It was the Labor Day weekend, and I had agreed to drive out to the suburbs to meet Beth’s parents. We had just settled the final details of our pre-nuptial financial agreement—a tense but necessary conversation—when the atmosphere in the dining room curdled. Beth’s mother, Mrs. Walters, had disappeared into the kitchen to fetch the roast when it happened: a shimmering, translucent line of text flickered across my vision like a digital hallucination. The words were a chilling warning. They claimed that Beth’s mother was about to frame me for stealing a gold heirloom bracelet. It went further, predicting a systematic campaign to bleed my family dry, eventually forcing me to sign over my house. I was still blinking, trying to make sense of the glowing script, when a sharp cry erupted from the hallway. “My vintage bracelet! It’s gone! I left it right here on the nightstand!” Beth’s sister-in-law, Cynthia, immediately whipped her head toward me, her eyes narrowing with practiced suspicion. “Wait… didn’t I see Wyatt go toward the master suite a few minutes ago?” I felt a cold smile touch my lips. Instead of panicking, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. “Since you’re so certain,” I said, my voice steady and dangerously calm, “let’s let the police explain it to us.” 1 When Mrs. Walters shrieked, “My gold bracelet is missing!” I was already reeling from the bizarre text hovering in the air. Now, a localized chill crawled up my spine. I suppressed the urge to rub my eyes. I watched her closely, noticing the quick, jagged glance exchanged between her and Cynthia. “Pretty sure Wyatt was the only one in the master bedroom recently,” Cynthia repeated, her finger practically touching my nose. Suddenly, every eye in the room was a weapon. The relatives leaned in, their gazes heavy with judgment and a dark, eager curiosity. My skin prickled. The text flitted across my field of vision again, and I felt the blood drain from my face. Beth stepped close to me, her hand gripping my bicep a little too tightly. She lowered her voice to a frantic whisper. “Wyatt, did you take it? That was my dad’s twenty-fifth-anniversary gift to her. She’s obsessed with it. If you have it, just give it back now before things get ugly.” I looked at her, truly looked at her, and felt a hollow ache of disappointment. “You actually think I’d steal a piece of jewelry from your mother?” Beth’s eyes darted away, unable to meet mine. She knew better. The housewarming gifts I’d brought today—the rare vintage wine and the designer handbag for her mother—cost more than that bracelet was worth. Mrs. Walters sniffed, her voice dripping with artificial sorrow. “I thought we were bringing a gentleman into the family. I didn’t realize we were inviting a common thief.” The insult burned. I stood my ground, watching them with the detached interest of a scientist observing a lab rat. Beth, losing her patience, began to tug at my arm. “Just let them look in your briefcase, Wyatt! If you didn’t do anything, you have nothing to fear, right?” Before I could even voice my refusal, Mrs. Walters lunged for my bag. As I moved to block her, a fresh wave of text surged before my eyes: [Holy crap, Beth’s mom is a pro. She slipped the bracelet into the side pocket of the briefcase while he was in the bathroom. He’s screwed.] My heart skipped a beat. A setup. A goddamn trap. I stepped in front of her, my voice dropping an octave. “Is this how you treat a guest? Slander and illegal searches?” Beth didn’t skip a beat. She grabbed both my arms, pinning them to my sides. “If you’re innocent, why are you acting so guilty? Mom, go ahead. Check it!” Mrs. Walters spat a curse, grabbed my leather briefcase, and turned it upside down. A cascade of files and my laptop hit the hardwood floor, and then—with a metallic clink—a heavy gold band rolled across the floor, coming to rest right against the toe of my shoe. Mrs. Walters pounced on it like a bird of prey. “Not even officially in the family yet, and you’re already looting my house!” she screamed. “What kind of people raised you? You’re a goddamn criminal!” The digital feed was losing its mind: [They planned this. They want to use the ‘theft’ as leverage to trap him into a one-sided marriage contract.] The room fell into a suffocating silence, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing. The condemnation in the room was physical, a weight pressing on my chest. I took a deep breath. If I let this narrative take hold today, my family’s reputation would be shredded, marriage or no marriage. Beth let go of me, rolling her eyes with a theatrical huff. She poked me in the chest. “My mom said she was going to give me her jewelry for the wedding anyway, but you couldn’t wait? Just apologize, Wyatt. Now.” 2 My brow furrowed, the veins in my temples throbbing with a rhythmic heat. Before I could speak, Mrs. Walters cut me off with a jagged laugh. “I don’t want his apology. The wedding is off!” I was shaking with rage, but my mind remained unnervingly sharp. I looked her in the eye. “What proof do you have that this bracelet is actually yours?” The shimmering text paused for a fraction of a second before exploding: [Damn, he’s got a brain! He’s not falling for the ‘prove you’re innocent’ trap.] [Go get ‘em, King!] Mrs. Walters choked on her next insult. I reached down, snatched the bracelet from her hand before she could react, and held it up to the light. “It’s a plain gold band. No engraving, no unique markers. How do you know this isn’t mine? I carry high-value items for my business all the time.” She was speechless, her face turning a mottled purple. The chorus of relatives started up again, accusing me of being disrespectful and delusional. I didn’t engage. In the distance, the faint, wailing herald of a siren began to grow louder. I looked at their ugly, distorted faces and smiled. “Why don’t you tell the police all about it?” The text feed went wild: [Wait, when did he call the cops?] [This isn’t how the script usually goes!] A moment later, two officers were at the door. I finally let go of the phone I’d been clutching in my pocket. The moment I had seen the first ‘hallucination’ and realized the vibe in the room had shifted, I’d sent a pre-written emergency text to a friend of mine on the force. Mrs. Walters tried to turn on the charm the second she saw the uniforms, waving it off as a ‘family misunderstanding.’ I stepped forward, my voice echoing in the small foyer. “She performed an illegal search of my property after orchestrating a false accusation of theft.” Beth tried to play the peacemaker, stepping between us, but I spoke over her with clinical precision. “Your mother claims the item was stolen from the bedroom. I noticed the curtains were open when we arrived—there’s a Nest camera on the neighbor’s porch that has a direct line of sight into that window. Shall we pull the footage?” I had spent the last ten minutes scanning every inch of the environment while they were screaming at me. The lead officer nodded, taking out his notebook. Mrs. Walters turned pale. She started stammering, and I didn’t give her an inch. I crossed my arms. “If you can’t prove the bracelet is yours, then it’s mine. It was in my bag, after all.” Trapped by her own lies in front of her entire family and the law, she finally hissed through gritted teeth, “I… I must have accidentally dropped it into your bag while I was helping you with your coat.” I laughed, a sharp, cold sound. “That’s a neat trick. My bag was zipped shut in the living room, and your bracelet was in a jewelry box in the back of the house.” Beth reached for my hand again, but I recoiled as if she were a viper. “We’re done, Beth. Your family is a nightmare, and I’m clearly overqualified for the role of your victim.” The officers watched as I gathered my things. Beth’s family screamed insults at my back as I walked down the driveway. “Let him go! We don’t need a petty, small-minded man like him in this house anyway!” I got into my car, the adrenaline finally beginning to ebb. The text feed was still scrolling: [Beth isn’t going to let a wealthy, only-child catch like Wyatt go that easily. That whole family was planning to live off his inheritance.] I stared out the windshield, my heart sinking, but a plan was already forming. I wasn’t just going to walk away. I was going to make sure they paid for the attempt. When I got home, my parents were waiting in the living room. My mother saw my face and stood up immediately. I dropped the ruined gifts on the floor and told them everything. 3 My mother’s eyes turned like flint as I finished. “They were trying to break you,” she said quietly. “I told you those people were vultures. What do you want to do now?” My father chimed in from the armchair. “It’s a blessing, son. Better to see the fangs now than after you’ve signed a marriage license. Walk away and don’t look back.” My heart swelled. They were my bedrock. I was ready to move on. But the next morning, I was jolted awake by the shimmering text: [Wyatt is still sleeping while the Walters clan is at his front door. They brought a ‘dowry’ briefcase to force a reconciliation.] The last remnants of sleep vanished. I threw on a robe and headed for the door. Beth was there, looking manic and over-eager. “Wyatt! Baby, listen. My mom feels terrible about the misunderstanding. Look—she went to the bank this morning. She’s putting up an extra hundred thousand for our house fund. More than we even discussed!” She held up a heavy silver briefcase. I narrowed my eyes. Yesterday, they were trying to frame me; today, they were showering me with cash? Something stank. “I thought I made myself clear yesterday,” I said. “There is no wedding.” Mrs. Walters pushed her way forward. “You’ve been living with my daughter for a year, Wyatt. You can’t just toss her aside like yesterday’s trash. Think of her reputation!” I said nothing, but the text feed was screaming in neon: [They haven’t changed a bit. The briefcase is stuffed with counterfeit bills.] I felt a smirk tugging at my lips. Mrs. Walters kept talking, trying to charm my mother, who had appeared behind me. “This money is for the kids’ future,” Mrs. Walters pleaded. “A gesture of goodwill!” I chuckled. “So, we should display this at the wedding? Like a traditional gift table?” My mother gave me a sharp, questioning look, but Beth and her mom beamed, thinking they’d won me over. The feed went nuclear: [I see their game. They want him to accept the ‘cash’ now, so they can later claim he stole or lost the real money at the wedding. It’s a double-scam.] “You know,” I said, “it’s not safe to keep this much cash in the house. We should go to the bank and deposit it right now.” Beth and her mom exchanged a frantic look. “Oh, it’s fine for a few days,” Beth said quickly. “Besides, we want it for the ceremony photos. Don’t be so difficult.” I stared at her until she shifted uncomfortably. Then, I turned and walked into my study. I emerged a moment later carrying a professional-grade bill counter. “If this is going to be our ‘future,’” I said calmly, “let’s count it. I wouldn’t want there to be any more… misunderstandings about missing assets.” The color drained from their faces. Beth started snapping at me, telling me I didn’t trust them. I ignored her and signaled for our housekeeper to block the exit. I started the machine. The first stack went through—genuine hundreds. I felt a flicker of doubt. Was the feed wrong? Then I hit the second layer. Beep. Beep. BEEP. The machine jammed. The bills were high-quality fakes. I pulled out the rest of the stacks and realized the middle was filled with “Motion Picture Use Only” prop money—bundles of paper that looked real from the side but were blank in the center. My mother let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Well. I suppose you don’t need a machine to tell those are fake, do you?” Beth was sweating now. “The bank… the bank must have made a mistake! They gave us the wrong bundles!” I leaned in, my voice a cold whisper. “Which bank, Beth? Tell me exactly which branch. We’ll go there with the police right now.” She went silent. I didn’t hesitate. I picked up my phone. “I’d like to report a massive fraud attempt,” I told the dispatcher.

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Dinner tonight was a bitter pill to swallow. I’d spent the entire morning at the farmer’s market and the afternoon hovering over a hot stove, prepping a spread that could feed a small army. My back ached, but I wanted everything to be perfect. Across the table, my sister-in-law, Amber, flashed me a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Her voice was sugary, but the words were laced with venom. She started dropping hints about how “comfortable” I’d made myself, how I seemed to treat my childhood home like a free hotel every time I was on break from grad school. Then, she pointedly looked at my plate. “You’re really going for the expensive stuff, aren’t you, Dana?” she asked, her voice tilting upward in mock curiosity. Before I could respond, my six-year-old niece, Piper, pushed her bowl away. Her eyes welled up with performative tears. “Auntie Dana took all the shrimp! I didn’t get any!” I froze. I had literally just picked up my second piece. Amber didn’t hesitate. She reached over with her own fork, snatched the shrimp right off my plate, and dropped it into Piper’s bowl. She sighed, looking at me with a patronizing pity. “It’s not that I’m stingy, Dana. It’s just… you’re a grown woman. You shouldn’t be lingering in someone else’s house, eating them out of house and home.” Someone else’s house? I turned to my brother, James. He kept his head down, shoveled rice into his mouth, and refused to meet my eyes. 1 My mom had only been on her dream trip to Tuscany for two weeks, and already, they were acting like this house—the house I had lived in since I was in diapers—belonged solely to them. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in my throat, fueled by pure indignation. Amber set her silverware down with a delicate clink and leaned in. “Look, Dana, I’m not trying to kick you out.” She sighed again, her tone so maternal it made my skin crawl. “I left home before I even finished high school. I worked three jobs, paid my own way, and even helped my younger brother with a down payment on his condo. And here you are, in your mid-twenties, still relying on family. I’m just worried about you.” She paused, her gaze narrowing. “A girl can’t stay in her ‘maiden home’ forever. It looks bad to the neighbors. People talk.” Every sentence was wrapped in the guise of “caring for me.” But every word felt like a deliberate needle prick. I gripped my fork so hard my knuckles turned white. Beside her, Piper pointed a greasy finger at me and shrilled, “Leech! Mommy says you’re a shameless leech!” “Piper! Don’t say that!” Amber chided, though the corners of her mouth were twitching upward. I stared at the grains of rice in my bowl, my voice trembling when I finally found it. “I come home on breaks because this is my home. And I never come empty-handed. Every time I’m here, I—” “Oh, please!” Amber cut me off with a sharp laugh. “We’re family, why are you keeping score? You stay here for free, don’t you? We don’t charge you rent.” She glanced at James, then back at me, her eyes glinting with a calculated spark. “Tell you what. Based on the current market rate in this neighborhood, why don’t you just give your brother fifteen hundred a month? Consider it a ‘contribution’ to the household. Sound fair?” I was stunned. I’d lived here for over twenty years. And now, I was being asked to pay for the privilege of sleeping in my own bed? I opened my mouth, but the words died in my throat. James finally looked up. His expression was cold, distant—the look of a landlord, not a brother. “Dana, just do what Amber says. It’ll make things easier for everyone.” Easier for everyone. It hit me then. This wasn’t a spontaneous argument. They had choreographed this. Amber played the villain, James played the “reasonable” decider, and even a six-year-old had been coached on when to call me a leech. I looked at the man sitting across from me. He felt like a stranger. I remembered when our parents were going through their messy divorce years ago; he was the one who held my hand and told me, “Don’t be scared, Dana. I’ve got you.” When I got into my Master’s program, he’d slipped a few hundred dollars into my bag and told me to study hard. But this version of James? He was treating me like an unwanted tenant. I couldn’t take it. I slammed my cutlery onto the table, stood up, and stormed back to my room. As the door swung shut, I heard Amber’s voice drift from the dining room. “Look at that temper. No wonder she’s still single.” She didn’t whisper it. She wanted me to hear. Then James’s voice: “Let it go. If she won’t pay, she won’t pay. Don’t stoop to her level.” I leaned against the door, the first hot tears spilling over. My phone buzzed in my pocket. 2 I swiped at my eyes and looked at the screen. It was a text from Mom. “Hi honey! I managed to change my flight. I’ll be home tomorrow! I picked up those dark chocolates you love from that little shop in Florence. Can’t wait to see you!” The tears came faster then. I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I typed out a long, rambling message about how cruel they were being, then deleted it. I typed it again. Deleted it again. Finally, I just replied: “Sounds good. Safe flight.” Outside, I could hear Amber and Piper laughing. “Mommy, the shrimp is so yummy!” “Eat up, baby. It’s all yours.” I closed my eyes, letting the tears disappear into my hair. When Amber first married into the family, I truly looked at her as the sister I never had. She came from a rough background—a small town where girls weren’t expected to do much, and she’d been working since she was sixteen. I remember the first time she told me about her past; her eyes had been red, her voice thick with the pain of being ignored by her own parents. I’d felt so much for her. I’d taken her hand and told her, “Amber, this is your home now. You have us.” When Piper was born, I was the one who stepped up. I did the midnight feedings so Amber could sleep. For her birthday, I used my meager savings from a work-study job to buy her a designer scarf. She’d bragged about it for weeks. “My sister-in-law has such great taste,” she’d tell everyone. Once, when she and James had a blow-up fight and she ran out of the house crying, I’d chased her down for three blocks. I bought her a coffee, sat with her in the park, and listened to her vent until the sun went down. I took her shopping, did her nails, introduced her to the city. She told me no one had ever treated her like that before. I thought we were family. But looking back, maybe she never saw me that way. Maybe I was just a convenience. When I was picking a grad school, she was the loudest voice in my ear, telling me to stay local. “Stay close to home,” she’d say. “If anything happens, James and I are right here to back you up.” I had been so touched. I thought she loved me. I even bragged to my friends about what a “cool” sister-in-law I had. But once I started school, the calls started every weekend. “Can you come home? We’re so busy.” And every time I came back, I was the one grocery shopping, cooking, scrubbing the floors, and doing the laundry. She would just sit on the sofa, scrolling through her phone, acting as if my labor was a given. One summer, she went on a trip with her friends and left Piper with me for a week. I was trying to finish my thesis while wrangling a toddler. When she returned, she told her friends right in front of me, “Dana is so great. She’s better with the baby than I am!” I took it as a compliment then. Now, I see it for what it was: a tactic to keep me working. Even a few months ago, when the refrigerator died, she complained about it for days until I used two thousand dollars from my part-time tutoring gig to buy a new one for the house. I treated her like a sister. She treated me like an ATM and a maid. The weight of the betrayal felt heavy in my chest. I pulled the duvet over my head, trying to stifle my sobs. After a while, the silence of the house settled in. I got up to go to the bathroom, and as I passed James’s room, I heard hushed voices. 3 It was Amber. “I’m telling you, we can’t wait. We have to get her out of here before your mom gets back.” I froze, my breath catching in my throat. “Every month she’s here, the utility bills go up,” Amber continued. “And you know how your mom is. She favors her. Who knows if she’ll try to leave the whole house to Dana in the will? We need to secure the deed now, so we can move forward with that… other thing.” “Yeah,” James’s voice was low, resigned. “You’re right.” “I’ve got a plan,” Amber whispered, followed by a soft, sharp laugh. “You’ll see tomorrow.” My heart hammered against my ribs. A plan? The next morning, the living room was a hive of activity. I woke up to the sound of hushed, urgent whispering. “It’s just shameful… she needs to be taught a lesson…” “You can’t let this kind of behavior slide…” I frowned, threw on a robe, and stepped out of my room. The living room was crowded. James, Amber, and Piper were there, but so were the neighbors: Mrs. Higgins from downstairs, Sarah from across the hall, and Mrs. Gable from the next unit over. They all turned to look at me at once. Their eyes weren’t friendly. They looked at me like I was a criminal caught in the act. On the coffee table, several empty jewelry boxes were scattered, along with Amber’s favorite leather tote bag, which had been turned inside out. Amber spoke first. “Dana, I need to ask you something.” Her voice was trembling, the perfect image of a victim. “My diamond necklace, my gold hoops, and all the cash I had in my bag… it’s all gone. There’s no one else in the house. Did you take them?” I looked at her, and a cold, sharp realization washed over me. So this was the “plan.” Luckily, I hadn’t spent the night just crying. I’d prepared. “I didn’t take anything,” I said, my voice remarkably steady. Amber scoffed. “You didn’t take it? So it just grew legs and walked away?” “I have no idea where your things are.” I turned to walk back to my room. Suddenly, Piper stepped out from behind Amber’s legs. “Auntie Dana…” Her lower lip trembled, her eyes wide and tearful. She looked up at the neighbors, then pointed a small, shaky hand at me. “Mommy told me to be honest… it’s not right…” She started to sob. “Yesterday… I saw Auntie Dana go into Mommy’s room. She was digging through the jewelry box… she told me not to tell or she’d hurt me…” 4 A bucket of ice water couldn’t have made me feel colder. To coach a six-year-old to lie like that—to use her own child as a weapon—was a new low. Amber immediately pulled Piper into a hug. “Oh, Dana! How could you? She’s only six! You’re terrifying her into lying for you!” I opened my mouth to defend myself, but I looked at James instead. He was staring at the empty jewelry boxes, his head bowed, refusing to look at his own sister. Mrs. Higgins sighed, shaking her head. “Dana, honey, if things are tight, you should have just asked. But this? Your sister-in-law has been so good to you. This is heartbreaking.” Sarah chipped in, “Honestly, these grad students… they look so respectable, but you never know what they’re doing behind closed doors. Stealing from family? How do you even show your face?” I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. “I. Did. Not. Take. It.” Amber put a hand to her chest, looking like she was about to faint. “Dana, just admit it. Keep the jewelry, I don’t care. Just don’t lie to me.” I took a deep breath and looked directly at my brother. “James. Do you really believe this?” His shoulders tensed. It took him a long time to speak. “If you took it… just give it back. Don’t make this harder on everyone than it already is.” Amber saw my silence as a white flag. She stood up, her voice rising an octave, gaining strength. “My mother-in-law isn’t here, so I’m going to do what’s necessary. I’m setting a boundary!” She pointed toward the front door, her eyes gleaming with a manic sort of triumph. “Pack your bags and get out. Now! We will not have a thief under this roof!” I stood my ground, crossing my arms. “You’re really committed to this, aren’t you?” “Get out!” she screamed. “Evidence,” I said calmly. “Everything requires evidence. Tell you what. Go into my room. Search it. If you find anything, I’ll leave and never come back. But if you don’t, you apologize to me in front of everyone here.” Amber blinked, caught off guard for a split second, but she recovered quickly. “Search? Why would I search? You’ve obviously hidden it somewhere else. I’m not playing your games.” She turned to the neighbors, her face a mask of wounded dignity. “You see? Even caught red-handed, she’s so arrogant. I’ve done everything for her, and this is how she treats me.” Mrs. Higgins stepped forward to play peacemaker. “Dana, just apologize. Don’t let it get this ugly…” Amber didn’t wait for her to finish. She lunged forward and grabbed my arm, trying to pull me toward the door. “Go! Just go! I don’t want to see your face—” The moment her hand touched my skin, the sound of a key turning in the lock echoed through the room. Click. The front door swung open. My mother stood there, her suitcase in hand, staring at the chaos in her living room.

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The Great Famine was exactly seven days away, but the heat had already turned the world into a pre-apocalyptic kiln. I’ve come back. I’ve been reborn into the exact moment I first received the Feast System. The memories of my past life are still etched into my retinas like a burn—the way I starved myself, scrounging every calorie the System provided just to keep my sister and my boyfriend alive. And how did they reward me? Once the world stabilized, they locked me in a windowless basement. They used me. They bled me. My boyfriend told me the Feast System should have been his from the start. He said if he had it, he could have saved Hailey—his “best friend,” his “soulmate.” He called me selfish for not giving half my rations to a woman who had never offered me so much as a smile. Even my own sister turned on me, claiming I was just jealous of Hailey’s popularity, that I was hoarding food out of spite. I died in that basement, watching my own blood pool on the concrete. Now, history is repeating itself. My sister is reaching for the System, her eyes gleaming with the same greed. She wants to be the savior. She wants to ensure Hailey lives so that Jude will finally look at her with gratitude. I watched her back as she turned to leave, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. She has no idea. She took the Feast System, but she doesn’t know I have a second one. I have the Siphon. 1 “Feast System online. Selecting host for binding…” “I’ll take that!” Before the System could lock onto my DNA, my sister, Macy, lunged forward and snatched the interface out of the air. “Binding initiated… Binding complete!” Macy let out a breathy, triumphant laugh. Her face was flushed with an ugly kind of joy. “Honestly, Claire, you wouldn’t even know what to do with power like this. Better to leave the heavy lifting to me.” The way her eyes sparkled gave her away. She’s back, too. She remembers. In my last life, when the temperatures spiked and the supply chains collapsed, I was the one who kept us fed. I practically hand-fed her and my boyfriend, Jude. In exchange, they conspired to toss me into the dark, letting me bleed out because I wouldn’t let Hailey raid our pantry. I felt a cold, sharp stone settle in my chest. If you love Hailey so much that you’d kill your own flesh and blood for her, Macy, then let’s see how far that loyalty goes this time. “Fine,” I said, my voice intentionally flat, feigning indifference. “Take it. I don’t even know what that thing is supposed to be.” Macy sneered, her lip curling in disdain at my “ignorance.” She turned her attention back to the glowing blue interface in her palms, stroking it like a lover. To test her new toy, she whispered a command: “Feast System, give me a roasted chicken.” A second later, a golden-brown, glistening bird appeared on our kitchen table. The scent of rosemary and fat filled the room, making my stomach ache with a phantom hunger. “Oh my god,” Macy breathed, her eyes wide. “Infinite food. I’m never going to be hungry again.” She’s so naive. The Feast System isn’t a magic wand; its reserves are finite. In my previous life, I skipped meals for days, storing every scrap for her and Jude. I loved them more than I loved myself. I was a fool. “Now that I’m the one with the food, Jude is going to realize who the real asset is,” Macy said, her voice dropping into that sugary, manipulative tone she always used when she was winning. “Don’t be too jealous when he starts coming to me for everything, Claire.” I didn’t realize back then that she had a thing for my boyfriend. I was too busy trying to keep us from dying. Macy squinted at me, a flicker of suspicion crossing her face. “You… you don’t know the rules for using this, do you?” She was testing me. Trying to see if I was a “Returner” like her. After all, I was the original master of the Feast. I shook my head slowly. “Rules? It’s your thing, Macy. Why would I know anything about it?” She let out a long, visible sigh of relief. The suspicion in her eyes was instantly replaced by pure, unadulterated arrogance. “Perfect. I’m going to go find Jude and Hailey. We have a lot to talk about.” The moment the front door slammed shut, I whispered into the empty room. “Siphon. Status report.” 2 “Siphon System online. Awaiting host instructions.” In my first life, I had actually been granted two systems. But back then, I was “good.” I was “moral.” I knew resources were scarce, and the Siphon felt like a villain’s tool. It felt wrong to take from others when everyone was struggling to survive. But I’m not that girl anymore. That girl died in a basement. I checked the date on my phone. June 20th. We had seven days before the heat became lethal and the world went dark. It was more than enough time. I grabbed my keys and drove to the outskirts of the city, to a decommissioned industrial lab my father had left me. On the surface, it looked like a rusted-out husk of a building—an old chemical research firm. But beneath the floorboards lay a massive, high-tech bunker. My father had spent his life there, working on classified contracts. Before he died, he gave me the only key. It had everything: a bedroom, a full kitchen, a reinforced ventilation system, and even a luxury bathroom. It was a fortress. I spent the next three days in a fever dream of preparation. I hit every wholesale club in the county. Cases of bottled water, mountain-sized stacks of protein bars, canned goods, medical supplies—I hauled them all into the bunker. The space was the size of three football fields; I could live here for years without ever seeing the sun. While I was dripping sweat and hauling crates, Macy was playing house. She thought the Feast System was a permanent get-out-of-jail-free card. When I finally dragged myself back to our shared apartment, looking like I’d been through a war, she just laughed. “Rough day at the office? You look like hell, Claire.” I didn’t look at her. I cracked a bottle of water and downed half of it in one go. “Just looking for work. The market’s drying up.” “Don’t bother,” she said, her voice smug. “Pretty soon, work isn’t going to—” She cut herself off, realizing she was about to spoil the surprise. She had no intention of warning me about the apocalypse. She wanted me to be caught off guard. She wanted me to be desperate. “Anyway,” she continued, changing the subject. “I think Jude’s finally realizing that he and I have a deeper connection. You should probably just… let him go. Do the graceful thing.” I glanced at her and forced a smile. “You? I thought he was obsessed with Hailey.” “It’s not like that!” Macy snapped, standing up. “They’re just close. They’re like family. Stop being so insecure.” I didn’t argue. I just went to my room and started ordering more supplies on my phone. Macy followed me, her tone softening into that fake-sweet register. “Claire, why are you spending all that money on Amazon? Stop wasting it. Give me your credit card—I want to buy Jude something special for his birthday.” I frowned. “You’re trying to steal my boyfriend, and you want me to pay for it?” “Don’t be so dramatic,” she huffed. “You guys aren’t even married. I have a right to pursue happiness. And honestly? He doesn’t even love you.” In my last life, she’d said the opposite. Every time Jude and I fought, she’d be there, telling me what a “catch” he was, how I’d never find anyone better. She was just keeping me in the relationship so she could stay close to him. My happiness was never part of her equation. Looking at her now, I felt a wave of nausea. I didn’t hate her for wanting Jude. I hated her for being so willing to watch me starve while she did it. 3 I didn’t give her a dime. I let her scream and throw a tantrum in the hallway while I locked my bedroom door and calculated my final needs. Solar generators for the bunker. Specialized steel plates to reinforce the vault door. I even moved my father’s old “defensive research” samples into the bunker—just in case. Finally, I set up a network of tiny, undetectable cameras throughout the apartment. I needed to see the look on their faces when the walls started closing in. By the time I was finished, the apartment felt like a tomb. Macy hadn’t done a thing to prepare. She’d bought a few cases of San Pellegrino and locked them in her closet, convinced that her “magic” would handle the rest. Jude came over that evening. Macy flew to the door like a moth to a flame. “Jude! You’re here! Claire’s just being lazy in her room again,” she chirped. “Where’s Hailey? Didn’t she come with you?” Jude looked frayed. He was sweating through his shirt, his eyes darting around the room. He grabbed Macy by the shoulders. “That thing you said… about the world ending. The heat. Are you sure?” Macy nodded, her expression solemn. “Trust me. But don’t worry. I have the Feast. I’ll take care of you.” Jude’s eyes widened. “We have to tell Claire. We need to get her to—” Macy cut him off, her hand on his chest. “Why? So she can eat our food? So she can complain and drag us down? Jude, if you’re still hung up on her, then maybe my ‘gifts’ aren’t for you.” She pouted, her eyes welling with fake tears. Jude didn’t hesitate for more than a second. The survival instinct—or maybe just the greed—erased every ounce of loyalty he had for the woman who had supported him for eight years. He pulled Macy into his arms. “No,” he whispered. “You’re right. It’s always been you, Macy. She… she doesn’t need to know. But we have to make sure Hailey is safe. She’s my best friend. I can’t lose her.” “Of course,” Macy purred. “Hailey is like a sister to me. We’ll look after her.” I watched it all on my phone from the other side of the door. Jude and I had met in college. He was the guy eating plain ramen in the library because he couldn’t afford a meal plan. I was the girl who gave him half my tray every single day, even when my own father’s lab was bleeding money. I lived in a damp basement for three years so he could start his business. I drank myself into a stomach ulcer at corporate dinners to land him his first big clients. He had knelt by my hospital bed and sworn I was his entire world. And now, with the world about to burn, he was choosing to let me “die off” so there would be more for him and his mistress. I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white. Okay, Jude. Let’s see how that loyalty tastes when the plates are empty. 4 The day before the collapse. Macy had invited Jude and Hailey to move into the apartment. Apparently, Jude didn’t fully trust Macy’s “magic,” because he had spent his savings on a massive haul of supplies. The living room was stacked floor-to-ceiling with crates of water and canned meat. “Why did you buy all this?” Macy asked, sounding offended. “Don’t you trust my System?” Hailey, a blonde woman with a perpetually bored expression, shifted uncomfortably. Jude stepped in, kissing Macy’s cheek. “It’s just a backup, babe. High temperatures are coming. We have to be smart.” Macy leaned into him, beaming. “Fine. Give me a kiss.” Jude obliged, though I could see the slight flinch in his eyes. “Where’s your sister?” Jude asked, glancing toward my closed door. Macy sat on the sofa, lazily painting her nails. “Working. Or whatever it is she does. But don’t worry—I changed the locks while she was out this morning. I even reinforced the window frames. When she tries to come home tonight, she’s going to find out she’s been evicted.” Jude looked startled. “You’re locking her out? Macy, if the riots start…” “So what?” Macy snapped. “She’s always been the ‘perfect’ one. The smart one. The one with the boyfriend. I’m over it. If she gets caught in a riot, it’s one less thing for me to worry about.” Jude’s face paled, but then he looked at his mountain of supplies. “Right. I mean… we don’t know how long the heat will last. We have to prioritize.” He turned to Hailey. “You okay with this?” Hailey shrugged. “She never liked me anyway. Always acted like she was better than me just because she was paying your rent. Good riddance.” A united front. Three people I would have died for, deciding I wasn’t worth a single calorie. I sat in my bunker, three stories underground, eating a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips and watching them on my tablet. The next day, the sun rose, and the world broke. The temperature hit 115 by noon. The news was full of reports of melting asphalt and power grids failing. My trio was huddled in the apartment, blinds drawn, eating ramen and feeling very smug. But their supplies were only meant to last a few weeks. Fast forward fourteen days. The fridge was a graveyard of empty containers. The crates in the living room were gone. “Okay, Macy,” Jude said, his voice cracked from thirst. “Time to show us what you can do.” Hailey leaned forward, her eyes hungry. “Yeah, Macy. Let’s see this ‘Feast’ in action.” Macy stood up, tossing her hair back with a flourish. “Easy. Watch this.” She closed her eyes, summoning the interface. “Feast System: Three large pepperoni pizzas. Now.” Ping. Three steaming, grease-glistening pizzas appeared on the coffee table. The smell was heavenly. Jude and Hailey lunged forward like starving animals. But before their fingers could touch the crust, the pizzas vanished. They didn’t just fall. They didn’t slide. They simply ceased to exist in that space. “What the—?” Jude yelled, his hands hitting the empty table. “Where did it go?”

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The lawyer slid a shoebox across the desk toward me. He said it was the inheritance left by Mr. Thomas Becker. I popped the lid. There wasn’t any cash inside. Just fifteen bundles of Western Union money order receipts, bound tightly with rubber bands. The paper was yellowing at the edges. I pulled the top slip from the pile. The designated payee was Haley Becker. The amount was exactly $500.00. The date stamped at the top read March 15, 2009—the year I turned twelve. I distinctly remembered my mother’s voice: Your father walked out on us. He never gave us a single red cent. I flipped through the slips, one by one, until I reached the very last receipt at the bottom of the final bundle. The date stopped at February 3, 2024. Exactly one week before he died. One hundred and eighty receipts in total. Stamped across the front of every single one, in bright, unforgiving red ink, was the word: CASHED. Every last penny had been claimed. 1. The lawyer’s name was Mr. Wallace. He was in his fifties, operating out of a cramped office where a potted fern dying by the window seemed to suck all the air out of the room. He watched me sitting there in absolute silence, eventually pouring a paper cup of water and pushing it toward me. “Ms. Becker, your father was diagnosed with late-stage lung cancer late last year. He passed away on February ninth.” I didn’t take the water. I just stared at the bundle of receipts in my hand. The top one: March 2009, $500. The second one: April 2009, $500. The third, the fourth, the fifth. One for every single month. He never missed a beat. “He… he kept sending money?” I managed to choke out. “Yes,” Mr. Wallace said quietly. “For fifteen years. Once a month, without fail.” I snapped the rubber band off the first stack and spread them out across his desk. All of 2009, $500 a month. 2010, still $500. In 2011, it bumped up to $600. By 2012, $800. My fingers moved faster, flipping through the years. 2015, $1,200. 2018, $1,500. 2021, $2,000. For the last two years, it was $2,500 a month. I pulled out that final slip again. February 3, 2024. $2,500. In the small memo section at the bottom, written in a shaky, uneven scrawl, were three words: For Haley. Safe. My hands started to tremble. I wasn’t cold. “Mr. Wallace, this money…” “Every single transfer was collected.” He pointed a thick finger at the red stamp on the paper. “‘Cashed’ means the receiving party walked into a branch and took the money.” “I never took it.” “I know.” “I’ve never seen a single one of these in my life.” He didn’t reply to that. Silence settled heavy over the desk for several long seconds. I dropped my head, looking back at the paper trail of my life. $500, $500, $500, $600, $600, $800… Every month, he walked into a Western Union or a bank. He stood in line. He filled out the slip. He sent the money. Fifteen years. One hundred and eighty times. My mother had told me—when your father left, he didn’t even look back. I looked up, my eyes burning. “Did my dad leave anything else?” Mr. Wallace opened his desk drawer and pulled out a manila envelope. “A notebook. He requested that you read the receipts first, and then look at this.” I didn’t open it. I couldn’t look at it right now. I didn’t have the air in my lungs for it. I clutched the envelope and the shoebox to my chest and stood up. “Mr. Wallace, when my father passed, how much was left in his bank account?” “Two thousand, three hundred dollars.” I walked out of the law office and stood on the edge of the sidewalk. The March wind was still biting, completely devoid of spring’s warmth. There was only one thought turning over and over in my head, grinding against my skull. 180 receipts. Every single one of them was addressed to me. Every single one of them was taken by someone else. I hadn’t seen my dad since I was twelve. My mother said he didn’t want me anymore. I swallowed that lie for fifteen years. Then, standing there on the curb, a memory suddenly bubbled to the surface. Fifth grade. The end of the school day. There was a man standing outside the school gates. He was wearing a gray canvas work jacket, his face deeply tanned and weather-beaten. As I walked past him, he shifted his weight, took half a step, but never called my name. I hadn’t recognized him. But I remembered him now. That gray work jacket. The sender’s address on the very first money order: Caldwell Construction Co., Worker Housing. The jacket of a man working on a construction site. It was that exact shade of gray. 2. Growing up, I knew one fundamental truth: we had no money. I don’t mean we were just tight on cash. I mean the kind of broke where, two days before the school year started, my mother was pacing the kitchen, calling relatives to beg for loans. Registration day, freshman year of high school. The activity fees, required tech deposit, and AP textbooks came out to $1,800. I emptied out the tip money I’d saved from bussing tables all summer. It was exactly $1,000. “Mom, I’m still short eight hundred.” She was at the kitchen counter, chopping onions. She didn’t even look up. “Go talk to your guidance counselor. See if they can give us an extension.” “They already gave us an extension last semester.” “Then go talk to them again.” I stood frozen in the doorway of the kitchen. “Mom.” “Alright, enough! I’ll figure it out.” Her version of “figuring it out” was forcing me to humiliate myself in front of my homeroom teacher. The teacher helped me apply for a hardship waiver that covered $400, and he quietly paid the remaining $400 out of his own pocket. I carried that debt in my chest for three years. The summer after I graduated high school, I worked double shifts, marched into the school, and handed him $400 in cash. But that exact same month, my freshman year. My younger half-brother, Tyler, was enrolled in an elite travel baseball camp. It cost $3,200 for the season. Dana—my mother—pulled a wad of cash from her purse and counted out $3,200 without a flicker of hesitation. “Tyler has natural talent. The coach said we can’t let him lose his momentum.” I was in the kitchen washing dishes when she said it. The faucet was on blast, the water roaring against the cheap aluminum sink. But her words still managed to drill into my ears, syllable by syllable. Three thousand, two hundred dollars. But the eight hundred I needed for my education? She didn’t have it. That was the blueprint of our lives from then on. I wore hand-me-downs from my older cousin. When the jeans were too long, my mom hacked the hems off with kitchen scissors. “They fit fine. You’re a girl, it’s not like you need to dress to impress anybody.” Tyler got everything new. Brand-name Nike cleats. A new North Face backpack. New school supplies. My pencil case was a dented tin box. Half the paint had chipped off, the latch was broken, and I kept it shut with a thick rubber band. I used that exact same tin box from seventh grade all the way to my senior year of high school. Once, Tyler accidentally knocked it off the table. It hit the floor with a loud, embarrassing clatter. “Jesus, Haley. Just throw that piece of junk away already.” I crouched down, picked up my pens, and snapped the rubber band back into place. I didn’t say a word. The summer I turned sixteen, I got a job at a diner near the highway. I was on my feet ten hours a day. Hauling heavy trays, scrubbing grease off plates, wiping down sticky booths. The owner paid me under the table—thirty bucks a day and one free meal from the kitchen. By the end of that summer, I had scraped together $2,100. When school started, I walked into the main office and paid my own fees. When I got home, Dana was peeling an apple for Tyler. “Did you pay your school fees?” “Yeah.” “Good.” She didn’t ask how I paid them. Tyler stood next to her, chomping on the apple, the juice running down his chin. I retreated to my bedroom. It was the size of a closet. A single bed, a tiny particle-board desk. The bed was actually the top bunk of Tyler’s old bed frame, propped up on cinder blocks because two of the legs had snapped off. I sat on the edge of the mattress. I reached under my pillow, pulled out my remaining cash, and counted it. One hundred and twenty dollars. My $2,100 earnings, minus the $1,800 school fees, plus the meager scraps I had saved from before. I rolled the bills tightly together and shoved them deep inside my pillowcase. That was my entire net worth. 3. Three days after meeting with the lawyer, I took a sick day and went to the main bank branch downtown. I work as a bookkeeper for a mid-sized logistics firm. Balancing ledgers, reconciling accounts, verifying invoices—I spend every single day elbow-deep in numbers. Tracing a money trail is literally my profession. The woman behind the plexiglass punched my dad’s information into her terminal. “Records going back fifteen years have to be pulled from the central archive. Give me two days.” Two days later, I went back. She handed me a thick stack of printed A4 paper. One hundred and eighty rows. I sat down on a hard plastic chair in the lobby of the bank and started at row one. Transaction ID. Sender: Thomas Becker. Payee: Haley Becker. Amount. Date. Status: CASHED. Date Cashed. Identification Number of the person who claimed it. The ID number. Every single row had the exact same driver’s license number attached to it. I knew that number by heart. I used to fill out the paperwork for my mother’s health insurance. It was her ID. Dana. One hundred and eighty transactions. From March 2009 to February 2024. Every month. Zero exceptions. Every single transfer was claimed within three to five days of being sent. The person claiming it, every single time, was Dana. I folded the printouts with surgical precision and slid them into my purse. When I walked out the glass doors of the bank, my knees felt like water. I had to stand on the concrete steps for a long time just to remember how to breathe. Fifteen years. He sent it every month. She took it every month. He thought I was receiving his love. She looked me in the eye and told me he had abandoned me to rot. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened the calculator app. Year one: $500 x 10 = $5,000 (starting in March). Year two: $500 x 12 = $6,000. Year three: $600 x 12 = $7,200. … I added it up, year by agonizing year. By the end, my thumb was shaking so badly I messed up the inputs twice and had to start over. Finally, I hit the equals button for the grand total. One hundred and ninety-eight thousand, four hundred dollars. $198,400. I stared at the glowing white numbers on my screen until my vision blurred. One hundred and ninety-eight thousand. My mother said we were destitute. I suffered humiliation over an $800 school bill. I busted my ass waitressing for a whole summer at sixteen to make $2,100. To this day, the most expensive coat I own is a clearance rack parka I bought for $230. My take-home pay right now is $4,500 a month, and I dutifully transfer $1,500 of it directly to my mother to “help out.” $198,400. I reached into my bag, pulled out the shoebox of receipts, and found the one from September 2012. Amount: $800. Memo: School starting. That was the year I started high school. The year I was exactly eight hundred dollars short. He sent the eight hundred. That eight hundred. I slowly slid the receipt back into the stack. Then I flipped to September 2015. Amount: $1,200. Memo: Haley’s tuition. That was my senior year. My mother had told me: “Those SAT prep courses are a ripoff. You’ll just have to study on your own.” He had sent twelve hundred dollars. I never took the prep course. I killed myself studying outdated library books, and managed to test into a decent state college. Then I found July 2016. Amount: $3,000. Memo, just two words: Haley’s college. My hand froze mid-air. July 2016. The summer after graduation. I had been accepted into the state university. I barely made the cut, but I made it. The acceptance letter— I never actually saw the acceptance letter. “Mom, shouldn’t my letter have come by now?” “It came. I looked at it. The financial aid was a joke, Haley. The tuition is over five grand a semester, and we don’t have that kind of money. You need to drop this college fantasy and get a job.” “But I really want to go…” “What does it matter what you want? Where’s the money? I broke my back raising you kids by myself. Your deadbeat father never gave us a dime. Am I supposed to print money in the basement?” I never brought it up again. The very next month, I drove out to the industrial park and took a job packing boxes at an Amazon fulfillment center. I was eighteen years old. $3,000. The memo read Haley’s college. That same month, Tyler was enrolled in a private academic tutoring center to get a head start on his sophomore year. How much did that cost? I remembered my mother complaining about the price tag—$2,800 for the semester. 4. I went back to my tiny apartment and opened my laptop. I opened a fresh Excel spreadsheet. I’ve been a bookkeeper for four years. Reconciliation is what I do best. Column A: Date. Column B: Transfer Amount. Column C: Memo. Column D: Household Expenses that Month. I filled it out, row by row. 180 rows. From 2009 to 2024. I plugged in every major expense I could dredge up from my memory.

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Life has a funny way of throwing curveballs when you least expect them. I was at the office recently to pick up my check, and the new accountant—a girl who looked like she’d crawled out of a “Fast Fashion” catalog—actually threw my corporate card at my face. She stood there, eyes narrowed, screaming that I had some nerve showing up once a month to collect a paycheck. She called me a “drain on resources.” I tried to keep my voice level. I explained that my arrangement was personally cleared by the CEO. She wasn’t having it. She slammed her hand on the mahogany desk, barking that I was clearly a grifter taking advantage of the boss’s frequent business trips. She told me if I missed another day of “real work,” I could pack my bags. I actually laughed. I told her fine, I’d be there every single day next month. Deep down, though, I knew the truth. I just wondered if the company would even last thirty days with me in the building. You see, I have what some might call a “Reverse Midas Touch.” It sounds like a fairy tale, or a curse, depending on who’s asking. Whenever I tried to be a “hustler”—grinding twelve-hour shifts, obsessing over spreadsheets—the company’s revenue would flatline. Leads died. Contracts evaporated. But the moment I stepped away? Projects would practically fall from the sky. Eventually, my boss, Robert, hired a high-end spiritual consultant—one of those guys who charges five figures to read the “energy” of a boardroom. The consultant took one look at my birth chart and nearly fell out of his chair. My “aura” was apparently too potent; when I was “still,” I blocked the flow of wealth. When I moved, the vacuum I left behind sucked in prosperity. Since then, Robert has paid me a retainer of $100,000 a month plus bonuses to do absolutely nothing. My job description is simple: Travel. Go to the Maldives. Hike the Alps. Just don’t come to the office. The first day I left for my global sabbatical, the firm landed a $150 million account. A few months later, I got homesick and came back to work for three days; we lost three major clients before the week was out. Robert literally booked me a red-eye to Singapore that same night. He begged me, “Nina, please. For the sake of my kids’ tuition, just stay on a beach. Check in once a month, but for God’s sake, stay away.” So, I became a professional nomad. Until this little incident at the accounting desk. 1 “I need my salary deposited onto this card this month. My other account hit its limit,” I said, sliding my card across the desk to the accountant, Tracy. I also set down a gourmet lavender latte I’d picked up on the way in. “I thought you might like this, Tracy. It’s a long morning.” Tracy stared at the card for a few beats. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she sent it flying. It clipped my cheek before clattering onto the floor. “Nina Quinn,” she spat. “You show your face here once every four weeks. How do you sleep at night, taking this kind of money for doing zero work?” The sting on my cheek ignited a spark of genuine anger. I forced myself to breathe. “It’s a specialized contract. Robert cleared it. I’m required to check in once a month. That’s the deal.” Tracy let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh, please. You’re just a parasite. You think because Robert is in Europe half the time, no one notices your little scam? You’re pathetic. Have some dignity.” I felt my hands start to shake. I didn’t want to descend into a shouting match, so I pulled out my phone to call Robert. The call went straight to voicemail after two rings. Tracy’s smirk widened. “He’s on a private flight to London, Nina. No signal. There’s no one here to protect you today.” I looked her dead in the eye. “Tracy, you’re an accountant. Your job is to process the payroll, not audit my life. Robert will be on the ground in six hours. Are you really prepared to explain to him why you’re withholding my pay?” She didn’t flinch. “Explain? I’m doing him a favor. It’s an issue of fairness. Why should the rest of us kill ourselves while you treat the company like a personal ATM? It’s bad for morale. If we ran the firm like a charity for lazy girls, we’d be bankrupt in a week. Robert will thank me for looking out for his bottom line.” At that moment, a few other colleagues drifted into the breakroom area. “Hey, Tracy,” one of the account managers said, checking her watch. “Is payroll processed? We’re all heading out for a celebratory dinner after five.” Tracy sighed dramatically, gesturing toward me. “I’m trying, guys. But Nina here is holding up the entire queue with her entitled drama. I haven’t even been able to finalize the spreadsheets because she’s been standing here badgering me.” 2 I was speechless. I was the one being “unreasonable” for wanting my own paycheck? Two other women from the marketing department looked me up and down with thinly veiled contempt. “Oh, look who decided to grace us with her presence,” one whispered. “I saw her Instagram yesterday—New Zealand. Must be nice to be a ‘full-time traveler’ on the company dime.” “She’s only here because it’s payday,” the other added, loud enough for me to hear. “The help always shows up for the check.” I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach. I turned to leave, deciding I’d just handle this with Robert when he landed. It wasn’t worth the degradation. But then, someone else chimed in. “What does Nina even make? I’ve been here three years and I’m still fighting for a cost-of-living adjustment. Does anyone even know what her ‘role’ is?” “Salary discussions are against company policy,” I said, my voice cold. Tracy leaned back in her chair, a predatory glint in her eyes. “Well, since we’re talking about ‘fairness,’ let’s be transparent. Last month, this team brought in a $5 million contract. Your bonuses were around five thousand each. Meanwhile, Nina’s base is a hundred thousand a month, and she just got a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus for a deal she never even saw. I refused to sign off on it. I’m waiting for Robert to return so I can fix this injustice. But Nina is demanding the money now, and it’s delaying everyone else’s pay. I’m sorry, guys. I’m doing my best.” The room went silent for a split second before erupting into a chorus of indignation. “A hundred thousand? For what?” “I’ve been working weekends for six months! She’s hiking in Queenstown while I’m eating Cup Noodles at my desk!” I remembered that New Zealand trip. I had originally planned to stay in the city and actually help with that $5 million bid. But Robert had called me, sounding frantic. He told me the bid was going south and the client was leaning toward a competitor. He’d practically begged me to get out of the country. The moment my plane touched down in Auckland, he’d texted me: The proposal was just accepted. Don’t come back. Go see the fjords. I’m sending you a bonus. Now, the very success I’d “caused” by my absence was being used as a weapon against me. Tracy looked triumphant. “Do you really think you deserve that money, Nina? What have you contributed? Give me one reason why you’re worth ten times the people who actually do the work.” I rolled my eyes, my patience finally snapping. “Tracy, you’re a line manager for payroll. Do your job. If you have an issue with my compensation, take it up with the man who signed the contract. Otherwise, give me my check.” In a blur of motion, Tracy grabbed the lavender latte I’d bought her and threw it. The warm, sticky liquid splashed across my face and my white silk blouse. “You’re a joke,” she hissed. “I know exactly how you’re getting this money. You’ve got my father wrapped around your finger, and you think you can just bleed us dry.” The room froze. “Your father?” I wiped the milk from my eyes. “That’s right,” Tracy said, her chin tilting up. “Robert is my father. I’m not just the new accountant. I’m here to clean up the trash he’s too ‘nice’ to throw out. And I’ve found the biggest piece right here.” I took a deep breath, using a napkin to blot my clothes. I was trying so hard to remain professional for Robert’s sake. He’d been good to me, in his own eccentric way. “Tracy,” I said, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Everything I do is at your father’s request. The salary, the travel, the bonuses—it was his idea. I will wait until he lands to settle this.” I checked my phone. I had a flight to London in three hours. Robert had been very specific: he was closing a massive international merger tonight, and he needed me “happy and far away.” 3 I turned to walk away, but Tracy stepped out from behind the desk, blocking the exit. “Oh, you’re not going anywhere. You think you can just hide behind my dad? He’s been blinded by whatever ‘voodoo’ you’ve sold him. I looked at the books. Over the last year, you’ve taken nearly two million in salary and bonuses. You’re going to pay it back. All of it.” I stared at her, genuinely bewildered. “Pay it back? That’s not how labor law works, Tracy.” She sneered. “Those payments were ‘unreasonable’ and ‘fraudulent.’ I’m reclaiming them for the company.” She turned to the crowd of angry employees. “Listen up! This firm’s success is built on your sweat. Once I force Nina to return the stolen funds, I’m going to redistribute that money as a ‘Loyalty Bonus’ for the real workers. What do you think?” The room roared with approval. They looked at me like I was a criminal. “Tracy, are you serious?” someone yelled. “Dead serious,” Tracy said. “My dad is an old-school softie. He let this parasite settle in. But I’m here now, and I’m setting things right.” I felt a surge of hysterical laughter. “This money is mine. I’m not giving back a cent. If you want to challenge it, call a lawyer. Better yet, wait for Robert.” Tracy grabbed a heavy three-ring binder from the desk and swung it. It slammed into my shoulder, the sharp edge cutting into my skin. I gasped, the pain lancing through my arm. That was it. The “Nina Quinn” who tried to be nice was gone. I kicked the small coffee table in front of her, sending it skidding across the floor. “Listen to me, you spoiled brat,” I snarled. “You want that money? You have two choices. One: Robert stands in front of me and asks for it himself. Two: You file a lawsuit and explain to a judge why you’re harassing a contracted employee. Until then, get out of my way.” One of the marketing girls stepped forward and shoved me. I stumbled, falling hard onto the carpet. The latte she was holding—the one I’d bought for the group—was poured over my head. “You’re pathetic, Nina,” she said. “Taking our hard-earned money and then acting like a victim? Give it back and maybe we’ll let you leave.” I sat there on the floor, drenched and bruised. “You think my salary comes out of your pocket? The company makes tens of millions because of my contract. You wouldn’t even have a job without me.” Someone grabbed me by the hair, pulling my head back. “The company makes money because we work. You’re just the boss’s mid-life crisis. If you don’t sign a repayment agreement right now, you aren’t leaving this office.” I didn’t argue. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “I don’t know if I’ll have to pay back my salary,” I said into the receiver as the operator picked up. “But I do know that assault and false imprisonment are felonies. See you in court.” The person holding my hair let go instantly. The bravado in the room evaporated the moment they heard the word “police.” The cops arrived twenty minutes later. The office security footage was clear. Three people were taken away in handcuffs for harassment and battery. Tracy didn’t get arrested—she hadn’t physically shoved me—but she had to pay a massive fine on the spot to avoid being taken down to the station for inciting a riot. As she walked out of the precinct later that afternoon, she glared at me. “You’re dead, Nina. As long as I’m at that company, I will make your life a living hell.” 4 I stared at her, a slow smile spreading across my face. “Actually,” I said, “I quit. I’m done.” I turned to walk away, but her voice stopped me, cold and oily. “Sure, Nina. Quit. But I hope you have ten million dollars sitting in your bank account.” I stopped. I turned around. She was holding a copy of my employment contract. “Section 8,” she said, tapping the paper. “A ten-year exclusivity and non-compete clause. If you resign without cause before the term is up, you owe the firm a ten-million-dollar liquidated damages fee. My dad really wanted to make sure you didn’t leave, didn’t he?” My heart sank. I’d forgotten about the “Golden Handcuffs.” Robert had been so terrified of another company “using my energy” that he’d insisted on a massive buyout clause. At the time, I thought it was a compliment. “See you tomorrow morning at nine, Nina,” Tracy smirked. “Every minute you’re late is a day’s pay docked. Three strikes, and I take half your monthly salary. You’re going to be a very busy, very poor girl.” I narrowed my eyes. I’d spent six months relaxing. I was rested. If she wanted me to work, I’d work. But she had no idea what “Nina Quinn at a desk” actually meant for the company. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll be there. I’m going to be the most hardworking employee you’ve ever had.” The next morning, I clocked in at 8:59 AM. Tracy was waiting for me with a stack of folders three feet high. “These are the pending contracts for the quarter,” she said, dropping them on my desk with a thud. “I want every single one audited and cross-referenced by end of day.” It was an impossible task. A week’s worth of work for a team of three. “No problem,” I said, opening the first folder. “I’m on it.” Tracy sneered. “Good. Since you’re getting paid the big bucks, you can do the big work.” I started reading. I focused intensely. I took notes. I was productive. Ten minutes later, a phone rang in the next cubicle. “What?” my coworker shouted. “Mr. Lewis? We were supposed to sign this afternoon! What do you mean the merger is off? We’ve been working on this for a year!” The room went quiet. Another phone rang. Then another. “The Chicago deal just went dark.” “The logistics firm in Seattle? They just pulled their account. No explanation.” I looked down at the contract in my hand. It was the Lewis account. I’d just finished “working” on it. Tracy came running out of her office, her face pale. “What is going on? Why are the leads dropping like flies? We just lost twelve major accounts in one hour!” I leaned back, tapping my pen against my chin. “I don’t know, Tracy. Maybe it’s just a run of bad luck? Do you want me to keep going through these files? I’m only on the second one.” Tracy glared at me, then barked at her assistant. “Get her away from the contracts! Give her something else! Nina, go to the basement and organize the physical archives from 2018. If you aren’t doing ‘revenue’ work, you can do manual labor.” I smiled. “Whatever you say, Boss.” I spent an hour in the archives, meticulously filing old tax returns. Suddenly, a scream echoed from the floor above. “MY GOD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

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I spent three days and three nights as a ghost, screaming into the void, before the universe finally granted me a second chance. It all started with a Chanel bag. My mother had sent it to me as a surprise, and the sight of it sent my roommate, Teresa, into a spiraling, tear-filled jealousy that lasted for days. I couldn’t stand the noise—the constant sniffling, the weaponized fragility. In a moment of sheer desperation for some peace and quiet, I used a burner account to message her on WhatsApp and transferred fifteen thousand dollars to her, disguised as a “secret admirer” who just wanted her to stop crying. I never expected her to turn around and post the bank balance to the campus GroupMe. She announced to everyone that she’d been “testing” us by playing poor, and that I—the girl who actually owned the bag—was the greedy, social-climbing fraud who failed her little litmus test. The backlash was instant. My classmates’ vitriol felt like a physical weight, and my boyfriend, Jordan, didn’t even hesitate to dump me. When I finally confronted her on our dorm balcony, she “accidentally” pushed me. I died hitting the pavement three stories down. My other two roommates? They took a thousand dollars each from Teresa to testify that I had jumped out of shame. … I opened my eyes. The air felt thick, real. Teresa was staring at her phone, her eyes widening as she saw the notification for the money I’d just sent. She looked up, a triumphant, ugly smirk twisting her face. She pointed a manicured finger at my nose. “Sophie, get your ass up and fetch me some water for a foot soak. Do it now, or I’ll tell the whole class exactly how much of a shallow, gold-digging bitch you really are.” I didn’t waste a heartbeat. I lunged forward, snatched the phone out of her hand, and hit “Refund” before she could even blink. I met her panicked, confused gaze and patted my chest, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Thank God, I thought. Almost fed the stray dogs again. Can’t have that. Living with Teresa was like living in a low-budget soap opera. If I washed my face, she’d stand behind me, sobbing. “I heard that cleanser is eighty dollars a bottle. That’s my grocery budget for the month! How can you be so wasteful?” If I brushed my teeth, she’d wipe away a stray tear. “Is that an ultrasonic toothbrush? I guess girls like me will never know what it’s like to have the best things in life…” If I tried to sleep, she’d moan from the across the room. “Can I just touch your silk sheets? I just want to know what it feels like to be special for one second.” Then my mom went to Paris and sent me the Chanel. Teresa snapped. She cried for three days straight, a relentless, performative mourning of her own perceived poverty. I’d cracked. I’d sent the fifteen thousand with a simple note: Stop crying. In my past life, the GroupMe had exploded seconds later. [OMG, did you guys see Teresa’s balance? Fifteen grand in one go? She’s literally a secret heiress!] [Wait, so Sophie was the one faking it the whole time? That’s so pathetic.] [I knew Teresa had that ‘old money’ vibe. Sophie just looks like she’s trying too hard. Gross.] I scrolled up on my own phone, watching the history repeat itself—almost. In my previous life, Teresa had cropped my burner account’s profile picture and posted the screenshot with a caption that made my blood run cold: I only pretended to be struggling to see who my real friends were. Most of you are amazing, but Sophie… I’m going to be blunt. Sophie, it’s okay to be poor. You don’t have to carry knockoffs to feel important. It’s honestly just sad. And then, the killing blow. Jordan, the campus golden boy, tagged me in front of everyone. [Sophie, I can’t believe I fell for your act. You’re hollow. The most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done is date you. We’re done. Don’t ever call me again.] The class responded with cheers and “victory” emojis. [Justice!] [Good for you, Jordan. You deserve way better than a fake like her.] In that life, I had stormed out to the balcony to find Teresa. She hadn’t even looked at me. She was too busy typing furiously to my “secret admirer” account. Who are you, handsome? You care about me so much… can we meet tonight? Why aren’t you answering? Are you shy? It doesn’t matter what you look like. I’m a person who looks at the soul, not the face… I had waved my phone in her face, the words “There is no secret admirer, you idiot, it was me” dying on my lips as she shoved me. She was surprisingly strong when she was annoyed. Damn, she’s got a grip, was my very last thought before the world went black. Floating as a spirit, I watched her cry “accidentally-on-purpose” tears. My other roommates, Kelly and Bella, came out to see my body on the concrete. They looked at each other, then at Teresa—or rather, at Teresa’s new wealth. “Don’t worry, Teresa,” Kelly said, her voice devoid of emotion. “We saw it. Sophie jumped. She couldn’t handle being exposed. It has nothing to do with you.” Teresa had hugged them, sobbing with “gratitude,” and promptly sent them a thousand dollars each from my money. They celebrated my death like it was a civic service. But now, I was back. Teresa was currently typing her “I’m treating the whole class to dinner tonight—except Sophie” message into the GroupMe. She looked at me, gloating as she pulled up the chat with my burner account. “Ever seen this much money in your life? All your little flexes? They’re nothing.” She leaned in, her voice a poisonous whisper. “Do you feel small yet? Do you want to go find a hole to crawl into?” I stayed silent. It was hilarious, really. My baseline lifestyle was a fever dream of luxury to her. Fifteen thousand dollars had been enough to make her lose her mind and reveal her true, ugly self. When I didn’t respond, she got bolder. She pointed at my face. “I told you, Sophie. Fetch me the water. Now. Or the whole school finds out what a lying, status-obsessed freak you are.” I looked at her phone. The transfer was still pending. She hadn’t officially “accepted” it into her bank balance yet. My eyes lit up. I lunged, grabbed the phone, and tapped “Refund.” The money vanished from her screen and slid back into my account. I let out a long, shaky breath of relief. Safe. Teresa’s face contorted. “Sophie!! Are you insane?! You owe me fifteen thousand dollars! Give it back!” Having died once, I knew I wasn’t going to win a physical fight with her. I didn’t grab a single thing. I just took my phone and bolted out of the dorm. Goodbye, snakes. I was going home to my parents’ villa. I didn’t hear her chase me, but I heard the scream. It was primal. Even as I reached the ground floor, I could hear the sound of things being smashed in our room. My phone started buzzing incessantly. Teresa was blowing up the burner account. [Hey, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you! I’m not a gold digger, I swear. I don’t even want the money, I just want to see you…] [Please answer… I grew up an orphan, it’s been so hard, but I have my pride. I can’t just take money even if I’m starving… but I don’t know how I’ll pay my tuition now…] [Talk to me… please…] I kept walking, shaking my head at the absurdity. I wondered how she was going to treat the whole class to dinner on her five-hundred-dollar-a-month allowance. I was so caught up in the irony that I walked straight into Jordan. He was clearly on his way to the dorm to deliver his “righteous” breakup speech in person. “Ow!” I stumbled, hitting the pavement. Jordan looked down at me. A flash of pity crossed his handsome face, but he quickly masked it, clenching his fists. “Get up. Don’t think for a second that acting pathetic will make me stay. I’m breaking up with you, Sophie. You know how hard I worked to get out of my small town and into this university. I won’t have my reputation tarnished by a fraud. You’re a stain on my life.” He sighed, looking like a martyr in a Greek tragedy. “Don’t blame me for being cold. I loved you, really. But I can’t sacrifice my future for you.” In my last life, I’d believed that look. But I remembered him after my death, holding Teresa, whispering, “Don’t feel bad. I was with her for a month; I know who she was. She jumped because she was a bad person. It’s not your fault.” They had been hooking up behind my back the whole time. I stood up, brushed the dust off my jeans, and while he was still mid-sigh, I wound up and slapped him across the mouth as hard as I could. “You’re the stain, Jordan. Your whole family is a stain.” He was too stunned to move. By the time he found his voice, I was half a block away. “You crazy, fake bitch!” he roared. “You’re not worth a hair on Teresa’s head! You’ll regret hitting me!” His impotent rage was an exact match for Teresa’s. Honestly, they were perfect for each other. It was the weekend, so I went straight to my parents’ place, soaked in a tub that cost more than their combined tuition, and waited for the show to begin. The GroupMe was humming. [Hey Teresa, where are we going for dinner?] [I just finished my makeup! Can’t wait for pics with our girl Teresa!] [I’m wearing my best shirt for our princess!] Teresa was silent. On my burner account, however, she had sent over three hundred messages and attempted a dozen video calls. The texts turned into frantic voice notes. I played the last one. She was sobbing. [Please… my grandmother just called, she needs emergency surgery. If you can just lend me a little bit of money, I’ll be yours forever. I’ll do anything…] I felt like playing a little. I typed back: Anything for you, sweetheart. “Sweetheart” was Jordan’s pet name for her. I’d only found out after I was dead. This time, I’d help them synchronize. Teresa must have seen the reply and assumed Jordan was the “Secret Admirer” finally revealing his billionaire status. She immediately posted the dinner location to the GroupMe: a trendy new Hot Pot place near campus. [To make it easy for everyone, we’re going here! Next time, I’ll have my driver take us somewhere truly high-end!] I turned off my phone, smiling. But then the screen lit up again. Someone had @-ed me in the main group. It was Jordan, of course. [Sophie, we’re at the Golden Pot at six. Show up and apologize to Teresa on your knees, or don’t show up at all.] Before I could type a snarky reply, he posted a photo. It was a pile of all the gifts I’d bought him over the last month. A Rolex, a curated Hermes messenger bag… [Teresa said these are all fakes. Come get your trash. It’s making me nauseous just looking at it.] I sat bolt upright and typed one word: Deal. I didn’t want him to change his mind. Any one of those items could pay for his life for years. He thought I was coming out of fear. Let him think that. I wanted to see how they’d handle a four-figure bill with zero dollars in their pockets. When I arrived at the restaurant, the whole class was there. Teresa hadn’t heard back from “Sweetheart” yet, so she was too scared to ask for a private room. They were crammed into three tables in the corner of the main floor. As soon as I walked in, Jordan stood up, adjusting his sleeves with an air of unearned importance. “Sophie. Down on your knees. Tell Teresa you’re sorry for everything you did to her, and maybe we’ll let you leave with your dignity.” I actually laughed. “Where do you get off, you absolute hobo? Who are you trying to impress?” Jordan’s face turned a shade of purple. Being called poor was his ultimate trigger. For the month we dated, I had paid for everything—his clothes, his meals, his tech—because I knew he struggled. At first, he was grateful. Then, he became entitled, telling me that once he graduated, his “future earnings” would be mine, so my spending was just an “investment.” The audacity was breathtaking. “Where’s my stuff?” I asked. “Give it here.” Jordan held up a large shopping bag, threatening to drop it. “Who wants this junk? I only took it because I didn’t want to embarrass you.” “If it breaks, you’re paying full retail price,” I said coldly. He froze. He couldn’t afford to pay for a sandwich, let alone a Rolex. He handed the bag over with a trembling hand, his face flushed with shame. Teresa signaled for a soda, and Bella immediately poured it and placed it in front of her like a servant. Teresa nodded, dismissed her with a wave, and looked at me like I was dirt. “What,” I said, “did you become a paraplegic in the last three hours? You can’t pour your own drink?” “You!” Teresa slammed her hand on the table. The table wobbled, and the entire glass of dark soda spilled directly onto her pristine white dress—the one she’d saved for months to buy. “No!!” she shrieked, looking at the ruin of her only ‘expensive’ outfit. She pointed a shaking finger at me. “This is your fault! Kneel! Kneel right now!” “You’ve been watching too many teen dramas, Teresa. You’re not a princess; you’re a roommate with a stain on her lap.” I ignored her and sat down at an empty table nearby. The smell of the broth was actually amazing. “Waiter! Menu, please!”

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Today was supposed to be the pinnacle of my life—my engagement gala to Alex Cross. Instead, it became the day he walked into the ballroom with Lucy, the “miracle” biological daughter the Hart family had finally brought home, clutching a marriage certificate. They hadn’t just skipped the engagement; they had already tied the knot. Alex looked at me, his gaze stripped of the warmth I had relied on for five years. Now, there was only a cold, sharp disdain. “You didn’t actually think I was going to marry you, did you, Isabel?” he asked, his voice echoing through the silent hall. Lucy clung to his arm, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. “I told Alex to play along for a bit,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “I thought you needed a reality check, but I didn’t realize you were actually delusional enough to believe the act.” Even my parents—the people who had raised me, who had called me their daughter for twenty years—stood firmly behind them. To them, this was simply cosmic justice. “You had twenty years of a life that belonged to Lucy,” my mother said, her eyes hard. “So what if you dated Alex for five years? You were just keeping his seat warm.” It was only then that the fog lifted. Alex and Lucy hadn’t just met; they had been orchestrating this for months. This gala, the dress I was wearing, the months of planning—it was all a curated performance designed for my public humiliation. The whispers from the crowd began to rise like a tide. The charity case finally got kicked out. Did she really think she could keep the Hart inheritance and the Cross fortune? I didn’t argue. I didn’t scream. I simply stood there, absorbing the jagged edges of their mockery. And then, I smiled. “I hope,” I said, my voice steady enough to make Alex flinch, “that after today, none of you find a reason to regret this.” 1 Alex let out a short, sharp laugh, clearly mistaking my composure for bitterness. “Don’t blame me, Isabel. Blame yourself. You were always too busy with your lab work, your research, your ‘career.’ I’m a man with needs, and you were never there.” He stepped closer, dropping his voice. “Lucy actually knows how to be a wife. She fits my world better than a woman who smells like formaldehyde.” He reached out and pressed a set of keys into my palm. My skin crawled at his touch. “The penthouse in the Upper West Side. Consider it your severance package.” I looked down at the silver keys. It was pathetic. “Alex,” I said, my voice carrying just enough to be heard by those closest to us. “Before you try to set me up as your kept woman, you should have asked yourself a simple question: Do I look like the type of woman who wants a man who’s already been handled by someone else?” The color drained from his face. He hadn’t expected me to call out his sordid little plan so bluntly. Before he could respond, his best man, Mark, stepped in with a sneer. “Give it a rest, Isabel. You’re lucky he’s giving you anything at all now that the Harts have officially disowned you. It’s a house, not an insult. Stop acting like a martyr; it doesn’t suit you.” I looked at Alex. He didn’t say a word. He just let them tear into me. A ghost of a memory flickered—the Alex who once drove six hours through a snowstorm just because I mentioned I missed a specific bakery’s sourdough. The Alex who, when I was volunteering as a medic in a conflict zone and we lost comms for a month, nearly lost his mind trying to charter a private plane into a no-fly zone just to find me. It was on that blood-stained soil, where tomorrow was never a guarantee, that I had promised to marry him. But the man standing in this ballroom wasn’t that man. That man was dead. “Isabel, don’t be like that,” Lucy purred, stepping forward. “I was just playing a little joke with Alex. I didn’t know he’d actually go through with the ‘fake’ engagement just to show me he was serious about us. It’s sweet, really. I’m sorry if it hurt your feelings.” She held out a glass of champagne, her eyes glinting. When I didn’t take it, she grabbed my hand, trying to force the stem into my grip. The glass shattered. Shards flew, one grazing Lucy’s leg. She let out a theatrical gasp of pain. Alex didn’t hesitate. He shoved me aside so hard I hit the edge of a table, his entire focus shifting to the tiny bead of red on Lucy’s skin. “Isabel! If you have a problem, take it out on me!” he roared. “Lucy was just trying to be nice. Can’t you be the bigger person for once?” A sharp, physical ache bloomed in my chest. “The bigger person?” “Alex, of all the people in this room, you are the last person who should be lecturing me on grace.” His friends circled like vultures, their voices thick with derision. “If you hadn’t spent your life nagging him about his diet or his drinking, maybe he wouldn’t have gone looking for someone who actually has a heart. You brought this on yourself. Why don’t you get on your knees? Maybe Alex will feel sorry enough to give you a job at one of his firms.” The room erupted in laughter. Everyone knew I had changed after returning from the field a year ago. I had tried to soften my edges, tried to fit into Alex’s social circle, even moved in with him despite the Hart family’s “traditional” rules. They all thought it was because I was desperate to hold onto him. They thought they had me trapped in their little trap. They thought I would break. I reached up, unslid the three-carat diamond ring from my finger, and let it fall. It didn’t bounce. it just sat there on the polished floor, looking like a piece of junk. “Happy New Life, Alex,” I said. “We’re done.” The air seemed to leave his lungs. He froze, his expression turning ugly as he stared at the ring. “You’re just doing this to get a reaction. You’re mad because I played you at the gala, so you’re acting like you don’t care.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Whether I care or not… you’ll find out soon enough.” I turned my back on them and walked out of the hall. The moment the heavy oak doors closed behind me, I pulled out my phone. “Stop the medication shipments to the Cross estate,” I said to the person on the other end. “And the research partnership with Hart Pharmaceuticals? Kill it. I’m done collaborating with them. Permanently.” 2 Leaving the Hart family meant resigning my position at Hart Memorial Hospital. Three days later, as I was finishing my exit paperwork and carrying a box of my personal belongings toward the elevator, I ran into Lucy. She was there for a “check-up,” looking every bit the pampered heiress. She leaned against the wall, watching me with a smug smile. “Isabel, remember three years ago? When you made sure my reputation was trashed in med school? When you made sure no residency program would take me? Did you ever think you’d end up like this?” “I can’t be a doctor, but so what? I can still get you fired from your own family’s hospital.” I looked at her, seeing the smallness beneath the designer coat. Three years ago, we were both grad students under the same mentor. She had been desperate for a shortcut, secretly buying substandard reagents to pad her research results. It resulted in an entire batch of experimental drugs being compromised. She tried to pin the blame on me since we shared the lab shift. But the digital trail of her purchases cleared my name. She was blacklisted from the research community for wasting a year of the institute’s funding. And she had hated me every second since. “I didn’t realize your man was so easy to catch,” she continued, moving closer so she could whisper in my ear. “A few ‘accidental’ run-ins, a little vulnerability, and he thought it was fate. He used to complain about how boring you were, always stuck in the lab. He said you didn’t know how to… give him what he really needed.” She pulled aside her silk scarf, revealing a cluster of faint bruises on her neck. Her eyes were a challenge. “I asked Alex how many kids he wanted. Want to guess what he said?” She leaned in. “He said as many as possible. Because he’s going to love our children more than anything in this world.” She waited for the tears. She waited for me to collapse. Instead, I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Is that so? Well, I wish you both a very busy nursery. May you be locked together forever.” Lucy’s face contorted with rage. She raised her hand to strike me. I moved to block her, but someone grabbed me from behind, yanking me backward so violently my neck snapped. A stinging slap landed across my face, nearly knocking me off my feet. My mother—or the woman I used to call mother—stared at me with pure venom. “Isabel, stay the hell away from my daughter. If you breathe near her again, I will make sure the Hart family ruins what’s left of your miserable life!” I touched my burning cheek. The irony was a physical weight in my lungs. Six months ago, this woman was dying of liver failure. There were no compatible donors on the registry. I was the one who went under the knife. I gave her a portion of my own liver to keep her alive. I nearly died on that table from a massive hemorrhage. When she woke up, she held my hand and called me her “angel.” She promised that even if they found Lucy, I would always be her daughter. How quickly the “angel” became the “trash.” “I’ve already had you scrubbed from the family trust,” she spat. “You have no connection to the Harts anymore. I won’t let you hurt my daughter or my grandchild!” I froze. “Grandchild?” Lucy smoothed her dress over her stomach. “Didn’t you know, ‘Sister’? I’m three months pregnant.” Alex was standing by the clinic doors, his expression unreadable. So that was it. That was the resolve that led to the secret marriage. “Congratulations, Mr. Cross,” I said, my voice cold. My mother raised her hand again. “You still have the nerve to flirt with him in front of us? Do you think we’re blind?” This time, I didn’t let her hit me. I caught her wrist in a vice grip, squeezing until she let out a sharp cry of pain. Lucy scurried into Alex’s arms. “Alex, is she doing this because I took over the new drug research project? Isabel, if that’s what this is about, just take the project! Just don’t hurt Mom!” Her eyes, however, were dancing with malice. It was almost funny. They really had no idea. The “New Drug Project” was my brainchild. I had only offered it to Hart Pharmaceuticals to bolster my family’s standing in the biotech market. But if they wanted to play games, the game was over. 3 Alex’s face was a mask of iron as he stepped forward, prying my hand off the older woman’s wrist. “Isabel, enough!” he barked. “One is the sister whose life you stole for twenty years. The other is the mother who raised you. Do you have to be this vindictive?” His grip was tight—the same way he used to hold my hand in the field, his breath ragged, promising me that if we made it out alive, he’d spend the rest of his life making me happy. I never doubted his love then. But love is a volatile element. It shifts. It decays. “Apologize to Lucy and her mother,” Alex commanded. “Now. Or I will make sure you never work in this city again.” He was using the same protective instincts he once used to defend me, but now the weapon was pointed at my heart. “Even knowing they started this? Even knowing she hit me first? You still want me to apologize, Alex?” Alex set his jaw and looked away. My mother, seeing his support, lunged forward and landed another slap. “Shut up, Isabel! He’s your sister’s husband now. You have no right to speak to him like that!” I started to laugh, but tears escaped anyway. “I have no right? My sister stole my husband, Mom… I have more right than anyone.” Alex’s voice turned icy. “She is Lucy’s mother, Isabel. Not yours.” I cut him off, staring directly into my mother’s pale, panicked face. “She is.” My mother began to scream, her voice frantic. “Stop it! Don’t listen to her!” I smiled, though my heart felt like it was being shredded. “She had a one-night stand, had me, and dumped me on my grandmother. She married into the Hart family a year later. It wasn’t until Lucy went missing at age five that she ‘adopted’ me to fill the void.” My mother’s eyes went wide. She hadn’t realized I knew the truth. “Don’t listen to her!” she shrieked to the hallway. “She’s lost her mind since we kicked her out! She was a charity case from an orphanage! We have the papers!” After my grandmother died, I was sent to the foster system. I was seven, but I looked four—stunted, bruised, and starving. I remember the day she “found” me. She cried for twenty-four hours straight. I thought it was guilt. I thought it was love. I thought all those years of overcompensating were her trying to be a mother. But her love was a paper-thin thing. It couldn’t withstand Lucy’s whispers. “Mom,” I said, the word tasting like ash. “That’s the last time I call you that. Good luck. You’re going to need it.” Alex opened his mouth to say something, but Lucy suddenly collapsed against him. “Alex… my head… I feel like I’m dying…” My mother’s face went white. “Lucy has a heart condition! Any stress could trigger an episode! Get her to a doctor, now!” She turned to me, her voice trembling with rage. “The new research project—the one for congenital heart defects—that’s for Lucy! That’s why we needed this partnership! She’s going to be on the research team. She has to be!” Alex’s flicker of hesitation vanished. He glared at me with pure hatred. “Isabel, you knew she was sick, and you still pushed her. If anything happens to her or the baby, I will bury you.” He scooped Lucy up and ran toward the emergency wing. The man who once promised to protect me for a lifetime was now promising to be my grave-digger. I wiped the tears from my face, my expression going cold and flat. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in a long time. “If you still want to marry me,” I said, “be at the courthouse in thirty minutes.” I heard a sharp, intake of breath on the other end. A voice, tight with restrained emotion, replied: “I’ll be there in fifteen.” Alex, you didn’t throw me away. I’m finally letting you go. 4 After signing the papers, I disappeared into the high-security labs of DM BioTech. I ignored every call from Alex, every text from the Harts. I stayed until the first phase of the clinical trials was locked. When I finally emerged, I found a scene I didn’t expect. The Harts and Alex were standing in the lobby of the DM Research Center, looking frantic. I had given orders to blackball both families. Why were they here? I turned to take the side elevator, but Alex spotted me. “Isabel!” he roared, charging across the lobby. He grabbed my arm and shoved me against the wall. My head cracked against the marble, and my ears began to ring. “I knew it! You’re the one blocking Lucy’s spot in the trial!” I didn’t have the energy for this. I tried to pull away, but he pinned me harder. “The Harts already wired you a million dollars as a settlement! What more do you want? Why are you trying to kill her?” He was shaking with rage. “Lucy needs to be part of this research team to get priority access to the trial drug. Her heart can’t wait. Do you really want her blood on your hands?” Lucy was leaning weakly against my mother, playing the frail victim to perfection. I knew her medical history—she had a murmur, but it wasn’t the death sentence she was pretending it was. “This project is a joint venture between DM and Hart Pharmaceuticals,” Alex spat. “Who do you think you are? You claim you don’t want anything from the Harts, yet here you are, clinging to a research position just to spite her. You’re pathetic.” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my face. “One phone call from me, and I’ll have you fired. You’ll be lucky if you can get a job as a school nurse when I’m done.” My assistant, Sarah, came running over, looking horrified. “I am so sorry, Dr. Hart—I mean, Ms. Sterling. I didn’t know they would force their way in.” Alex misinterpreted her apology. He turned to Sarah, sneering. “You’re damn right you’re sorry. Get your boss, Anna, down here in ten minutes. If I don’t see her, Cross Holdings pulls every cent of investment from this project.” My mother stepped up, her face twisted in a mask of self-righteousness. “And tell her if Isabel isn’t gone by tonight, the Harts are pulling out too!” Lucy watched me, a tiny, triumphant smile tugging at her lips. She thought she had won. She thought money and influence could buy her a seat at a table she hadn’t earned. But they didn’t realize that I wasn’t just a researcher. I was the reason they were even in the building. Sarah stood frozen. Alex growled, “What are you waiting for? Call Anna!” I held up a hand to stop Sarah. “Let him.” Alex pulled out his phone, his eyes fixed on mine. “Fine. Watch your career die, Isabel.” He hit the speed dial. A second later, a clear, crisp ringtone echoed through the silent marble lobby. It was coming from my pocket.

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My younger brother’s kidneys were failing. I was the only match. I was the only one who could save him. But I was waiting for him to die. Even though, to the outside world, he had spent his entire life playing my fierce protector. Right before they wheeled Mason into the operating room, the pre-op nurse looked at my mother. “She hasn’t had anything to eat or drink since midnight, right?” My mother, Jodie, was just starting to shake her head when I cut in, my voice bright and clear. “I ate.” Nurse Higgins—a hardened woman who had gone to high school with my mother—lost all professional restraint and slapped me hard across the face. Jodie immediately grabbed the nurse’s arm, not to defend me, but to plead. “Don’t listen to her, Martha! She’s been a pathological liar since she was in diapers. She’s just trying to cause trouble!” The waiting room, packed with my aunts and extended family, murmured in collective disgust. “Cora has poison in her veins,” one of them whispered loudly. “She just doesn’t want to save her brother.” 1 I rubbed my stinging cheek, the heat radiating under my skin. I tilted my head, smiling up at my mother, my eyes curving into crescents. “Mom, did you forget? You hand-fed me a bag of candy yourself this morning.” The desperate defense died in Jodie’s throat. Her face went violently pale, then mottled with a sickly green. Panic hijacked her features as she clawed at the nurse’s scrubs, her voice breaking into a sob. “Martha, please, it was just soft candy! It’s practically sugar, it shouldn’t even count! My boy is in there waiting for his life. He can’t wait anymore…” Then, she whipped her head toward me. The panic vanished, replaced by a venom so pure it could have burned through steel. “Cora, you lying bitch! You threatened me! You said if I didn’t give you the candy, you wouldn’t donate your kidney…” I held my hands up, palms out, the very picture of helpless innocence. “Mom, listen to yourself. I’m just your daughter. No matter how rebellious I am, I’d never use my brother’s life as leverage. But if your nerves have gotten the better of you, and it makes you feel better to pin this on me… fine. I’ll take the blame.” The waiting room erupted, but this time, the crosshairs shifted to my mother. “Jodie, what the hell is wrong with you?” Aunt Patty barked. “You know damn well she can’t eat before surgery. Why would you give her candy?” “We’re talking about a life-or-death transplant, Jodie! How could you be so stupid?” “Great. Now the surgery is delayed, and poor Mason has to suffer even longer.” I stood quietly near the wall, letting the chaos wash over me. The corners of my mouth crept up, millimeter by millimeter. A month ago, Mason was diagnosed with end-stage renal disease. He spent his days curled into a tight, agonizing ball on his bed, howling as if he were being torn apart from the inside. That day, my appetite was spectacular. I asked for seconds at dinner. The entire family had gotten tested. Out of everyone, I was the only viable match. For the past thirty days, I had become the god of this house. Whatever I wanted, Jodie provided, too terrified to even knit her brows in protest. My first order of business? I hit Mason. Just walked right up and slapped him. Then, I made them give me cash. I went to the state fair. I rode the carousel, screamed at the top of my lungs on the rollercoaster, and when the Ferris wheel reached its absolute highest point, I looked down at the earth and cursed my entire bloodline to rot in hell. I bought vintage dresses. I bought video game consoles. Thud. A violent impact shattered my reverie. Jodie launched herself at me like a feral animal. Her fingers tangled in my hair, gripping hard, and she slammed the back of my skull against the cinderblock wall of the hospital corridor. “You lying little freak! I’ll kill you for tricking me! I’ll kill you for hurting your brother!” The scalp-tearing pain spiked through my head. The temperature in my eyes dropped to absolute zero. Without a second of hesitation, I brought my knee up and kicked her squarely in the stomach. Jodie shrieked, stumbling backward until she hit the linoleum floor, folding in on herself. Aunt Patty rushed to haul her up, her pinched, bitter face snapping toward me. The onslaught of abuse was deafening. “You psycho! Striking your own mother? Have you no human decency?” “I don’t know how our family produced such a cold-blooded monster. You’re a disgrace!” “She’s doing this on purpose. She wants Mason to die. She’s rotten right down to the marrow!” “Always stealing, always lying since she was a kid! Now she’s just a full-blown menace!” 2 I calmly picked up a green apple from the nurses’ station fruit bowl, took a crisp bite, and smiled at the gaggle of outraged women. “Apologize to me right now. Or the kidney stays with me.” Aunt Patty opened her mouth to scream at me, but Jodie lunged forward and slapped a hand over her sister’s mouth. “Patty, shut up! Please!” Jodie turned back to me, her spine bending in an immediate, pathetic display of subservience. “Cora, baby, Mom is so sorry. Don’t let yourself get worked up. It’s bad for your health.” An orderly was wheeling Mason back down the hall. He caught the tail end of the scene and let out a long, heavy sigh of disgust. I didn’t care. The gossip had already spread through the entire hospital wing over the last few days: The girl in Room 101, Cora, is an absolute terror to her poor parents and sick brother. On my first day admitted, I threw a tantrum demanding a private suite. My father had fallen to his knees, begging me, explaining that they needed every dime for Mason’s post-op care. I refused to listen. I kicked his shin and called him a pathetic, useless failure of a man. When Mason was writhing in agony on his bed, I stood over him, told him he deserved it, and suggested he just hurry up and die. When Jodie brought me hot coffee, I complained it was burning my tongue. I slapped the cup out of her hands, the scalding liquid splattering everywhere. “Are you trying to burn me alive, you crazy old bat?” I had screamed. Everyone whispered when I walked by. They called me a sociopath. Cold-blooded. Malicious. Before the nurse left my room that night, she pointed a stern finger at my mother. “Surgery is rescheduled for tomorrow morning. Do not give her anything to eat.” She stopped at the door, turning back with a heavy glare. “Not even a sip of water. Understood?” 3 The next morning, right outside the OR doors, the surgical nurse asked the mandatory question: “No food or water since midnight?” Jodie shook her head violently, her eyes wide with desperate sincerity. “None. I sat beside her bed for twelve hours straight. Not a single drop.” The nurse let out a subtle sigh of relief. I looked at the ceiling and said, in an airy, conversational tone, “I drank a carton of milk.” The nurse’s face instantly darkened. Jodie waved her hands frantically, her voice pitching into hysteria. “Doc, please! Don’t listen to her! I swear on my life I didn’t let her have anything! She’s making it up because she doesn’t want to save her brother!” The nurse hesitated, glancing between us. Aunt Patty immediately jumped in, her voice dripping with toxic conviction. “The girl was born bad! When she was five, she set the woods on fire and tried to blame her baby brother. At seven, she stole candy from the corner store and said he did it. At nine, she mugged a kid for lunch money and framed him again. She’s a stray dog you just can’t train.” Jodie’s eyes were bloodshot. She grabbed my hand, squeezing until my knuckles popped. “Cora, tell them the truth! Your brother is lying in there, his life is fading…” “I am telling the truth.” I pulled my hand out of her grip and looked past her shoulders, through the glass doors of the prep room, where Mason lay. He looked terrifyingly pale, fragile as wet paper. I let out a soft, breathy laugh. “If he dies from the pain, it’s just karma.” From his gurney, Mason managed a weak, saintly smile. His voice was a reedy whisper. “If she doesn’t want to do it, it’s okay. Mom, stop forcing her.” 4 The moment the words left his mouth, Mason’s back arched off the mattress. He curled into a tight ball, letting out a raw, guttural scream. “Mom… it hurts…” Jodie lunged through the doors, throwing her arms around him, shaking uncontrollably as she wept. She whipped her head back to glare at me. “Cora! Just tell them the goddamn truth!” She turned a pleading, terrified gaze back to the nurse. “She lies! She always lies! You can’t trust a word she says!” The nurse looked profoundly conflicted. She stepped closer to me, her voice adopting that soft, patronizing tone adults use with troubled children. “Cora, look at me. Did you really drink the milk? I believe there’s a good girl in there somewhere.” I gave her a bright, beaming smile. “You guys have blood tests, right? Run my labs. Why ask me?” Aunt Patty lost her mind. She raised her hand, aiming a vicious strike at my face. “Cora! Do you have any idea what your little lie is costing us? Your brother has to suffer for another two hours! The extra blood work is going to cost hundreds of dollars, and we are already completely broke!” I didn’t flinch. I raised my own hand and slapped her across the face so hard the crack echoed down the corridor. My voice was glacial. “It’s not my pain. And if you’re broke, then he can just die.” 5 Aunt Patty cradled her stinging cheek, her eyes blown wide in sheer disbelief. She couldn’t process that I had actually struck her back. A second later, she lunged at me like a banshee, burying both hands in my hair and yanking backward with all her strength. “You little bitch! You dare touch me? I’m going to beat the living hell out of you today!” The searing pain in my scalp acted like a match dropped in a pool of gasoline. It ignited a fire I had been suffocating for a decade. I had been waiting for the chance to tear her apart. I reached back, dug my nails into her wrists, and twisted hard. I brought my boots down on her shins, kicking, biting, screaming as we crashed against the waiting room chairs. Her shrill curses rang in my ears. But inside my head, a rolodex of old debts was flipping rapidly. Since I was a toddler, she had pointed her bony finger at my face, calling me a “useless mouth to feed,” reminding me daily that as a girl, my only purpose was to be a burden until I was married off. It was Aunt Patty who had once convinced my father to leave me deep in the Appalachian woods during a winter freeze, hoping I’d get lost. It was Jodie, back when she still had a sliver of maternal instinct, who had run through the dark with a flashlight to find me. It was Aunt Patty’s daughter who stole my toys. When I had gently pushed her away, Aunt Patty had stormed over and delivered a closed-fist backhand to my left ear. I haven’t been able to hear properly out of that ear since. Every Thanksgiving, every Christmas, she would whisper poison in my father’s ear, insisting that girls didn’t belong at the main dining table because I’d “eventually belong to another man’s family anyway.” So I spent every holiday sitting on a bucket in the cramped kitchen, chewing on cold bread, listening to the clinking of their silverware. They had forgotten all of it. But I remembered. Every single detail was calcified in my bones. “Let go of me, you psycho!” I screamed. “You cursed, ungrateful wretch!” she spat back. Ultimately, I was an eighteen-year-old girl and she was a heavy-set adult. In the chaotic struggle, she shoved me violently. I flew backward, the side of my head cracking hard against the sharp metal edge of a medical cart. Warm blood instantly welled up, sliding down my temple. 6 The doors to the waiting area swung open violently. My father, Rick, had arrived. I hadn’t seen him in a month, but he looked like he had aged fifteen years. His greying hair was wild, his eyes sunken into dark, bruised sockets. He reeked of stale cigarettes and absolute exhaustion. He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping right in front of me. His voice was terrifyingly soft, laced with desperate pleading. “Cora… tell your dad the truth. Did you drink the milk?” My body was shaking violently, adrenaline and trauma vibrating through every muscle. But I lifted my chin, staring him dead in the eye. “I drank it.” Smack. Rick’s heavy calloused hand collided with my jaw. “Is this the time for your sick games?!” he roared, his eyes bloodshot. “When you lied as a kid, I told myself you were just acting out. But now? Your brother is in there dying, waiting for you to save his life!” He stared at me, his chest heaving, his voice trembling. “I am going to ask you one more time. Did. You. Drink. It.” I tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. I slowly raised my head, gathered the spit and blood pooling on my tongue, and spat it directly into his face. “I drank it. What the hell are you gonna do about it?” Rick shook with a rage so profound it looked like a seizure. He raised his fist again. Two orderlies and the nurse rushed forward, grabbing his arms. “Hey! Back off! You can’t do that here!” Restrained by the staff, this tall, hardened man suddenly broke. He collapsed to his knees, burying his face in his hands, sobbing loudly in the middle of the hospital. “I don’t want to hit her!” he cried out to the strangers holding him. “But look at what she’s doing! Look at her!” “When have we ever mistreated her? She was our little girl! But she’s always hated Mason. And now she wants to stand by and watch him die…” Still crying, he looked up at me from the floor. “When you wanted that expensive new backpack, I worked double shifts at the mill to buy it for you. When you wanted those fancy out-of-season strawberries, the rest of us didn’t touch a single one. You ate the whole carton until you were sick. When you wanted name-brand sneakers, your mother worked overtime at the diner until she collapsed. We loved you so much. How did your heart turn to stone?” I pressed a hand against my throbbing, burning cheek. And then I laughed. It started soft, then grew into a sharp, manic sound that echoed down the halls. “Loved me?” “You buy me a couple of cheap material things to save face, and you call that love?” “Who the hell wants it!” 7 The heavy doors pushed open quietly. Ms. Gallagher, my high school homeroom teacher, stepped into the corridor. She walked quickly to my side, her eyes immediately locking onto the blood trickling down my forehead. Her brow furrowed, and her voice was a soothing balm. “Cora, honey… does it hurt?” Rick scrambled up from the floor, throwing himself toward her like a drowning man grabbing a life preserver. “Ms. Gallagher! Thank God you’re here. Please, talk some sense into her! We haven’t been able to do the surgery because she keeps sabotaging it! Yesterday she tricked her mother into feeding her candy, and today she’s lying about drinking milk!” “Please, she listens to you. Make her see reason!” Ms. Gallagher froze, taking in the chaotic scene. She turned to look at me, her eyes brimming with a profound, aching sadness. “Cora,” she said softly. “Tell me the truth. Did you drink the milk?” I lowered my gaze, letting my lashes hide the sudden prickle of tears burning in my eyes. My voice cracked. “Are you going to force me too, Ms. Gallagher?” She hesitated. She reached out, her hand hovering just inches from my shoulder, before she slowly pulled it back. The sorrow in her eyes deepened. In a fraction of a second, a flood of memories rushed into my mind. The quiet, uncelebrated kindnesses she had offered me over the years: The thick wool sweater she quietly slipped into my locker when my lips were turning blue in the winter. The days I was starving, surviving on tap water, when she casually left her staff lunch card on my desk. When the entire town labeled me a pathological liar and ostracized me, she was the only adult who stood in front of the classroom and said, “I believe her.” My chest felt like it was being crushed in a vise. A sour ache climbed up my throat. I bit down hard on my lower lip, forcing the tears back, and finally whispered: “I lied. I didn’t drink the milk.” “Ha! You hear that?!” Aunt Patty barked a triumphant, cruel laugh. “I told you she’s a liar! She just doesn’t want to save him! She’s a heartless little bitch!” Jodie surged forward, her fingers digging painfully into my biceps as she wailed. “Cora! He’s your flesh and blood! How can you be so cruel?!” Ms. Gallagher gently reached out and smoothed a piece of blood-matted hair from my face. “I knew it,” she said tenderly. “I knew you were a good…” I cut her off. “I’m still not doing it.” I reached into the deep pocket of my jacket and pulled out a bottle of water I had hidden there all morning. While they all watched in paralyzed silence, I unscrewed the cap and took a massive, undeniable gulp. I let the plastic bottle drop to the floor. Water spilled over the linoleum. I slowly raised my arm, pointing a steady finger straight through the glass at the boy writhing on the bed. His hospital gown was soaked in cold sweat, his groans barely audible through the door. “I want him to die.”

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Charlie and I grew up in the same zip code, our lives stitched together by shared fences and decades of family dinners. But that lifelong proximity didn’t breed love; it bred a quiet, simmering resentment in him. The marriage certificate we signed was nothing more than a prop. From the very beginning, our union lacked any legal teeth. I had already booked my flight out of Chicago, just waiting for the right moment to disappear. On our wedding night, his grad student, Maisie, practically poured half a bottle of bourbon down his throat. Fueled by the alcohol and her wide, tearful eyes, he stood before our guests and announced to the room that he didn’t love me. He never had. The next morning, when the hangover hit, Charlie brushed it off. He told me it was just the drink talking, that I shouldn’t take it to heart. He even defended Maisie, claiming she was young and impulsive—just a girl pulling a prank, devoid of any real malice. He stood with his back to me, staring out at the grey, empty morning streets of the city, his mind already miles away. He added, almost as an afterthought, that even if Maisie did have feelings for him, he wouldn’t let her ruin our marriage. He told me to relax. I stood behind him, silent, and quietly tucked my diamond band back into its velvet box. He had no idea that I was already gone. 1 On the first day of our “marriage,” Charlie was up at five. He dressed in his usual uniform: a charcoal-grey shirt, buttoned all the way to the throat. After his brief explanation about the wedding night, he grabbed his coat. “There’s an emergency at the hospital.” “Maisie can’t handle it on her own. I have to go help her.” In the past, I would have fought him. I would have demanded to know why he was the only attending physician on call, or why Maisie couldn’t ask anyone else except the man currently on his honeymoon. But today, I just nodded. “Okay,” I said. Charlie’s hand paused on the doorknob. He turned, looking like he wanted to say something more, but his phone cut through the silence. It was Maisie, her voice a frantic, sobbing mess on the other end. “Dr. Evans… the patient’s family is threatening to sue. I don’t know what to do…” And just like that, Charlie left without another word to me. I finished the last bite of my eggs, slow and methodical. This had happened a thousand times over the last few years. I was used to it. Ever since Maisie appeared in his life, Charlie had shifted. He used to lecture me if I ate a bag of chips, going on about nutrition and health. Now, he was the man who would hand-prep organic meals and drive them across the city to the hospital just because Maisie was pulling a double shift. He took her to street festivals. He took her to the movies. He smoothed over every academic and professional hurdle she faced, promising her a golden future. He even worried about her modest background, buying her everything from designer boots to basic necessities, treating her like a delicate project that only he could complete. On my twenty-fifth birthday, my parents had invited every power player in Chicago. They were ready to announce our engagement. But Charlie left the party because Maisie called with a “crisis.” He left me there to become the city’s favorite punchline. Last New Year’s Eve, at his family’s gala, Charlie lied to his parents. He told them I’d been in a car accident and that he needed to be by my side. In reality, he spent the night driving across three neighborhoods just to find a specific bakery that sold the croissants Maisie liked. I had fought with him so many times. I begged him for boundaries. Every time, he would just rub his temples and sigh. “Maisie is my student, Cherry. I’m just looking out for her.” “I gave you the marriage you wanted. What more do you want from me?” That one sentence always silenced me. Everyone in the city knew I’d been in love with Charlie for years. And everyone knew he’d spent those same years tolerating me. Our “merger” was a business arrangement that benefitted both families, but to Charlie, it was a charity he was performing for my sake. I thought I could keep lying to myself forever. Until the wedding. Two months of planning, all for Maisie to hand him a bottle of whiskey with red-rimmed eyes. “Just one last time,” she’d whispered. “Can’t you do this for me? How many more times in this life will you get to drink for me?” I saw Charlie’s eyes soften, a raw vulnerability I’d never seen directed at me. He drank. He didn’t hesitate. Maisie’s gaze grew even more tragic. “Dr. Evans, I just need to hear it. Are you marrying her because you love her, or because—” He didn’t let her finish. “I don’t love her,” he choked out. The room went bone-dry silent. I took a deep breath. For the first time in years, the weight in my chest actually lightened. Years of pining, years of chasing. I’d traded my dignity for a seat at a table where I wasn’t wanted. If he didn’t love me, fine. I would give him exactly what he wanted: his freedom. 2 That afternoon, I was at home packing my essentials and documents. Suddenly, a text from Charlie popped up. I wondered if his mother had gotten in his ear. Breaking years of habit, he actually asked me out to dinner at a bistro by the river. We’d grown up near that water. As a kid, I loved picnics by the riverbank. Charlie used to call me childish and refuse to go. But on my eighteenth birthday, he’d presented me with a deed. He’d bought a plot of land there and promised to build a restaurant for me one day. “Is this enough for a debutante?” he’d asked, a smug, boyish grin on his face. Every time he broke my heart, I went back to that memory. I told myself to wait a little longer. Wait until the memory didn’t hurt anymore. Then I could leave. When I didn’t reply, Charlie called. “Didn’t you see my text?” he asked. “I said let’s do dinner tonight.” I blinked, refusing him for the first time in my life. “I can’t. I already have plans.” There was a stunned silence on the other end. His voice came back stiff. “It’s our first day as a married couple. Who could you possibly have plans with?” I realized then that this was likely a chore assigned by his mother. She and my mom were best friends; she’d always treated me like a daughter. After the scene he’d caused at the wedding, she probably told him to get home and fix it. I gave a small, knowing smile. “Don’t worry, Charlie. I won’t tell your mom you went AWOL. You’re free to do whatever you want tonight. If she asks, I’ll cover for you.” This was the rhythm we’d established since last New Year’s. The night he lied about my “accident” to go see Maisie, he’d called me from his car. “If my mom calls about the crash, just say I’m with you and you’re fine. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” I had been so hurt then. “I begged you for weeks to spend New Year’s with me, and you said you had family obligations. But because Maisie wants a croissant, suddenly you’re available?” “You’re willing to lie to your family for her? You’re willing to joke about my health?” Charlie had just stayed silent for two seconds. Then he let out an annoyed huff. “Are you really doing this? It’s a tiny lie. Don’t be so dramatic.” “If it’s such a chore to be with me, let’s just call off the engagement. You’re exhausting to live with.” He knew my weak spots better than anyone. Since I was a girl, my only dream was him. So, I learned to lie for him. But this time, hearing my “understanding” response, Charlie sounded even angrier. “I’m actually trying to take you to dinner. This isn’t a cover story.” “I already ordered. Everything you like. Consider it an apology for Maisie’s behavior.” I looked at my calendar. “Sorry. I really don’t have the time.” “Just tell me how much the tab is, and I’ll Venmo you.” Charlie’s voice went low, dangerous. “You’re serious?” “Fine. Starve for all I care. I’ll take Maisie.” He didn’t hang up immediately, as if waiting for me to crack. I just nodded to the empty room. “Perfect. I have a bottle of wine held at that restaurant under my name. You guys should have it.” The line went dead. 3 I suppose his ego was bruised, because Charlie didn’t come home for a week. I didn’t care. I didn’t ask where he was. I spent the week shipping my belongings to a new apartment I’d leased in Savannah. Then, I went to my studio. I needed to hand over the reins of my business before I left. I didn’t expect to see a familiar face at the entrance. Maisie was there, clutching a birdcage with a dead parakeet inside, screaming at my staff. “Isn’t this a boutique funeral home? Aren’t you supposed to be ‘artists of the afterlife’?” “My bird died! Why won’t you prepare him for a service?” Becca, my assistant, was trying to be patient. “Ma’am, we specialize in human services. We aren’t equipped for taxidermy or avian preservation. You should really contact a specialist…” Before Becca could finish, Maisie slapped her. Hard. “Specialist? He was my family! He’s gone, and you’re turning me away because you think I can’t pay?” She burst into hysterical tears. “I don’t understand why the world is so cruel to me! The man I love is married to someone else, and now my bird is gone, and I’m being humiliated just trying to give him a dignified burial! What did I do wrong?” Becca had been with me since she graduated college. She wasn’t just an employee; she was like a little sister. Seeing her get hit made my blood boil. I started toward them, ready to throw Maisie out, but someone beat me to her. Charlie swept in, pulling Maisie into his arms. “Don’t cry,” he whispered, his face etched with genuine pain. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of it. I can solve anything for you.” He glared at the studio. “If this place makes you unhappy, I’ll see to it that they close their doors.” I stepped forward, putting Becca behind me. I looked at Charlie and smiled. “You want to shut me down, Charlie? Don’t bother with the legal drama. Just write me a check for five million dollars. I’ll transfer the deed to you, along with the eight-year lease and every piece of furniture in here. You can let Maisie smash the place to bits for all I care.” “But,” I said, my voice turning cold, “before that, she owes my employee an apology.” Charlie looked stunned. He looked at me, then up at the sign above the door. “This place… this mortuary… it’s yours?” I laughed softly. Yeah, it was mine. Charlie and I had known each other since birth. I’d shared every step of my life with him. After graduation, I’d told him a thousand times about what I wanted to do. My goals, my vision for a modern, empathetic funeral service. I shared every step of the planning phase. On opening day, I’d asked him to celebrate with me. But Charlie was busy that day because Maisie had cramps. He’d sent me a generic “Congrats” text with a small wire transfer and never mentioned it again. My studio had been open for four years. It was the top-rated boutique service in Chicago. And he had no idea I was the owner. He promised to protect Maisie’s career while having zero clue that I even had one. Charlie’s expression shifted to something defensive. “It doesn’t matter who owns it. You shouldn’t treat customers this way.” “Maisie is just a kid. She’s grieving. Why are you being so hard on her?” He looked at me with suspicion, as if I were orchestrating a petty revenge plot because I was jealous of her. “Hard on her?” I asked. “Your ‘kid’ brought a dead bird into a human funeral home, and when my assistant politely explained our policy, she was assaulted. Who’s being hard on who?” “Charlie, protect your little muse all you want, but try to be logical.” “Maisie apologizes to Becca today, or I call the police. I have the security footage and the medical report for the bruising. I will press charges.” I stood my ground. Charlie’s face turned a shade of livid I’d never seen. “What did you just call me? Charlie? Since when did we stop being—” Maisie tugged on his sleeve, interrupting him. “It’s okay, Dr. Evans,” she whimpered. “I deserve it. I upset her at the wedding. It’s only fair she gets her revenge now.” She looked so small, so fragile. It worked. Charlie’s protectiveness flared into a rage. He stepped forward and, before I could react, he slapped me. He did it to even the score for her. “I hit you. So what?” he snapped, his voice icy. “Your professional standards are a joke. You want to sue? Go ahead. Name me in the suit too. Let’s see how a judge handles it.” It hurt. My cheek burned, but my mind was suddenly, perfectly clear. I realized in that moment that I would never think about that afternoon by the river ever again. 4 After that confrontation, the internet exploded. Within twenty-four hours, smear campaigns against my studio were everywhere. Fake reviews, ugly rumors—the works. A GIF of Charlie slapping me started circulating among the Chicago elite. Whenever I walked into a room, people gave me that half-smirk, half-pitying look. I didn’t fight it. I closed the studio, paid my staff three months’ severance, and wired Becca an extra fifty thousand dollars. Tomorrow was the day I’d leave for Savannah. Tonight, Charlie unexpectedly showed up at the house. He walked in and stopped short. He looked around at the boxes. “Why is it so empty in here?” “Where’s the wedding portrait?” I didn’t look up from my laptop. “In the trash. I left the nails in the wall, though, in case you want to hang something else.” Charlie’s voice was tight. “That’s not what I meant.” “Your face…” He stepped closer, reaching out to touch my cheek. I flinched, pulling away instinctively. “It’s fine. Just a scratch.” He looked uncomfortable. “I lost my temper that day. But you weren’t blameless either.” “I’ve told you a hundred times, Maisie is my student. She’s young, she’s from a poor family, and I’m just helping her. There’s nothing else to it. You keep picking fights with her—you’re just asking for trouble.” “Okay,” I said. “It won’t happen again.” He seemed thrown by my compliance. He stood there for a long time before reaching for my hand. “Anyway, I need to borrow your wedding ring for a bit.” “Maisie’s been down lately. She said she loved the design of your band, and I want to get one made exactly like it for her.” He reached for my left hand, only to find my ring finger bare. He froze. “Where is it?” I got up, went to the dressing room, and brought out the small velvet box. “Here. Take it.” “Check the size. If her fingers are about the same as mine, she can just have this one.” “Oh, wait. I forgot. You don’t like giving her second-hand things. Just put it back in the cabinet when you’re done looking at it.” Charlie stared at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. He didn’t address the ring. Instead, he asked, “You used to be so obsessed with that ring.” “Why aren’t you wearing it?” I smiled. Yeah, I was obsessed. I’d traveled to three different countries to find the right stones. My desk had been buried under design sketches for months. I’d texted him every day, asking for his opinion. He never replied. When I finally bought them, I had to beg him for weeks just to put his on. To this day, he didn’t even know what my ring looked like. He had to borrow the original just to copy it for another woman. I didn’t say anything. Charlie set the box down, the silence stretching between us. “We’ll talk about the ring later. Come back to my parents’ place for dinner tonight.” “My mom misses you.” I closed my laptop. “Sorry. I don’t have time.” “I have a flight to catch.”

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Daisy and I spend two hours every day trapped in the soul-crushing crawl of Seattle traffic, commuting twenty-five miles to a mediocre elementary school on the ragged edge of the county. For two years, I’ve swallowed the bitterness of it. I did it because my husband, Nelson, told me our downtown condo didn’t fall within the catchment area for Westside Elementary—the crown jewel of the district. I believed him. Until my best friend, Sasha, bought an identical unit three floors below us. She texted me this morning, vibrating with excitement. Her son was just approved for a transfer to Westside. “They’ll be classmates!” she chirped. She sent a screenshot of the approval letter. There it was—the district’s official digital seal, confirming her residency at our exact address qualified her for the school. The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. My heart didn’t just sink; it turned into a lead weight. We were in the district. We always had been. And I had been kept in the dark for two years. 1 I typed back to Sasha, my fingers trembling so hard I nearly dropped my phone: “Are you sure about the zoning? I thought our building was excluded from Westside.” Sasha replied instantly. “Of course it’s included! That’s literally the only reason we bought here. We’re broke after the down payment, but for the kid’s education? We’d eat ramen for a decade to get into Westside.” Westside Elementary. The highest-rated public school in the city, boasting resources that rivaled elite private academies. It was exactly a five-minute walk from our front door. Two years ago, when Daisy was starting kindergarten, I had gone to the district office with our deed in hand. I was rejected. I remember coming home, frantic and tearful, waving the paperwork at Nelson. “It doesn’t make sense. We’re right next door. How can we not be zoned for it?” “Nelson, didn’t you check this when we bought the place? We agreed the location was everything because of the schools.” This condo was our first real home. It was expensive, a brutal sacrifice funded mostly by my parents’ life savings, though Nelson and his parents had been the ones to scout the listing and handle the closing. They’d told me to focus on the wedding, to be the “beautiful bride” while they handled the “boring logistics.” Nelson had just rubbed the back of his neck, looking genuinely stressed. “I had no idea, Ada. I’m as shocked as you are.” Then came the pivot. The soothing, condescending tone he’d perfected over the years. “Look, it’s just elementary school. Kids are resilient. Does it really matter if she’s at Westside or somewhere else? You’re getting worked up over nothing.” We had a screaming match that night. “How can you say it doesn’t matter?” I’d yelled. “The resources, the networking, the safety—everything about Westside sets the trajectory for her entire life! Are you even her father? How can you be so indifferent to her future?” “Fine!” he’d snapped. “If you don’t believe me, call the agent who sold us the place. Here’s his number. Just don’t harass the guy; he’s just doing his job.” I called the agent immediately. He was curt, bordering on rude. “Mrs. Mitch, I told your husband at the closing—that unit doesn’t come with the Westside enrollment rights. It’s a legal quirk of the building’s history.” “Why didn’t you disclose that earlier?” I demanded. “You didn’t ask,” he said flatly, then hung up. Daisy had tugged on my hem then, her eyes wide and watery. “Mommy, do I not have a school to go to?” I knelt, brushing her hair back, forced a smile that felt like a crack in porcelain. “No, baby. Mommy’s going to fix it. You just enjoy your summer.” But fixing it wasn’t easy. It was late August. Every reputable school in the city was capped. I had banked everything on Westside. I was losing sleep, my hair thinning from the stress. Then, two days later, Nelson walked in grinning, waving an enrollment packet for a school in the far suburbs. “I solved it!” he shouted, lifting me off my feet. “I pulled some strings with a guy I know at the district. They found a spot for Daisy at Pine Ridge. It’s a bit of a drive, and since we’re out of their zone, there’s an ‘out-of-district’ fee—about $7,500 a semester.” At that moment, I didn’t care about the money or the commute. I gripped his hands like he was my savior. I felt guilty for ever doubting him. I thought I was married to a man who could handle anything. Now, looking at Sasha’s text, I realized I hadn’t been married to a savior. I’d been married to a ghost-writer of my own misery. Sasha sent another message: “Hey, is Daisy not at Westside? I thought that was the plan.” I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “No. She’s at Pine Ridge. Twenty-five miles away.” The commute is a nightmare. To get Daisy to class by 8:00 AM, we’re out the door by 6:45. I leave the house again at 3:00 PM to make the pickup. Because of the schedule, I had to quit my job as a marketing director. I went from a six-figure salary to a full-time chauffeur and housewife. I’d hesitated to quit, but Nelson had been so persuasive. “Ada, you’re the one who said her education is the priority. This is for Daisy. Besides, I’ll take care of you. My salary is more than enough. My card is in your wallet—buy whatever you want. Isn’t it better to be home, cooking, doing what you love, instead of grinding in an office?” I fell for it. For two years, I believed the lie of the “easy life.” Nelson makes $180,000 a year. It sounds like a lot, but in this city, it disappears fast. Groceries, utilities, insurance, Daisy’s extracurriculars—it adds up to a mountain of stress. And then there’s that $15,000 annual “tuition” for the suburban school. Whenever I mentioned the budget, Nelson would scold me. If I bought a cheap gift for my parents, he’d scoff. “This looks pathetic. My parents’ neighbors will laugh at us. Spend a little, Ada!” When I’d explain we were tight on cash, his brow would darken. “Tight? I bring home fifteen grand a month. Where does it go? Maybe if you stopped shopping so much, we’d have enough for a real vacation.” I was trapped in a cycle of defense and exhaustion. I had no time for myself. I used to have a cleaning service; now, I scrubbed the floors myself to save money. I didn’t shop. I went to the discount grocer across town. Sometimes, I even swallowed my pride and asked my parents for a “loan” just to cover the gas for the commute. The revelation hit me with the force of a physical blow. A dark, terrifying hypothesis began to take shape in my mind. I texted Sasha: “How can I find out who is officially using the school district spot for our address?” Following her advice, I bypassed the local office and went straight to the District Headquarters. The clerk there was professional but firm: “I can’t give you the names of other residents’ children due to privacy laws.” She started to slide my file back, but then paused, looking at my haggard face. “However… I can tell you the enrollment dates and the grade level currently attached to your tax parcel. Would that help?” I nodded, my throat tight. She printed a single sheet. Enrollment started: Fall 2022. Release date: 2028. 2022. The year Daisy was supposed to start. The year Nelson told me we were excluded. The child using our spot wasn’t just some random tenant. They had started exactly when Daisy was supposed to. And based on the grade level, the child was two years older than her. My hands shook as I grabbed the paper. Then, a text from Sasha: “Ada, I talked to my cousin in the Records Department. She said for a child to use a specific address for Westside, the parents have to show proof of residency or be listed as a legal dependent of the property owner on insurance or tax records.” My heart stopped. “So the child has to be on our legal records?” “Yes. Check your husband’s health insurance portal or your joint tax filings. If there’s another kid using that spot, they’re hidden in your paperwork somewhere.” Since we married, Nelson’s mother had insisted on keeping our “important documents” in her safe deposit box. “You kids are so disorganized,” she’d say with a saccharine smile. “I’ll keep the birth certificates and the deed safe. Just ask if you need them.” I couldn’t go to her. If Nelson was lying, she was the architect. But this was the digital age. I opened my laptop and logged into our joint health insurance portal. I needed to see the dependents. The screen prompted for Two-Factor Authentication. I grabbed Nelson’s iPad from the coffee table—he always left his messages synced. The code popped up. I entered it. My breath hitched as the “Loading” circle spun. One second. Two. The page loaded. Primary Subscriber: Nelson Mitch Dependent 1: Ada Mitch (Spouse) Dependent 2: Isabella Mitch (Daughter) I scrolled down. Dependent 3: Tobias Mitch (Son) The world went silent. Tobias Mitch. Memories I’d suppressed came rushing back with agonizing clarity. I knew that name. Or rather, I knew the “Toby” he belonged to. He was the son of Melanie Vance, Nelson’s “work wife” from his firm. Melanie was a single mother. Her story, according to Nelson, was tragic—her husband had died in a car wreck years ago. Nelson always mentioned how “lucky” it was that her late husband shared his last name. It made the paperwork at the office easier, he’d joked. Melanie and I had met. We’d even had dinner. I remember seeing her post on Instagram in the fall of 2022. A photo of a little boy in a navy blazer in front of a red brick building. “So proud of my big boy starting at the best school in the city! Resources are hard to come by, but we made it happen,” the caption read. At the time, I’d shown it to Nelson. “Wow, Melanie is impressive. A single mom buying into the Westside district on one salary? That’s incredible.” Nelson had been cold, dismissive. “Why do you care about her business? Focus on our own kid.” “I’m just saying,” I’d replied, “maybe I should talk to her. Get some tips for when Daisy finally gets in. They’re close in age; maybe they can be friends. Like siblings.” Siblings. I let out a choked, hysterical sob. They were siblings. On paper, anyway. Right then, a notification popped up on the iPad. A message from Melanie. “Hey, the team is celebrating the big contract win tonight at The Cut. You coming? Or do you have to check with the Warden first?” Nelson’s reply followed instantly: “I’ll be there. And don’t worry, I’ll bring Ada. It keeps her quiet when she feels ‘included.’ Plus, she loves playing the doting wife in front of the bosses.” I stared at the screen, the betrayal tasting like copper in my mouth. I’d spent two years as a “drudge,” a “warden,” a “housewife,” while he played family with another woman’s son using my daughter’s future. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw the iPad. I felt a cold, crystalline clarity settle over me. “I’ll be there,” I messaged him from my own phone. That night at the restaurant, the wine flowed easily. Nelson’s colleagues were half-drunk by ten. I did what I always did—I played the gracious hostess, organizing Ubers and settling the coat check. But this time, I didn’t use my phone. I picked up Nelson’s. “Honey,” I whispered, leaning over him as he slumped in the booth. “Face ID isn’t working for the Uber app. Can you look at the screen?” He looked up blearily. The phone chirped and unlocked. I slipped into the hallway and opened his messages. I searched for “Melanie.” The first thing I saw was a Venmo transfer for ten thousand dollars. “Bonus for my favorite girl,” Nelson had written. Melanie’s reply: “Won’t your frumpy housewife notice?” Nelson: “Please. She thinks I make a flat salary. She has no idea my bonuses and commissions go to a separate account. She’s happy with her ‘allowance’—she’s basically a live-in nanny who thinks I’m a hero. It’s a perfect setup.” Tears blurred my vision, stinging with the heat of a thousand humiliations. A live-in nanny. I scrolled back. The history went back to 2015. Before we even met. May 20, 2018. Our wedding day. Nelson: “I’m heading to the altar, but remember, you’re the one I love. She’s an only child from a wealthy family; her inheritance is the only way I can give you and Toby the life you deserve.” Melanie: “I’ll be waiting, Daddy. We love you.” Then, August 2022. Nelson: “The school thing is handled. Toby is officially a resident of the condo. Westside is a go.” Melanie: “I guess the ‘warden’ is good for something. If her parents hadn’t put up the cash for that place, we’d still be in the sticks.” Nelson: “My mom’s idea was genius. She wasn’t going to let her grandson go to a mediocre school. She told me to marry Ada just to secure the zip code.” A “genius” idea. My mother-in-law, the woman who hugged me at Christmas, had orchestrated the theft of my daughter’s education to benefit a secret grandson. I felt a surge of cold fury. I backed up every message. I took screenshots of every bank transfer, every Venmo, every “I love you.” I sent them to a new, private email address. Then I deleted the evidence of the transfer from his phone. The total amount he’d funneled to her since our wedding was staggering—nearly eight hundred thousand dollars. Meanwhile, I was counting pennies at the grocery store. I walked back into the room, helped my “loving” husband into his coat, and drove him home. As he passed out on the sofa, snoring with the heavy scent of scotch on his breath, I stood on the balcony overlooking the city lights. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. “Rachel? It’s Ada. I need to file for divorce. And I need the most vicious litigator in Seattle.”

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