Lexi, my absolute best friend, had just set me up on a blind date. “Listen to me, Monica. This guy is basically untouchable. He practically runs the city’s business sector, and get this, he fell for you at first sight! One look and he was absolutely hooked!” I couldn’t believe my luck. But right as she spoke, floating text boxes suddenly popped up in my field of vision, scrolling past like a live stream chat: [It’s real! There actually is a guy like that! It’s the corporate god himself, Victor Harrison!] [He saw our girl at a banquet and it was totally love at first sight!] [The thing is, Victor is a bit older and notoriously reserved. You just need to make the first move, show him you match his freak, and he’ll take the lead from there!] Seeing those floating comments, I immediately took action. I managed to get his contact info and started bombarding him with sweet good morning and good night texts, aggressively trying to lock down weekend dates. Despite all my efforts, Victor’s responses remained ice-cold. Frustrated, I finally complained to my best friend. “Did Victor really fall for me at first sight? Who acts this cold to someone they supposedly fell for?” Lexi just stared at me, completely lost. “Who the hell is Victor?” “The guy you set me up with. Obviously.” “Monica, the guy I set you up with isn’t named Victor.” 01 I froze. The world seemed to stop spinning. Not Victor? I had been sending borderline unhinged, flirty texts to this man for a solid month, and now you’re telling me I was flirting with the wrong guy? Lexi tapped her chin, trying to remember. “He’s a buddy of my cousin Tyler. I think his last name is Grant.” Grant? I just sat there looking absolutely stupid. I instinctively pulled out my phone and checked my pinned contacts. The name at the top was simply ‘Victor’. That had absolutely zero connection to anyone named Grant. The floating chat in my vision was equally entirely utterly panicked: [Not Victor? Wait, it’s not our CEO Harrison?] [An untouchable corporate god who already met our girl at a banquet… I literally can’t think of anyone else but Victor Harrison!] [Hold up… Lexi never actually said the guy was a corporate god. She just said he was successful…] [Holy crap. Have we been hyping up the completely wrong guy this whole time?!] The color drained from my face, shifting through about five different shades of horror. “But this Victor guy you mentioned,” Lexi muttered, her eyes widening. “I swear I’ve heard that name before.” Before I could even process my own impending doom, Lexi sharply sucked in a breath. “Oh my god. Are you talking about the CEO of Harrison Corp?” She grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. “How on earth did you get tangled up with him? Word is that man is completely ruthless and a total germaphobe when it comes to romance. Every single person who has tried to throw themselves at him has been utterly destroyed!” My vision literally went black at the edges. My savings, my future, my dad’s company. I could practically hear them all whispering their final goodbyes. Right as I was spiraling into pure despair, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Victor. 02 It started with a picture. It was a sleek, velvet gift box. Followed by three simple words: [You bought this?] I tapped the photo and zoomed in. It was a luxury men’s watch I had painstakingly picked out a few days ago, intending to give it to Victor as a one-month talking-stage milestone gift. In the month we had been texting, this was the first time I had ever sent him something genuinely expensive. I thought he would be pleasantly surprised. Now, I realized I was just lucky he hadn’t called security. Before I could even type out an excuse, Victor sent another text: [Don’t do this again.] My heart sank straight to the bottom of my stomach. My fingers flew across the screen. [I am so sorry! It won’t happen again. Just return to sender.] Victor seemed to pause. [Return it?] I was practically crying in the middle of the coffee shop. [Or just throw it in the trash! Seriously, my bad. I’ll never send anything again!] There was a long silence. The little ‘typing’ bubble appeared and disappeared for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he sent one word: [Whatever.] What did ‘whatever’ even mean? I genuinely could not read this man’s vibe. [Victor is probably only tolerating this because he’s doing business with Monica’s dad.] [Yeah, the big boss is definitely giving our girl a pass this one time.] [But Monica, take the hint! The man is dangerous. Run. Pack your bags and run.] Reading the chat just made me want to scream. Now they tell me to run? Where was this energy when they were gaslighting me into being aggressive?! I thought back to how confident the chat had been, making it seem like Victor being head over heels for me was an absolute fact. I had literally begged my dad for Victor’s private number based on their hype. Within days of adding him, I was trying to force him to call me ‘babe’. I had even sent him a dozen of those obnoxious ‘I know you’re obsessed with me’ reaction memes. Thinking about it now made me want to spontaneously combust. Lexi noticed my blank, traumatized expression. “Monica? You good?” Lexi was a veteran in the dating scene. She could handle any romantic crisis. I stared at her for two solid seconds, took a deep breath, and began. “So, I have this friend…” 03 I invented a fictional friend and spilled the entire agonizing story. When I finished, Lexi just grabbed my hands with a look of profound pity. “I highly advise you, I mean, your friend, to block him, delete his number, and leave the country.” “The only reason Victor is putting up with your… I mean, your friend’s dad having a business partnership with him, is for the money. That is his absolute limit.” “But you know how the saying goes. A quiet man is either plotting a murder or building an empire. Do you really think Victor Harrison is the type to just quietly take a loss?” Obviously not! He was the type to make other people take the loss. Usually a fatal one. I took a deep breath, stood up, and grabbed my purse. “Goodbye, Lexi. I’m moving to the Southern Hemisphere for the summer.” I hadn’t even made it out of the coffee shop, let alone checked flight prices, when my phone rang. It was my dad. His company, Croft Industries, was wrapping up a massive project with Harrison Corp, and they were throwing a celebration banquet next week. “Victor is definitely going to be there,” my dad added, his voice dripping with parental plotting. “Make sure you play your cards right.” Play my cards right? I was about to be played off the table! “Also,” my dad continued, completely oblivious to my internal screaming. “I need you to drop some files off at Victor’s office tomorrow. See how much I look out for you?” I choked on my own spit. Gee, thanks, Dad. The chat tried to comfort me: [Don’t panic, Monica! The project isn’t finalized yet. He won’t nuke your dad’s company before the ink dries!] [Exactly. Just be on your absolute best behavior tomorrow. Drop the files and sprint!] [Right! Just don’t provoke him. Even if he wants to snap, he won’t have a reason if you’re perfectly professional!] 04 Okay, valid points. So the next morning, I completely overhauled my usual wardrobe. I ditched the backless tops and the cute mini skirts. Instead, I pulled out the most modest, innocent-looking white sundress I owned and headed straight to Harrison Corp. The receptionist recognized me immediately and reached for her phone to call Victor’s assistant for the private elevator code. “No, no, please,” I stopped her quickly. “The regular elevator is perfectly fine.” I walked over to the main elevator banks like a totally normal, non-delusional employee. While waiting, I took a deep breath, trying to psych myself up. Keep your head down. Don’t start nothing, won’t be nothing. Just survive this week! But as the metal doors closed and the numbers ticked higher, my stomach tied itself into knots. Would Victor think I was here to harass him again? Was he currently adding another strike to my file in his mental burn book? Ding. The doors slid open. My heart jumped into my throat. Standing right there in the hallway, looking flawless in a tailored charcoal suit, was the man himself. All the courage I had spent the last ten minutes building instantly evaporated. “Monica?” Victor’s deep voice echoed in the quiet hall. He looked genuinely surprised to see me popping out of the employee lift. “What are you doing here?” I let out a shaky breath and plastered on my most polite, emotionally distant corporate smile. “Just delivering some documents for you, Mr. Harrison.” Victor visibly froze for a fraction of a second. Then, his dark brows pulled together into a deep frown. 05 Oh my god, why was he frowning? Panic flared in my chest. I practically shoved the manila folder into his hands. “I’m seriously just here to deliver these! You can call my dad and check!” Victor stayed quiet for a moment. He didn’t take the folder. Instead, his dark eyes locked onto mine. “Did you just call me Mr. Harrison?” I blinked, totally confused by the question. “What else am I supposed to call you?” Another beat of heavy silence passed. He shifted his stance. “Why didn’t you take the private elevator? Did my assistant not come down for you?” I waved my hands frantically. “No need to bother your assistant! The regular elevator is perfectly fine for me from now on.” That is, if there even is a ‘from now on’. Victor’s expression grew even more unreadable. He looked almost completely thrown off by my sudden burst of professionalism. [Victor probably didn’t expect our girl to suddenly gain self-awareness and boundaries.] [He was definitely ready to give you another strike, but you didn’t leave him an opening.] [The CEO is officially buffering. Keep it up, Monica!] Reading the room, I let out a tiny sigh of relief and pushed the folder closer to him, ready to make my grand escape. “Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ll just be taking off…” “Do you want to wait in my office…” We both spoke at the exact same time. And then we both immediately shut up. Victor looked down at me, the intensity in his gaze making my skin prickle. “You aren’t going to come sit in my office?” In the past, whenever I came to Harrison Corp, I would invent the most ridiculous excuses to trap him alone in his office. I once even faked a low blood sugar episode just so I could take a nap on his private lounge sofa. But now? I would rather walk into traffic. I shook my head vigorously. “No, no, I’m good. I actually have somewhere to be.” Victor, uncharacteristically, pressed the issue. “Where?” I choked. “Just… meeting a friend.” His frown deepened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but a sharp ding echoed behind us. It was the private elevator. I turned around, genuinely startled. I was standing next to the CEO, and I definitely wasn’t using it. Who else had top-tier clearance? 06 The polished metal doors slid open, and a woman stepped out. She was wearing a stunning, body-hugging red dress, her lips painted a bold crimson. The moment she saw Victor, her face lit up with a brilliant smile. “Victor! Were you waiting out here just for me?” She walked straight toward him, acting like I was completely invisible. “Let’s grab lunch. I found this amazing new fusion place that you’ll absolutely love.” Victor didn’t reply to her. Instead, his hand caught my elbow, subtly pulling me half a step closer to him. His voice dropped lower, directed entirely at me. “Go wait in my office.” The woman in red finally seemed to notice I existed. Her eyes dragged over my plain white dress. “And who is this?” Victor opened his mouth to introduce me, but my survival instincts kicked in and I beat him to it. “I’m just a business partner.” I gave Victor a crisp, totally professional nod. “Mr. Harrison, I really must be going. I hope the project goes smooth…” “Stop.” Victor cut me off. His face had gone completely blank, his jaw ticking slightly. He jerked his chin toward the heavy oak doors down the hall. “Go wait in there.” It was a direct order to his private office. I hesitated, terrified of pushing him over the edge, and ultimately decided to obey. The heavy doors clicked shut behind me, completely soundproofing the room from whatever conversation was happening in the hallway. I sat down on the edge of his expensive leather sofa, feeling like a kid in the principal’s office. My eyes darted nervously around the immaculate, minimalist room. And then, my gaze locked onto something. Wait. Why did that little Capybara mystery box figurine sitting on his mahogany desk look so familiar? That was the exact one I had unboxed a few weeks ago! I had thought it was ugly and forced it into Victor’s hands as a joke. I was entirely convinced he had thrown it straight into the garbage. But here it was, proudly displayed on the desk of a multi-million dollar corporation, looking absolutely absurd next to his sleek silver pens and leather folders. [Why does this feel like he’s keeping it as a warning? Like a king keeping the skull of his enemy…] [He’s definitely staring at that little rodent every day to remind himself to never let his guard down against crazy women.] [Victor is a man who holds a grudge…] Was it really that deep? Was he using my discarded plastic toy as a psychological anchor for revenge? The more I read the chat, the colder my blood ran. Finally, I decided I couldn’t take the risk. I stood up, tiptoed over to his desk, and reached out to steal the evidence. Click. The office door swung open. Victor’s voice hit the back of my neck like a physical weight. “What are you doing?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “450062”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 In the dead of night, Echo, the parrot in the living room, suddenly spoke. “I’ll call you back later. He isn’t asleep yet.” I bolted upright on the sofa. The living room was dead silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. Echo stood on his perch, head tilted, his bead-like green eyes shifting. “Don’t use the trust fund account. He’ll notice.” The tone was a perfect imitation of my wife’s. Even that slight upward lilt at the end of her sentences was there. I froze, a sudden chill creeping down my spine. Tina had never uttered those words in front of me. And I had certainly never taught them to Echo. Echo pecked at his feathers and fell silent again, acting as if nothing had happened. I slowly leaned back onto the sofa, my eyes locked onto him. The next morning, I moved his perch to the far corner of the living room, right opposite Tina’s study desk. I needed to hear every word she left unsaid. … “Phillip, didn’t you sleep well last night? Why did you move Echo over here?” Tina walked out of the kitchen, holding two mugs of warm milk. She was wearing her loungewear, her collar slightly loose, her gold-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of her nose. As always, she looked the picture of gentle elegance. “It gets drafty by the window. I didn’t want him to catch a cold.” I took the mug and took a sip. The temperature was spot-on. Not too hot, not too cold. In our five years of marriage, she had mastered the exact temperature I preferred for my milk. What a wonderfully sweet, attentive wife. “True, autumn is setting in.” She sat opposite me. Her gaze swept over the bird perch now facing her desk, and she paused for a fraction of a second. “It’s nice here. I can play with him while I work.” “Yeah.” I didn’t look up, focusing on cutting the fried egg on my plate. The doorbell rang. Tina set her mug down. “Who could that be so early?” She walked over to open the door. A man stood outside, wearing a light khaki trench coat over a white silk shirt. It was the exact same limited-edition shirt hanging in my closet. “Good morning, Director.” Gavin smiled eagerly. He held a few blue folders in his hands. “For this morning’s signing ceremony, there are a couple of supplementary agreements that need your eyes.” Tina frowned slightly, but her voice remained soft. “Why didn’t you just email them?” “It involves confidential financial details. Physical copies are safer.” As Gavin spoke, his gaze drifted past Tina’s shoulder, landing on me. “Morning, Phillip.” “Morning.” I laid down my fork and wiped my mouth with a napkin. Gavin was the financial director of the Aurora Foundation, handpicked and promoted by Tina. He was young, handsome, and an Ivy League graduate. “Come on in,” I said, standing up. “I hope I’m not interrupting your breakfast?” Gavin swapped his shoes and walked inside. Instead of sitting on the living room sofa, he walked straight to Tina’s desk. He moved with a familiarity that made it seem like his own home. “Look at this part, Tina.” He spread the folders open, leaning in slightly, his arm brushing against hers. She didn’t pull away. “I think we can push this budget down another five percent.” “Too aggressive. Better to play it safe.” They spoke in hushed tones. I watched from the side. I watched their shadows overlap because they were standing so close. I saw the faint red mark on Gavin’s neck, just below his collar. That was no mosquito bite. Flap. Echo suddenly fluttered his wings. “Be good, don’t make a scene.” Echo mimicked. His voice was high and feminine, carrying a hint of playful coquetry. The two at the desk froze instantly. Tina’s hand trembled, almost dropping the folder, and Gavin’s face went pale. A dead silence fell over the room. I walked over, picked up my glass, and poured some warm water. “The bird’s been mimicking TV lines lately. I left a drama playing last night. He must have picked it up.” Tina let out a forced laugh. “Right, he’s a clever bird. Mimics everything.” She snapped the folder shut. “Alright, Gavin. I’ve reviewed the agreements. Everything looks fine. Head back to the office.” “Will do, Tina.” Gavin scrambled to pack up his things, his movements clumsy. At the door, he suddenly stopped and turned back to look at me. “Phillip, you know, you don’t have to stay home watching TV all day.” “Oh?” “The foundation is swamped lately. You are the founder, after all. You should drop by once in a while, otherwise everyone will forget you and only recognize Tina.” His smile held a trace of provocation. “Gavin, watch your tone with Phillip,” Tina snapped, her expression hardening. “Phillip isn’t in the best health. Staying home to rest was my idea.” “Of course. You pamper your husband so much, we’re all dying of jealousy.” Gavin pushed the door open and left. Tina shut the door, walked over to me, and wrapped her arm around my shoulders. “Don’t mind him. He’s young and blunt, but he doesn’t mean any harm.” “I know.” I gently brushed her hand off. “I’m going to change. I need to head out.” “Where to?” “Just a spa appointment.” I walked into the bedroom and shut the door. The calm on my face vanished instantly. I walked to the deepest corner of the walk-in closet. Opening a drawer with a digital lock, I pulled out a burner phone. I turned it on and dialed. It rang three times before someone picked up. “Hello.” The voice was cool and lazy. “Audrey, it’s me.” Audrey. A senior partner at a top-tier accounting firm, my college classmate of four years, and once my fiercest rival. “Well, Phillip. What a rare surprise.” The rustle of papers came through the line. “I need a favor.” “Shoot.” “Audit some accounts for me.” “Which ones?” “The Aurora Foundation.” The rustle of papers stopped. “Your wife’s turf? You’re digging into her?” “Don’t ask. Are you in?” “I’m in.” “How long do you need?” “Depends on how deep you want to go.” “Everything. The ledgers, the cash flow, especially the offshore accounts.” Silence stretched for a couple of seconds. “That’s a massive undertaking. She isn’t careless.” “I’ll give you an entry point.” “Deal. I’ll wait for your signal.” “Keep this absolutely quiet,” I said, staring at my reflection in the mirror. “Don’t worry. You know my rules.” I hung up, changed into a sharp black suit, and walked out. Tina was adjusting her scarf. “Sweetheart, what do you want for lunch? I’ll have the maid prepare it.” She looked at me, her eyes full of warmth. I walked over and adjusted her collar. “Anything is fine.” “You’re always so easygoing.” She took my hand and kissed the back of it. “I’m off to the office. I have a dinner tonight, so I might be late.” “Okay.” I watched her walk out. The moment the door clicked shut, I turned and went straight to her desk. Underneath was a wastebasket. Inside lay a crumpled piece of paper. I picked it up and smoothed it out. It was a discarded draft of the supplementary agreement Gavin had brought over. On it was a handwritten figure: 8,000,000. Next to it, an arrow pointed to a scribbled abbreviation: C.I. Cayman Islands. I let out a cold laugh. Folding the paper, I slipped it into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and texted Audrey: “Start with the foundation’s Spark Initiative renovation project. Focus on the overseas procurement budget.” She replied instantly. “Got it. When are we pulling the net?” “Soon,” I typed back. “I’m going back to work at the foundation tomorrow.” 2 “Phillip, the files for the Spark Initiative have been archived. If you want to review them, you’ll need to go through the approval process,” Gavin said over the phone. His tone was purely professional, carrying an almost imperceptible hint of smugness. “An approval process?” I sat in my car, looking up at the glass facade of the Aurora Building. “Yes. Tina set a new rule yesterday. Any access to core project accounts requires her signature.” “Right. Got it.” I hung up, pushed the car door open, and stepped out. The Aurora Foundation. The passion project I had built from the ground up five years ago. Back then, Tina was just a struggling girl who couldn’t secure a dime of funding. I had gone against my family’s wishes, using our resources to pave her way, handing her the director’s seat. I had stepped back, keeping only the empty title of founder. And now, she was making the rules. I walked into the lobby. The two receptionists froze when they saw me. “Mr… Mr. Phillip?” “Morning.” I walked straight to the elevator. When I reached the top floor, the executive suite was quiet. I walked up to Tina’s office. The door wasn’t fully closed, leaving a narrow crack. Whispers drifted out. “Why did you block him? If he wants to see them, let him.” It was Tina’s voice. “Tina, there’s a deficit of nearly two million on the books. What if he catches on?” Gavin’s voice was tense. “Catch on to what? He’s a house husband who hasn’t touched a financial statement in five years. Do you honestly think he can decipher cooked books?” Tina sneered. “Besides, even if he did, he wouldn’t make a scene.” “You’re that sure?” “He’s head over heels for me. He gave up his family’s business just for me. You think he’d turn on me over a little money?” I stood outside the door. My hand hovered in mid-air, my fingertips feeling cold. So that was what I was to her. A gullible idiot. “But…” “No buts, Gavin. You’re getting soft.” The sound of a chair rolling back echoed from inside. “I’m just worried about your plan. Once that money is transferred, when are you going to show your hand to him?” Gavin’s voice softened. “Soon. After next month’s board meeting, when we officially secure complete control of the foundation.” I took a deep breath, took two steps back, and let my leather shoes click loudly against the floor. I pushed the door open. Tina was sitting behind her desk, with Gavin standing close by. Their distance looked professional enough now, but Gavin’s breathing was shallow and rapid. “Phillip? What are you doing here?” Tina stood up immediately, her face lighting up with surprise. “I was bored at home, so I thought I’d drop by.” I smiled, stepping past her outstretched hands, and sat on the sofa. “Gavin’s here too.” “Phillip,” Gavin said, pulling at his collar as he looked down. “I called earlier to check the Spark Initiative files. Gavin mentioned I needed your signature?” I looked at Tina. Her face stiffened for a second, then she glared at Gavin. “Nonsense! Phillip is the founder. Why would he need a signature to look at the books?” She turned back to me with an apologetic smile. “Honey, Gavin is still new. He doesn’t know how things work around here. He’s too rigid.” “He was just following the rules you set. He did nothing wrong.” I picked up the glass of water on the table but didn’t drink. “But the Spark Initiative was something I personally oversaw. Since it’s being renovated, I just wanted to check on the progress.” “Of course, absolutely.” Tina shot Gavin a look. “Go on, fetch the ledgers.” Gavin bit his lip. “Tina, those books are in the safe. The key… you have it.” Tina blinked. “Oh, right. Look at my memory.” She walked over to her desk and pulled open a drawer, pretending to search through it. “Oh dear, I must have left the key at home.” She turned around, looking thoroughly apologetic. “Sweetheart, what bad timing. How about I grab it from the house this afternoon and show you then?” I watched her perform. It was a clumsy act. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not that urgent anyway.” Tina visibly relaxed. “Exactly. You aren’t in the best health. Why stress over these details?” She walked over and put her arm around my shoulder. “Come on, lunch is on me. Let’s get French.” “No, I have plans.” I pulled away from her hand. “Plans with whom?” Her eyes flickered. “An old college classmate. She’s in town, so we’re grabbing a quick bite.” “A she?” Tina’s expression soured instantly. “Phillip, you’re a married man. Meeting a female classmate alone doesn’t look good.” Her tone was heavy with accusation. A classic guilt trip. “It’s just lunch. What’s wrong with that?” “I don’t like you getting close to other women. You’re my husband, you need to think about your reputation.” She raised her voice slightly. In the past, whenever she used this tone, I would back down to protect her pride, to prove I was loyal. I smiled. “Fine. I won’t go.” Tina beamed. “That’s my husband. Let’s go, I’ll keep you company.” She turned to grab her coat. I watched her back, pulled out my phone, and messaged Audrey: “Meeting canceled. The ledgers are locked in Tina’s office safe. German model, C-400.” Audrey replied almost instantly. “Got it. I need the passcode to that safe before midnight.” “Consider it done.” I put my phone away and followed Tina out of the office. Gavin stood at the end of the hallway, watching us leave. His eyes were filled with envy and spite. In the elevator, Tina took my hand. “Honey, you aren’t mad at me, are you?” “About what?” “About not letting you see your classmate. I only did it because I care.” “I know.” “Good. By the way, next Friday is the foundation’s fifth anniversary. Get ready.” “For what?” “Just show up, say a few words. And…” She paused, her tone turning casual. “Announce at the event that you are transferring some of your decision-making rights to me. I’ve been running things for years anyway. It looks odd to outsiders if I don’t have the official authority.” I turned to look at her reflection in the polished elevator doors. She was finally making her move. “Sure,” I said softly. “If you think you can handle it.” 3 “Honey, you’re so understanding. I was worried you’d think Gavin is too young to handle things,” Tina called out from the kitchen, washing strawberries. She was in an exceptionally good mood tonight, probably because I had agreed to hand over my authority on the drive home. I sat on the sofa, a slim laptop open on my knees. “He might be young, but he’s capable. If you trust him, I have no objections.” I typed away, my voice flat. On my screen was an encrypted email Audrey had just sent. I entered the passcode and opened it. It was a corporate registry chart of an offshore company. Peeling back the layers of shell corporations, the final beneficial owner was revealed in three words: Gavin Reid. And the source of funds was clearly marked as the Aurora Foundation’s primary account. Over two years, like ants moving dirt, they had funneled nearly fifty million dollars out of the foundation. I shut the laptop, closing my eyes, and took a slow breath. Fifty million. That was money from countless kind-hearted donors, sponsorships I had personally secured to build schools for children in impoverished areas. Tina, you really are a piece of work. “What’s wrong? Feeling unwell?” Tina walked over with a bowl of strawberries, looking at me with concern. “I’m fine. Just spent too much time looking at the screen. My eyes are tired.” I took a strawberry and bit into it. It was sweet. “Then stop looking at it. Honestly, it’s not like you need the money. Why keep stressing yourself?” She sat beside me, resting her hand on my thigh. “By the way, Phillip, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you.” Here it comes. “What is it?” “The foundation has its eye on an overseas medical aid project. The returns are incredible, but the initial funding gap is quite large.” She looked at me with earnest eyes. “How much do you need?” “Thirty million.” She paused. “I was thinking, don’t you have that family trust fund? Could we pull some from there just to cover the temporary gap?” I stared at her. My family trust fund. That was the final safety net my father had left me. It required my physical signature to touch. She was finally reaching for that. “The trust fund is heavily protected. Moving assets out of it is incredibly complicated, and the returns are fixed. It’s not meant for risky investments,” I declined gently. Tina’s smile faltered, but she quickly recovered. “I know it’s a hassle, but this is for the foundation’s growth. You’re the founder. You wouldn’t want to watch this project fall apart, would you?” “Doesn’t the foundation still have twenty million in reserves?” “That money… it was already used to cover some previous deficits.” Her eyes darted away. “What deficits?” I pressed. “Oh, just some general operating losses. You don’t understand the day-to-day logistics anyway, so don’t worry about it.” Her impatience flared, her voice rising. “Look, all you need to do is sign. I’m your wife. Would I ever do anything to hurt you?” That same sense of entitlement. “I can’t touch that money,” I said coldly. Tina snapped, standing up abruptly. “Phillip, what is that supposed to mean? Are you keeping secrets from me?” She pointed a finger at me, her voice sharp. “For five years, who worked day and night to build this foundation? Me! And what did you do? You sat at home playing the wealthy gentleman! Now I’m asking you to support my work, and you’re making excuses!” “Your work?” I stood up, staring her down. “Who provided the starting capital for Aurora? Who gave you the seat you are sitting in? Tina, without my family, you would be absolutely nothing.” In our five years of marriage, this was the first time I had ever spoken to her like this. Tina froze, staring at me in disbelief, as if looking at a stranger. Then, pure fury took over. She raised her hand. I didn’t flinch, meeting her gaze coldly. Seeing my eyes, her hand stopped in mid-air. Instead, she swept it sideways, knocking a ceramic vase off the table. Crash! Shards of porcelain shattered across the floor. “Fine. Great.” She gritted her teeth. “Phillip, do you honestly think you’re still that powerful heir? Your family’s business is practically gone! The only thing you have left to rely on is me!” She snatched her car keys, slammed the door, and stormed out. The house fell back into dead silence. I looked at the shattered porcelain, knelt down, and began to clean up the mess. No tears. Only absolute clarity. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Gavin, showing an image of Tina sitting in a dark booth at a bar, her scarf loosened, leaning against Gavin’s chest with a glass in her hand. The caption read: “Tina was upset, so I’m keeping her company for a few drinks. Phillip, a woman needs understanding. If you’re too controlling, you’ll only push her away.” I stared at the screen and smiled. I saved the photo, then forwarded it to Audrey with a simple note: “She won’t be home before midnight tomorrow. I’ll get you the passcode to the safe.” Audrey’s reply was short: “Get ready.” I stood up, threw the broken porcelain into the trash, and walked over to Echo’s cage. “Echo.” “Don’t use the account… Don’t use the account…” the parrot repeated, fluttering inside the cage. I threw a black cloth over the cage, blocking out the light. “Tomorrow,” I whispered to the empty room. “Tomorrow, I’ll bring the papers to sign at the board meeting. I’ll give her the show she wants.” 4 “Director, today’s board meeting is the main event. Are you ready?” Gavin whispered just outside the conference room. I caught the tail end of his words as I turned the corner and stopped in my tracks. Tina stood with her back to me, smoothing the lapels of her blazer. “Everything is set. Once he signs the authorization today, this foundation will belong to me entirely.” She let out a cold laugh. “The moment the funds clear, I’m kicking that useless weight out of my life. I’m sick of looking at his miserable face every single day.” “Oh, Tina, you’re cruel.” Gavin smiled, tracing a circle on her chest with his finger. “So, what does that make me?” “You’ll be the official spouse, of course.” Tina caught his hand and planted a kiss on it. I stood in the shadows of the hallway, watching them. My stomach churned, but I forced the disgust down. My brain told me now was not the time to flip the table. Let them climb as high as they want first. The fall is spectacular from the top. Taking a deep breath, I stepped out, letting the rhythmic click of my shoes announce my presence. Hearing the footsteps, the two broke apart instantly. Tina turned around, her venomous expression shifting effortlessly into a warm, gentle smile. The speed of her transition was sickening. “Phillip, you’re here. I had a bit too much to drink last night and slept at the office. You aren’t mad at me, are you?” She stepped closer, reaching to wrap her arms around my waist. I stepped aside, avoiding her touch. “Let’s start the meeting.” I pushed the door open, my face completely blank. Inside sat a dozen board members, all veterans who had built this foundation with me. When I walked in, a few looked up in surprise. I had lived in seclusion for years, and it had been a long time since I had shown my face at an official gathering. Tina followed me inside, walking straight to the head of the table. She took the primary seat. I took a side seat—a subtle but telling arrangement. “Everyone, thank you for coming to this emergency board meeting. We have two main items on the agenda today,” Tina began, her voice commanding and professional. “First, an internal personnel adjustment. Gavin Reid has shown outstanding performance during his tenure as financial director. I propose we appoint him as the Deputy Secretary-General to assist with daily operations.” Silence met her words. Deputy Secretary-General was a position of real power. Several board members exchanged glances, their eyes shifting toward me. I kept my head down, staring at the glass of water in front of me, saying nothing. Seeing my lack of reaction, a smug smile spread across Tina’s face. “Since there are no objections, we’ll make it official.” She turned to Gavin. “Gavin, hand out the documents.” Gavin walked around the table with a sway in his step, placing a folder in front of each member. The final folder was laid before me. The Aurora Foundation Full Decision-Making Transfer Agreement. “The second item,” Tina said, crossing her hands on the table, her eyes locked onto me. “Due to Phillip’s health, he is unable to participate in the long-term management of the foundation. For the sake of Aurora’s future, Phillip has decided to transfer all his decision-making rights, personnel appointments, and fund allocation authority over to me.” The room erupted into quiet murmurs. This meant I would be completely stripped of power, leaving the foundation as Tina’s personal empire. “Phillip, is this…” one of the older board members started. “Everyone, this is a decision Phillip reached after careful consideration,” Tina interrupted, her voice firm. “Isn’t that right, honey?” She stared at me, her eyes carrying an unspoken warning. Yesterday she couldn’t get her hands on my trust fund, so today she wanted the foundation’s lifeblood. Her greed knew no bounds. I set my glass of water down, looking up to let my gaze sweep across the room. Then I picked up the agreement and flipped through the pages. “This is a very thorough agreement,” I said quietly. Pure joy flashed across Tina’s face. She quickly pulled a pen from her pocket and offered it to me. “Then let’s sign it. Once it’s done, you can relax at home without any worries.” Gavin stood behind her, his lips curving into a smug grin. I took the pen and pulled off the cap. Under the collective gaze of the room, the tip of my pen hovered over the signature line. Tina held her breath. Click. I capped the pen and tossed it onto the table. The sharp sound echoed loudly in the quiet room. “I’m not signing.” The smile froze on Tina’s face. “What did you say?” “I said, I’m not signing.” I leaned back in my chair, looking at her coldly. “Not only am I refusing to sign this, but I am also rejecting Gavin’s appointment as Deputy Secretary-General.”

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1 My husband had a strange quirk: he had to count my heartbeat to fall asleep. Thinking it was romantic, I secretly took a photo and posted it on TikTok. The comments section was flooded with envy, putting me in a wonderful mood, until one comment was suddenly upvoted to the very top: [Did you have a heart transplant?] I sat up straight in bed, my heart hammering. I did have a heart transplant, but that was a secret known only to my immediate family. I sent a private message to the user, and they replied almost instantly: [Your transplant was on May 20th three years ago, wasn’t it?] [Your husband looks exactly like the donor’s boyfriend.] A wild, terrifying thought began to take shape in my mind. That night, I begged a contact to dig into the records. Hours later, they sent over a photo of the donor’s final wishes. It contained only one short, handwritten sentence: “Please leave this heart to Wesley’s beloved.” Wesley was my husband’s name. But three years ago, when I received that heart, I didn’t even know him. … [What was the name of the donor you found?] At two in the morning, I squatted on the balcony, my fingers trembling as I typed. The screen went silent for a few seconds before a photo popped up. The girl in the photo wore a white dress. Her smile was clean and bright, and there was a tiny mole at the corner of her eye. Then came a line of text: [Evelyn. She was Wesley’s college girlfriend. Three years ago, she was declared brain-dead after a car accident, and her organs were donated according to her wishes.] I stared at her face for a long time. She was a complete stranger, someone I had never seen before. Yet, her heart was beating inside my chest right at this moment. [In her will, she wrote ‘Wesley’s beloved.’ At the time, Wesley wasn’t married. The hospital ran the standard matching process, and you just happened to be the perfect recipient. But Wesley tracked you down afterward.] The light from the phone screen made my eyes sting. I wanted to deny it. I wanted to tell myself that Wesley and I met through a blind date set up by my mother’s friend, and that it had nothing to do with any donor. But a memory suddenly flashed in my mind. Three years ago, during our first blind date, the moment Wesley saw me, his chopsticks slipped from his hand and clattered onto the table. At the time, I thought it was love at first sight. Now, looking back, that look in his eyes wasn’t passion; it was recognition. I exited the chat and scrolled through Wesley’s social media. His profile was incredibly clean, containing only a few photos of us that I had forced him to post after our wedding. I scrolled all the way to the bottom. On May 21st, 2021, he had posted a single line: “From now on, I will live well for you.” There was no photo, no location. That day was the day after Evelyn had passed away. It was also the day after my heart transplant surgery. Footsteps echoed from the living room, and I quickly locked my phone screen. Wesley walked out, a coat draped over his shoulders, his brow slightly furrowed. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” “I couldn’t sleep. Just wanted some fresh air.” He walked over and naturally placed his hand over the left side of my chest. His fingers spread slightly, his palm covering the exact spot of my heartbeat. I used to find this gesture incredibly tender and comforting. Now, as I looked down at his hand, I only felt a cold dread, as if he were simply checking to see if something was still there. “Your heart is beating fast,” he murmured. “Just a bad dream.” He didn’t press further, wrapping his arm around my shoulder to guide me back to the bedroom. “Get some rest. I have a business trip tomorrow, so don’t stay up late while I’m gone.” I nodded, lying back down obediently. He lay on his side, his palm resting over my heart again, and closed his eyes to count. One, two, three. I stared blankly at the ceiling. He wasn’t counting my heartbeat. He was counting hers. The next morning, Wesley was at the entryway putting on his shoes. I leaned against the kitchen doorframe with a glass of milk, watching him just as I did every other day. “Wesley.” “Yeah?” “Who is Evelyn?” The hand tying his shoelaces paused for a fraction of a second. Just a fraction. Then, he stood up, his expression completely normal as he picked up his briefcase. “Never heard of her. Why do you ask?” “No reason. I just saw a blogger with that name online last night and thought it sounded pretty.” He smiled, walking over to press a gentle kiss to my forehead. “I’m off. I’ll bring back those almond tarts you love tonight.” The moment the door clicked shut, I poured the milk down the sink. He lied. I had gone through his college yearbooks and the memory books at the bottom of his bookshelf. Evelyn’s name appeared seventeen times. In the group photos, she stood right next to him, her smile bright and free. And the way he looked at her in those pictures held a warmth I had never once seen in our three years of marriage. Sitting on the floor with the yearbook in my lap, another memory hit me. During our first year of marriage, I asked him why he never called me by my name. He had laughed and said he was just used to calling me “wifey” because it felt more intimate. But now, I realized he had barely ever uttered the name Amelia. It was as if saying another woman’s name was a form of betrayal to him. And I, from start to finish, was nothing more than a vessel, carrying his deceased lover’s heart so she could keep beating. 2 “Amelia, is something going on with you lately?” Phoebe’s face appeared on the FaceTime call while I was sitting in Wesley’s study, sorting through his old hard drives. “No, everything’s fine.” “Don’t lie to me. Your dark circles are practically down to your chin. Is Wesley giving you a hard time?” I hesitated for a moment before forwarding her the screenshot of the donor’s will. The other end of the line went dead silent for ten whole seconds. “What a bastard,” Phoebe swore under her breath. “He married you just for this?” “I’m not entirely sure.” “What’s there to be unsure about? The will says ‘Wesley’s beloved,’ you didn’t even know him when you got the transplant, and then he actively sought you out. Amelia, use your brain.” I kept quiet. I had run through that exact logic all night long. “So, what are you going to do?” “I want to verify a few more things.” “Verify what? Whether he loves you or the heart beating in your chest?” Her words were brutal, cutting straight to the bone. I opened my mouth, but no defense came out. After hanging up, I continued scanning the files on the drive. Most of it was work-related, but there was one encrypted folder named “0520.” I tried three passwords. The first was my birthday: incorrect. The second was our wedding anniversary: incorrect. For the third attempt, I entered 20210520. The day Evelyn died. The folder clicked open. It was filled entirely with photos. Evelyn reading in the library, Evelyn running on the track, Evelyn fast asleep against his shoulder. The last photo was of her in a hospital bed. Her eyes were closed, her face pale, her body hooked up to a tangle of tubes. The caption below read: “Our final moment.” I closed the folder and put the hard drive back exactly where I found it. My hands were shaking, but my eyes remained dry. I couldn’t cry. Suddenly, I remembered the speech Wesley gave at our wedding. He had looked at me and said, “From this day forward, I will spend the rest of my life protecting you.” The guests had cheered, and my mother had wiped away tears of joy. Only now did I realize who the “you” in his promise actually was. At eight in the evening, Wesley came home on the dot, carrying a box of almond tarts. “Give these a try. They’re from that old bakery downtown. I stood in line for thirty minutes.” I took the box and opened it. The tarts looked beautiful, dusted with sliced almonds, smelling sweet and buttery. “Wesley, do you remember when I first told you I liked almond tarts?” He thought about it for a moment. “Right when we first met, wasn’t it? You said you’d loved them since you were a kid.” “I never said that.” He blinked. “I’m severely allergic to nuts, Wesley. I get hives if I even touch them. I told you that on our very first date.” The air in the room instantly turned heavy. The smile on Wesley’s face stiffened for a second before he quickly recovered. “Oh, really? I must have mixed it up. Don’t eat them then. I’ll get you something else tomorrow…” “The person who loved almond tarts was Evelyn, wasn’t it?” His hand gripping his briefcase tightened. The silence stretched even longer this time. “Amelia, what are you trying to say?” “Nothing.” I smiled, closing the box. “I’m going to take a shower.” I turned toward the bathroom, but after a couple of steps, I paused. “By the way, our anniversary is next week. You remember, right?” “Of course I do.” “What date is it?” He couldn’t answer. Our wedding anniversary was November 3rd. Evelyn’s birthday was May 20th. Every year on May 20th, Wesley took a day off, claiming it was for a company team-building event. I had never doubted him. The rush of the shower water drowned out everything else. I stood under the spray, letting the hot water stream over my face, unable to tell the difference between the water and my tears. 3 “How do you want to spend our anniversary?” During breakfast the next morning, Wesley brought up the topic himself. I looked at him as I chewed on my toast. He was calmly adding sugar to his coffee, his expression perfectly normal. “What do you think?” “Should we book a table? You mentioned wanting to try that new steakhouse downtown.” “Sure.” I didn’t point out that he had clearly looked up our anniversary date the night before. I had seen a notification on his phone screen earlier that morning: “Nov 3, Anniversary.” Created: Last night, 11:47 PM. In three years of marriage, this was the first time he had ever put our anniversary into his calendar. Yet, on his calendar, May 20th had a recurring red dot every year, empty of words but never missed. After he left for work, my phone rang from an unknown number. “Is this Amelia? I’m calling from the transplant registry office at Mercy Hospital.” “Yes, speaking.” “You underwent heart transplant surgery at our facility three years ago. According to our post-op management policy, we are due for an annual follow-up. Would you be able to come in for a checkup this week?” “Yes, I can make it.” “Excellent. I’ll schedule you for Wednesday morning. Also, I wanted to verify if Wesley remains your primary emergency contact?” “Yes, he is.” “Perfect. The notification will be sent to his number as well.” I hung up, a thought blooming in my mind. If Wesley received this notification, how would he react? Would he be anxious? Caring? Or would he simply be checking to see if his investment was still performing well? On Wednesday morning, I went to the hospital alone without telling him. After the tests, the doctor looked at my charts and declared everything normal. I hesitated before asking, “Doctor, is there any way for me to get information on my donor?” The doctor adjusted his glasses. “According to regulations, donor and recipient information must remain strictly confidential.” “What if the donor’s family reached out to me directly?” “If both parties agree, it can be arranged through the proper channels. But as far as our records show, your donor’s family has never submitted such a request.” Never submitted. Which meant Wesley had never used any official channel to find me. So how on earth had he tracked me down? As I walked out of the hospital gates, my phone vibrated. It was a message from Wesley: [I received the hospital notification. Why didn’t you tell me? I would have gone with you.] I replied: [I’m already done. Everything is normal.] He texted back instantly: [Let me know next time. I don’t feel comfortable with you going alone.] Not comfortable. Was he worried about me, or was he worried about this heart? I slipped my phone back into my pocket and stood at the entrance for a long time. Then, I hailed a cab and gave the driver an address: Greenwood Cemetery. I had looked it up online. Evelyn was buried there, in the quietest section of the grounds. Following the markers, I found her headstone. It was clean white marble, bearing the same bright, smiling photo I had seen on his hard drive. In front of the stone sat a fresh bouquet of white roses. The petals still carried the morning dew. Today was Wednesday. Wesley had told me he had an early morning board meeting. I knelt down, noticing a small card tucked under the stems. Written on it in Wesley’s unmistakable handwriting were two words: “Miss you.” I stood up, my legs feeling weak. Three years. On every day he claimed to be in meetings, traveling, or working late, how many times had he actually been standing right here? Whispering “I miss you” to a cold piece of stone, only to come home and press his hand against my chest to count her heartbeat as he drifted off to sleep. I felt a sudden wave of nausea, not directed at him, but at myself, for being so utterly blind for three whole years. My phone rang again. It was Wesley. “Amelia, what do you want for dinner? I can get off work early and cook.” I looked at Evelyn’s smiling face on the headstone while listening to the warm, gentle voice coming through the receiver. “Anything is fine. You choose.” “Alright. I’ll make those honey-glazed ribs you like.” My favorite was classic, smoky BBQ ribs. Honey-glazed ribs were likely Evelyn’s preference. “Okay.” I hung up, taking one last look at the white roses. As I turned to leave, I spoke to Evelyn in my mind. I’m sorry. I’m going to return her heart to him. 4 “Amelia, you seem a bit distracted tonight,” Wesley said, swirling the red wine in his glass as he looked at me across the table. “I’m fine. Just thinking about some projects at work.” “Leave work at the office. Tonight is our night.” He spoke with such quiet sincerity. I looked into his eyes, searching for any trace of guilt or hesitation. There was none. He looked at me with pure warmth and focus, like a husband deeply in love with his wife. If I didn’t know the truth, I would still believe I was the happiest woman in the world. “Wesley, let me ask you a question. You have to be completely honest with me.” “Go ahead.” “Do you love me?” He smiled, reaching across the table to cover my hand. “Of course I love you.” “What do you love about me?” “I love…” He paused for a beat. “I love everything about you.” What a textbook, flawless answer. But it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “If one day my heart gives out and I need another transplant, if I have to replace it with someone else’s heart, would you still love me?” His grip on my hand tightened slightly. “Why are you asking that? did something go wrong with your checkup today?” “You didn’t answer my question.” “Amelia, don’t let your mind wander. Your heart is perfectly healthy. Nothing is going to happen.” “I said if.” He set his wine glass down, his expression turning solemn. “There is no ‘if.’ I won’t let anything happen to your heart.” I caught his choice of words. It wasn’t “I won’t let anything happen to you.” It was “I won’t let anything happen to your heart.” I pulled my hand back and took a sip of my wine. “I’m just joking. Don’t look so serious.” He let out a breath, his smile returning. “You scared me. I thought the doctor had found something.” “Actually, the doctor said I’ve recovered beautifully. I don’t even need to come back for annual checkups anymore.” “Really? That’s incredible news.” His joy seemed entirely genuine, but I couldn’t tell if he was happy for my health or for the safety of the heart inside me. On the way home, he held my hand as we walked along the sidewalk. The streetlights stretched our shadows out, making us look like any other devoted, ordinary couple. “Wesley.” “Yeah?” “If one day I’m no longer around, what would you do?” He stopped walking, turning to look at me. “Amelia, what is wrong with you today? Why do you keep saying these things?” “I just wanted to know.” He pulled me into his arms, resting his chin against the top of my head. “You aren’t going anywhere. I won’t allow it.” I buried my face in his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was steady, strong, and slow, carrying a rhythm entirely different from the borrowed heart beating inside my own chest. In that moment, I made my decision. Once we returned home, I waited until he fell asleep. I waited until his hand found its usual spot over my heart, and his breathing turned deep and even. I gently moved his hand away and sat up. In the drawer of my nightstand was the package I had prepared earlier: a signed set of divorce papers, a letter, and a one-way ticket to Southport for six in the morning. I placed the divorce papers and the letter side by side on his pillow. Then, I opened the closet and pulled out my packed suitcase. I didn’t take a single thing he had ever bought me. None of the jewelry, the designer bags, or the dresses, because they had all been chosen according to Evelyn’s taste. I took only the clothes I had owned before our marriage and a single notebook. Tucked inside the notebook was our wedding photo. I looked at it one last time, pulled it out, and laid it on top of the divorce papers. At the door, I glanced back at the bedroom. Wesley rolled over, his hand reaching out across the empty sheets. Not finding me, his brow furrowed slightly, his palm clenching the air before falling loose. I pulled the door shut quietly behind me and rolled my suitcase to the elevator. The hallway at four in the morning was as silent as a tomb. As the elevator doors slid shut, a muffled shout echoed from inside the apartment, a voice rough with sleep and sudden panic: “Amelia?” The elevator began its descent. I took a deep, steady breath, letting his voice fade behind the concrete walls.

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1 I woke up inside an angsty, toxic romance novel. Worse, I was the tragic female lead destined to suffer. But the moment I opened my eyes, I realized I had gained a bizarre power: I could modify any number in the text of this story. With a mental flick of my wrist, I decided to play God. The manipulative mistress in the original story bragged about weighing ninety pounds with the appetite of a tiny bird. I changed her weight to three hundred pounds, making her so massive she broke her chair and sent the male lead’s jaw dropping to the floor. In the original plot, she pushed me from a seventh-floor balcony, causing me to miscarry and shattering every bone in my body. I changed the number to the first floor. I fell, brushed the dirt off my jeans, and walked right back inside. While I lay dying in the original script, she and my husband took off for a ten-day tropical island getaway. I added some zeros, turning their quick vacation into a ten-year survival nightmare. By the time they returned, I had manipulated the numbers in my bank account to become the wealthiest tycoon on the East Coast. As for them? They had spent a decade playing a real-life version of Castaway, reduced to shivering, dirt-caked cave people. It all started when I opened my eyes to find myself trapped in this cliché nightmare. The mistress was named Tiffany, and my husband was Gavin. Tiffany was the newly hired secretary at Gavin’s corporate headquarters, a master manipulator who knew exactly how to play the victim. I, Vivian, had spent years building a life with Gavin. We were childhood sweethearts. I supported him through his grueling startup years, cooking his meals and keeping his home, only to become a boring, neglected ornament in his eyes once he made his fortune. He began cheating on me, letting his toxic mistress torment me until I lost my baby, ended up paralyzed in a hospital bed, and was finally dragged off to an asylum. After endless torment, the original Vivian became a vegetative shell. Only then did Gavin realize his mistakes and begin his pathetic, desperate chase to win her back. But I was here now, and I had no intention of playing the victim. When the system notified me that I could edit the story’s numbers, I grinned. I did not need to be greedy. A few strategically placed digits would do just fine. Sitting at the dining table, I watched Tiffany pick at her food. Knowing what was about to happen, I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. In this scene, Tiffany had come to our house to provoke me. She pretended to be drunk, draping herself over Gavin. He brought her home to stay in our guest room, but in the middle of the night, she wailed that she was starving. Gavin ordered me to get out of bed and cook a three-course meal for her. The original Vivian complied, only for Tiffany to take one bite and sneer. “Gavin, I have the stomach of a bird, I barely weigh ninety pounds. I am completely full after one bite. I really envy Vivian. You can tell she has a wonderful appetite just by looking at her figure.” Then she pushed the plate away with a look of disgust. “Gavin, now that I am full, the smell of this grease makes me want to throw up.” Gavin immediately ordered me to throw all the food in the trash and scrub the kitchen so Tiffany would not have to smell it. As I slaved away, he watched me with cold disdain. “Vivian, you should learn some self-discipline from Tiffany. Look at your body, you have completely let yourself go.” The original Vivian wept silently in the kitchen. She only gained weight because she had been taking heavy hormone injections for years, desperately trying to get pregnant because Gavin said he wanted a family. Now, facing the exact same scene, I pulled up the system panel. I targeted the number ninety in Tiffany’s dialogue and changed it to three hundred. The effect was instantaneous. Tiffany’s silk blouse buttons violently popped off. One button shot through the air and landed with a splash directly in the soup bowl. Her body expanded so rapidly that the delicate wooden dining chair splintered beneath her. She crashed onto the hardwood floor with a heavy, flesh-shaking thud. Gavin stared at her newly acquired rolls of fat, his eyes wide with horror and disgust. I rested my chin on my hand, looking her up and down. “Well, sweetheart, you do not look like you have the stomach of a bird to me.” Tiffany tried to stomp her foot in anger, but her massive weight sent a violent shudder through the entire dining room floor. Gavin, like most superficial men, was entirely driven by looks. The disgust in his eyes was impossible to hide. “Tiffany, help Vivian clean up the table. Walking around will be good for your weight loss.” He was bound by the novel’s plot to cheat, but his eyes betrayed his sheer confusion. He could not understand why on earth he was falling for a loud, overbearing, three-hundred-pound woman. Later that night, the original plot dictated that Gavin would sneak into the guest room for some intense, skin-to-skin intimacy. I did not care about the betrayal, but I refused to listen to their noisy antics keeping me awake. So, I pulled up the system and changed their seven inches of intimacy to zero. Gavin spent the entire night huffing and puffing, completely blocked by Tiffany’s massive, three-hundred-pound stomach. 2 Despite their lack of physical success, the novel’s plot still forced a pregnancy onto Tiffany. Gavin moved her into our home permanently and demanded that I serve her three meals a day. In the original timeline, Vivian worked day and night, cooking gourmet meals to cater to Tiffany’s endless demands. Tiffany treated her like a servant, throwing tantrums and flipping the dining table whenever a dish was not to her liking. But I was not the submissive wife. I did not feel like cooking at all. I opened the system panel and changed the phrase “three meals a day” to “one meal every three days.” When Gavin opened his mouth to give his daily order, his voice sounded strained as the plot rewrite took hold. “Vivian, you will prepare one meal every three days to serve Tiffany.” I smiled brightly. “As you wish, darling.” Tiffany’s nightmare began. Waiting seventy-two hours for a single meal left her absolutely ravenous. Every time I placed a plate in front of her, she devoured it like a feral animal, practically licking the porcelain clean. She was too busy starving to complain about the quality, let alone flip any tables. Once, she looked at the bowl of plain instant noodles I set down and let out a soft groan of disgust. I immediately grabbed the edge of the table and flipped it over, sending the noodles splashing across the floor. “Let me help you with that, Tiffany. I just realized I made this meal two hours too early. We still have time to wait before your three-day mark.” Tiffany shrieked in anger. But half an hour later, I found her on her knees, weeping as she scooped the stray noodles off the floor to eat them. From that day on, she treated my cooking with absolute reverence. She looked at every plate as if it were a sacred offering, terrified I would flip the table again. Ten months later, Tiffany gave birth to a baby boy. Shortly after, I discovered I was pregnant as well. In the original story, this pregnancy was the result of seven long years of medical treatments. Vivian cherished the baby, believing it would mend her broken marriage. But Tiffany saw the child as a threat to her position and decided to get rid of it. She began slipping high doses of toxic herbal extracts into my daily soups, causing me to suffer severe cramps and bleeding. When I was rushed to the hospital, she secretly swapped my pregnancy-safe medication with useless vitamins. After my third emergency room visit, Gavin slapped me across the face. “Stop putting on a show, Vivian. Do you really think this pregnancy makes you special? You think you can use a baby to tie me down? Tiffany has already given me a son. I only keep you around out of pity. If you try to use this baby for attention one more time, I will personally drag you to an abortion clinic.” That slap shattered the last of Vivian’s hope. She decided to survive just long enough to have her baby and leave him. But she never got the chance. Tiffany cornered her on the seventh-floor balcony and pushed her over the railing. Now, I stood on that same balcony, looking down at the ground. I felt a phantom ache in my bones, but I remained calm. I opened the panel and changed the number seven to one. As Tiffany crept up behind me, I turned, gave her a cheerful wave, and jumped over the railing myself. Amid her panicked screams, I landed softly in the manicured bushes of the first-floor garden. I crawled out, brushed the dirt off my knees, and walked back to the front door to ring the bell. 3 Because Tiffany had already poisoned my system with so many toxins, the minor fall was still enough to end the fragile pregnancy. But my bones were perfectly intact. As I lay in my hospital bed, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Best of all, Gavin and Tiffany had completely vanished from my sight since the incident. Just as I was enjoying the peace, my phone buzzed. It was Gavin. My finger slipped, and I accidentally answered the call. “Vivian, I am sorry,” Gavin’s voice sounded tight. “Tiffany has been feeling depressed lately and needs a change of scenery. I am taking her to a private island resort. I won’t be able to look after you for a while.” I squeezed my eyes shut, pretending to be heartbroken. “For how long, Gavin?” As I spoke, I opened the system panel and edited the text. Gavin’s voice faltered on the other end, sounding dazed and confused. “For… ten… years.” He cleared his throat, sounding utterly bewildered by his own words. “I am sorry, Vivian. I do not know why I said ten years. My original plan was just a quick trip to clear our heads, but…” I cut him off before he could recover. “Enjoy your decade, darling. Do not worry about a thing. I will take care of the company while you are away.” I hung up immediately, ready to enjoy my ten years of freedom. In the original timeline, Gavin left for his vacation without even paying my hospital bills. Meanwhile, Tiffany filled her social media with posts boasting about his generosity. She had shared photos of her bank account showing a five-hundred-thousand-dollar balance, alongside Gavin’s thirty-million-dollar account. Her posts featured designer bags scattered across a luxury hotel bed. Meanwhile, my own account had held a pathetic fifty dollars, a random handout Gavin had tossed to me weeks prior. Because I could not pay the hospital fees, I was discharged early. I had walked through a freezing rainstorm all night, clutching my aching stomach. That was the night the original Vivian finally lost her mind, sinking into a permanent state of paranoia until Gavin returned and committed her to an asylum. Now, I unlocked my phone and scrolled to Tiffany’s old boastful post. I changed her five hundred thousand dollars to five dollars. Then I turned Gavin’s thirty million dollars into three dollars. They were stuck on a remote island for the next ten years. I smiled, feeling like a benevolent savior. Adversity builds character, after all. I was simply giving them a wonderful opportunity to test the strength of their true love. Next, I opened my own banking app, stared at my fifty-dollar balance, and began typing zeros behind it until my thumb grew sore. I decided to take a nap and add some more tomorrow. In the original story, Vivian had called Gavin dozens of times a day during his absence until he finally blocked her number. I, on the other hand, was far too busy adding digits to my bank account to care about where he was. On the sixth day of his trip, Gavin called me. His tone was uncharacteristically polite, almost nervous. “Vivian, how have you been?” I was in the middle of typing another row of zeros and answered distractedly. “I am doing great.” Gavin hesitated, his voice tight with embarrassment. “Vivian, could you wire me some money? Or perhaps you could authorize an early release of my monthly salary of one million dollars? I was certain I brought enough funds, but for some reason, all my cards are being declined.” My eyes lit up at the mention of corporate authorization. “Gavin, you still have nine years, eleven months, and twenty-three days left on your island vacation. The company cannot run without a leader. Transfer all administrative rights to me, and I will handle your salary.” Gavin snapped, telling me I did not have the brains for business, but he quickly shut his mouth. He knew that if he abandoned the company for ten years without a trusted proxy, there would be nothing left when he returned. He had no choice but to sign the digital transfer forms. The moment the corporate power of attorney cleared, I did two things. First, I blocked Gavin’s number. Second, I adjusted his monthly corporate salary from one million dollars to one cent. For a husband who was entirely absent, a penny a month was more than generous. Ten years flew by. By constantly manipulating the numbers of my investments, I transformed myself into the most powerful financial tycoon on the East Coast. I was no longer the weeping housewife. I was a brilliant corporate force, running a massive business empire. Over the decade, handsome bachelors and elite suitors constantly sought my attention, and my life was filled with excitement. I had completely forgotten about Gavin and Tiffany. One afternoon, during a ribbon-cutting ceremony for my new shipping port, a loud gasp rippled through the crowd. “Look out there!” Everyone turned their eyes toward the ocean. A battered, makeshift raft was tossing and turning in the rough harbor waves. Two figures clung to the wooden logs. It was impossible to tell their gender at first. They were covered in layers of dirt, dressed only in woven leaves, with matted hair that dragged along the deck. I squinted at the two wild figures paddling desperately toward the dock. They looked strangely familiar. My jaw tightened as recognition set in. It was Gavin and Tiffany. I had been so absorbed in my multi-billion-dollar acquisitions that I had completely lost track of the timeline. Ten years had actually passed. Before I could process it, a massive wave flipped their fragile raft, dumping them both into the shallow, murky water near the shore.

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1 Eight months pregnant, my doctor warned my stress-related condition was worsening fast—I might have just five years left. Determined to leave something for my unborn daughter, I began recording video messages set five years in the future. Midway through filming, a glitch froze the screen, then revealed my older self. “Was the baby safe? Boy or girl? Does she look like me—or her father?” I asked, imagining her in a little princess dress. “Have you found someone who loves her? Call her my sweetheart. Watch her try on her wedding dress for me.” Future-me turned away at the mention of the dress. “She was born,” she said flatly. “A girl. We named her Hope. But she never saw your videos.” “Naomi—Graham’s wife—deleted them all. Every trace of you is gone. Hope is five now. She doesn’t know what you looked like. She believes her father remarried, and her new aunt tells her she killed you.” “She hides in closets, stays silent, writes in a secret journal. Graham says they only keep her as a biological donor for Naomi’s son… who’s seven.” The final frame of the video flickered, replaced by an image of a medical chart. The patient’s name was mine. The cause of death was listed as chronic drug toxicity leading to anaphylactic shock. In the space for the attending physician, Naomi’s signature was clearly written. The screen went black, and the connection severed. A wave of icy terror washed over me. Naomi was my closest friend, my college roommate, and a brilliant psychology graduate. She had always claimed she chose that field because of me. She had been there when I witnessed my mother kill my unfaithful father, an event that left me plagued by nightmares and severe depression for over a decade. At the time, Naomi had wept, promising she would master psychology to cure me. She had kept her word, becoming my therapist and prescribing medications that finally allowed me to sleep through the night. Beside Graham, she was the person I trusted most in this world. How could I accept that the two most important people in my life were quietly plotting my death? The sound of the door opening broke my trance. Graham walked into the room, a warm, gentle smile on his face. “Sweetheart, Naomi formulated a new compound for your therapy. Why don’t you try it?” He unscrewed the plastic bottle, poured out a single pill, and held it to my lips. I looked up into his eyes. They were filled with a familiar, tender concern. I slowly parted my lips, took the pill, but slipped it beneath my tongue before swallowing a mouthful of water. “I will get you a blanket,” Graham said, turning toward the master bedroom. “The weather is turning cold.” The moment he walked away, I spat the pill into my palm. I pulled out my phone, opened a photo translation app, and scanned the tiny chemical symbols printed on the prescription label. My heart battered against my ribs, so hard I could barely breathe. The screen illuminated with a list of active ingredients. Diphenhydramine. Loratadine. Acetaminophen. Three of my most severe allergens, all packed into a single daily tablet. None of them were lethal on their own, but taken together over a prolonged period, they would systematically destroy my immune system until my body simply gave up. My hands began to shake. For five years, my health had steadily deteriorated despite the medication. I had assumed I was simply cursed, that my psychological trauma was too deep to heal. In reality, every single pill had been a slow, invisible blade. “What are you looking at, sweetheart?” Graham returned, carrying a soft fleece throw. I quickly locked my phone screen, squeezing my hand shut around the pill. “Nothing.” “You should spend less time on your phone. It is bad for your eyes.” He draped the blanket over my lap, his movements natural and caring. “Get some rest. Hope and I are waiting for you to get better. I have some urgent business at the office, so I must head out.” Though my daughter was not yet born, I had already chosen her name. I wanted the world to remember that I had been here, that I had loved. Yet in five years, she would have no memory of me at all. Her very existence would be reduced to a medical resource. As soon as Graham’s footsteps faded down the hall, I blinked back my tears and dialed a number I had not called in years. Before my mother passed away, she had told me: “Nora, if the world ever becomes too heavy to bear, find Uncle Thomas. He will protect you for me.” I opened a messaging app, my tears splashing onto the glass screen as I typed: “Thomas, please draft a divorce agreement for me. As quickly as possible.” Over the next few days, sleep became impossible, but I still made sure to attend my scheduled prenatal checkup. In the ultrasound room, the technician stared at the monitor for a long time, a look of pleasant surprise on her face. “Nora, your physical markers are significantly better than last month. Every indicator is recovering. If this trend continues, you might actually make a full recovery.” A cold sweat broke out across my back. Over the past few days, I had completely stopped taking Naomi’s pills. The video from the future was real. My final sliver of hope was shattered. “Thank you, doctor,” I forced a polite smile, clutching my purse tightly as I left the room. The hospital corridors were bustling with patients. As I rounded a corner, a small body collided with my knees. Instinctively, I reached out to steady him. He was a soft, frail little boy around two years old, his skin exceptionally pale and his lips tinted a faint, unhealthy blue. He held a small toy car, which had clattered to the floor, and his mouth puckered as if he were about to cry. “I am so sorry, sweetheart…” I knelt to retrieve the toy, but as I looked up, my entire body went rigid. Naomi stood before me, a stack of medical folders clutched to her chest. “Nora? What are you doing here?” Before I could answer, another figure stepped out from behind her. Graham. He carried a bottle of mineral water in one hand and a small cartoon backpack in the other. “Sweetheart, what a surprise,” Graham said, his voice entirely calm. “I came to help Naomi with her son’s appointment. The boy is quite ill, and she was struggling to manage everything on her own.” I stood there, looking at the three of them. They looked exactly like a family portrait. Naomi quickly adjusted her expression, offering a tired, apologetic smile. “Nora, please do not think badly of us. I was simply at my wit’s end, so I asked Graham for help. You know the father has his own family and refuses to support us. It is so hard raising a sick child alone, and Graham was just being kind.” I had to clench my jaw to keep from laughing out loud. She had repeated this story countless times. She had told me she fell in love with a married man who abandoned her, leaving her to raise a child with a chronic blood disorder alone. Out of sympathy, I had sent her large sums of money over the years, treating her child like my own. Instead, they had been feeding on my flesh and blood. I looked down at the little boy. His eyes and jawline were a near perfect mirror of Graham’s. No wonder Naomi had always kept him hidden from me. I forced my voice to remain steady. “He is a beautiful boy. When is his birthday?” “March seventeenth,” Graham answered casually. March seventeenth. My birthday. Fragments of memory began to piece themselves together. Two years ago, on my birthday, Graham had called to say he was stuck working late, then phoned later to say he had been in a minor car accident and was at the hospital getting his wrist bandaged. I had spent my birthday alone, watching the candles on my cake burn down to ash. When he finally returned, his wrist had indeed been wrapped in gauze. I had never doubted him. But now I knew. That night, Graham had been at the hospital to welcome his son into the world. At that moment, the door to the examination room opened. A doctor poked his head out, gesturing toward Graham. “Toby’s father? You may come in now. It is your turn.” The hallway fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. I did not scream. I did not cry. I simply offered a faint smile. “You should go inside. Do not keep the doctor waiting.” With that, I turned and walked away. Shortly after I arrived back at the empty house, my phone rang. It was Naomi, her voice trembling with tears. “Nora, I am so incredibly sorry about today. It was entirely my fault. I panicked and could not find anyone else to help. The hospital regulations require both parents to sign for the treatment, so I asked Graham to pose as the father.” It was a pathetic lie, but I chose not to shatter it just yet. “I am not angry,” I said quietly. There was a brief silence on the line. “Really? That is wonderful. I thought you… well, never mind. I sent a small peace offering via same day courier. It should arrive shortly. Once you receive it, you must promise to forgive me.” I gave a brief murmur of assent and hung up. Within twenty minutes, the doorbell rang. The courier handed me a paper bag. As I closed the door, a faint scent drifted from the package. It was a white musk perfume, the only brand Naomi claimed did not trigger her allergies. I tore open the bag, and a piece of black lace lingerie slid onto the floor. It was thin, delicate, and visibly worn. Near the collar, there was a faded, discolored smudge, as if it had been rubbed repeatedly against skin. The garment had been used. A wave of intense nausea hit me. I rushed to the bathroom, gripping the toilet bowl as I dry heaved. The tears finally spilled over, my chest tightening with an agonizing ache. After washing my face, I threw the garment directly into the trash. The front door opened again. Graham walked in, holding a small cake box from my favorite bakery. Seeing my pale face, he immediately came over and supported my shoulders. “What is wrong, sweetheart? You look terrible. Is the morning sickness acting up again?” I looked into his eyes. He had played the part of the doting husband for five years, and every expression was polished to perfection. “I am fine. Just a bit nauseous.” “Let me get you some warm water.” As he leaned over the coffee table to reach for the kettle, his collar slipped slightly, exposing his collarbone. Two inches below his neck, there was a faint pink smudge. It was Naomi’s favorite lipstick shade. I had spent hours helping her pick out that exact color at the department store years ago. Noticing my gaze, Graham casually adjusted his shirt. “Let me cut some cake for you. You have not had much of an appetite lately, and something sweet might help.” I took the small fork he handed me, staring down at the frosting. “Graham.” “Yes?” “I want a divorce.” His hand froze in midair. “Is this about what happened at the hospital today? I can explain, Nora. Please, do not be unreasonable.” He set the fork down, a flicker of irritation crossing his brow. I looked directly into his eyes. “Explain what? Explain that you and Naomi have a son together? Or explain that the two of you have been slowly poisoning me for five years? Pick one, Graham. I am listening.” In an instant, the warmth drained from his face. “Nora, this is a side effect of your medication. You are experiencing paranoid delusions.” I did not bother arguing. I stood up, walked into the bedroom, and grabbed a coat from the closet. “Where do you think you are going?” Graham followed me, blocking the doorway. “To the hospital,” I said, my voice completely flat as I slipped on my shoes. “To terminate the pregnancy.” Given my physical condition, bringing a child into this world would only doom her to a life of suffering. I had lived a painful life, and I refused to let my sweet Hope be born merely to be used. Hearing this, Graham panicked. “Have you lost your mind?!” I pushed past him, heading for the front door. I heard his hurried footsteps behind me, but before I could turn, a wet towel was clamped tightly over my nose and mouth. The chemical scent was overpowering, stinging my eyes. I struggled against his grip, but my strength quickly faded, and the world dissolved into darkness. When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a cold surgical table. My wrists and ankles were secured with thick leather straps. This was not a public hospital. It was Graham’s private wellness clinic. “You are awake?” Graham’s face appeared above me. He was dressed in sterile blue scrubs, his mask and cap obscuring most of his features. “The stress triggered early labor. I suggest you cooperate with the procedure, for your own sake and the child’s.” My mouth was gagged, leaving me unable to scream. I felt the first sharp wave of a contraction rippling through my abdomen, breaking me out in a cold sweat. Graham had clearly administered a labor-inducing drug. I thrashed against the restraints, the pain in my stomach tearing through me like a physical blade. I could not scream; I could only let my tears and sweat mingle as they ran down my face. After what felt like an eternity of agonizing pain, my body felt as though it were being torn apart, and I nearly lost consciousness. Then, the high-pitched cry of a newborn pierced the silence of the room. I forced my head to turn, catching a glimpse of my tiny, fragile Hope. She was so small, her cries weak like a frightened kitten. Before I could even try to see her face, Graham stepped over to the counter and dialed a number. “The baby is delivered. Prepare the laboratory for the blood matching.” A surge of maternal fury gave me a sudden burst of strength. Hope had only just entered the world, and he was already planning to drain her blood. I thrashed against the leather straps with everything I had left, and one of the worn buckles suddenly gave way. I managed to pull my wrist free and rolled off the table, crashing heavily onto the cold floor. The fresh surgical incision tore open, leaving a bright trail of red across the linoleum. Without a single glance back at me, Graham cradled the crying baby and walked out of the room. In that moment, only one thought consumed my mind. I had to survive. I had to make them pay. Dragging my body across the floor, I stumbled out of the clinic. The security guard at the entrance froze in shock but did not dare to stop me. A woman drenched in blood escaping from a private facility was a terrifying sight. I ran with every ounce of strength I had left, collapsing into the nearest police station. As I pushed through the doors of the precinct, I cried out with all the breath in my lungs: “I want to report an attempted murder! My husband, Graham, has held me captive, forced me into a cesarean section, and has been poisoning me for years!” “He has an illegitimate child, and he is trying to drain my newborn daughter’s blood for a bone marrow transplant!”

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1 I owned a watch that could rewind time by exactly five minutes. On my twenty-eighth birthday, my husband was reportedly killed in a car crash on his way to buy my birthday cake. Desperate to save him, I pulled that forgotten watch from the depths of my closet. But five minutes was such a terribly short window. To save him, I had to rewind time over and over, crashing and bleeding in the process. Finally, on my thirtieth attempt, I pushed my car to one hundred and twenty miles per hour, timed the brakes with absolute precision, and managed to intercept his vehicle before the collision occurred. But when the driver-side window rolled down, Dominic merely looked me up and down with a sneer. “You really are pathetic, Sienna. You actually ruined your own face just to save me.” “Well, look at you now. Let us see how you plan to compete against Melody for the pageant crown.” I stood frozen in the cold air, suddenly remembering the terrible cost of the watch. Every single activation fast-forwarded my biological clock by one year. I had used it fifty times in total over my life. Fifty years had been stripped away in a matter of hours. At twenty-eight, I had suddenly become a seventy-eight-year-old woman. “You… you did this on purpose?” “Of course,” Dominic said, leaning back in his seat. “Melody wanted to win the crown, but you have held the title for ten consecutive years. This was the only way to get you out of the competition.” He offered a cold, smug smile. “It is a good thing you told me about that watch five years ago. Otherwise, we could never have pulled off such a seamless plan.” I had shared the secret of the watch with him during our third year of marriage. To help him secure a critical business merger, I had used the watch three times, a strain that had cost us our first unborn child. When he found out, he had wept, holding me close and begging me never to touch the watch again. He swore he would work day and night to build a life for us so I would never have to sacrifice myself. True to his word, he spent the next few years climbing the corporate ladder, and the watch was buried deep in our closet. Yet now, he had used my own life as a pawn to elevate another woman. “Weren’t you afraid I wouldn’t be able to save you?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Even with the watch, my physical limits are human. What if I had failed?” He gave a soft, amused chuckle. “I was never in any danger, Sienna.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out an empty, theatrical blood pack. The hospital notification and the crash had all been carefully staged. It was nothing but a grand performance designed to drain my youth. “Do not look so miserable,” Dominic said, reaching out to pat my withered cheek. “Even if you look like this, you are still my wife. That will not change for the next few decades.” Decades? He assumed only my appearance had changed. He did not understand that my internal organs had also aged to seventy-eight. I did not have decades left. My body would soon succumb to the natural decay of old age. Before I could speak, Dominic opened the car door and walked past me, his eyes lighting up. “Melody.” I turned slowly, my stiff joints aching. Melody threw herself into Dominic’s arms, sobbing as she playfully hit his chest. “Dominic! You scared me to death! I thought something had actually happened to you!” Dominic wiped her tears away with a look of pure devotion. “It is alright, sweetheart. Look what I bought for you.” He opened the trunk, and a bundle of colorful balloons floated into the air, revealing a beautiful cake. “It is your favorite mango flavor. I drove all the way to the bakery on the east side to get it.” Melody blushed, leaning against his shoulder. “You are so bad. Who said I was your wife?” The cake had never been meant for me. The words I love you, my beautiful wife written in frosting had been meant for her all along. I clutched my hands tightly, forcing my tears back. Melody finally noticed me, her eyes widening in mock horror. “Is that… Sienna? Why do you look so hideous?” She turned to Dominic, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Dominic, I only joked about wanting her to lose her beauty, but you actually turned her into this. She looks so old, it is almost sickening.” Dominic pulled Melody into his chest, covering her eyes with his hand as he glared at me. “You are offending Melody. Apologize to her.” A cold, bitter laugh escaped my throat. “I will not.” “Sienna, I am ordering you to apologize. If you refuse, I will not help you settle your traffic violations.” “Driving at one hundred and twenty miles per hour on public roads will get your license revoked, and you will likely face jail time. Good luck rebuilding your life with a criminal record.” During my thirty attempts to save him, I had driven like a maniac, nearly dying in several of the timelines. Now, the very act of saving his life was being used as blackmail. “I said no!” Dominic pulled out his phone, preparing to call the precinct. I did not move, looking at him with quiet disdain. “Go ahead and make the call. But if I am locked up, Melody can forget about winning the pageant.” Having won the crown for ten consecutive years, I held significant influence within the committee. Dominic, despite his wealth, had no real connections in that circle. Otherwise, he would not have resorted to such extreme measures. Dominic paused, his finger hovering over the screen, before slowly slipping the phone back into his pocket. That single hesitation caused my tears to spill over. For Melody’s sake, he could not bear even a fraction of a risk. Only true devotion makes a man cautious. Melody burst into a giggle behind his back. “Are you serious, Sienna? Have you looked in a mirror lately? Who would believe that a wrinkled old woman was once the beauty of the city? If you show up at the venue, people will think you are the cleaning lady.” Looking at my dry, wrinkled hands, I raised my arm to slap her. Even if my youth was gone, I was still Sienna. But Dominic caught my wrist effortlessly. He squeezed my hand, shoving me back onto the asphalt. “Do you still think you are the queen of Bay Harbor? Look at yourself. You are not even fit to carry Melody’s shoes.” Melody offered me a smug, victorious smile from behind his shoulder. My palm scraped against a sharp stone on the ground, and the sharp sting made me sob openly. Dominic’s cold expression softened for a fraction of a second, but the emotion vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He reached over to the passenger door, peeled off the custom decal that read Sienna’s Seat, and ushered Melody inside. Three years ago, an assistant had tried to sit in that seat. Dominic had coldly ordered her out of the car, fired her on the spot, and spent ten minutes sterilizing the leather before allowing me to sit. Now, he looked down at me with sneering indifference. “You actually know how to cry, Sienna? I thought someone as arrogant as you was incapable of feeling pain.” How could I not feel pain? Years ago, when he was hospitalized with severe gastric bleeding from constant corporate drinking, I had wept by his bedside. He had taken my hand, offering a pale smile. “Sienna, I will protect you for the rest of our lives. I will never let you shed another tear.” Now, my tears only irritated him. Dominic hauled me up by my collar and shoved me into the dark trunk of his car. After what felt like an eternity in the cramped space, the car finally came to a halt. When the trunk opened, I realized we were at the backstage entrance of the pageant finals. Dominic dragged me out into the light, immediately attracting a crowd of reporters and photographers. “This is Sienna,” Dominic announced loudly. The cameras flashed rapidly, capturing my wrinkled face. “My goodness! What happened to the reigning queen? She looks older than my grandmother! Melody is definitely going to win tonight!” “This is a massive scoop! Keep filming!” “Miss Sienna, as a ten-year champion, what right do you have to step onto the stage looking like this?” I covered my face, trying to shrink away from the blinding lights. Instinctively, I looked for Dominic, the man who had always shielded me from the media in the past. But he had already stepped in front of Melody, protecting her from the crowd just as he used to protect me. “Look, her husband does not even care about her anymore! Get closer, we need the front-page shot!” Someone tripped me in the chaos, and I crashed heavily onto the floor. The reporters immediately crowded over me, pointing their lenses at my face. “She looks terrible up close!” “Look at those wrinkles, how disgusting!” Their cruel whispers washed over me like a tide. Then, Dominic’s cold voice cut through the noise. “Sienna will be competing tonight as scheduled.” The room fell silent. I knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted me to stand beside Melody as a hideous foil to guarantee her victory. When we reached the dressing rooms, I saw that my private vanity had already been relabeled with Melody’s name. She was already seated inside, having her makeup done. Ignoring my injuries, I limped over to her. “This is my dressing room. Get out.” “Are you joking?” Melody laughed, not even turning around. “Do you honestly think you still need makeup? How many pounds of powder would it take to fill the cracks on your face?” The staff in the room snickered, whispering behind their hands. I reached out to grab her arm to pull her from the chair, but I was no longer the strong, youthful woman I once was. Melody pushed me away with ease, sending me sprawling onto the floor. “You are nothing now, Sienna. Everything you have belongs to me.” Melody stepped forward, the heel of her shoe grinding heavily into my right hand. A sharp, agonizing scream escaped my throat. Hearing the noise, Dominic rushed into the room. Before he could speak, Melody quickly slapped her own cheek, her eyes filling with tears. “Dominic, Sienna said I stole her room and tried to hurt me. Is this her room? I will leave if it makes her happy.” Her fragile act immediately stopped Dominic from coming to my aid. His brief look of concern turned into cold anger. He dragged me up from the floor, forcing my face toward the mirror. “Look at yourself, Sienna!” He held my head in place, forcing me to stare at the wrinkled, white-haired old woman in the glass. “Accept reality. You are ancient now. Your body is practically ready for the grave.” “You cannot compete with Melody.” My reflection swam in my tears. “But, Dominic… you gave me this dressing room as an anniversary gift,” I whispered, my voice breaking. A fleeting look of guilt crossed his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by resolve. “Melody likes it.” “Besides, you will have no use for a dressing room after tonight. I will buy you something else.” “Melody, come here. Give her the slap she deserves.” He kept his grip on my head. “I did not touch her!” I cried out. “Do you expect me to believe that? You have always been too proud to let anyone take what is yours.” With a smug grin, Melody stepped forward and delivered a hard slap to my face. My cheek instantly burned and swelled. Dominic let go of me, retrieving an ice pack to soothe Melody’s face. I was forced onto the stage without any styling or a proper gown. When I looked at Melody, I realized she was wearing the custom French gown Dominic had ordered for me months ago. It fit her perfectly. I offered a quiet, bitter smile. The dress had never been sized for me in the first place. When the music began, my appearance threw the host into an awkward silence. Melody glided down the runway like a graceful swan, while I limped beside her like a withered shadow. The audience began to murmur, and soon, angry shouts erupted. “We paid to see beauty, not this ancient relic! Refund our tickets!” The demands for refunds echoed through the hall. As we turned to walk back, Melody subtly stuck her foot out. Lost in my own despair, I tripped and fell flat on my face in front of the entire crowd. Plastic bottles and trash began raining down on me from the stands. My vision blurred, and the world faded to black. When I opened my eyes, Dominic was standing over me with a dark, impatient look. “Where is your watch?” Melody was sobbing softly beside him. “Sienna, I need you to rewind time so Melody can win the final interview segment.” They assumed the pageant was decided solely by looks, but the final interview carried significant weight. Even without me, Melody’s empty-headed answers would have cost her the crown. “I will not do it, Dominic.” My body could not handle another activation. “You have no choice. Melody has dreamed of this crown her entire life, and I will make sure she gets it.” Ignoring my protests, Dominic began searching my pockets until he found the silver watch. “Dominic, if I use it again, I will die!” His hand paused. “I have already used up too much of my life! Another rewind will kill me!” Dominic froze, looking down at me with a flicker of hesitation. But Melody’s weeping grew louder. “If she does not want to help, she should just say so. There is no need to make up such ridiculous lies. You are only twenty-eight, Sienna. How could a simple watch kill you?” “Dominic is only being gentle because he pities you.” The hesitation in Dominic’s eyes vanished, replaced by cold annoyance. He forced the watch into my hand. “Stop lying, Sienna. You are only throwing a tantrum because you are afraid I will leave you now that you are old. Do this for me, and we will go home and live our lives.” He pressed a sharp safety pin into my left palm. “You only need to go back five minutes. You will be unconscious backstage. Use this pin to wake yourself up, then go straight to the judges. You have worked with them for years; they will change the scores for you.” “Melody is only half a point behind the leader. It will be easy.” He had planned everything so perfectly. Yet he had never once considered the price I would have to pay. “Even if it costs me my life, you still want me to do this?” I asked, the pin digging into my flesh until a drop of blood appeared. Dominic avoided my gaze. “You are not going to die. I still love you, Sienna. We will grow old together.” He wrapped his fingers around my hand, forcing my thumb onto the crown of the watch, and twisted it. The temporal shift began. Every time Melody failed to secure the top spot, Dominic forced me to rewind again. One time. Two times. By the tenth activation, a copper taste filled my mouth, and I coughed up a dark pool of blood. Dominic looked startled, but after a moment, he pushed my hand back onto the watch. Finally, on the fifteenth attempt, the judges yielded to my desperate pleas and altered the scores. Melody was announced as the winner. I collapsed onto the cold concrete backstage, every ounce of my life force drained. Looking at the silhouette of Dominic and Melody embracing under the stage lights, I let out a soft, rattling sigh. “Goodbye, Dominic.” Blood began to trickle from my eyes, nose, and mouth. My heart gave one final, weak shudder and stopped. Dominic slowly released Melody, turning back to look at me. Seeing me lying motionless on the floor, he frowned, assuming I was still playing the victim. “The judges told me you got her the scores, Sienna. You did well. Now stop pretending and get up.” When I did not move, a sudden chill seemed to strike him. His face drained of color as he slowly knelt beside me, his hands trembling as he reached out to turn me over.

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1 We’d been married just a month when Garrett was diagnosed with ALS. The doctor explained his muscles would slowly waste away until his breathing failed. The moment we heard, I made him quit work. I took four jobs to pay for his treatments, working until my feet swelled so badly I couldn’t fit them into shoes. But if it kept him in therapy, I thought it was worth it. Until one rainy night. A drunk man cornered me at an alley’s mouth, dragging me into the dark as he hurled crude slurs. Terrified, I screamed to Garrett, standing frozen at the curb, “Call the police!” He didn’t move. Not a muscle. When the attacker fled after some teens passed by, I collapsed at Garrett’s knees, sobbing. “Why didn’t you call for help? Why did you just watch him hurt me?” He only stared at the ground, whispering a broken apology. My heart sank into ice. A week later, on the way to his checkup, a woman in a white dress slipped on the wet pavement. Without hesitation, Garrett shoved me aside and lunged forward, catching her with startling strength. “Vanessa, are you alright?” he cried. That name—one I’d seen scrawled in the margins of hundreds of hidden love letters—hit me like a blow. In that moment, I knew: I was his ALS. I was the disease paralyzing his life. The damp wind howled through the alley, carrying the bitter scent of rain and decay. My clothes were torn, and my hair clung to my bleeding forehead. The drunkard had fled, startled by the rowdy voices of teenagers on the main street. Yet my husband, the man I had sacrificed my health to protect, had not moved an inch. He had not yelled, he had not reached for his phone, and he had not made a single attempt to save me. He had simply watched. I dragged my bruised body toward him, holding onto the cold brick wall for support. “Garrett.” My voice was completely hoarse, barely a whisper. “Why didn’t you call the police?” He kept his head lowered, his fingers twitching slightly. It was one of the few movements he claimed he could still manage. “You could have at least screamed for help! Anything!” My quiet questions quickly spiraled into hysterical screams, echoing sharply in the quiet night. “You watched him drag me into the dark! You just stood there! Did you want me to die in there?” My tears finally broke through, washing over the dirt and blood on my face. He finally looked up, his lips parting with visible effort as he forced out three quiet words. “I… am… sorry.” The apology was clear, devoid of the slurs and stutters he usually performed. The last of my strength left me, and I collapsed onto the damp pavement at his feet. An apology? To pay his twenty-thousand-dollar monthly medical bills, I spent my nights scrubbing grease off restaurant dishes, kneeling on hard office floors to wax tiles, and working double shifts as a caregiver. I slept barely three hours a day, and my feet were permanently bruised and swollen. I had only brought him out tonight because I thought he was depressed from being cooped up in our small rental. And in return, I received a hollow apology. The void in my chest grew wider, letting the freezing wind hollow me out. I could not bear to look at him. I forced myself up and began limping back toward our apartment. He followed slowly, his steady, deliberate steps a stark contrast to the frail, trembling gait I had spent months trying to preserve. Once inside, I locked myself in the bathroom. The hot water sprayed over my skin, but it could not wash away the deep, bone-chilling disgust that had settled inside me. The reflection in the mirror was unrecognizable: haggard, bruised, and completely hollowed out. Garrett knocked on the door, his taps light and patient. “Audrey… open the door…” I ignored him. After a few minutes, the knocking stopped. When I finally stepped out, the apartment was dead silent. Garrett was sitting in his wheelchair, his back to me, his shoulders trembling slightly. Was he weeping? I walked closer, only to see the bright glow of his smartphone screen. He was looking at a chat interface, the contact name saved as Vanessa. His latest message had been sent only a minute ago. “I miss you so much.” His thumbs were moving across the screen with incredible, fluid speed, typing a sentence that shattered my world. “She is getting so annoying. I do not think I can keep up this act much longer.” 2 The blue light of the screen illuminated his face, revealing a look of pure, irritated disdain rather than guilt. My blood ran cold. Sensing my presence, he spun around, frantically trying to slip the phone under his thigh. But it was too late. Our eyes met, and the fragile, pathetic mask he had worn for months completely disintegrated. “Audrey, let me explain…” His voice caught in his throat as his eyes fell on my own phone, which had just lit up with a notification. It was a final notice from the medical center. “Dear Mrs. Audrey, the payment for Mr. Garrett’s specialized neural therapy is now overdue. Please settle the outstanding balance of two hundred thousand dollars within three days, or all medical services will be permanently suspended.” Two hundred thousand dollars. What a joke. I closed my eyes, the memory of our wedding day flashing before me. Garrett had looked so handsome, standing before me as he whispered his vows. “Audrey, I am going to make you the happiest woman in the world.” Shortly after, he told me his startup had collapsed, leaving him in massive debt. He asked if I would still marry a ruined man, and I had held him tight, telling him I loved him, not his bank account. Then, only a month later, he was diagnosed with motor neuron disease. Without hesitation, I sold our cozy little apartment, rented a cheap place in the slums, and began working myself to the bone. I truly believed that as long as we did not lose hope, we could beat the illness. But reality had just delivered a devastating blow. “Explain what?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. “Explain that you can move perfectly fine? Or explain that you have been treating me like an idiot?” Garrett stood up from his wheelchair. He stood perfectly straight, his posture athletic and strong, with none of the trembling weakness he had feigned for a year. “I did not mean for it to go this far, Audrey,” he said, taking a step toward me. “It was just a game at first…” “A game?” I backed away, avoiding his touch. “My bones aching from exhaustion is a game? You watching me get dragged into an alley is a game? Your games are incredibly expensive, Garrett.” His expression flickered with a brief hint of guilt, but it was quickly replaced by annoyance. “It was Vanessa! She made a bet with me!” he blurted out, desperately trying to shift the blame. “She said if I married you, I had to prove that my heart still belonged to her! She said I couldn’t have any normal contact with the world until she returned! I only did it for her!” “For her?” I repeated, the absurdity of the words ringing in my ears. “So I was just your servant? Your amusement?” “I did not want you to suffer! I felt terrible watching you work!” he argued loudly, as if he were the victim. “I wanted to tell you the truth so many times! But Vanessa said this was the ultimate test of our love! She promised she would come back to me soon!” “And the two hundred thousand dollars for your medical bills?” I shoved my phone screen in his face, displaying the collection notice. “If you are bankrupt, where did that money go?” His face turned instantly pale. “I… I…” He stammered, unable to find a lie. I did not need his answers anymore. I marched into the bedroom, reached under the bed frame, and pulled open a hidden compartment. Inside was a high-end laptop. I powered it on, and a private stock trading platform appeared on the screen. The balance of his portfolio was filled with more zeros than I cared to count. And his recent transaction history showed a massive wire transfer from yesterday afternoon. The memo read: For Vanessa’s Art Gallery. 3 I carried the laptop out and slammed it onto the coffee table in front of him. “Is this part of the test too? Throwing millions at your mistress while your wife is driven mad by a two-hundred-thousand-dollar debt?” “You sat in that wheelchair, watching me run myself ragged to pay for your fake treatments, listening to me break down over collections. Did it make you feel powerful, Garrett?” “Do you even have a soul?” Unable to contain my fury, I grabbed a glass from the table and hurled it at his head. He ducked with effortless coordination, his quick reflexes a painful reminder of his lies. “Audrey! That is enough!” He snapped, lunging forward and grabbing my wrist. “Money, money, money! That is all you care about! I admit I lied to you, but haven’t I provided for you? I let you live under my roof, I kept you clothed, what more do you want?” “Provided for me?” I laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. “I lived in this run-down apartment because you claimed we had to sell everything to pay your debts! I wore secondhand clothes, and I ate the leftovers from the restaurant kitchen! Is this your idea of providing for me?” “Vanessa is different! She has never known hardship! I owed her a life of luxury!” he bellowed. “You owed her, so I had to pay the price?” My heart felt completely cold. “We are divorcing, Garrett.” “Divorce?” He stared at me, then let out a mock chuckle. “Audrey, do not flatter yourself. Who do you think you are? Do you think you can survive in this city without me? A woman with no pedigree and no qualifications, you will never find another man of my stature.” “Is that so?” I wrenched my hand from his grip, walked over to the front door, and pulled it wide open. Standing in the hallway was a tall man in a tailored three-piece suit. It was Harrison, my new representative and the CEO of a major corporate firm. Earlier today, I had been on my knees scrubbing the lobby floors of his corporate headquarters. He offered me a polite nod before turning his cold, piercing gaze toward Garrett. “Mr. Garrett, a pleasure. I am Miss Audrey’s legal representative and her newly appointed trustee.” Harrison handed me a leather folder. “Miss Audrey, the transfer of your father’s estate shares has been executed. As of today, you are officially the majority shareholder of Omni Group. This is the financial investigation report on Mr. Garrett’s assets you requested.” I took the document and threw it directly into Garrett’s face. The sheets of paper scattered across the floor, each page a detailed record of his fraud and betrayal. Garrett’s jaw slackened, his eyes darting between the papers and my face in utter disbelief. “Omni Group? You…?” He whispered, looking as if his world had just tilted on its axis. I looked at him, speaking with absolute clarity. “I forgot to mention, my father is the founder of Omni Group. He insisted that if my future husband loved me for who I was, the family shares would be my dowry. But if he proved to be a parasite, the experience would simply be the cost of a valuable lesson.” “Congratulations, Garrett. You taught me a lesson I will never forget.” The color drained from Garrett’s face, and he stumbled backward until his back hit the wall.

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1 When I arrived at my own wedding wearing my formal suit, I found a professional octagon sparring ring erected in the center of the stage. My fiancée, Isla, was holding the hand of her male best friend, Wesley. She offered me a pair of boxing gloves with a bright, reassuring smile. “Lucas, it is an old custom from our hometown. The groom is supposed to have a playful wrestling match with the male members of the bridal party to bring good fortune. I specifically asked Wesley to step up. Just play along and keep it light.” Looking at the slender, lanky Wesley, I did not think twice before climbing into the ring. But the very next second, he executed a highly professional, brutal spin kick that struck my temple, causing a severe concussion and knocking me out cold. When I woke up, paralyzed in a hospital bed, Isla stood over me, holding Wesley’s hand. “The guests contributed so much money in wedding gifts, the ceremony could not go on without a groom. Wesley is willing to take care of me in your place. You are so kind, Lucas, I know you will not mind, right?” Driven by sheer despair and severe depression, I pushed my wheelchair to the edge of the apartment terrace and plunged into the dark abyss. But when I opened my eyes once more, I had returned to a month before the wedding. I turned on my heel and knocked on the heavy metal doors of the elite national martial arts training academy. “Coach, can you teach me how to shatter someone’s jaw in just thirty days?” The head coach looked me over, his eyes lingering on my thin arms and legs for several seconds before he let out a scoff. “Shatter someone’s jaw? With your frame, someone could knock you down with a single slap.” I did not say a word. I simply pulled a thick stack of cash from my bag and placed it on his desk. Five thousand dollars, every penny of the secret savings I had managed to keep over the past two years. The coach pushed the cash back with a look of indifference. “I do not need your money.” But when I rolled up my sleeve, exposing the dark, yellowing bruises left by Isla during her latest drunken rage, his expression shifted. He quietly retrieved a legal waiver from his desk drawer and slid it toward me. “Sign this. The academy is not liable for any injuries sustained during your sessions.” “This includes, but is not limited to, fractures, concussions, and internal bleeding.” I grabbed the pen and signed my name without hesitation. Once the waiver was secured, the relaxed expression vanished from the coach’s face. “Alright. From today on, I will train you with the intensity of an active professional lightweight champion.” “I cannot promise you will be shattering jaws in thirty days, but I guarantee you will be wishing you were dead by the end of the first week.” On my first day, my sparring partners threw me to the canvas forty-seven times. Every single time my back slammed against the heavy padding, the memories of my past life flashed before my eyes. I saw Wesley’s foot connecting with my temple. I saw myself lying in that sterile hospital bed, tubes running in and out of my body, while Isla stood at the foot of the bed with a look of false concern. “Lucas, Wesley is willing to take care of me in your place. You are so kind, I know you will not mind, right?” How could I not mind? Only three days after my paralysis, she had registered her marriage with Wesley. They lived in my fully paid apartment, spending my hard-earned savings. The world praised Isla for her loyalty and called Wesley a saint for stepping up. Not a single soul cared whether the paralyzed groom, left with a shattered skull, wanted to live or die. Driven by the memory, I pushed myself up from the canvas and gestured to my sparring partner. “Again.” The partner looked at the coach, who gave a brief, firm nod. “Go.” That night, as I lay on the narrow cot in the academy dormitory, my body was covered in dark bruises. My phone screen lit up with a message from Isla. “Sweetheart, I am still at the office working late. I am keeping an eye on the wedding planners, so just focus on being the most handsome groom.” I stared at the words working late, then opened her social media feed. Wesley had posted a selfie in a formal suit three minutes ago. In the background, resting on the arm of a velvet sofa, was a designer Hermès handbag: the exact bag I had purchased for Isla’s birthday last month. The caption read: Only the favored ones get the privilege of a trial run before the wedding. I gripped my phone, opened my chat with Isla, and sent a voice message. “Thank you for your hard work, darling. I trust you completely with the planning.” Then I typed out a quick follow-up. “By the way, I saw a custom-tailored suit, a limited edition. The deposit is twenty thousand dollars. What do you think?” “Is it too expensive? A regular suit is fine.” “But I only get married once, and you promised to give me the grandest wedding in the city.” She remained silent for nearly two minutes before sending a single word. “Alright.” A cold smile touched my lips as I locked the screen and turned toward the wall. Isla, in my past life, you wanted my money, my home, and my life. In this life, I will drain you dry first. 2 By day, I played the part of the doting fiancé, discussing suit styles with colleagues, tasting wedding cakes, and projecting an image of absolute bliss. The moment my shift ended, I headed straight to the gym. I put on my protective gear, laced up my gloves, and transitioned from sending sweet messages to my fiancée to striking the heavy bag with absolute fury. Following my instructions, the coach trained me specifically to counter the spin kick. “You said your opponent is experienced with this kick?” “Yes.” “What is his background?” “He used to be a sparring partner in underground rings.” The coach’s brow furrowed. “Fighters from those rings have dirty techniques. They do not follow standard rules; they target vital areas.” He pulled up a video of an underground match to show me. “Look closely. Before they launch the kick, there is a tiny rotation of the hip. It is incredibly fast, taking less than three-tenths of a second.” “Your job is to slip the angle within that fraction of a second, absorb the force, and close the distance for a counterattack.” I nodded, practicing the movement thousands of times. When Harrison, my closest friend, came to pick me up from the gym, he stared at the dark bruises covering my arms, his eyes filling with tears. “Lucas, have you lost your mind? Why are you doing this to yourself?” I removed my hand wraps and took a long drink of water. “Take a look at this.” I handed him my phone, displaying a series of financial statements provided by a private investigator. Isla had taken out eight thousand dollars in high-interest online loans. Six thousand of that sum had been spent on a gold Cartier bracelet delivered directly to Wesley’s apartment. Harrison’s jaw dropped. “She took out loans to buy him luxury jewelry? What has she ever bought for you? A cheap bouquet of flowers on your birthday! Call off the wedding, Lucas! You cannot go through with this!” I took my phone back, shaking my head. “I cannot call it off. I need her to climb onto that stage so I can make her spit out every single dollar she stole.” Harrison stared at me, his expression turning solemn. “I do not know what your plan is, Lucas, but whatever you do, I have your back.” I watched him drive away, then turned back to the heavy bag. Three days before the wedding, the investigator sent me a final audio recording, captured by a device hidden in Isla’s car. Wesley’s voice came through clearly. “Isla, after the wedding, he will be a vegetable. The house is fully paid for, right? We can transfer it to your name and move in together.” Isla’s laughter followed. “Do not worry. Once the house is secure, we will drain his savings. This marriage will be worth every penny.” “You are so wicked, Isla.” “Do you like it?” “I love it.” I sat on the bench in the locker room, listening to the file three times. My hands remained perfectly steady as I backed up the audio to three separate cloud servers. Then, I wired the final payment to the investigator with a short note: Excellent work. Worth every penny. Two days before the wedding, Isla’s mother arrived at my apartment. She brought a small bag of discounted fruit, sat on my sofa with her legs crossed, and began delivering her demands. “Lucas, I want to discuss something with you.” “Your apartment is registered solely under your name because you bought it before the wedding, correct? But now that you and Isla are becoming a family, keeping only your name on the deed looks terrible.” “Add Isla’s name to the title. Our relatives will see it as a sign of your devotion.” 3 I kept my eyes on my teacup, remaining silent. “Even Wesley said that a real man does not divide his property from his wife. Being generous brings good fortune.” How interesting. A complete stranger was dictating the terms of my estate, and my future mother-in-law saw nothing wrong with it. I took a deep breath, forcing a polite, submissive smile onto my face. “You are entirely right, mother. Let me have the deed, and I will take care of the paperwork tomorrow.” She beamed with delight, pulling the deed from her purse and handing it to me. She had been carrying it with her, waiting for this exact moment. I took the document and ushered her out of the apartment. The moment the door closed, the smile vanished from my face. I took the deed straight to a mortgage broker. I did not add Isla’s name; I applied for a home equity loan. The apartment was valued at $3.8 million. I secured a loan of $2.6 million. The funds cleared the same afternoon, and I immediately transferred the entire sum to Harrison’s account. In my past life, Isla had successfully transferred the title and sold the property, leaving me with nothing. In this life, she would not get a single penny. When I returned home, Isla was standing in the kitchen, offering me a bowl of dark, herbal soup. “Sweetheart, you look exhausted lately. I prepared some soothing herbal soup for you. Drink it and get some rest so you can be the most handsome groom.” I took the bowl, immediately detecting the medicinal scent hidden beneath the sweet dates. In my past life, this very soup had kept me asleep for ten hours, giving Wesley ample time to transform the wedding stage into a sparring ring. I brought the bowl to my lips, pretending to drink, but the moment she turned her back, I spat the liquid into a tissue and stuffed it into my pocket. “Thank you, darling. It is wonderful.” A flicker of satisfaction crossed her eyes. “Get some sleep. We have rehearsals tomorrow.” She took her coat and left the bedroom, closing the guest room door behind her to make a call. I pressed my ear against the wall, listening to her quiet voice. “Wesley, he drank it. He is out cold. Everything is set for the wedding.” Wesley’s voice came through the receiver. “Isla, should I target his left temple or his right on stage?” Isla chuckled. “Whatever makes you happy. As long as he spends the rest of his life in a wheelchair.” I retreated to my desk, opened my laptop, and began compiling all the evidence I had gathered into a detailed presentation. The title screen read: The Groom’s Reality. I programmed the file to upload and broadcast automatically on the wedding venue’s primary display screens. Once the preparation was complete, I lay down on the bed. I was no longer a victim; I was a blade waiting to be drawn. The morning of the wedding arrived. At six in the morning, Harrison arrived to help me prepare. He opened the garment bag containing the twenty-thousand-dollar custom suit, held it against my frame, and froze. “Lucas… your arms…” The suit was a short-sleeved style, leaving my newly developed, bruised muscles visible. “Do not worry about it. Just help me cover them with makeup.” Harrison bit his lip, applying three thick layers of heavy concealer to hide the yellowing bruises. Once the suit was on, I turned to look in the mirror. The man staring back at me was strong and steady, completely different from the broken, paralyzed victim who had rolled off the roof in my past life. The old Lucas was dead. The man standing here had returned from the depths of hell. 4 At eight in the morning, the bridal car arrived. Isla stood by the limousine, looking stunning in her white bridal gown. Her eyes lit up when she saw me. I offered a warm smile, taking her arm as we stepped into the car. Wesley sat in the passenger seat, dressed as the best man. He turned around, offering a weak, gentle smile. “Lucas, you look incredibly handsome today.” He let out a soft, delicate cough. I shook his hand with a smile. “Thank you, Wesley. I know you are not in the best of health, so I truly appreciate you stepping up as my best man.” “It is my pleasure. Seeing Isla happy is all I care about.” Isla met Wesley’s gaze in the rearview mirror. It was a brief, silent look of mutual triumph and anticipation. The limousine pulled up to the Grand Regent Hotel. The venue was magnificent, decorated with floral arches and red carpets. Isla got out first, opening my door with a dramatic, playful bow. “Sweetheart, we have arrived.” I stepped out, taking her arm. As we pushed open the heavy doors of the grand ballroom, the guests erupted into thunderous applause. I scanned the room. The flowers, the lighting, and the tables were exactly as planned. But in the center of the stage, where the champagne tower should have stood, there was a professional octagon sparring ring. The perimeter was secured with thick ropes, and the floor was covered in heavy blue mats. Two pairs of boxing gloves hung from the corner posts. I turned to Isla, pretending to be startled. “What is this?” Isla patted my hand, her tone light and reassuring. “Do not worry, Lucas. It is an old custom from our hometown. The groom is supposed to have a playful match with the bride’s male best friend to bring good fortune to the marriage.” She stepped aside, and Wesley emerged from the wings, wearing an athletic jacket and holding his gloves. His voice was soft and gentle. “Lucas, Isla insisted on this. I could not say no. Do not worry, I have a very weak constitution. Just play along and keep it light.” Below the stage, the relatives began to cheer. “Get in there, Lucas! It is for good luck!” “Do not be a coward! Show us what you can do!” “Wesley looks like he would blow away in a strong wind, what are you afraid of?” The pressure from the crowd built, exactly as it had in my past life. I remained silent for ten seconds, then looked directly into Isla’s eyes. “I will do it.” Isla looked startled. “But on one condition,” I added, my voice carrying across the stage. “In case of any accidents during the match, we must sign a legal liability waiver first.” I took a document from Harrison and slid it toward her. The terms were printed clearly on the white paper. “During the sparring match, both parties agree to waive all liability for any physical injuries sustained. The injured party assumes all responsibility, and no civil or criminal action may be pursued.” Isla skimmed the text, a small, arrogant smile playing at the corners of her lips. She saw this as my final, desperate attempt to protect myself. Wesley snatched the pen and signed his name with absolute eagerness. Once the document was signed and handed back to Harrison, I turned to face the audience, slowly removing my jacket and the heavy protective gear beneath.

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1 My boyfriend was hailed as a once-in-a-century painting prodigy, while I struggled to even distinguish the most basic color wheels. For seven years, he shielded me from the world’s ridicule, until a brilliant young artist named Giselle entered the picture. When I broke my leg and desperately needed his care, he spent the night refining draft sketches for Giselle. When a creep stalked me down a dark alley and I called him crying for help, his priority was rushing Giselle’s dog to the veterinary clinic because it was having a difficult labor. Today, when his friends teased him once again, saying he and Giselle were a match made in heaven, Tristan didn’t snap back in my defense like he used to. Instead, he simply offered a bittersweet, regretful smile and let it slide. That very evening, over dinner, he looked up and asked, “Maybe I should ask Giselle to consult her uncle? He’s a specialist. Who knows, he might be able to cure your color blindness.” My hand, holding the ladle over the bowl of chicken soup, froze. On the surface, Tristan looked like a devoted partner trying to salvage a fracturing relationship. But in reality, his heart had already drifted. He was finally confronting my mediocrity, and worse, he was starting to resent it. Instead of answering, I offered a faint, bitter smile. “Why do you bring up Giselle so much lately?” Tristan blinked, a rare flash of guilt crossing his face. “You know how it is,” he stammered, trying to justify himself. “She’s the only one in the industry who can actually challenge me right now…” Tristan was a proud man. In the past, he would never have bothered with such defensive explanations. Back then, he would have wrapped his arms around me and whispered, “Sia, my world only has room for my brush and you. I don’t have the energy for anyone else.” Now, without him even realizing it, Giselle had climbed the ranks. She was his priority, and I was just an afterthought. When my broken leg kept me bedridden, he spent the night refining her canvases. When a stranger followed me down the street and I called him in tears, he told me to wait because Giselle’s Frenchie was in labor. When I finally confronted him, screaming through my tears, his voice was cold as ice. He claimed it wasn’t about Giselle, but about art and saving a life. But Tristan, I had told him from the very beginning: I do not tolerate dirt in my eyes. I do not share. His defensive bravado crumbled the moment I slid a photo across the table. It was a picture of him and Giselle locked in a tight embrace. His face paled, then twisted in outrage, as if he were the victim of some profound betrayal. “You spied on me?” Catching his own defensive tone, he tried to backtrack, his voice softening in a desperate bid to smooth things over. “Giselle was drunk, Sia. I was just catching her so she wouldn’t fall…” Watching his clumsy performance, I swallowed the lump of burning sorrow in my throat. I decided to give him one last chance. “If you want us to have a future, delete her. Block her number, throw out her socials, and never see her again.” Tristan stared at me, his eyes darkening to a cold, predatory pitch. Then, without warning, he stood up and violently swept the entire dinner off the table. The plates shattered against the hardwood floor. “All you do is cook and clean!” he roared. “You have zero connection to my art! You can’t possibly comprehend the mutual respect between two geniuses! I have tolerated your mediocrity and your incompetence for years, and now you want to control my career and my life?” I didn’t say a word. I just stared at the broken porcelain and spilled soup scattered at our feet. It looked exactly like the end of our seven-year relationship. His rage was hideous, entirely foreign. For seven years, Tristan had been cool, collected, almost detached from the world. He only cared about his canvas and me. He had never been this savage, this monstrous, screaming as though I were trying to tear away his most prized possession. I knelt down, my fingers brushing against a sharp shard of a broken plate. My voice was as calm as a summer breeze. “Tristan, let’s break up.” 2 My mind drifted back to eight years ago. The day I met Tristan, I was hovering on the edge of life and death. Severe depression had blurred the lines between reality and delusion. I had wandered onto a bridge, staring down at the churning river that seemed to be beckoning me. Tristan, who happened to be passing by, noticed my trance-like state and pulled me back from the ledge. He had been at his own rock bottom back then. We found solace in each other, licking each other’s wounds until we became each other’s entire universe. Eventually, Tristan scaled the heights of the art world, while I settled into the quiet role of a supportive, stay-at-home girlfriend. Even so, whenever anyone sneered at me or looked down on my lack of ambition, Tristan was always the first to stand up for me. He fiercely defended our love. “Ignore them, Sia,” he would say, wrapping me in his warmth. “You will always be the only one for me.” I used to believe that love could conquer any obstacle. As it turned out, our forever had an expiration date of seven years. A sharp, stinging pain snapped me back to the present. Tristan kicked a broken bowl in frustration. The heavy ceramic shard ricocheted off the baseboard and sliced deep into my forearm. Blood welled up instantly, staining my skin crimson. Tristan froze. Panic washed over his features, and he rushed over, tears welling in his eyes as he grabbed my arm. “I’m sorry, Sia! God, I’m so sorry… I shouldn’t have done that. I’ve been hitting a wall with my painting, and the pressure has just been eating me alive…” Babbling apologies, he practically dragged me out the door to head to the hospital. In his frantic haste, the usually composed and meticulous Tristan lost his shoes three times on the way to the car. For a fleeting second, he looked like the man who would lose his mind just to keep me safe. But deep down, I knew. There was no going back. After the doctor finished stitching up my arm, Tristan left the room to buy me some warm soup. I sat alone on the hospital bed, holding my phone, and began deleting seven years of memories. That was when Giselle walked in. It was our first face-to-face confrontation. She was striking, possessing a sharp, ethereal beauty that mirrored her artwork. She looked down at me as if I were a speck of dust. “An idiot like you doesn’t deserve Tristan,” she said, cutting straight to the chase. “Do yourself a favor and leave him.” I let out a soft laugh. I didn’t even have the energy to argue. I just kept tapping my screen, deleting photo after photo. Annoyed by my silence, Giselle shoved her phone in front of my face, displaying her chat with Tristan. Sia has changed, Tristan’s message read. She never used to pick fights like this. Tonight, she didn’t even try to dodge the broken plate. I think she did it on purpose just to play the victim and get my sympathy. My chest tightened so hard it was difficult to breathe. In the past, if I so much as stubbed my toe, Tristan would lose sleep worrying about me. Now, with a deep gash on my arm, he dismissed it as a cheap trick to win sympathy. I suppose it’s true what they say: when a man stops loving you, even if you hang yourself, he’ll just assume you’re playing on a swing. I blinked rapidly, forcing the hot tears back. Giselle smirked and scrolled up. I watched, numb, subjecting myself to the torture of reading their history. This was the man who was supposedly a man of few words, who treated everyone but me with cold indifference. Yet here he was, texting Giselle every single day. They shared art, jokes, and even pictures of mundane things, like a crooked tree they saw on the street. The weight of it all suddenly felt incredibly tedious. I looked away from the screen and locked eyes with Giselle’s smug face. “You really are a shameless home-wrecker, aren’t you?” I said, emphasizing every syllable. Her smile flickered for a second before turning into a venomous grin. “Want to make a bet?” she whispered. “Let’s see who Tristan actually believes. Let’s see who he cares about more.” Before I could react, she grabbed a fistful of my hair, dragged me off the side of the bed, and slammed my head against the sterile white wall. My injured arm made it impossible to fight back effectively, and her attack was entirely unexpected. Once, twice, three times. She didn’t stop until warm blood began to trickle down my forehead. Instantly, her face morphed into a mask of pure terror. She stumbled backward, screaming as she ran out the door, “Doctor! Nurse! Help! Someone’s trying to hurt themselves!” 3 Tristan came rushing back into the room. Before I could utter a single word, Giselle threw herself at him, gripping his sleeve and sobbing hysterically. “Tristan, you have to believe me! I didn’t even touch a single hair on Sia’s head!” After a long, agonizing silence, Tristan murmured a few comforting words to her, then turned toward me with a conflicted expression. He stared at the fresh bandages wrapped around my head. “Sia, tell me the truth,” he said, his voice laced with pre-determined accusation. “Are you just jealous of the artistic connection Giselle and I share? Is that why you did this to yourself?” Slap! I cut his absurd accusation short with a stinging slap across his face. My left hand throbbed from the impact, but compared to the shattering pain in my chest, I felt absolutely nothing. Was this really the man I had loved for seven long years? Giselle gasped, rushing forward to pull the stunned Tristan away from me. “It’s one thing to frame me,” she cried, tears spilling over her cheeks, “but Tristan was only trying to understand! How could you lay a hand on him?” She turned to him, her voice dripping with sympathy. “Tristan, stay here. I’ll get an ice pack from the nurse.” I watched their little drama with cold, detached eyes. I pulled out my phone and dialed the police. “Don’t leave just yet,” I said calmly. “Since you claim I’m framing you, let’s let the police sort this out.” Giselle instinctively glanced up at the ceiling. I knew what she was thinking; she knew there were no security cameras in this private recovery room. Unfortunately for her, I had learned my lesson the hard way years ago. The moment she had walked in, I had quietly activated the voice recorder on my phone. I also knew Tristan too well. He was fiercely protective of those he cared about, and I was no longer the one he held dear. If I didn’t wait for the authorities to arrive before showing my hand, he would find a way to bury the evidence. Giselle stood quietly while I finished the call. She bit her lower lip, offering Tristan a brave, watery smile. “It’s okay, Tristan. As long as you believe me, nothing else matters. A clean conscience fears no accusation. I’m sure the officers will see through this.” Tristan looked at her with profound pity before turning his fury back on me. “When did you become so malicious, Sia? Making a false police report is a waste of public resources. You’d better have a damn good explanation when they get here!” I let out a sharp laugh. “Tell me, Tristan. From the second you walked into this room, have I uttered a single word accusing Giselle?” Tristan froze. A flicker of realization and embarrassment crossed his face. An exhausting wave of fatigue washed over me. I closed my eyes, refusing to engage with his pathetic deflections, and waited in silence for the police to arrive. Giselle was always one to seize the narrative. The second the officers walked through the door, she rushed forward, pointing a trembling finger at me. “I only came to visit her out of goodwill, but she suddenly started throwing her head against the wall to frame me!” Tristan stepped in, his expression apologetic. “I’m sorry about this, officers. My girlfriend has been very unstable lately. She has a history of severe clinical depression, and…” My chest tightened. During the darkest years of my illness, Tristan would threaten anyone who dared mention the word depression around me. When I used to hurt myself, he would hold me so tight, ignoring the cuts from the sharp blades in my hands, whispering over and over, “Sia, you’re not sick. You’re just unhappy right now. I’ll make it better, I promise. Just don’t give up on yourself.” Yet now, to protect another woman, he weaponized my deepest trauma without a second thought. The lead officer didn’t buy their story immediately. He turned to me. “Miss Sienna, do you have anything to add?” I offered a polite, chilly smile and tapped my phone screen to play the recording.

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1 My mother was dying of irreversible heart failure, and she begged me to fly back to the States to perform her transplant surgery. Stepping off the plane, I took a deep breath of the familiar Boston air, wondering if I would ever be able to call her Mom again. Ten years ago, the Brooks family found their biological daughter living out in the boondocks. The fake daughter, who had supposedly committed a string of vicious, unforgivable acts, was kicked to the curb. I was that fake daughter. The one who never stood a chance to clear her name. I was rushing to the hospital with the donor heart secured in my arms when a sports car swerved into the wrong lane and forced my cab to a screeching halt. The biological daughter stepped out of the passenger seat. She gave me one look, and before I could react, her bodyguard kicked the back of my knees, forcing me to hit the hard pavement. “Cynthia Brooks, you stole twenty years of my rich, perfect life, and you still want more? You actually have the nerve to come back and fight me for my parents?” I looked up into her glaring eyes. “Harper, if you value the life you have right now, you need to let me go. Now.” Before the words even left my mouth, Harper’s hand cracked across my cheek in a vicious slap. “Who the hell do you think you are to threaten me?” She stared down at me, her eyes brimming with absolute disgust. “I didn’t get to completely destroy you ten years ago, Cynthia. But look at you now, delivering yourself right to my doorstep.” She bent down, her manicured fingers digging into my jaw, forcing my face up. “You think you deserve to call her Mom? That is my mother. Not yours. You are a cheap knockoff. Where do you get off calling her that?” I didn’t have the energy to argue with her toxic logic. I just tightened my grip around the insulated medical cooler in my arms. Inside that box was a donor heart. It had to be transplanted within six hours. Harper noticed my death grip. Her gaze dropped to the cooler. “What kind of treasure are you guarding like your life depends on it?” She shot a look to her left. Two massive bodyguards stepped forward and violently wrenched the cooler from my chest. Harper popped the latches. A cloud of chilled vapor spilled out into the humid air, revealing the perfectly preserved human heart resting inside. Staring at the organ, a twisted, sick smile spread across Harper’s face. She looked at me with a morbid kind of thrill. “Wait, is your heart failing, Cynthia? Do you need a transplant? Oh, how tragic. Looks like karma is real after all!” “Tell me something,” she taunted. “If I just rub my dirty, unwashed hands all over this thing, it’ll be ruined, right? It’ll be completely useless. And you’ll just die.” She reached her hand toward the open cooler. “Don’t touch it!” I finally screamed. My entire body was shaking, but I forced myself to swallow the panic. “Harper, listen to me. That heart isn’t for me.” “I am a surgeon now. That heart belongs to my patient. Do not touch it. Destroying that will not hurt me!” I desperately wanted to scream that the heart was for our mother. But before I flew back, Margaret had explicitly forbidden me from telling anyone. Especially Harper. Margaret had kept her failing health a total secret from her biological daughter. She felt so guilty about the twenty years Harper spent in poverty that she refused to cause her any emotional pain. Harper’s hand hovered over the ice. She tilted her head, her eyes darkening with pure venom. “A surgeon?” She let out a dry, hacking laugh. “You really do have all the luck, Cynthia. Why?” “Why didn’t you end up homeless, wandering the streets like a stray dog? How did you become a doctor? How do you get to stand in an operating room?” She turned away, staring off as if sucked into a nightmare. “Do you have any idea what my life was like for those first twenty years? The years you stole from me?” “A rotting shack in the middle of nowhere. Freezing in the winter, flooded in the summer. Eating stale bread and pickled garbage. Wearing other people’s stained hand-me-downs.” “That man beat me senseless whenever he drank. That woman hated the sight of me. I was forced to work the dirt since I was a toddler. Look at my hands! I had frostbite and calluses before I could even read.” “And you? You wore the princess dresses that belonged to me. You slept in my mansion. You took ballet, you learned the piano, you got accepted into a prestigious university abroad.” “Why didn’t you have to suffer the misery that was meant for you? God is so completely blind!” Her voice escalated into a hysterical screech. I tried to keep my tone even. “Harper, a nurse switched us at the hospital.” “If you want to say I lived your life, I accept that. Even though I had no say in it.” “But later? You framed me. You bullied me. You forced Mom and Dad to publicly disown me and throw me out on the street with absolutely nothing. Hasn’t the debt been paid?” I paused, my voice trembling. “I have never personally done a single thing to hurt you. My conscience is clear.” Harper burst into maniacal laughter. “Paid? You think it’s that easy?” Before the echo of her laugh faded, she plunged her bare, unsterilized hand straight into the medical cooler and squeezed the donor heart. Preservation fluid dripped through her fingers as the vibrant, life-saving organ deformed under her grip. She held it up right in front of my face, her voice dripping with malicious amusement. “Sucks to be your patient. Guess this piece of meat is garbage now.” A raw scream tore out of my throat. “Do you have any idea who needs that heart!” 2 Seeing me break down completely only made Harper smile wider. “I don’t give a damn who needs it.” “All I know is that I am the true heiress of the Brooks family. With how much Mom and Dad owe me, they will cover up anything I do.” “But you? With this heart ruined, let’s see if you can keep playing doctor.” The blood was pounding in my ears. The roaring in my head was deafening. Since begging wouldn’t work on a psychopath, I was going to call the cops. But the second I pulled my phone from my pocket, Harper snatched it right out of my grip. At that exact moment, the screen lit up. A text notification popped onto the lock screen. [Mom: Cynthia, where are you?] Harper’s smug face contorted the second she read the caller ID. She glared down at me, her eyes burning with absolute hatred. “You are still secretly talking to my mother!” “Cynthia Brooks, you are still trying to steal my place!” “You have a career, you have everything, why do you still have to steal my mother!” I looked up at her, my mouth tasting like ash. “I am not trying to steal her from you.” The moment the words left my lips, Harper brought my own phone down and smashed it brutally against my temple. “Then why the hell is she saved as ‘Mom’ in your phone!” The heavy device struck my head with a sickening thud. A blinding flash of pain and extreme dizziness washed over me, and the world tilted. I nearly collapsed fully onto the concrete. Harper grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back to look at her. “Tell me! Why do you still call her Mom! What gives you the right!” I stayed completely silent. There was no way to explain it to her. Even if Margaret wasn’t my biological mother, she had raised me for twenty years. Even though she threw me out like trash, some pathetic, broken part of me still viewed her as a mother. I was so starved for the memory of her maternal warmth that I never had the heart to change her contact name. But I wasn’t going to justify my trauma to Harper. It would only make her crazier. I bit my lip and bent down to pick up my shattered phone from the asphalt. But just as my fingers brushed the screen, a heavy leather shoe stepped squarely onto the back of my hand. I slowly looked up. Standing above me was Liam Spencer. My childhood sweetheart. The boy who had promised to marry me. He stared down at me with dead eyes, the pressure of his shoe steadily increasing. After ten years of not seeing each other, his first words to me were a demand. “Cynthia, apologize to Harper right now.” The boy who once swore he would protect me from the world was now grinding my hand into the dirt, demanding I apologize for a crime I didn’t commit. My chest caved in. Whatever lingering affection I had for my parents or Liam was officially dead. Their love belonged exclusively to Harper now. Harper smirked, her face glowing with triumph. “Oh Liam, you always know how to take care of me.” I swallowed the sharp pain radiating up my arm. “Liam, I will tell Harper whatever she wants to hear. I will say I’m sorry a thousand times.” “But I have a critical surgery to perform right now. This is a matter of life and death. If I am late, every single one of you will regret this for the rest of your lives.” Liam didn’t lift his foot. “The surgery doesn’t matter, Cynthia. What matters is that you shouldn’t even be here. Your presence is making Harper anxious.” “She finally came home and got the life she deserved, and you, you little fraud, have the audacity to show your face again?” I ignored the agonizing pain in my hand and stared at him in pure disbelief. “Liam, I am a doctor. I have to save a dying patient. Harper is angry, fine, but have you lost your mind too?” “A heart transplant has a six-hour window. The clock is ticking.” “Harper contaminated the surface, but there is still a slight chance I can salvage it with heavy sterilization protocols. But if you keep me here any longer, this heart is going straight to the incinerator!” Seeing zero reaction from either of them, I finally drew a deep breath and screamed the truth. “The person I am trying to save is Harper’s mother.” “Margaret is lying on an operating table right now with total heart failure, waiting for this exact heart to save her life!” 3 Harper froze for a split second before letting out a mocking scoff. “You actually have the nerve to use my mother as a shield?” “Mom is perfectly healthy. She doesn’t have heart problems. You really won’t give up your pathetic lies until you’re in a coffin, will you?” She turned to Liam, her voice turning sweet and sickeningly cruel. “Liam, I want her hand destroyed. I want to make sure this little thief can never pretend to be a doctor again.” “Step on it. Step on it as hard as you can. Crush it until she can never hold a scalpel for the rest of her miserable life.” Without a shred of hesitation, Liam shifted his body weight over his foot. My right hand was pinned to the abrasive asphalt. I could feel my knuckles shifting violently under his sole. My fingernails began to crack, and bright red blood pooled out from the edges of his expensive shoe. My whole body convulsed in agony. Tears streamed down my face without my permission. “Liam…” “Stop… please stop… don’t you remember what you promised me when we were kids… Liam, look at me… it’s me… it’s Cynthia…” Liam refused to meet my eyes. “Harper is the true daughter. You didn’t just steal her parents’ love, Cynthia. You stole my love.” “You are nothing but a thief. A thief doesn’t deserve the prestige of being a surgeon. Do you honestly think dirty hands like yours deserve to hold a scalpel?” And then, I heard the sharp, sickening crack of my own bones snapping. Harper heard it too. She gasped in faux concern. “Oh no, Cynthia, what a tragedy! Your bones just broke.” “I heard that cardiac surgery requires intense, microscopic precision. With your finger bones shattered to pieces, how are you going to do all those delicate little stitches?” “Stop crying and tell me. Can you still play doctor now?” In that exact moment, the last ember of hope in my soul died. Liam finally lifted his foot. I stared blankly at my right hand. The same hand that had meticulously sutured hundreds of arteries on the operating table. It was a mangled, bloody mess of crushed bone and torn skin. A guttural wail tore out of my throat, a sound of absolute, soul-ripping despair echoing from the deepest part of my chest. Harper didn’t just want me kicked out of the family. She wanted to obliterate my entire existence. I stared at the hand I was so incredibly proud of. It was ruined. I would never perform heart surgery again. And I could no longer save my mother. Right then, the driver’s side door of Harper’s sports car opened. My father stepped out. Richard Brooks. He had been sitting inside the car the entire time. Watching with cold, indifferent eyes as I was forced to the pavement, slapped, and as Liam crushed my fingers into dust. “Alright, alright, Harper. Her hand is ruined. Let’s call it a day.”

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