaven and earth to find the real son. What a class act.” But Julian suddenly wiped his eyes, playing the tragic victim. “However… my brother isn’t quite ready to stand on this stage with me today.” “I must have done something to offend him, because he refuses to acknowledge me as his family.” The whispers in the crowd instantly turned vicious. “The real son just got back and he’s already bullying the adopted kid? I heard his foster mom was a petty thief, no wonder he has zero class!” “Julian is a saint for putting up with this. Anyone else would be furious.” The next second, I strolled out from behind the velvet curtains, holding a half-eaten slice of opera cake, white frosting still smeared on my cheek. “Is it my turn for the introduction yet?” The entire ballroom went dead silent. Julian’s fake tears instantly dried up. I walked up to the stage and smiled at him. “What were you just saying, bro? I was eating cake, I couldn’t hear you.” I scratched my head, looking perfectly innocent. “I only caught the first half. But my DNA was entered into the FBI’s missing persons database four years ago. You said your foundation was created three years ago. The FBI had a hard match long before you even incorporated your charity.” The murmurs in the crowd shifted rapidly. Julian’s smile completely froze. “Brother, I was just saying the foundation provided a lot of logistical support during the final phases…” I tilted my head. “But the people who contacted my foster home and processed the DNA verification were federal agents from the Child Exploitation Task Force. I never met a single person from your foundation.” Julian’s face turned an ugly shade of green. “Brother, what are you talking about? Didn’t you explicitly agree to let us use your story for our campaign?” “I definitely agreed to that! I just didn’t agree to let you completely rewrite history.” Julian’s carefully curated persona was rapidly disintegrating. Suddenly, a middle-aged woman in a sharp blazer stood up from the front row. “My name is Detective Sarah Miller. I lead the regional Missing Persons Unit.” She looked at me and offered a warm smile. “I never expected to run into you here. For those who don’t know, this young man was abducted at fourteen. He didn’t cry. He didn’t panic. He flawlessly executed a series of covert distress signals to pedestrians that ultimately led to his rescue. His self-rescue protocol is now used as a standard training video by the bureau. He has saved countless lives.” The narrative in the room violently violently reversed. “He managed to signal for help while being kidnapped at fourteen?! That kid is a genius!” “Incredible instincts. Now that is the bloodline of the Vance family!” After the gala, my mother, Eleanor, approached me voluntarily for the very first time. “Leo, you handled yourself impeccably tonight. You didn’t flinch under pressure.” “The Safe Harbor Foundation needs better oversight on logistics and procurement. I want you to step in and take a role.” Chloe immediately frowned. “Mom, that foundation is Julian’s life’s work…” Julian dug his fingernails into his palms, but forced a bright, accommodating smile. “Mom is right! The foundation was created to help kids with backgrounds just like my brother’s. It’s only fitting that he gets involved.” The very next day, the foundation’s IT department set up my administrative account. I sat at my new desk, systematically screenshotting every single system permission page, photographing every page of the handover files, and logging the serial numbers of my assigned hardware. Then I zipped the files and uploaded them to a secure cloud server. An IT tech noticed me and laughed. “Mr. Vance, you are incredibly meticulous.” I smiled back. “Just a habit. Leave a paper trail.” That night, Julian’s text popped up right on schedule. [Brother, the foundation’s accounting can be pretty complex. I’ll personally walk you through the handover tomorrow!] I replied instantly: [Received!] The Trap At the breakfast table, Julian set down his fork with a warm smile. “Brother, I’m going to teach you everything I know about the foundation. The ledgers, the approval chains—I’ll walk you through it step-by-step.” Robert placed a small piece of bacon on my plate, then turned and loaded three massive scoops of eggs onto Julian’s plate. “Julian has such a generous heart.” Chloe glared at me. “He’s literally handing you his life’s work on a silver platter. You better show some gratitude.” As she spoke, I noticed she had swapped out the cheap plastic patio chair I had been sitting on for a plush leather dining chair. When Eleanor stood up, she patted me firmly on the shoulder. “Do good work.” I kept chewing my toast and nodded furiously. “You got it, absolutely!” When I arrived at the foundation offices, the Finance Director pushed a heavy, encrypted banking authenticator fob and a stack of account ledgers across the desk. “Mr. Vance, please verify the inventory and sign the handover receipt.” I replied instantly. “You got it, right away!” Then, I turned around, threw the authenticator fob and the ledgers into a steel lockbox, and secured it. That night, Julian bombarded my phone with texts. [Brother, there’s an emergency capital reallocation requested for tonight, did you see the notification?] [I already processed all the backend approvals, you just need to confirm the final receipt.] I was slouched on the couch watching TikToks. I typed out a casual, rapid-fire response. [Received.] [Okay.] A few minutes later, the chat log displayed several ‘Message Retracted’ notifications from Julian. I glanced at them, entirely unbothered, and went back to scrolling. The next morning, Julian suddenly announced he was taking me out on the town. “Brother, I found this amazing new bakery downtown. Their strawberry shortcake is incredible. Let’s go!” “Awesome, let’s do it!” The second he mentioned cake, I was in the car. When we arrived, there was no bakery. There wasn’t even a street vendor selling fruit. We were standing inside a massive, unfinished commercial high-rise surrounded by scaffolding. Julian led me into a bare, concrete room. “Brother, wait right here. I’m going to go track down the bakery.” “Oh, sure.” The second he stepped into the hallway, the heavy steel door slammed shut, and the lock clicked into place from the outside. I looked around. The building was still under construction, which meant the balcony doors hadn’t been installed yet. Relying on my childhood parkour skills from climbing trees to steal bird eggs, I casually hopped onto a stack of cement bags, scaled the scaffolding, and dropped down to the street level. When I landed, I looked directly up at the construction site security camera, flashed a huge smile, and waved. When I finally strolled through the front doors of the Vance estate, the house was in absolute chaos. The foundation’s Finance Director was standing in the living room, sweating profusely. “Eight million dollars in restricted charity funds are completely gone! The transfer was authorized using the new executive authenticator fob!” Chloe aggressively ripped open my backpack, pulled out the encrypted authenticator fob, and hurled it violently onto the coffee table. “Leo Vance! You greedy, psychotic thief! What the hell do you have to say for yourself?!” Just then, Julian was practically carried into the living room by two maids. His forehead was wrapped in bloody gauze, and his neck was covered in dark, horrifying purple bruises. “Mom, Dad, Chloe… please, I’m begging you, don’t call the police.” He sobbed dramatically. “My brother just grew up poor, he’s never seen that much money before, it’s completely normal that he lost his mind.” “I’ll sell my sports cars and my watch collection to cover the stolen funds.” Eleanor stood up slowly, locking her eyes onto me. The woman who had patted my shoulder that morning and told me to “do good work” now looked at me with absolute, freezing contempt. “I made a terrible misjudgment.” She pulled out her phone and dialed 911. Robert’s voice cracked with emotion. “Eleanor, please, if we involve the police, his life is completely over…” Eleanor didn’t waver. “Eight million dollars in charity funds. That is not our private family money to burn.” “This boy does not deserve the Vance name. We sever all ties immediately, turn him over to the authorities, and salvage whatever dignity this family has left.” With that, she hit the call button. Robert walked over to me, his eyes bloodshot with rage. SMACK. A brutal, open-handed slap struck my face. My cheek burned like fire. “Your mother is right. We never should have brought you back. The Vance family doesn’t harbor criminals!” Julian was weeping hysterically. “It’s all my fault! I noticed discrepancies in the ledgers two days ago, and I quietly asked my brother about it. He lured me to an abandoned construction site in the suburbs…” “He locked me in a concrete room, choked me, and threatened to kill me if I didn’t keep my mouth shut…” “He hired construction workers to pin me down and forced me to bark like a dog, threatening to leak the video online…” Chloe’s eyes flooded with a terrifying, violent red. She lunged across the living room and grabbed me by the collar of my shirt. “Leo Vance, you are a complete monster!” Before I could even open my mouth, her fist slammed into my jaw. The sheer force of the blow knocked me off my feet. I crashed hard into the sharp edge of the glass coffee table. Warm blood instantly started pouring down my eyebrow, blinding my left eye. She didn’t stop. She grabbed a fistful of my hair, violently jerking my head back and forcing me to look at Julian. “Apologize! You stole everything from him, and you still felt the need to physically destroy him?!” I instinctively curled into a defensive ball, my entire body shaking uncontrollably. Whenever my foster mother flew into a rage, she would grab my hair exactly like this, beating me until I confessed to things I never did. But this time… I had no intention of confessing. I clenched my fists, wiped the blood out of my eye with the back of my hand, and looked dead at Julian. “What time?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. He blinked, caught off guard. “What?” “What time did I supposedly assault you?” His eyes darted around the room. “Around 3:00 PM.” “And how exactly did I hurt you?” “You shoved me into a concrete wall and threatened me with a steel pipe.” I casually pulled my phone out of my pocket and hit record on the voice memo app. “Keep going. Be as specific as possible.” Chloe immediately punched me in the shoulder. My front teeth rattled. “He almost died because of you, and you’re interrogating him?! Are you trying to traumatize him again?!” Julian quickly pulled out his phone and displayed a series of meticulously cropped chat screenshots. The texts showed him seemingly warning me about unauthorized transfers, missing funds, and hidden ledgers. And under every single one of those manufactured warnings was my response: [Received] and [Okay.] The digital paper trail looked absolutely flawless. When he finally looked down at me, a brief, triumphant gleam flashed in his eyes. But he quickly ducked his head, playing the tragic victim. “I’m so sorry, brother… I really didn’t want it to end like this…” Chloe clenched her bloodstained fists, glaring at me. “Do you have any more pathetic lies you want to try out?” I didn’t even look at her. “Could someone hand me a laptop?” “You psycho, you just won’t quit…” Chloe raised her hand to hit me again, but Thomas smoothly intercepted her, calmly handing me an open MacBook. I logged into my secure cloud server. I opened the full, unredacted chat history. Every single message, including the ones Julian had manually retracted on his end, was fully restored and timestamped. Then, I opened the high-resolution photos I had taken on the day of the handover. “The authenticator fob never left the Finance Director’s safe. Furthermore, I never signed the handover receipt. If you want to know who slipped the fob into my backpack, you can pull the foundation’s security camera footage from this morning.” Finally, I pulled up the live security feed from the construction site downtown. “There are exterior security cameras all over that commercial site. You guys can watch the replay yourselves.”

At our senior year pep rally, the entire graduating class stood lined up on the athletic track. “If your parents ever hired a private tutor for you, take one step forward.” A large portion of the crowd shuffled ahead. I didn’t move. “If your parents have taken you on an international vacation, take a step forward.” I stayed planted. “If your parents paid for you to develop a special talent or hobby, take a step forward.” Only a few kids were left near the starting line. We awkwardly lowered our heads. “If your parents have always viewed you as their pride and joy, take a step forward.” I gripped the cuffs of my sleeves. The question physically ached. When I finally looked up, I was the only one left on the starting line. People turned around, looking at me with curious pity. Looking past the crowd, I saw my twin sister standing at the very front. She was one step away from the finish line. And I couldn’t even leave the start. With the blast of the principal’s whistle, we were told to sprint to the end. My sister, Maya, crossed the finish line effortlessly. I trailed far behind, gasping for air, feeling like my lungs were about to collapse. “Life isn’t fair, and all you can do is sprint to your own finish line!” the principal announced over the megaphone. This senior rally ended with me crossing the line dead last. My twin sister, Maya, was first. She jogged over, smiling, and grabbed my arm. “Come on, Mia, it wasn’t that tiring,” she said breezily. But those questions had forced a 300-yard gap between us. A 300-yard chasm carved entirely by our parents’ blatant favoritism. I awkwardly pulled my arm away. By the time late-night AP study hall ended, it was 9 PM. Mom was waiting at the school gates, as always. She instinctively reached out, took Maya’s backpack, and cheerfully opened the passenger door for her. I suddenly felt a surge of quiet rebellion. I didn’t open the back door to slide in like I usually did. I just wanted to see if Mom would even notice I wasn’t there. I stood on the sidewalk. Waiting. The engine revved. The car drove off and vanished around the corner. I started counting the minutes. I wondered how long it would take for Mom to realize the backseat was empty. Thirty minutes passed. My legs grew stiff. Finally, my phone buzzed. Mom. “Mia, why haven’t you come upstairs yet? Maya and I are eating late-night takeout, we aren’t waiting for you.” My tears fell, shattering silently against the pavement. She hadn’t just failed to notice me missing at the school. She had driven all the way home, parked, and walked inside without ever glancing in the rearview mirror. The string in my heart that had been pulled taut for seventeen years finally snapped. I opened the calendar app on my phone, highlighting Graduation Day in red. One hundred days. I just had to endure one hundred more days. Then, I would leave. And I would never come back. Chapter 2 It was past midnight when I finally walked home. The motion-sensor light flickered on as I opened the door. On the dining table sat the remnants of their takeout. Next to it was a small container left for me. I opened it. The leftover casserole was packed with onions. For seventeen years, they still put onions in my food—knowing I hated them—and lectured me about being a picky eater. But I loved asparagus. Maya hated it. So asparagus was never allowed in the house. I dropped my backpack and sat in the dark living room. Moonlight caught the polished surface of Maya’s piano trophies, making them gleam. When I was little, I begged to take painting classes. Mom just sighed. “Mia, do you know how expensive art supplies are? Money doesn’t grow on trees.” A year later, Maya saw someone playing the piano on TV and threw a tantrum because she wanted to do it too. Our parents instantly took out a loan and spent ten thousand dollars on a baby grand. If Maya absentmindedly hit a few keys, my parents showered her with praise. When Maya cried about not placing in local competitions, my parents secretly donated to the organizers to ensure she got a medal. The day she won, she shoved the trophy in my face, beaming. “See? I told you I was a prodigy!” I couldn’t smile. I couldn’t force a congratulations. Mom kicked me under the table, whispering, “Don’t ruin the mood.” To this day, my art supplies consisted of mechanical pencils and printer paper. My drawings, much like my life, were entirely in grayscale. I often stared at that dust-gathering piano, wondering if that ten thousand dollars would have bought me a lifetime of canvases. The moonlight shifted to our family photo wall. In every portrait, Maya stood dead center, my parents leaning toward her. I was always on the far edge, practically out of frame. But those were the pictures I cherished, because they were the only ones that actually included me. The rest were snaps from their international vacations. The Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum, the London Eye. I had asked to go once. I was firmly rejected. “You’re the older sister,” Dad had said. “You need to be responsible and watch the house.” “We’ll take you next time,” Mom promised. “We’ll take turns.” “We’re identical twins anyway,” Maya had chimed in. “Me going is basically you going.” I waited for years for my “turn.” It never came. Eventually, I stopped asking. I stopped wondering why it mattered that I was the older twin when we were born minutes apart. I finally realized the truth. It wasn’t about birth order. They just loved their other child. Not me. Chapter 3 The next morning, Mom pushed my bedroom door open. “Mia, why didn’t you eat your leftovers?” I didn’t answer. I knew that wasn’t the real reason she was here. “If you’re not busy today, go to the library and print Maya’s practice exams. Oh, and her new private SAT tutor doesn’t know the neighborhood. Go wait at the entrance of the subdivision and guide him in.” “Mom, I’m a senior too,” I said, looking her in the eye. “She can do her own chores.” Mom’s face dropped into a scowl. “How much time does it really take? Your sister isn’t scoring as high as you on the practice tests. We can’t interrupt her studying.” I laughed bitterly. Interrupt. In middle school, when my grades were worse than Maya’s, I was told to do all the household chores so Maya wouldn’t be “distracted.” Now, I was outscoring Maya by four hundred points on our SAT mock exams. And I was still the one doing the chores. She left a list on the counter. Aside from playing assistant to Maya, I had to do the laundry, buy groceries, and pay the HOA fees. By the time I finished my errands, the sun was setting. My weekend was gone. Maya, meanwhile, had been heavily tutored all day. My time was disposable. Maya’s was sacred. That night, my parents came home and fawned over Maya’s corrected practice tests. I was handed a box of leftover takeout. Full of onions. This time, I didn’t pick them out. I choked them down, forcing myself to remember that there were things in this world much harder to swallow. Since I was robbed of my weekends, I stole time wherever I could. I slept four hours a night. I memorized vocabulary while walking, rehearsed calculus formulas in the shower. Nosebleeds became a daily occurrence. I never told my parents. There was no point. I knew my only ticket out was a flawless GPA and a perfect test score. On the morning of the SATs, I was shooed out of the house early. Maya was still asleep. Mom was making her a gourmet breakfast; Dad was warming up the car. I took the city bus, watching parents drop their kids off at the testing centers. Even though Maya’s testing center was only a block away from mine, they told me to take the bus so Maya wouldn’t have to be rushed. When the final bell rang, parents flooded the courtyard, hugging their exhausted kids, handing them water bottles. I walked out alone. Out of morbid curiosity, I walked a block over to Maya’s center. Sure enough, there were my parents—holding an umbrella over Maya to block the sun, handing her an iced latte, laughing as she recounted the test. A picture-perfect family. I smiled. Then the tears fell. We shared 99% of our DNA. But that missing 1% was something I would never have. Their love. Chapter 4 My SAT score came back a 1580. Maya’s was an 1100. But at the massive graduation and college-reveal party my parents threw, the giant banner read: Congratulations Maya Miller on your College Acceptance! They told me they forgot to add my name and would make it up to me next time. As if you graduate high school twice. At the party, Maya was dressed in a stunning gown, soaking in the admiration of our relatives. My aunt, perhaps taking pity on me, shoved an envelope of cash into my hand. “It’s okay if you didn’t do well, Mia. Don’t be jealous of your sister.” I opened my mouth to tell her I had a near-perfect score. Before I could, Mom swooped in and snatched the envelope. “Oh, don’t give her that. The poor thing totally bombed her exams.” When results had come out, I had clearly stated my 1580 at the dinner table. No one had even looked up. But Maya’s 1100 resulted in a dinner reservation at a five-star steakhouse. When college acceptance letters rolled in, Dad hired an expensive admissions consultant to help Maya pick her school. No one asked where I was going. When my acceptance letter finally arrived in the mail, Mom glanced at the envelope, didn’t bother opening it, and tossed it onto the kitchen counter. “I’ll hold onto this for you,” Mom told my aunt, slipping the cash into Maya’s designer purse. Dad stood up and clinked his glass. “We are so incredibly proud of Maya’s hard work today!” The room erupted in applause. I remembered the principal’s question on the track. If your parents have always viewed you as their pride and joy… The only girl who had stepped forward with me that day was a student on food stamps whose uniform was bought by the PTA. But her parents loved her. The thing I lacked wasn’t money. It was love. I quietly slipped out of the banquet hall and dialed the admissions counselor at my chosen out-of-state university. “Hi, is there any way I can move into the dorms early?” The counselor paused. “Is everything okay at home, sweetheart?” I choked out a quiet, “Yeah.” She didn’t pry, but she immediately approved an early move-in override. When I got home that night, my acceptance letter was still on the counter. Unopened. Covered in coffee rings. Tomorrow, Dad would likely use it as a coaster, and Mom would throw it away. I took it, went to my room, and packed a single suitcase. I realized all my clothes were drab grays and blacks—cheap, durable, easy to wash. Maya’s closet was a rainbow of boutique labels. Maya was meant to shine. I was meant to fade into the background. I booked a Greyhound bus ticket. A grueling 30-hour ride across the country. I didn’t care. The university was thousands of miles away, and they had offered me a full-ride scholarship. More importantly, it had an open studio art program. I had lost the 300-yard dash at the start of my life, but I knew the person who won the marathon was the one with the most endurance. Before closing the door, I took one last look at the house. Maya’s trophies gleamed. The photos smiled down. The house wouldn’t feel my absence at all. I smiled, and pulled the door shut.

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On the premiere day of a hit new children’s reality show, I, a six-year-old girl, skyrocketed to the top of the trending topics just from my self-introduction. The host asked all the kids what our biggest dream was. Wearing an ill-fitting, bright red dress and thick, heavy foundation, I shot my little hand into the air. With my chest puffed out in total pride, I shouted into the mic: “I want to be a Sugar Baby!” The live stream chat instantly exploded.[WTF?! She’s 6 and wants to be a kept woman?! What kind of sick values are these?][Look at that heavy makeup! The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You can only imagine what kind of trash her mother is!] But the production team’s eyes lit up. Sensing viral gold, they arranged a surprise home visit for the very next day, fully expecting to dig up some juicy, scandalous family drama. But the moment the front door was pushed open… The one million viewers in the live stream went dead silent. A second later, the screen was completely swallowed by a new wave of comments.[Oh my god… I think I understand why she wants to be a Sugar Baby now…] Chapter 1 On the day we started filming Little Stars, I was the most jarring kid in the studio. While the other children wore cute, pastel graphic tees and looked fresh-faced and innocent, I was suffocating in an oversized red dress, my face plastered with thick, cakey makeup. When the makeup artist first saw me, she froze in her tracks. “Sweetheart, you’re so young, why are you wearing all this makeup?” She crouched down and pulled out a makeup wipe. “Let me wipe a little bit off, okay? It can’t be comfortable for your skin.” I immediately slapped my hands over my face. “No!” “Why not, honey?” “Because this makes people like me, miss.” She wanted to keep trying, but the director yelled from the back of the set: “Cameras rolling in five!” She gave me a deeply worried look and hurried away. The cameras turned on. The host, Mr. Ryan, had a really warm smile. He raised his microphone. “Welcome to Little Stars, everyone! For our first question today, I want each of you to introduce yourselves and tell us: What is your biggest dream?” As soon as he finished, a girl named Emily threw her hand up. She wore a pristine pink bow in her hair and her voice was crisp and bright. “When I grow up, I want to be a doctor! Because doctors save lives and help a lot of sick people feel better.” The audience immediately broke into applause. “Great job, Emily!” The live stream chat flew by in a blur of praise.[She’s literally an angel!][So young but already wants to save lives. Her parents raised her so well.][She’s so precious, I want to adopt her.] Seeing everyone shower Emily with praise made my chest feel warm. I wanted to be liked, too. So I raised my hand as high as I could, puffed out my chest, and announced proudly: “I want to be a Sugar Baby!” The entire studio went dead silent. Even Mr. Ryan, who had been smiling non-stop, froze in place. He crouched down a little lower, desperately trying to do damage control. “Sweetheart, do you know what a Sugar Baby is?” I nodded vigorously. “Yep, I know!” “Then… why do you want to be one?” I didn’t even have to think about it. I counted on my fingers and blurted out: “Because Sugar Babies just have to look pretty, and someone else will take care of them. You get lots of good stuff without having to do any chores, and whatever you say, the man has to listen!” I smiled, waiting for everyone to clap for me like they did for Emily. Instead, a collective gasp swept through the studio. The live stream chat completely melted down.[What did she just say?! Did I hear that right?][This is absolutely sickening. What kind of morals is she being taught?!][No wonder she’s dressed like a cheap escort at six years old. Someone call CPS on her parents!] Seeing that nobody was clapping, I sat up even straighter. Did I not explain it well enough? I quickly added, “And if you’re a Sugar Baby, you get lots and lots of money!” Mr. Ryan looked at me, his eyes full of complex emotions. The nice makeup artist from earlier lost her smile, staring at me with a look of disgust. I didn’t understand why they suddenly hated me. I was just sharing my dream. When the other kids said they wanted to be astronauts, doctors, or teachers, everyone smiled. Why did they stop smiling when I said Sugar Baby? Desperate to move on, Mr. Ryan shoved the microphone back toward Emily. “Emily, after hearing Lily’s dream, do you have anything you want to say?” Emily looked at me, then back at the camera, her voice dripping with righteous innocence. “You’re wrong, Lily! Girls shouldn’t just think about relying on other people. We have to use our own skills and become someone people respect!” Mr. Ryan visibly let out a sigh of relief. “Well said, Emily.” [Listen to that! That’s a normal child with normal values.][That little Sugar Baby is already ruined. Her parents should just try again with a second kid.][Try again? Please, you know her mother is probably exactly the same.] I opened my mouth to argue with Emily, but I stammered and didn’t know what to say. Emily instantly became the star of the show. Everyone wanted to talk to her, while I was left sitting alone in the corner. Occasionally, a kid would run by, yell “Little Sugar Baby!” at me, and run away giggling. My heart stung, but at the same time, I felt a little happy. I was finally a Sugar Baby! That meant I wouldn’t be bullied at home anymore! The second segment of the afternoon was picking our bedrooms for the show. The biggest room had a pink canopy bed, an entire wall of toys, and massive floor-to-ceiling windows. The smallest room only had a rickety bunk bed, a tiny window, and peeling paint in the corner. Emily raised her hand first. “I’ll take the small room. I have a really pretty bedroom at home, so I want to give the big room to the other kids.” Mr. Ryan immediately praised her. “Emily is so considerate and mature.” The other kids swarmed around to hug her. But by the time the camera panned to me, I had already run straight into the biggest room and claimed it. Emily stood at the door, stunned. “Lily, we haven’t finished deciding yet. Why did you run in here?” I crossed my arms. “Because Sugar Babies always get the biggest rooms! I’m the Sugar Baby, you guys aren’t, so you can’t sleep in here!” Emily’s eyes went red with frustration. Mr. Ryan walked in, frowning. “Lily, we are living together. You have to learn how to share.” I looked at the giant, plush bed and shook my head violently. The big bedroom at my house was already stolen away. I had to protect this one! The viewers in the chat were heartbroken for Emily.[Emily literally offered to give it up, and this brat just steals it and acts entitled.][Can someone PLEASE do a background check on this kid’s mom? Who raises a monster like this?][Poor Emily, having to deal with this toxic little trash bag.] In the end, for the sake of drama and ratings, the producers let me keep the room. I stayed in the biggest room. Emily took the smallest one. She looked into the camera and said bravely, “It’s okay. I don’t mind sleeping on a small bed.” Mr. Ryan patted her head. “You’re such a good girl, Emily. Anyone would be lucky to have you.” I ignored them all and just patted the mattress. A Sugar Baby’s bed was so soft! The next task was helping the staff prepare for dinner by doing chores. Washing fruit, wiping tables, setting out plates, organizing toys. Emily was the first to volunteer. She rolled up her sleeves and carefully washed the apples in a basin of water. The other kids joined her. I looked down at my cheap press-on nails and took a huge step back. “Sugar Babies don’t do chores. They just have to be pretty.” Emily, holding a wet apple, couldn’t hold back anymore. “But we’re all helping! Hard work is something to be proud of.” I gave her a look. “Then you go be proud. I’m going to be pretty.” The Director, Greg, had clearly noticed that I was a walking lightning rod for controversy. He ordered the cameramen to shove their lenses right in my face. The final task of the day was a charm contest. The theme was: “Who is the most lovable child?” We had to cheer up the staff members or perform a talent. Whoever got the most red flower stickers won. Emily drew a beautiful little card and handed it to a female staff member. “Thank you for working so hard, miss!” The staff member smiled brightly, hugged Emily, and gave her a giant red flower. When it was my turn, I walked right up to Mr. Ryan. I pinched the edges of my oversized skirt and lifted it slightly. I leaned forward, batting my eyelashes, and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Mr. Ryan, you look so handsome today.” Mr. Ryan froze. Thinking I wasn’t doing enough, I stepped closer, grabbed his sleeve, and whined in a sickeningly sweet voice: “Do you like me? If you like me, you have to buy me presents~” The moment the words left my mouth, the air in the room died. Mr. Ryan awkwardly stepped away from me. The live stream chat went absolutely nuclear.[OMG. Out of all the female staff members, she targets the only adult man to flirt with?!][Who the hell is her mother?! If no one exposes her, I’m literally calling the cops.][I am physically nauseous. If this little homewrecker acts like this at six, imagine what she’ll be at twenty.] Mr. Ryan looked deeply uncomfortable. He pulled the microphone away, his voice losing all its previous warmth. “Lily, it is very inappropriate for a little girl to speak like that.” I stared at him, confused. “Is my smile not pretty enough?” Mr. Ryan’s face turned rigid. “That is not the point.” But this trick worked perfectly at home! Whenever Miss Harper tilted her head and spoke to my dad in that soft, whiny voice, Dad always smiled. If she said she wanted a designer bag, Dad bought it. If she said Mom’s cooking was gross, Dad would yell at Mom. I thought all adults liked this. I took another step forward. “Just give me one red flower, please?” Emily stood nearby and whispered, “Lily, this is wrong. Kids shouldn’t act like this. We have to be sincere.” I thought about it really hard, but I still didn’t know what “sincere” meant. The comments were a waterfall of hate.[She has zero awareness that she’s doing anything wrong. It’s terrifying.][This is literally grooming. Her family is raising her to be some rich old man’s mistress.][Shameless trash.] Director Greg had been standing just out of frame. He stared at the real-time analytics monitor, his eyes practically glowing. The live viewer count was skyrocketing. The entire chat was cursing my name. The more they hated me, the more people tuned in. He suddenly stepped onto the set and crouched in front of me. “Lily, do you try to please people like this at home, too? Who taught you the word ‘Sugar Baby’?” I pressed my lips tightly together and ignored him. Mom always said there were some things I couldn’t talk about outside the house. If I did, Dad would get mad. Miss Harper would cry. And in the end, Mom would be the one getting beaten. Greg wasn’t mad that I didn’t answer. He stood up and looked straight into the camera. “It seems our little Lily is hiding a lot of secrets. Since this show is all about observing family dynamics… I’m sure our audience is dying to know where her ‘dreams’ come from.” The chat went feral.[HOME VISIT! WE DEMAND A HOME VISIT!][Stop asking her, just take the cameras to her house!][Her mom is 100% the problem.][Kids don’t lie. Her home life must be a total circus.] Seeing the comments, Greg’s smile widened. Controversy was good. Controversy was cash. This small-budget show was going to be the hit of the year, entirely thanks to this little “Sugar Baby.” Half an hour later, I was strapped into a production van. Emily came along, too. She sat next to me, sneaking nervous glances my way. I pressed my face against the cold glass of the window. The sky was turning dark. The city streetlights flickered on one by one. The live stream numbers were surging. Eight hundred thousand. Nine hundred thousand. One million viewers. The chat was foaming at the mouth, ready for a witch hunt.[Let’s gooo! Expose her trash mom tonight!][I want to see exactly what kind of dumpster fire raised this kid.][The little homewrecker definitely has a master homewrecker at home.][Props to the crew for pulling a surprise ambush. Don’t give them time to hide!] When the van pulled up outside my house, my palms were sweating. I didn’t want to go home. But the thought of seeing my mom made my heart flutter with a tiny bit of joy. Greg pressed the doorbell himself. Once. Twice. Footsteps echoed from inside. I held my breath. The door clicked open. I threw myself forward and yelled out one sentence. And the one million viewers in the live stream collectively dropped their jaws.

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Someone stole my body using some kind of twisted “system.” When I woke up, I was trapped in the life of a dirt-poor girl from a rural, forgotten Appalachian town. I washed clothes by hand, cooked for a family that hated me, and studied in secret. A year later, against all odds, I earned a full-ride scholarship to a university and finally made it out of those mountains. Just as I was packing up, holding a small envelope of cash the townspeople had scraped together to help me, the girl who stole my body appeared. She didn’t hesitate. She hit the gas and ran me over with her car. As I lay bleeding on the asphalt, she stepped out, looking down at me with a smirk. “I really didn’t expect you to make it out of there,” she sneered. “But since you did, you have to die. Because I really love your life, and I’m keeping it.” In my final moments, fading away, I heard a robotic voice speak to her. “Warning: The original host’s vital signs are rapidly declining. Once the original body dies, the current host will never be able to return.” The girl scoffed, her face full of disdain. “Who gives a damn about that trash body? Let it rot.” Then, I blinked. And I was back. I had been reborn to the exact night before we swapped bodies. You little bitch, I thought, my blood boiling. You stole my body and then murdered me? Well, this time around… don’t expect me to play nice. 1. Pain. Piercing, skull-splitting pain. I shot up in bed, gasping for air. A second ago, I was being crushed beneath the tires of an SUV outside my high school. Now, I was sitting up in my own plush, king-sized bed in my family’s estate. The memories of the past year felt like a nightmare, but the phantom pain in my ribs was entirely real. The fury burning in my chest was even realer. You little thief. You took my life and then killed me for it? This time, I’m going to ruin you. I sprinted down the hall and kicked open the master bedroom door, nearly giving my parents a heart attack. “Mom! Dad! Don’t freak out, but this is an emergency!” “Tomorrow at noon, an evil spirit is going to possess my body.” “When that happens, you have to lock me up. No matter what I say, do not believe a single word!” My parents stared at me, completely bewildered. My dad got out of bed, felt my forehead, and gently told me to lay off the fantasy novels. But I wasn’t backing down. “Dad, I am dead serious. You have to believe me!” My dad nodded rapidly. “Okay, okay, I believe you…” He didn’t believe a damn thing. I pulled out my phone and disabled the Face ID and fingerprint unlock. “Tomorrow at noon, I want a massive feast for lunch!” I demanded. “Uh, okay,” Dad said. “Also, I’m deleting all my biometrics. After noon tomorrow, if I can’t unlock my phone, my iPad, my laptop, or the electronic locks on the front doors, it means the demon has taken over!” “Uh-huh.” “When that happens, just beat the living crap out of me! Don’t kill me, but make it hurt! The demon will only leave my body if it’s suffering!” “Right.” Talking was useless; I needed to prepare. Based on my experience from the last life, when the body swap happens, you don’t inherit the original owner’s memories. So, I went through everything I owned and switched all biometric locks to complex passwords. My phone, my tablet, my MacBook, the smart locks on the house, and my personal safe—all locked down tight. Then, I went for the valuables. My designer bags, my expensive jewelry, my high-end makeup—I stuffed it all into three massive suitcases and dragged them down to the basement storage room. By the time I was done, it was 3 AM, and my bedroom was practically empty. It wasn’t exactly a prison cell, but for a wealthy heiress, it was completely barren. The next day at noon, our private chef prepared an absolute feast. Lobster, crab legs, prime rib—I ate like a death row inmate on their last meal, shoving food into my mouth with zero grace. My mom watched me in horror, telling me to slow down before I choked. I just rolled my eyes. Are you kidding? I hadn’t tasted food this good in an entire year. And who knew how long it would be until I tasted it again? I ate continuously until the clock hit 11:59 and 30 seconds. I put down my fork and let out a satisfied burp. “Mom, Dad, take care of yourselves!” With that, I slammed my head onto the dining table and passed out cold. 2. “Get up, you lazy brat! Look what time it is, get to work!” I was jolted awake from a heavy haze. Before I could even register my surroundings, someone yanked me out of bed and kicked me hard in the shin. Standing over me was a vicious-looking woman. The original owner’s mother. “You’re done with school starting tomorrow,” she snapped. “What’s the point of a girl getting good grades? You’re just gonna get married off anyway.” “Old Man Clem from the next holler over is coming to look at you later. If he likes what he sees, he’s offering two thousand dollars for a dowry.” “You better behave. The sooner you marry him, the sooner you get to live a good life.” Old Man Clem? Clem Higgins? The memories clicked. In my last life, right around this time, that disgusting old creep from the neighboring town came to buy me for two grand. I had cried, screamed, and ran to the town mayor’s house. The mayor took pity on me and bought me some time. But when I got back to the house, this old hag beat me black and blue, leaving me bedridden for days. But this time? This wasn’t my body. I could do whatever the hell I wanted. “Two thousand? Clem is a cheapskate,” I sneered. “Mom, I’ve been in school for twelve years. I’ve been top of my class since kindergarten.” “If I marry that old geezer, I’m the one who’s gonna birth his son, and I’m the one who’s gonna tutor that kid.” “Marrying me is basically a guaranteed ticket to getting his future son into a top-tier college.” “With all those benefits, our family should be asking for at least ten thousand. Don’t you think?” The old hag froze, completely stunned. “I mean… I reckon that makes sense.” “I’m gonna go tell Clem right now,” she said, turning toward the door. I yelled after her, “Mom! Tell him if he wants to marry me, he needs to put down a deposit! Otherwise, I’ll find another buyer. I’ve got a 4.0 GPA, I’m highly marketable!” See? Education really does pay off. The old hag was totally sold on my logic. Thinking about it, the original owner of this body really did have a tragic life. Her family was dirt poor and horribly sexist, treating her like livestock. Before she swapped our bodies, she had studied like a maniac, hoping education would be her ticket out of these mountains. In my last life, I actually made that dream come true for her. And how did she repay me? By running me over. I pity what you went through, I thought, rubbing my bruised shin. But that doesn’t mean I forgive you. When the old hag returned, Old Man Clem was trailing behind her like a drooling dog. I thought maybe the negotiations had failed, but he was actually here to sign a contract. I grabbed a pen and paper and wrote out an agreement, signing it and stamping my thumbprint. We agreed on a date: when the rest of the ten grand arrived, the bride would be delivered. Then, I pocketed a two-thousand-dollar cash deposit. The moment Clem left, the old hag practically lost her mind with joy. She snatched the stack of cash and actually handed me a fifty-dollar bill as an allowance. At dinner that night, for the first time ever, I was allowed to sit at the table. She even scooped a large piece of roast chicken onto my plate. “Turned two grand into ten grand. My girl’s got brains,” she praised. I chewed the chicken—which I hadn’t tasted once in my previous life—and smiled brightly. “Mom, Dad, I’ve thought about it.” “You know what kind of man Clem is. He’s just buying me to be a broodmare and a tutor.” “But you guys are different…” “You’re my real family.” “If I don’t look out for you, who will?” “Honestly, if Clem couldn’t only afford ten grand, I’d feel like I’m selling myself short for your sakes.” Hearing this, the old hag’s eyes actually welled up with tears. She kept saying how much I had matured. I took another bite of chicken and kept talking. “And my brother is seventeen now. In a couple years, he’ll need to find a wife.” “So I’ve made a decision. Before I leave, I’m going to make sure he’s set up for life!” The old hag paused. “What do you mean? You gonna introduce him to a girl?” I waved my hand dismissively. “I don’t know any girls. But I can get him a lot of cash.” “Cash?” She looked confused. “How?” “I’m gonna borrow it.” “Borrow it? But you have to pay that back!” I grabbed another piece of chicken. “If you borrow it, you have to pay it back. But if I borrow it, it has nothing to do with you guys.” “Like they say, a married daughter is like spilled water.” “Since I’ll be the one taking out the loans, by the time the debt collectors come knocking, I’ll already be married to Clem. So they’ll go to his house to collect!” “You can do that?!” The old hag was astounded. “But what about you?” I chewed my chicken slowly. “Don’t worry about me. Clem needs me to birth his genius son, remember? What’s he gonna do to me?” I turned to the teenage boy sitting next to me—my worthless brother. “Bro, as long as you can live a good life, all my sacrifices are worth it!” Upon hearing this, the little brat actually started crying. “Sis, I’m so sorry.” “I used to bully you all the time. I swear, I’ll never do it again.” Yeah, right, I thought. In my last life, when they were selling me off, you were the one cheering the loudest. You really think I’m gonna let you off the hook this time? True to my word, that very night, I went to find the local loan shark, Jimmy ‘Three-Fingers’ Vance. The interest rate was borderline extortionate. I borrowed twenty thousand dollars in cash, promising to pay it back in a month. I could have asked for more, but honestly, in this town, a girl like her was only collateral for about that much. When I got the cash, I kept two grand for myself and handed the rest straight to the old hag. Not because I cared about this family, but because I wanted my remaining time in this hellhole to be comfortable. Sure enough, after handing over tens of thousands of dollars, my status in the household skyrocketed. Eating at the table was the new normal. I didn’t have to lift a finger for chores, and I slept in every single day. As for school? This girl’s academic future wasn’t my problem anymore. Because I stopped showing up to class, my homeroom teacher eventually came to the house. He told my mother I was a gifted student and that my future shouldn’t be thrown away. My mother ignored him completely and literally chased him off the porch with a broom. Later, the town mayor heard I was getting married and came to check on me, asking if I was being coerced and if I needed help. I smiled brightly and told him it was entirely my choice. The mayor looked at me, sighed heavily, and walked away shaking his head. There were others, too. People in the town who thought it was a tragedy I was throwing my life away. I was genuinely grateful to them, because in my last life, many of these people had actively tried to help me escape. So this time around, I wasn’t going to drag them into my mess. Because the original owner of this body was a sociopathic backstabber. She didn’t deserve a single ounce of their kindness. 3. With Jimmy’s twenty grand as seed money, my financial horizons expanded. I went to the nearest city, bought a cheap smartphone, and started aggressively applying for payday loans and online micro-credit. As the money rolled in, I dragged my brother to town. We drank boba tea, ate at nice restaurants, and bought brand-new clothes. I even bought two brand-new electric scooters for the family. The old hag was ecstatic, constantly bragging about how well she had raised her daughter. Just like before, I kept a few grand for my own entertainment and dumped the rest of the cash into the family’s hands. Then, I’d force tears into my eyes and repeat my script: “You’re my family! If I don’t treat you well, who will?” “When I’m married off, you guys have to take care of yourselves.” “I’m really gonna miss you.” The old hag nodded furiously and told my brother he needed to treat me like a queen for my final days at home. She kept saying I had sacrificed so much and shouldn’t suffer anymore. Oh, I wasn’t suffering. The original owner’s suffering had nothing to do with me. Compared to what she stole from me in the last life, this was just collecting a little interest. I hadn’t realized just how many predatory lending apps existed until I started looking. I hit every single one of them, maxing out the credit limits. In less than a week, I had racked up hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. When I withdrew the cash and dumped it onto the kitchen table, the entire family’s eyes practically popped out of their skulls. The old hag’s voice trembled. “This… you got all this money?” I nodded. “How much do you owe them?” “With interest, next month it’ll probably be around a million bucks,” I said, my face completely deadpan, as if a million dollars was pocket change. “A million bucks… Sis…” My brother’s eyes welled up with tears. It was the first time in two lifetimes I had ever seen him look at me with actual concern. I patted his head, faking a gentle smile. “You’re my only brother. Of course I have to think about your future. Keep this money. Buy a car, build a new house, find a good wife. You’re the man of the house now.” “But you…” He tried to protest, but I waved him off, looking like a total martyr. “I’m getting married next month,” I declared. “When that happens, I’ll have no legal ties to this family.” “Even if the debt collectors come, they’ll have to go to Clem’s house!” “Just remember, bro. My only wish in this life is to see you succeed.” “I will, Sis!” My brother clenched his fists, tears streaming down his face. “I promise, I’ll work hard and make lots of money so you can live a good life too!” I don’t care about the future, I thought. Compared to my last life, I’m already living a good life. That night, I lay on my relatively comfortable bed and opened the girl’s notebook. I filled a blank page with frantic handwriting. [Hey there. You have a husband now! Are you happy? He’s super generous—he gave a ten-thousand-dollar dowry!] [Thanks to my hard work, your family totally spoils you now. You eat at the table, you have meat every day, and you don’t have to do any chores! You can sleep in as late as you want.] [I bought you a smartphone and brand-new clothes.] [I even hid a secret stash of cash for you. There’s a few grand in there. You’re welcome.] I tapped my pen against my chin, thinking. Then, I added one final line: [When you get back, I hope you have a wonderful, happy life!] I closed the notebook. Suddenly, the room started spinning violently. Finally. I was going back.

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I worked three jobs just to put my girlfriend through college. On graduation day, she was officially recognized by a billionaire East Coast family. Everyone told me my struggles were finally over, that I was about to marry into unimaginable wealth. But I looked at the way she avoided my gaze, and I simply asked: “Do you want to break up?” That night, back in my cramped apartment, I opened the calculator app. Good lord. I was going to save five thousand dollars a month. Tell me, should I buy a new graphics card first, or finally get that gym membership? The June commencement ceremony had just ended when Chloe was picked up by a sleek, black Rolls-Royce. I was standing at the edge of the campus, gripping the little celebration cake I had bought her. It cost me $14.99. Strawberry shortcake. Her favorite. I later found out that the car belonged to the Sterling family of Manhattan. Chloe, the girlfriend I had financially supported for four years, had overnight become the long-lost youngest daughter of the Sterling dynasty. A literal Cinderella script. Except in this script, I wasn’t the prince. I was the glass slipper—worn out, used up, and ready to be put back on the shelf. Three days after the reunion, the Sterlings hosted a dinner at an exclusive, members-only club in the city. Officially, it was to celebrate Chloe’s graduation and her return to the family. I got an invite. Honestly, I was surprised. I thought once she found her billionaire parents, I’d automatically be formatted from her hard drive. But I wasn’t. I bought a new button-down shirt for the occasion. $29.99 from Amazon. I thought I looked decent. But the moment I walked into the club, the look the maître d’ gave me snapped me back to reality. How do I describe that look? It’s the look a sales associate at Hermès gives you when you walk in and ask if they have any keychains under fifty bucks. I walked into the private dining room. It was packed. Sterling family members, Chloe’s brand-new “besties,” and a few young guys in tailored suits—who, I later realized, were potential suitors the family had already lined up for her. Yeah. Her boyfriend was standing right there, and they were already setting up blind dates. I found a quiet corner and sat down. Chloe saw me and walked over. She was wearing a dress I had never seen before. I didn’t know the fabric, but my gut told me it cost at least three months of my salary. “Hey, Liam, you made it,” she said, smiling. But she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking past me, catching her own reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror behind my chair. “Yeah,” I replied. “The food here is really expensive, make sure you eat a lot,” she said. That sounded familiar. In college, whenever I took her to an all-you-can-eat buffet, she’d say the same thing. Except back then, the subtext was “don’t waste it.” Now, the subtext was “charity.” I smiled but didn’t say anything. When dinner started, the matriarch of the Sterling family—Chloe’s biological mother—sat at the head of the table. A woman in her late fifties, impeccably maintained, radiating shrewdness. The way she looked at me was interesting. It wasn’t disgust. It was assessment. Like she was appraising a commodity to see if it had any residual value. “So, this is Chloe’s boyfriend?” Mrs. Sterling asked with a polite smile. “Yes, ma’am,” I nodded. “Good man. I heard you supported Chloe through college? Very responsible.” A few of the older women next to her chimed in, chuckling. “Well, your hard work paid off!” “Liam is a lucky guy. Stick with the Sterlings, and you’ll never have to worry about a thing.” I watched Chloe’s face. She was smiling. But her hand, gripping her fork, was trembling. I might have been the ultimate simp for four years, but I wasn’t blind. I know exactly what a woman looks like when she’s guilty. She was terrified. Terrified that I wouldn’t leave. Terrified that I would cling to her. Terrified that I would use my status as her “savior” to block her path to high society. In that moment, I didn’t feel a storm of betrayal or heartbreak. I just suddenly did the math in my head. Four years. Every month, I transferred $1,500 for her rent and living expenses. Birthdays, holidays, anniversaries—averaging $300 a month in gifts. Dates, movies, dinners out—another $700 a month. That was $2,500 a month. $30,000 a year. Over four years… $120,000. I worked three jobs. I ate the cheapest food on campus. I walked to work in the rain to save on bus fare. Every dime I scraped together for four years… went entirely to her. And now, she had been claimed by someone else. Fine. I put my fork down. “Chloe.” My voice was dead calm. The entire table went silent, all eyes turning to me. Chloe froze. I looked at her. “Do you want to break up?” The room dropped into absolute silence. It lasted for about three seconds. Then Chloe let out a forced, unnatural laugh. “Liam, what are you talking about? Don’t be silly.” Her voice was shaking. I just watched her. Her eyes were darting everywhere. Her mouth was smiling, but her pupils were dilated in panic. I understood. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to break up. It was that she didn’t expect me to say it first. Her script probably went like this: ghost me for a few days, wait until I couldn’t take it anymore, and let me walk away on my own. That way, she gets to play the victim and avoids the reputation of dumping the guy who paid her way through life. A perfect script. Too bad I wasn’t going to play my part. “It’s okay,” I said, standing up. “You don’t have to make it awkward. I’ll see myself out.” “Liam!” Chloe called after me. I turned around. Her lips parted, like she wanted to say something meaningful. But all that came out was, “Please… don’t be like this.” I chuckled. “Like what?” She couldn’t answer. Mrs. Sterling’s expression was unreadable. The pre-arranged suitors were exchanging side-glances. I turned and walked out. As I pushed the dining room doors open, I heard someone muttering behind me. “Wait, he just left?” “I sure as hell wouldn’t leave. Only an idiot would walk away from this.” “Tsk. What a loser.” A loser? Sorry. I call it cutting my losses. Outside the club, it was drizzling. I didn’t have an umbrella. I didn’t care if my $30 shirt got wet. Walking down the avenue toward the subway, I pulled out my phone. First, I blocked her number. Then I blocked her on Instagram. Then Snapchat, Facebook, TikTok. Every single platform. Gone. Four years of text messages—deleted with one tap. It was surprisingly easy. Then, I opened my calculator app. $1,500 + $300 + $700 = $2,500. Every single month, I was going to have an extra $2,500. That’s $30,000 a year. Thirty grand. I stared at the numbers on my screen, standing on the subway platform amidst the rush-hour crowd. A massive, uncontrollable grin spread across my face. Why the hell didn’t I dump her sooner? Chapter 2 It was 10 PM by the time I got back to my apartment. I rented a tiny room in a run-down walk-up in Queens for $800 a month. When I pushed the door open, my roommate, Dave, was sitting in the living room playing Call of Duty. Seeing me, he pulled off his headset, his face grave. “Hey, man,” he said softly. “Hey.” “I heard.” “Heard what?” “About Chloe.” He stood up, walked over, and gave my shoulder a heavy pat. “Bro, if you need to cry, my shoulder is right here.” His expression was incredibly serious. Like he was at a funeral. I looked at him. “Did you eat dinner yet?” He blinked. “What?” “I asked if you ate. If not, I’m ordering delivery.” “…” Dave’s face contorted into that awkward expression you get when you’ve prepared a deeply emotional speech, and the other person completely ignores it. “Are you… okay?” he asked hesitantly. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I peeled off my damp shirt, threw on a hoodie, crashed onto our beat-up sofa, and opened UberEats. “Let’s see… the BBQ combo platter. Forty-five bucks.” I hesitated for a second. Before today, I would never spend forty-five dollars on delivery. Because forty-five dollars was enough to buy Chloe a new lipstick. But now? I tapped the ‘Large’ option. “Let’s add some spicy wings. Twenty bucks. And a six-pack.” Checkout. Eighty bucks. That used to be my food budget for two weeks. But today was a day to celebrate. Because starting today, I had an extra $2,500 every single month. What does $2,500 mean? $30,000 a year. $90,000 in three years. If I kept working my three jobs, I could afford a down payment on my own place in five years. The more I calculated, the more excited I got. Dave stood there, watching my expressions change, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Are you… definitely broken up?” “Definitely.” “And you’re sure you’re okay?” “I feel fantastic.” “You’re not just putting on a brave face?” “Do I look like I am?” I shoved my phone in his face, showing him the calculator app. He squinted at it. “What is this?” “My financial roadmap. Look. The first month’s $2,500: I’m putting a thousand in a high-yield savings account, spending five hundred on a gym membership, a hundred on some books, and I have nine hundred left over just to enjoy life.” Dave went silent. He was silent for a solid ten seconds. Then he took a step back, looking at me like I was a psychopath. “Liam, have you lost your damn mind?” “I’m perfectly lucid.” “You paid her way through life for four years! Four years! While you were eating ramen noodles, she was buying La Mer face cream with your money! And you’re telling me you feel fantastic?!” “Yeah,” I nodded, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Think about it. How much is a jar of La Mer? Three hundred bucks? She bought one every two months. That’s $1,800 a year. Over four years, that’s $7,200. On face cream alone, I took a $7,200 loss.” Dave’s face twisted in horror. “Can you please stop doing the math?” “No, the math makes me feel incredible.” I started counting on my fingers. “Then there are the bags. That Coach bag she wanted? Five hundred. Then you have birthdays, Valentine’s Day, anniversaries, Christmas, New Year’s—five holidays a year, averaging two hundred bucks a pop. Do you have any idea how much I spent on her over four years?” “How much?” “Conservative estimate? A hundred and twenty grand.” Dave sucked in a breath. “A hundred and twenty grand… Bro, that’s a down payment on a house.” “Exactly!” I slapped my thigh. “That’s why today is a celebration. I finally stopped the bleeding.” The delivery arrived. I opened the BBQ platter, and the smell of smoked brisket and ribs completely nuked my senses. I used to never buy this stuff for myself. Because every dollar I spent was a dollar I couldn’t give to Chloe. And now? I bit into a rib. Absolutely incredible. “Here, have a beer.” I tossed a can to Dave. He caught it, but didn’t open it. “Liam, seriously… you’re really over it?” I chewed my brisket and thought about it. “Let me put it this way. You know that feeling when you’ve been carrying a massive boulder on your back for four years, and suddenly someone lifts it off? You don’t feel sad. You feel light.” Dave looked at me. Then he cracked open his beer and clinked it against mine. “Alright. Then here’s to you getting rich.” “I’ll drink to that.” I slept incredibly well that night. No dreams. No insomnia. No tossing and turning. It felt like clearing the cache on a slow phone—suddenly, everything was running three times faster. My biggest strength has always been my pragmatism. Once you quantify emotions into numbers, they really aren’t that scary. Chapter 3 The next morning at 6:30 AM, my alarm went off. I got up right on time. I used to wake up at this hour to work my shift at a local diner, so I could send the tips to Chloe. Now, I was waking up to work at the diner—so I could deposit the tips into my own checking account. Same actions, entirely different mindset. I was even humming a song. The diner owner, Maria, noticed my unusual energy and slipped an extra hash brown onto my plate. “You’re in a good mood today, Liam.” “Yeah. I hit the jackpot.” “Won the lottery?” “Close enough.” Ditching a human money-shredder that cost me $2,500 a month? Same thing as the lottery. I worked at the diner until 10 AM. Then I took the subway to my second job—sorting packages at a UPS warehouse. I worked there until 3 PM. Then, I headed to my third job—the evening shift as a cashier at a local grocery store. Clocked out at 11 PM. Between the three jobs, I pulled in about $5,500 a month after taxes. Before, I would take that $5,500, subtract the $2,500 I sent to Chloe, subtract my $800 rent, and subtract $1,000 for my own living expenses (yes, I survived in New York on a grand a month). I barely managed to save $1,200. And now? $5,500 minus $800 for rent, minus $1,500 for living expenses (I decided to treat myself better). I was keeping $3,200 a month. Three thousand, two hundred dollars. What the hell was I doing with my life before today? On my lunch break, I went to the halal cart near the warehouse like always. I usually got the basic $6 chicken over rice. Today, I ordered the $12 combo over rice. Extra meat. Extra white sauce. The cart guy gave me a look. “Big spender today, boss.” Damn right I was. I was mid-bite into my lamb when my phone buzzed. Unknown number. I answered. “Hello?” “Is this Liam?” It was a middle-aged man’s voice. Polite, but carrying the unmistakable tone of someone used to giving orders. “Speaking. Who is this?” “I am Chloe’s father. Richard Sterling.” I stopped chewing. Richard Sterling. The patriarch of the Sterling family. CEO of Sterling Enterprises. The kind of guy whose net worth starts with a ‘B’. Why was he calling me? “Hello, Mr. Sterling,” I said, my tone flat. “What can I do for you?” “It’s about last night,” his voice was steady. “Chloe came home and cried the entire evening.” Oh. She cried. And? “As her father, I’d like to speak with you. If you have the time, could you come by my office this afternoon?” “Speak about what?” A brief pause on the line. “About you and Chloe. And… about your future.” Your future. That phrase carried a lot of weight. Let me translate: I will give you a payout if you agree to never bother my daughter again. Amazing. I initiated the breakup, and he’s offering me severance pay? What do you call this? A windfall? “Sure,” I said. “What time?” “Three o’clock. I’ll send a driver for you.” “No need. I’ll take the subway. Just text me the address.” I hung up and went back to my food. The lamb was incredibly flavorful. I used to never get the extra meat. Because it cost an extra three dollars. Three dollars could buy Chloe a fancy iced coffee. God. Looking back, I really wonder if I had brain damage. At 2:30 PM, I clocked out of the warehouse early. I told my supervisor I had a family emergency. Then I took the train into Manhattan to Richard Sterling’s office. Sterling Enterprises occupied the top floors of a massive glass skyscraper in Midtown. I walked in wearing my dirty UPS uniform. Not because I was trying to play the ‘poor guy’ card. But because I literally didn’t have time to go home and change. And I didn’t own a suit anyway. I walked up to the reception desk and gave my name. The receptionist gave me a look. The exact same look the maître d’ gave me the night before. But she quickly masked it with professional courtesy and escorted me to the private elevator. The CEO’s office had a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. Floor-to-ceiling windows, leather couches, and a massive abstract painting on the wall that probably cost more than my life. Richard Sterling sat behind a sprawling mahogany desk. Early fifties, silver hair slicked back, wearing a bespoke suit. When I walked in, he stood up and offered his hand. “Liam. Thank you for coming. Have a seat.” I shook his hand and sat down. An assistant silently brought me an espresso. Sterling looked at me, a polite smile on his face. “Liam, I prefer to be direct.” “Please.” “You supported Chloe through four years of college. The Sterling family acknowledges that debt.” I didn’t say anything. “I had my team look into your background. Three jobs, bringing in about five grand a month. You work hard. You have grit.” He ran a background check on me. Classic. Rich people don’t breathe without running a background check first. “And that is why I want to compensate you.” Here it comes. “Your relationship with Chloe… it was young love. But now that she’s returned to her family, her social circles, her future… you must see how things have changed.” The unspoken subtext: You’re out of your league, kid. I got it. “So,” Sterling opened his desk drawer, pulled out a sleek black envelope, and slid it across the desk toward me. “There is a cashier’s check in here for two hundred thousand dollars. Consider it compensation for the four years you invested in my daughter. Furthermore, if you are agreeable, I can arrange a junior management position for you at one of our subsidiary logistics companies. Starting salary, ninety thousand a year.” Two hundred grand cash. And a $90k corporate job. He wasn’t messing around. I looked at the envelope. Then I looked at Richard Sterling. “Mr. Sterling,” I said. “I have a question.” “Go ahead.” “Is this two hundred thousand taxable?” Sterling’s polite smile froze. “…Excuse me?” “Income tax. If this is classified as a sudden windfall or miscellaneous income, the IRS is going to take a huge chunk. I’d only see about a hundred and forty grand. But if we structure this as a formal ‘Gift,’ it falls under your lifetime gift tax exemption, right? I’m not a CPA, but you have an accounting department, don’t you?” The sprawling office went dead silent for two seconds. Sterling’s expression was a masterpiece. It was the shock of a man who had choreographed a dramatic scene, only for his co-star to completely toss the script out the window. He had probably prepared two scenarios. Scenario A: I refuse the money in a tearful display of pride, claiming I only want Chloe’s love, forcing him to ruthlessly crush my dreams. Scenario B: I greedily snatch the money, bowing in eternal gratitude while he looks down at me with disgust. He did not prepare for Scenario C. Accepting the money while aggressively optimizing my tax liability. “Liam…” Sterling said, his tone shifting. “What exactly are you playing at?” “I accept your offer, Mr. Sterling,” I said bluntly. “But I have two conditions.” “Let’s hear them.”

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