The day Cole Bradley won the Grand Prix championship, I found a pair of black lace underwear wedged between the leather seats of his Aston Martin. That same night, I tipped off the tabloids and kicked down the door of a five-star penthouse at the Ritz, catching the golden boy of American motorsports in bed with his newest protégée. Amidst the blinding flash of cameras and my own hysterical screaming, Cole looked utterly panicked. Yet, in the chaos, his first instinct was to pull the duvet up, using his own body to shield Madison from the lenses. “It was a momentary lapse in judgment,” he pleaded later, his voice cracking. “She means nothing to me, Nat. Nothing.” It wasn’t until the internet ripped Madison to shreds, until the cyberbullying drove her into a manic frenzy that ended with her accelerating her car straight into me—killing the child growing in my womb—that I finally gave Cole an ultimatum. Send her to prison, or sign the divorce papers. Cole had stared at my flat, empty stomach, his eyes bloodshot. The very next morning, he handed over the dashcam and telemetry data to the district attorney. The evidence of Madison’s vehicular assault was irrefutable. After that, Cole walked away from the track. He transitioned to a background role in team management, dedicating every waking hour to pulling me out of the suffocating, pitch-black well of clinical depression. Years passed. We healed, or so I thought. When I finally saw the two pink lines on a pregnancy test again, my heart swelled with a cautious, desperate hope. I wanted to surprise him. But on my way home, passing an exclusive maternity boutique on Rodeo Drive, I stopped dead in my tracks. Inside, a young woman with a pronounced baby bump was casually pointing at displays, buying out half the store. “My husband knows I’m terribly indecisive,” she giggled to the clerk, “so he just told me to put the whole collection on his card.” “You guys deliver, right? Have it sent to the gated estate in Bel-Air.” The girl turned her head, catching the afternoon sun. I froze, the breath knocked entirely from my lungs. It was Madison. The girl who was supposed to be rotting in a state penitentiary. … The blood in my veins turned to ice water. The sales associate looked at Madison with starry-eyed envy. “Your husband must love you so much.” Madison rested a manicured hand delicately on her belly, a saccharine smile playing on her lips. “He really does. He was my mentor first, actually. A genius on the track. He’s been taking care of me since day one.” She sighed, playing with a lock of her hair. “When I first joined the racing circuit, I was so green. He was terrified the older guys would take advantage of me, so he taught me everything himself. Hand-over-hand on the steering wheel. He even had a custom blush-pink Porsche wrapped just for me.” Early in our marriage, I used to go to the paddock. I would stand in the deafening roar of the pit lane, waving his team colors, my throat raw from cheering. But eventually, he started meeting me after races with a cold, distant expression. He told me to stop coming. When I asked why, he simply said, “The track is too dangerous, Nat. It’s not a place for a wife.” It wasn’t that it was too dangerous. It was just that he couldn’t be bothered to waste his energy pretending I belonged in his world. “The other day, I just coughed a little from walking too fast,” Madison continued, her voice dripping with mock exasperation. “And he completely panicked. Had his private concierge doctor come to the house for a full workup!” Half a month ago, the morning sickness had hit me so hard I couldn’t stand. Cole had initially promised to drive me to my OB-GYN appointment. But as I was grabbing my purse, his phone buzzed. He told me an urgent sponsor crisis had come up. Go ahead without me, he’d said, kissing my forehead. I’ll come pick you up after. I sat in that sterile waiting room alone. I got my blood drawn alone. I waited in the hospital corridor for six hours. The only thing that came was a Venmo notification from Cole with a quick text: Caught up in meetings. Take an Uber Black home on me. Love you. Madison looked radiant. Suddenly, her phone chimed. “Oh, my husband is pulling up. Don’t forget the delivery instructions!” I shrank back against the corner of the brick storefront, my eyes locked on the curb. A sleek, black Maybach silently rolled to a stop. When the heavy door opened and Cole stepped onto the pavement, the world around me ceased to exist. He caught Madison as she threw herself into his arms, his voice laced with an affectionate reprimand. “You’re about to be a mother, Maddie. Why are you still running around like a teenager? What if you trip and hurt the baby?” Madison pouted, looking up at him through her lashes. “Are you getting tired of me? Do you think I’m just not as good as your boring, washed-up wife?” Cole’s tone softened into something I hadn’t heard in years. Pure, unadulterated devotion. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one could ever touch your place in my heart.” A physical agony ripped through my chest, sharp and breathless. When Madison hit me with her car, I was twenty-eight weeks pregnant. I had to deliver him. He was a fully formed little boy, a tiny, perfect, lifeless weight placed on my chest before being taken away forever. For months, I woke up screaming. I dreamt of a little voice crying out in the dark, begging me to save him. The grief mutated into a severe depressive episode. I tried to end my life more than once, and every time, Cole was the one who pulled me back from the ledge. To stay by my side, he retired at the peak of his career, walking away from millions in endorsements and the only life he knew. When his fans took to Twitter, blaming me for ruining his legacy, saying I was a psycho who didn’t deserve him, Cole issued his first and only public cease-and-desist. [My wife is my entire world,] his statement had read. [Caring for her is not a burden; it is the greatest privilege of my life. Anyone who speaks ill of her will hear from my legal team.] A wave of bitter acid rose in my throat. As if sensing the sheer weight of my stare, Cole abruptly turned his head toward the alleyway. I instinctively flattened myself against the brick wall, my heart hammering against my ribs. “What are you looking at?” I heard Madison ask. “Don’t ignore me! If you don’t tell me exactly why I’m better than that old woman, I’m going to make you sleep on the couch!” Cole chuckled, a low, helpless sound as he smoothed her hair. “You’re better than her in every way.” “I should start recording you when you throw these tantrums,” he teased gently. “Show the kids one day just how childish their mother really is.” Madison’s face flushed. “You want me to ruin my body having multiple kids for you? Keep dreaming!” Every syllable was a serrated blade, sawing slowly through the last remaining tethers of my sanity. A cold California wind swept down the street, and I shivered uncontrollably. Cole immediately guided Madison toward the open car door. “You shouldn’t be out in the wind in your condition. Let’s go home.” Watching the Maybach merge into traffic, a desperate, hysterical impulse took over. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. In the past, even if he was halfway across the world in Monaco, Cole answered my calls on the first ring. First attempt. Sent to voicemail. Second attempt. Sent to voicemail. By the third, the phone was turned off completely. I raised a trembling hand to my face, only then realizing my cheeks were entirely slick with tears. I floated back to our house like a ghost. When I pushed the heavy oak front door open, Cole was already sitting on the living room sofa, his jacket tossed over a chair. The moment he saw me, he stood up, crossing the room to pull me into his chest. His brow furrowed with familiar, practiced concern. “Nat? Are you okay? Is it the depression again?” I didn’t lean into his touch. I didn’t answer his question. I just stared straight into his dark eyes. “Do you want a child, Cole?” A microscopic flicker of unease crossed his face. “Your body… the doctors said your condition isn’t suited for pregnancy right now.” Was my body not suited for it, or did Cole just not want me to be the one carrying his child? I shoved hard against his chest, breaking his hold. Reaching into my purse, I pulled out the glossy photos I’d printed at a pharmacy kiosk on the way home—pictures I’d snapped of them outside the boutique—and slammed them onto the glass coffee table. Tears spilled over my lashes, my teeth grinding together so hard my jaw ached. “You and Madison. Don’t you think I deserve a goddamn explanation?” Cole froze. For a second, he looked at the photos, and then the warmth bled out of his face, replaced by a glacial, defensive anger. “You’re stalking me?” He scoffed, a cruel twist of his lips altering his entire demeanor. “Is this why you were blowing up my phone today?” “What exactly do you want me to explain, Natalie? Yes, I cheated. I fell for my protégé. What happened back then… the crash, it was a tragic accident. She was so young, Nat. I couldn’t just let her rot in a cell and destroy her entire future over a mistake.” “I’ve kept her set up quietly. She knows her place. She has never bothered you. You’re the one forcing this out into the open, making a mess out of nothing.” His calm, calculated blame felt like a physical blow. He was rewriting history. Rewriting the murder of my child as a “mistake.” A visceral cramp seized my stomach, and I doubled over slightly, gasping in pain. Seeing me wince, muscle memory kicked in; Cole instinctively reached out to support me. I slapped his hand away with everything I had. “Don’t touch me! Keep your filthy, hypocritical hands off me. You make me sick!” Cole’s face darkened, his jaw ticking. He opened his mouth to snap back, but his phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered it instantly, his eyes locked coldly on mine. “I’m leaving,” he said to me, pocketing the phone. “Take a pill and calm down.” He walked out with hurried, urgent strides. Driven by a morbid need to twist the knife in my own chest, I followed him in my own car. I watched from a distance as he stopped at a high-end grocer. He came out carrying a massive bouquet of imported Juliet roses and a small, delicate clamshell of organic strawberries. I remembered my first pregnancy. The morning sickness had been unrelenting, and one afternoon, I had an overwhelming, desperate craving for fresh lychees. Cole had been deep in prep for the Le Mans race, surrounded by engineers and press. He had his assistant send a massive, expensive fruit basket to the house. It was filled with exotic melons and berries, but not a single lychee. Now, I sat in my idling car and watched the man who couldn’t be bothered to leave the track for me step into a sprawling Bel-Air estate. Through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, I watched him carefully wash the strawberries by hand, cut off the stems, and feed them, one by one, to Madison. The dam inside me finally broke. I got out of the car, ran up the driveway, shoved open the unlocked front door, and marched straight into the kitchen. Before either of them could react, I swung my arm back and slapped Cole across the face with a sickening crack. “Natalie, have you lost your mind?!” He instantly pulled Madison behind him, shielding her just like he had in that hotel room years ago. His eyes blazed with unchecked hostility. “Take your crazy out on me! Maddie has nothing to do with this!” I stumbled backward, the floor swaying beneath my feet. I couldn’t reconcile the monster standing in front of me with the man I loved. When I first told him I was pregnant all those years ago, Cole hadn’t cared that we were in the middle of a crowded restaurant. He picked me up and spun me around, tears in his eyes. Nat! I’m gonna be a dad! Before we even knew the gender, he had cleared out a room, filling it with model cars and tiny racing helmets, bragging to the press that he was raising the next generation of motorsport royalty. And now. “What do you want, Natalie? Do you want her to pay with her life?!” Cole’s voice boomed through the kitchen, but as he took in my bloodshot eyes and trembling frame, he lowered his tone, attempting a twisted sort of negotiation. “Once Maddie’s baby is born, you can be its godmother. We can all move past this.” Staring at the man who was bargaining away my grief to protect the woman who killed our child, my heart didn’t just break—it shattered into dust. Madison peeked out from behind him, stepping forward to grab my forearm. Her perfectly manicured acrylic nails dug viciously into my skin, pinching the flesh hard enough to draw blood, even as she put on a terrified, trembling voice. “I’ve always felt so guilty about what happened back then, Natalie… I just hope, one day, you can find it in your heart to forgive me—” “Get off me!” I yanked my arm back violently. I hadn’t pushed her, but Madison threw herself backward, collapsing onto the marble floor with a theatrical shriek. “My baby…!” She clutched her swollen stomach, her face contorting in faux agony, before letting her eyes roll back as she “fainted.” Cole’s face drained of color. He turned to me, a look of pure, unadulterated hatred in his eyes. “You know exactly what the pain of losing a child feels like, and you’re trying to do the exact same thing to Maddie?!” He shoved me. Hard. He didn’t look back as he scooped Madison into his arms and sprinted toward the door. I staggered backward, my heel catching on the edge of the luxury rug. I fell hard, my tailbone slamming against the unforgiving marble. But a second later, a deep, tearing agony ripped through my lower abdomen. “Cole… wait. Help me, I’m preg—” He paused in the doorway. Those dark eyes that used to look at me like I hung the moon were now cold and dead. “The doctors were very clear, Natalie. You can hardly get pregnant.” “Don’t try to manipulate me with cheap lies. You’re draining whatever love I have left for you.” He walked out. I lay on the floor, paralyzed by the pain, until a delivery driver found me through the open door and called an ambulance. At the hospital, the ER doctor’s voice was gentle but grave. Threatened miscarriage. I squeezed my eyes shut, the tears leaking down my temples and into my mouth, tasting of salt and copper. Behind my eyelids, all I could see was Cole’s broad back as he walked away from me. My phone buzzed on the bedside table. A photo message illuminated the screen. It was Madison, her maternity blouse unbuttoned, slipping off her shoulder. And there was Cole, his head bent over her chest, his lips approaching her breast. An audio file followed. I pressed play with shaking, icy fingers. Madison’s voice drifted out, breathless and cloyingly sweet: “It’s my first time pregnant, so my body is just so sensitive… Cole couldn’t bear the thought of me hurting myself with a mechanical breast pump, so… he offered to help clear the ducts himself…” A wave of pure nausea violently hit the back of my throat. My hands trembled so hard I could barely type, but I opened the Reddit app. I bypassed the racing forums and went straight to a major pop-culture subreddit. [IndyCar Golden Boy Cole Bradley knocked up the protégé he swore he dropped. The same protégé who killed his wife’s unborn baby. He’s housing her in Bel-Air.] I attached the photo she had just sent me, along with the ones from the boutique, and hit post. Within an hour, it was trending on X and TikTok. The internet exploded, tearing Madison apart, calling her a homewrecking sociopath. But the victory was short-lived. A massive PR firm stepped in. The hashtags were scrubbed, the posts shadow-banned, and in their place, a polished, official press release from Cole’s agency took over the trending page. [My former wife, Natalie Bradley, has long suffered from severe psychiatric delusions. We legally separated some time ago. The fabricated narratives circulating online are the tragic result of her declining mental health.] I slid down the hospital wall, collapsing onto the cold floor. When he proposed, Cole had gotten down on one knee in the rain, swearing to God he would never let a tear fall from my eyes. When I lost our baby, he swore he would never touch a steering wheel again, dedicating his life to doing penance by my side. Now, he told the world I was crazy. The vows of our youth were nothing but a punchline. My phone rang. It was Cole. When I answered, his voice dripped with exhaustion and profound disappointment. “Nat. Do you have any idea how hard Maddie has worked to get her life back on track? Do you really have to destroy her?” “She’s locking herself in the bathroom, threatening to end it. She’s young and hormonal, and I’m terrified she’s going to do something irreversible.” “Take down the posts, issue a retraction, and come here to apologize to her in person.” A jagged lump formed in my throat, choking off my air. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, forcing the tears back. “Me? Apologize? Who the hell is going to apologize to my dead son?!” “Cole Bradley, you are bending over backward to protect a murderer! How do you sleep at night?!” The child inside me seemed to contract, as if feeling the toxic rush of my despair. Despite my best efforts to hold onto my dignity, a ragged, animalistic scream tore from my throat. It was the sound of years of suffocated grief and betrayal finally clawing its way out. My breakdown seemed to shock him. The line went silent for a long, heavy moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow. “If that’s how you want to play it, fine. Don’t blame me for what happens next.” “You hurt Maddie. Actions have consequences.” He hung up. The next morning, an anonymous whistleblower post went viral across my university’s forums and local news outlets. [Tenured by Day, Escort by Night: The Truth About Professor Bradley.] The three-thousand-word expose was allegedly written by a former classmate. It claimed that to secure my coveted tenure-track position at the university, I had slept with my fifty-year-old department chair. Attached was a grainy photo from years ago. I was standing in a cramped office, and an older man’s wrinkled hand was resting inappropriately low on my waist. My brain short-circuited. I was a scholarship kid who clawed my way out of a dead-end town. I had no money, no connections. In grad school, my advisor had weaponized my vulnerability, assuming I’d be too terrified to report him, and subjected me to relentless sexual harassment. Even though I eventually fought back and he was quietly forced into early retirement for “academic misconduct,” the trauma had left deep, lasting scars. The only person in the world I had ever confided in about that was Cole. And now, Madison was on Instagram Live, crying to thousands of viewers. “Cole and I have known each other for years. He promised we’d be together. But Natalie trapped him… she spiked his drink at a party years ago and used a pregnancy to force him into a miserable marriage!” The internet turned its rabid attention toward me. [They let this whore teach college kids? Homewreckers should kill themselves!] [No wonder her baby died. Karma doing its job!] The sheer volume of the hatred was a physical weight, pressing the air from my lungs. A sharp, pulling ache radiated through my lower pelvis. Within an hour, I received an email from the Dean’s office. I was suspended, pending a full investigation. The sensation of drowning was total. I was still sitting numbly on the floor when my phone rang. It was my mother. “Natalie, what the hell is happening on the news?! Get over here right now and explain this mess to me!” Her voice was strained, breathless. She had a severe heart condition; any spike in her blood pressure was a death sentence. I dragged myself to her house. The second I walked through the door, a hand struck my cheek with blinding force. I stood there, ears ringing, holding my face. It was only then that I realized Cole was sitting calmly in her armchair. My mother was shaking violently, her face pale. “Get on your knees! Natalie, I did not work my fingers to the bone raising you just for you to become some cheap mistress destroying another woman’s home!” I opened my mouth, desperate to explain, but she cut me off. “Cole already told me everything! He told me how you’ve been blackmailing him, how you’ve been sleeping around behind his back!” I snapped my head toward Cole. He met my gaze, a faint, mocking smirk playing on his lips. Before I could form a word, my mother lunged, grabbing a handful of my hair. “Apologize! You apologize to Cole and Miss Madison right now! Or so help me God, you are no longer my daughter!” The crushing injustice of it all snapped whatever fragile thread was holding me together. I gritted my teeth against the pain in my scalp, refusing to break. “I didn’t do it! I am the victim here! Why should I apologize to the woman who ruined my life?!” “You… you want to put me in the ground, is that it?!” My mother gasped, her chest heaving. Suddenly, her eyes rolled back. She clutched her heart and collapsed onto the hardwood floor like a puppet with its strings cut. “Mom!” I threw myself toward her. Her lips were already turning a terrifying shade of blue, her breathing reduced to wet, rattling gasps. My hands shook violently as I fumbled for my phone to dial 911, but a hand shot out and snatched the device from my grip. “You can call the ambulance,” Cole said, his voice terrifyingly calm, “right after you apologize to Maddie.” I was hovering over the abyss of total madness. I screamed at him, my voice shredding my throat. “I’ll apologize! I’ll do whatever she wants! Just let me call the paramedics, please!” Cole frowned, looking slightly displeased by my volume, but he tossed the phone back onto the floor. The moment the ambulance arrived at the emergency room doors, Cole stepped in front of me, physically blocking my path to the sliding glass doors. “Kneel down and apologize to Maddie. Until you do, my private medical team won’t so much as look at your mother.” Madison had just arrived, chauffeured in one of Cole’s SUVs. Seeing me panic-stricken and covered in sweat, a flash of triumphant glee crossed her face. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted a rush of warm blood. Swallowing my pride, my dignity, and the last remnants of my soul, I dropped to my knees on the dirty concrete in front of Madison. “I’m sorry. I am the homewrecker.” “You stop when Maddie says she forgives you,” Cole dictated, his arms crossed. I bent forward, pressing my forehead against the pavement. One time. Two times. Three times. The concrete scraped my skin raw. Blood began to trickle down my brow, blinding my vision. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Cole’s brow furrowed, a flicker of something like discomfort crossing his face. “Enough. Go check on your mother.” He turned to walk inside. As he did, Madison leaned down, her lips brushing my ear. Her voice was pure venom. “I showed her the deepfake videos of you sleeping with those older men before she collapsed. She really didn’t take it well, did she?” My mother couldn’t take any more stress. My fragile grip on reality disintegrated entirely. I scrambled up, practically crawling through the ER doors toward the resuscitation bay. The attending physician walked out, slowly pulling off his surgical mask. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. The patient suffered a massive cardiac event. Given the delay in getting her here… there was nothing we could do.” The world went silent. My heart didn’t just break; it ceased to exist. My body began to convulse uncontrollably. A sudden, blinding agony tore through my abdomen, twisting my insides like barbwire. I looked down to see dark, crimson blood pooling around my legs, staining the sterile linoleum. They rushed me into emergency surgery. When the doctors initiated the D&C to remove what was left of my pregnancy, the physical agony was nothing compared to the violent severing of my spirit. I felt every scrape, every pull. My soul was being hollowed out, piece by bloody piece. “Your uterus has suffered significant trauma from the fall,” the surgeon murmured later, her eyes full of pity. “Coupled with the history of your previous loss… the scarring is severe. It is highly unlikely you will ever be able to carry a child to term. I am so deeply sorry.” I stared at the ceiling tiles, entirely numb. Dead inside. I arranged my mother’s cremation alone. I dragged my hollowed-out, broken body back to the house. This house was supposed to be our forever home. When we bought it, Cole had insisted on putting the deed solely in my name, a grand romantic gesture to prove I would always have a safe harbor. Looking around at the sprawling, empty rooms, I let out a dry, rattling laugh that quickly turned into sobbing. I signed the paperwork, slipped the medical documents into a manila envelope, and paid a courier for immediate, expedited delivery to Cole’s office. Then, I turned around, flicked open Cole’s silver Zippo lighter, and tossed it into the heavy velvet drapes. I stood by the second-story window, watching the flames lick the ceiling, turning the beautiful cage he built for me into an inferno. Closing my eyes against the heat, I whispered into the smoke. Cole Bradley, if there is a next life, I pray to God I never meet you. I stepped out into the empty air. … Meanwhile, miles away in a glass-walled corner office, Cole’s assistant burst through the heavy oak doors, breathless. “Mr. Bradley! A priority courier just dropped this off—” “It’s a medical diagnostic report… and a signed divorce agreement!”

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My brother is gay. Normally, that wouldn’t be a tragedy. But his decision to drag a clueless girl to the altar just to bleed my parents dry for a $150,000 “wedding fund” and a luxury house? That was where I drew the line. In my past life, I couldn’t bear the sight of my aging parents working their fingers to the bone, desperately liquidating their meager retirement accounts to fund his lie. So, I ripped the band-aid off. I outed him. I told them the truth about his secret life. They didn’t believe me. Instead, they branded me a jealous, toxic spinster who was just trying to sabotage my brother’s happiness because I didn’t want to help him buy a house. They disowned me on the spot. But Hunter didn’t stop there. He took to the massive extended family group chat, dropping deepfaked photos of me, claiming I was a high-end escort bankrolled by married sugar daddies. Blinded by a cocktail of rage and betrayal, I stormed out of the house. I just wanted to get to the airport. I just wanted to go home. I never made it. An 18-wheeler ran a red light. As my soul lingered over the asphalt, tethered to my mangled body, I watched the aftermath. I watched Hunter answer the phone call from the police. I watched his eyes light up. He didn’t shed a tear. Instead, he used my literal blood to extort a massive wrongful death settlement from the trucking company. The last thing I heard before the darkness took me was the sound of my brother, flush with my death money, calling his secret boyfriend. “Babe, the bitch got hit by a truck. We’re rich. I love you so much. I’m giving it all to you, and we’re getting the hell out of this country to get married.” Absurd. Vile. Unforgivable. But then, I blinked. And I was breathing. The phantom pain of crushed ribs and shattered femurs still hummed in my nerve endings, but I was sitting upright. I was in the stifling, wallpapered dining room of my childhood home in Ohio. I was looking right at Hunter, who was leading a pretty, doe-eyed blonde through the front door. My mother lunged forward, grabbing Hunter’s hands with tears of religious fervor in her eyes. “My boy. My beautiful boy! A son is a blessing, bringing a bride home to carry on the Gallagher legacy.” 1. “Not like your sister,” my mother continued, her voice sharpening into that familiar, grating pitch as she shot a disdainful glare in my direction. “Over thirty, completely unmarried, and not bringing a dime of value into this house. Nothing but a bad investment.” The smell of pot roast and the heavy silence of the room crashed into me. I gripped the edge of the dining table, my knuckles turning white. I stared at the scene unfolding before me, the realization washing over my panic like a bucket of ice water. I was back. I had been reborn into the exact moment Hunter brought his beard, Madison, home for the first time. This was the day he would casually ask for a hundred and fifty grand in cash to “secure” her, plus the down payment on a four-bedroom colonial in the suburbs. My parents, entirely middle-class and barely scraping by, wouldn’t hesitate. Desperate to see their golden boy procreate, they would agree to bleed themselves dry. I knew the truth. I knew my brother was sleeping with two, maybe three different men in the city. Last time, my heart had ached for my parents’ naive devotion. I hadn’t wanted Madison to be collateral damage in his twisted, closeted masquerade. So, I had spoken up. And the moment the words left my mouth, my father had backhanded me so hard I hit the floor, screaming at me to go to hell for spreading such filth. My mother had thrown her hot tea in my face, telling me to get out, get married, and give my brother my dowry. I remembered the cruel, mocking glint in Hunter’s eyes as I scrambled up from the carpet. “Natalie, I didn’t even want to mention that you’re whoring yourself out to rich men in New York, and now you have the nerve to project your sick fantasies onto me? Have you no shame?” My father had chased me out the door with a wooden chair, screaming that I was a stain on the family name. Hunter had stood on the porch, recording the whole thing on his iPhone to send to the relatives. And Madison? She had just crossed her arms, taking a deliberate step back from me as if my presence was contagious. “Just because no man wants to invest in a decrepit spinster like you doesn’t mean you have to ruin Hunter’s big day,” she had sneered. “You’re pathetic.” The memory of the truck’s grill smashing into my spine made me nauseous. But that was then. This time? I wasn’t going to say a damn word. If they wanted to burn their lives to the ground for their precious son, I would hand them the matches. 2. “What is wrong with you? Sit down!” my father barked, his face darkening the moment I abruptly stood up from my chair. “No manners. No grace. It’s a miracle any man can even look at you without wincing.” Hunter pulled Madison tighter against his side, flashing me a brilliant, teeth-baring smile. “Nat! Maddie and I are making it official. You’re gonna pitch in for the wedding, right? You’re my big sister. My favorite sister.” Favorite sister. Right. Growing up in a house where the sun rose and set on the son, I was nothing more than an ATM. His allowance came from my high school minimum-wage jobs. His private college tuition and his frat dues were quietly siphoned from my corporate salary. For years, I had harbored this pathetic, hollow hope that if I just gave a little more, paid a little more, my parents might finally look at me with an ounce of the adoration they saved for him. But dying changes a person. Dying violently, unloved and betrayed, burns the last of that pathetic hope into ash. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, forcing my muscles to relax. I slowly lowered myself back into the chair. “Sure,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I’ll make sure to get you a very special gift.” If he wanted to play house, I was more than happy to help set the stage for the explosion. Hunter’s smile faltered. My easy agreement clearly wasn’t enough. He furrowed his brow, perfecting his pout. “Just a gift? Come on, Nat. We need a house.” “Exactly,” my mother chimed in, practically tripping over herself to advocate for him. “Hunter is the heir to this family. You’re the older sister. You’ve been living it up in New York City making six figures for years. What’s buying a starter home for your brother? You’re family. Why are you being so stingy?” I dug my fingernails into my palms. I met my father’s threatening glare and kept my voice perfectly level. “Okay. I’ll handle the house.” Words were just wind. I just needed to survive this dinner without being chased out like a rabid dog. The moment this awful charade of a meal was over, I was booking a one-way flight back to JFK. They could rot for all I cared. The tension in the room evaporated instantly. My promise of real estate acted like a magic spell. For the rest of the evening, my parents fawned over Madison, promising her diamond rings and loudly praying she would pop out at least three strong boys. As they were finally leaving, Madison hung back in the hallway. She looked me up and down, her eyes swimming with a smug, misplaced superiority. “Woman to woman,” she whispered, her tone dripping with pity. “Seeing me this cherished… it must be driving you crazy, huh?” 3. “Hunter treats me like a queen,” Madison went on, inspecting her manicured nails. “My family only asked for fifty grand to help with the wedding, and he voluntarily bumped it to a hundred and fifty. He’s putting it in a trust for me. He respects me so much, he even insisted we wait until the wedding night. No premarital sex. He’s old-fashioned like that.” She looked at me like I was something she scraped off her shoe. “Honestly, Natalie? You’ll probably never meet a real man like him in your entire life.” I smiled. It reached my eyes this time. “I wish you both a very speedy trip to the altar.” A hundred and fifty grand? That was going straight into his boyfriends’ pockets. A new house? That was his new bachelor pad for his late-night hookups. No premarital sex? Honey, he physically cannot get it up for you. Disappointed that I didn’t break down crying, Madison huffed, turned on her designer heel, and marched out the door. My parents drove the happy couple back to their hotel. They didn’t even bother to say goodbye to me. They forgot I was even in the house. I was used to it. I checked the time, packed my overnight bag in utter silence, and called an Uber to the airport. By the time my flight touched down in New York, my lock screen was a chaotic mess of notifications. Dozens of missed calls. A sea of angry red text messages from my mother. [Where the hell did you go? Maddie was here and you didn’t even take them out to the city to celebrate!] [Your brother is young and needs liquidity. Wire him $20,000 right now so he can take her shopping. Don’t make him look broke in front of his fiancée.] [Why aren’t you answering me?! Are you really throwing a fit over twenty grand? He is the only one who matters to this family’s legacy!] [Ungrateful bitch! Selfish! I should have drowned you. You’re not worth half the dirt on your brother’s shoes.] It went on and on, devolving into pure vitriol. Then came Hunter’s texts. [You’re literally just an ATM for this family. Act like it.] [I can introduce you to one of Maddie’s creepy uncles if you’re that desperate. He’s old, but he’s loaded. I need the cash flow right now, Nat.] [Stop being a drama queen and sell yourself to someone useful. Looking at your miserable face makes me sick.] I read them all. I didn’t type a single word in response. Instead, I opened my browser and dialed the number of a high-end private investigator based in Manhattan. I gave him Hunter’s name, his favorite haunts, and a hefty retainer. If my family wanted a spectacle of a wedding, I was going to give them the season finale they deserved. For years, I had paid the mortgage on that Ohio house. I paid their utility bills. When my parents were sick, Hunter was out partying, and I was the one burning my PTO to fly back and spoon-feed them soup. Yet, to the outside world, my parents bragged only about their brilliant, upstanding son. A college grad. A straight-edge, perfect gentleman. Meanwhile, I was the cautionary tale. The cold, ungrateful, aging career woman. Why? This time, I absolutely refused to let them play parasite to my life. I didn’t block their numbers. I just left them on read. Let them sweat. Hunter, impatient and greedy, couldn’t handle the silence. He took it to the extended family group chat—over a hundred aunts, uncles, and cousins. [Natalie, what is your problem? Mom’s blood pressure is spiking and you’re ignoring us. Are you even human?] [If you’re too broke to buy the house, just say it. But ignoring Mom? You’re dead to me.] 4. In the Gallagher clan, Hunter was the firstborn son of the new generation. He was the messiah. The moment he fired the first shot, the rest of the family eagerly joined the firing squad. Uncle Tom: Natalie, seriously? You’ve always been a rebel, but tearing the family apart over money? Grow up. Aunt Susan: Oh, little Nat thinks she’s too good for us now that she’s in New York. Typical. Great Aunt Martha: Wretched girl. She’s been wild for years. She’s the older sister! Her only job from birth was to pave the way for her brother! Uncle Greg: Told your dad years ago, having a girl first was a curse. Useless. I watched the vitriol roll down my screen, sipping my coffee. It was fascinating to see it all laid bare. They truly believed I was a monster for simply… existing. Finally, my father dropped his heavy hand into the chat. Dad: Enough. Natalie, do you really want to air our dirty laundry to everyone? You have that apartment in Brooklyn. Sell it. The equity is more than enough to buy your brother his house in the suburbs. Dad: It’s settled. You have ten days to get the funds in order. Hunter needs to get married. I almost laughed out loud. I typed out my response, slow and deliberate. Me: I am never buying Hunter a house. Hitting send felt like tossing a grenade into a hornets’ nest. The chat exploded. The language turned vile—calling me a whore, a slut, a traitor to my own blood. Finally, my father delivered his ultimate ultimatum. Dad: If you do this, you are no longer my daughter. We are cutting you off. You are dead to the Gallaghers. Never come back. In my past life, that threat would have sent me spiraling into an absolute panic attack. The fear of being an orphan, of being totally unloved, had kept me in chains. Now? It felt like someone had just handed me the key to my own cage. Me: Deal. Have a nice life. I locked my phone and went to sleep, sleeping more soundly than I had in a decade. I woke up the next morning to absolute chaos. Hunter, desperate to ruin me, had escalated. He dropped the AI-generated photos into the massive family chat. Deepfakes of my face superimposed onto explicit images with older men. Hunter: Keep your filthy whore money, Natalie! I wouldn’t touch it if my life depended on it! He played the righteous, wounded brother perfectly. The comments beneath it were disgusting, reducing me to something less than human. And my parents? They didn’t defend me. They took screenshots of the chat, proudly declaring that they had already disowned the “harlot.” My phone rang. Hunter. “Say you’ll buy the house, and I’ll tell them it was a prank,” he hissed into the receiver. “You’re a fucking idiot,” I said, and hung up. Minutes later, an AI-generated video hit the group. Hunter texted me, I am going to destroy your life. I didn’t panic. I just sent one final message to the group chat. Me: All files have been saved and timestamped. My lawyer is submitting them to the NYPD for distribution of revenge porn and defamation. Then, I hit ‘Leave Group’. 5. It didn’t take two minutes for my phone to ring again. It was my mother. Her voice sounded ragged, stripped of its usual bravado. “Natalie… what are you doing? You can’t sue your own brother.” “He distributed pornographic material with my face on it,” I said, my voice like ice. “It’s a felony. Why wouldn’t I?” “He knows he went too far! He’s just stressed about the wedding. He’ll apologize!” “I don’t care about his apology, Mom. I’m pressing charges.” Seeing that I was completely immovable, her mask slipped. She began to screech, her voice piercing the speaker. She called me a shameless bitch, screaming that with the money I made, I must be sleeping around anyway. “The cops don’t care about family drama! You’re bluffing!” she shrieked, and in the background, I could hear Hunter laughing. It was an ugly, grating sound. Even though my heart had already calcified toward them, a tiny, buried part of me still ached. I didn’t argue with her. I just hung up, forwarded everything to my attorney, and told him to go for the jugular. For the next few days, my phone was a barrage of unknown numbers. Relatives begging me to drop it, telling me I was ruining a young man’s life over a “joke.” A joke? I tossed my SIM card in the trash and bought a new one. The next time I saw my brother, it was inside a precinct in Manhattan. I had refused mediation. The NYPD didn’t take kindly to interstate cyber-harassment and revenge porn. Hunter was detained. As I walked out of the precinct doors, my mother materialized from the waiting area, hurling her heavy iced coffee right at my head. It grazed my shoulder, splattering against the wall. “You little slut!” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “I should have strangled you in your crib!” A police officer immediately stepped between us. My parents glared at me with murderous intent, but they didn’t dare physically attack me with a cop standing right there. Madison was there, too. She was draped in a cashmere coat, a designer bag on her arm, and my grandmother’s vintage emerald necklace resting against her collarbone. She looked at me with pure disgust. “You’re so jealous you’re literally trying to put my fiancé in jail.” “I’m telling you right now,” she sneered, leaning in. “I don’t care what you do. We are still getting married. I’m going to live the dream life you’re too miserable to ever have.” “The second Hunter makes bail, we’re getting our marriage license. I hope you rot, Natalie.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407048”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My best friend set her sights on the most unattainable guy on the neighboring campus, stubbornly chasing him for weeks. He didn’t so much as spare her a single glance. Feeling the sting of fighting a one-sided battle, she decided she needed an accomplice. She shoved his equally intimidating best friend in my direction—me, the girl who spent more days navigating chronic illness than college parties. I pointed to my own bloodless, pale lips. “Betty, are you seriously asking me to chase a frat boy?” She pleaded with me, her eyes wide and desperate. “Consider it cardio. Flirting is good for your cardiovascular health.” Eventually, Betty decided to throw in the towel. Naturally, I dropped my end of the bargain, too. That was when the untouchable campus god sent Betty a frantic text, his usual icy demeanor entirely shattered: I’ll agree to go out with you. Just please, for the love of God, tell your best friend to unblock Jaxon. He’s crying so much my apartment is practically flooding. 01 Ever since my best friend, Betty, crashed a guest lecture at Northwood University last month, she had been thoroughly, hopelessly obsessed with Northwood’s resident golden boy, Cole. She made it her life’s mission to win him over. Weeks went by. She deployed every tactic in her arsenal, and the guy remained as impassive as a brick wall. Yet, rejection only seemed to fuel her fire. It was like a sickness. “This is exactly the kind of man I need, Harper,” she would declare, pacing our living room. “If he folded too easily, I’d lose interest. I need the chase.” Because of my precarious health, my parents refused to let me live in the dorms. They rented a quiet, ground-floor apartment for me off-campus, and Betty moved in to keep me company. It was past nine on a Tuesday, rain lashing against the windowpanes in relentless sheets. The front door burst open, and Betty trudged in, weighed down by shopping bags and radiating pure, unadulterated frustration. She kicked off her soaked boots, complaining the second she crossed the threshold. “Dammit all to hell. What is Cole made of? Teflon? I wore the revenge dress today, Harper. The red one. And he just sat there. I swear to God, the man is a monk.” I paused my movie, shifting my gaze to take in the sight of her. Even soaked in rainwater, shivering in a crimson strapless dress, Betty was stunning. “If he’s that impossible to crack, maybe look somewhere else?” I suggested softly, pulling my fleece blanket tighter around my shoulders. “It’s not like you have a shortage of guys lining up.” “No, no, no.” She marched to the fridge, yanked out a sparkling water, and threw herself onto the couch beside me, popping the tab. “Cole is different. When I look at him, my stomach actually drops. And…” She covered her mouth, a wicked, almost feral grin spreading across her face. “His body is insane. I went to his intramural basketball game last week. The v-line? The abs? It’s like he walked straight out of an Abercrombie catalog. Biting that man’s lip would be a religious experience.” I turned back to the TV. I would never understand the beautiful, agonizing mess of modern romance. “Hey!” She nudged my ribs, a sly glint in her eyes. “Look at this.” She unlocked her phone, tapped into her camera roll, and shoved the screen an inch from my nose. A guy stared back from the photo. His features were sharp, unapologetic, and aggressively handsome. He had the kind of dark, piercing eyes and sharp jawline that practically screamed trouble. Knowing Betty, she had definitely screenshotted this from Cole’s private Instagram. “What about him?” I asked. “Harper. Do you like him?” I had known Betty since we were in training bras. The moment her left eyebrow twitched, I knew exactly what kind of chaotic scheme was brewing in her head. I gestured to my own sickly complexion. “Betty, you want me to pursue him?” She grabbed my hands, her eyes sparkling with manic energy. “Harper, Cole and this guy are glued to each other. They’re a package deal. Someone needs to distract the best friend so I can get Cole alone. Besides, I’m dying out here playing a solo game.” She softened her voice, giving me her best puppy-dog eyes. “Just do it with me. Please? Plus, I read an article that said romantic adrenaline boosts the immune system.” On the screen, the heroine of my movie screamed, “I can’t believe I trusted your crazy ass!” It felt entirely too fitting. A second later, my phone buzzed. Betty had Airdropped me the guy’s contact info. “Trust me, Harper. You have to try. He… okay, he looks a little like he might punch a hole in a wall, but I hear he’s actually super nice!” I let out a long, exhausted sigh. “Fine.” “I could literally kiss you right now!” she shrieked, leaning in before freezing. “Wait, I have rain hair and I need a shower. But I’m kissing you on the mouth when I get out. Get to work, babe!” I just stared at her retreating back. While she was in the shower, I opened the contact to add him, only to pause. The screen told me I already had him in my contacts. Huh? I squinted at the guy’s profile picture. It was a vintage illustration of Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes. My own profile was embarrassingly nerdy. My display name was simply Sleepy. My picture was Hobbes the tiger, curled up and napping. It was a manifestation of my deepest desire: to just sleep, eat, and exist without anxiety or pain. His display name was Chaos. My thumb hovered over the screen. I figured anyone who used a classic comic strip for their profile couldn’t be a total monster. By the time Betty emerged from the bathroom, enveloped in a cloud of vanilla steam and wearing a silk slip, I had abandoned my live-action movie for Spirited Away. I didn’t have many hobbies, but getting lost in animation and cinema was my safe haven. “Did you add him?” she asked, aggressively towel-drying her hair. “Mhm,” I murmured, my eyes fixed on Chihiro crossing the bridge. Suddenly, a thought struck me. I scratched my head. “Wait, am I supposed to announce that I’m hitting on him? Is there a protocol?” “Hmm.” Betty paused, tapping her chin. “Start by asking him if he’s seeing anyone. If he says no, hit him with: Would you mind if I added myself to your roster?” “Ew, what?” My face scrunched up in visceral disgust. “That is so incredibly cringe. Is that how you flirt?” “Listen to me, modern dating is all mind games. When you come at him with something that brutally honest, that painfully uncool, it loops right back around to being charming. It makes you look innocent. Just do it.” “This is psychological warfare,” I muttered. Despite my better judgment, I typed into the chat: Hi. Are you seeing anyone right now? I assumed it would take hours, maybe days, to get a reply from a guy like that. I tossed my phone onto the blanket. Less than two seconds later, the screen lit up. Jaxon: ? “He just sent a question mark,” I said to Betty, panic rising. “What do I do?” Before Betty could answer, another text came through. Jaxon: No. I physically cringed. Betty lunged across the couch, peering over my shoulder. “Send the line, Harper. Send it now. I’m going to blow-dry my hair.” “Okay.” Jaxon: Why? I closed my eyes, took a breath, and typed: Would you mind if I started having a crush on you, then? The moment I hit send, I threw the phone to the far end of the sofa like it was an explosive device. God, that was humiliating. The phone remained completely silent. Grateful for the reprieve, I turned my full attention back to the Miyazaki film. Fifteen minutes later, Betty flopped down beside me, her hair a sleek, blowout perfection. “Status report?” “He left me on read,” I said honestly. She bit her lip, looking genuinely stumped. I thought she was going to analyze her terrible advice, but instead she shrugged. “Whatever. Totally normal. Cole didn’t text me back for three days the first time.” I remained silent. I wanted to tell her that Cole probably didn’t text her back because he was emotionally unavailable, whereas Jaxon didn’t text me back because I sounded like an AI bot programmed by a desperate teenager. Betty opened her laptop to work on a group presentation, and I grabbed my phone just to check the time. The screen was flooded. “Oh, by the way,” Betty said without looking up, “his name is Jaxon.” I looked down at the notifications. Jaxon: Wait, what does that mean? I don’t just let anyone crush on me. Jaxon: I have standards. Jaxon: Are you saying you want to ask me out? (Timestamp: One minute later) Jaxon: Actually, my standards aren’t that high. Are you hitting on me? Jaxon: I’m really easy to hit on. (Timestamp: Another minute later) Jaxon: Okay, if you like me, let’s just date. Jaxon: Sorry, I was trying to play it cool up there. It backfired. Jaxon: Are you busy? Can you reply? Jaxon: It’s been ten seconds, are you still busy? Jaxon: I messed up. I should be the one asking you out. Please text me back. Jaxon: I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have acted tough. I just panicked and showed the text to my buddy, and he told me to act aloof. Jaxon: He said if I said yes too fast, you wouldn’t respect me. Jaxon: Baby, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad. Jaxon: The truth is, I’ve liked you for a really long time, I just didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t know you liked me too. … I stared at the screen, entirely deadpan. “What’s wrong?” Betty asked. “Did he reply?” I pressed my lips together in a tight line, letting the silence stretch. “Betty,” I asked slowly. “When you pursue a guy, the whole point is that they initially reject you, right? Like, for the thrill of the chase?” “Exactly.” Then what on earth was happening right now? A spark of inspiration hit me. I typed back: Reject me. If he rejected me, I could fulfill my duty to Betty by “chasing” him, keeping him distracted without actually having to date him. It was foolproof. Jaxon: [Crying meme] No. I don’t want to reject you. Jaxon: I’m so sorry. I want to travel back in time five minutes and punch myself in the face for trying to act like a badass. Jaxon: I shouldn’t have listened to my idiot friend. I’m sorry. You can yell at me, just please don’t ghost me. I massaged my temples. Me: No. You need to reject me, so I can chase you. This time, the reply wasn’t instantaneous. The little typing bubble danced at the bottom of the screen for what felt like an eternity. Finally, a message popped up, cautious and hesitant: Jaxon: Baby, is this a kink thing? Jaxon: Promise me you won’t actually ghost me. Jaxon: How long are you planning to chase me? I need a timeline so I can emotionally prepare. I glanced over at Betty, who was fiercely typing away on her laptop. Me: Undetermined. Jaxon: Okay. Baby, I reject you. Jaxon: (For the record, that rejection only applies to the roleplay, not to my actual feelings for you). Seeing that, I finally turned to Betty. “Good news. He rejected me.” Betty leaned over, patting my knee in solidarity. “It’s fine, babes. We are modern women; we can handle a little resistance. I’ll teach you the advanced flirting techniques tomorrow.” I then watched in absolute horror as she cleared her throat, shifted her voice into an unnatural, breathy register, and sent a voice note to Cole: “Hey… could you maybe save two seats for me and my friend tomorrow? I really want to be close to the court to watch you play.” I discreetly opened Safari and googled: How to flirt with a guy without losing your dignity. The top article listed a few cardinal rules: a. Push and pull. Don’t be too available. b. Mirror his energy. If he runs hot, run hot. If he goes cold, freeze him out. c. Maintain an air of mystery. d. Do not, under any circumstances, act desperate. I looked up at Betty. “Did you get your flirting techniques from the internet?” “Ha.” She flipped her hair with unwarranted confidence. “Please. I don’t need to steal other people’s material.” No wonder she was getting nowhere. My master was a complete amateur. 02 The next afternoon, the moment our last lecture ended, Betty dragged me across the city limits to the Northwood University campus. By the time we walked into the basketball arena, the bleachers were already packed. The smell of floor wax and masculine sweat hit me like a wall. Betty’s eyes locked onto a target, her face lighting up. She waved frantically. “Cole!” I was still trying to get my bearings in the crowd when she grabbed my wrist and pulled me down the steps. Cole stood courtside, wearing a black and white sleeveless jersey, his expression aggressively neutral. I hadn’t actually seen him in person before, only in the blurry photos Betty obsessed over. Because of my chronic health issues, I rarely went to things like this. Crowds meant germs, exhaustion, and sensory overload. “Harper, if you feel faint or out of breath, you tell me immediately, okay?” Betty whispered fiercely, leaning down to my ear. “It’s stuffy in here. I’ll take you outside the second you need it.” “I’m fine,” I promised, giving her a reassuring squeeze. We were just about to walk over to the seats when I heard Cole call out to one of his teammates. “Where’s Jaxon?” “No clue, man. Haven’t seen him all day.” A second later, a guy near the entrance dropped his jaw and pointed. “Holy shit. Is that Jaxon?” The entire gym seemed to instinctively turn toward the doors. A tall guy was walking in. He had a fresh, sharp haircut—a modern fade that looked expensive—and a silver stud in his left ear. He walked with a loose, arrogant swagger that demanded attention. “What… what did he do to himself?” a guy near us muttered. “Did he skip practice just to get a blowout?” “Who the hell is he trying to impress?” From the moment Jaxon walked in, his eyes darted around the bleachers like a radar, before finally locking onto my pale pink sweater. I could practically see the gears turning in his head. Right, I have to play hard to get. His trajectory, which was initially aimed like a heat-seeking missile straight at me, aggressively veered off to the side. Betty was just about to pull me into our row when a girl stepped up from behind us and tapped Cole casually on the shoulder. “Hey, Cole. Where are the seats I asked you to save me?” The girl had a sleek, shoulder-length bob and an effortlessly cool, sporty vibe. A gaggle of her friends trailed behind her. “Who is that?” I murmured to Betty. The bright smile vanished from Betty’s face, replaced by a dark, stormy look. “Madison. They grew up together.” I didn’t socialize much, but I read an absurd amount of novels. It took me approximately two seconds to read the room. The casual shoulder tap. The proprietary tone. The implicit demand for priority seating. Ah, I thought. The ‘Pick-Me’ childhood friend. The ultimate female bro. “Hey…” Jaxon had clearly lost his internal battle and drifted over, desperate to talk to me. But before he could get a word out, Betty gripped my arm and yanked me down the aisle. “Out of sight, out of mind,” Betty muttered darkly, refusing to look back. I stumbled behind her, glancing over my shoulder. Jaxon was staring after me with the exact expression of a golden retriever who had just watched his owner leave for work. Pure, devastating betrayal. “Your seats are over there. Go sit,” Cole said, pointing Madison toward a row, completely oblivious to the tension. Jaxon, looking murderous, walked over and deliberately shoulder-checked Cole. Cole stumbled a step, looking bewildered. “What is your problem? Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” Jaxon didn’t answer. He ripped off his warm-up jacket in silence. A couple of girls nearby tried to catch his eye, but he shut them down with a glare so cold it could freeze water. … Once we were seated, I tentatively nudged Betty. “What’s the deal with him and that Madison girl?” Betty looked at me, her jaw tight. “I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s just… wherever Cole is, she’s there. Always.” Speak of the devil. Madison and her entourage drifted over to our section. Cole, the absolute idiot, had saved an entire row of premium seats right next to ours. I swallowed my words. Truly, the people involved in a crush are always entirely blind to the dynamics around them. Right before the referee blew the starting whistle, my phone buzzed with rapid-fire texts. Jaxon: Why didn’t you talk to me? I thought you were supposed to be chasing me? Jaxon: Are you giving up? Can we switch? Can I chase you now? Jaxon: The game’s starting. You have to watch me. Please watch me. I glanced up from my screen. Right on cue, Jaxon was staring dead at me from the court. The girls sitting directly behind Madison started whispering loudly. “Omg, Jaxon keeps looking over here. Madison, is he looking at you?” “I am so jealous of you,” another girl cooed. “Growing up with two guys who look like that.” Madison flushed, a coy, practiced modesty settling over her features. “Oh, stop. It’s not like that at all.” Beside me, Betty let out an audible, venomous scoff. I calmly lowered my gaze back to my phone. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jaxon’s hopeful smile instantly flatline into a pout. Once the game started, I quickly realized I was going to be painfully bored. I knew absolutely nothing about basketball. The air was thick with the squeak of sneakers, the roar of the crowd, and the relentless chatter of the girls behind us debating whether Cole or Jaxon had better arms. Suddenly, Jaxon sank a brutal three-pointer from halfway across the court, and the arena practically detonated. He landed gracefully, his face flushed from the exertion. The muscles in his shoulders and arms jumped beneath the harsh gym lights, sculpted and defined. Instinctively, he looked straight up at my seat. The crowd around me shrieked again. “His girlfriend has to be sitting in our section, right?” a girl muttered behind us. “He keeps checking this exact spot.” Then, a voice dripping with syrupy sweetness aimed a question at Madison. “Maddie, honestly, if Cole and Jaxon both confessed their undying love to you tomorrow, who would you pick?” “They’re both so hot! That’s an impossible choice.” “Oh my god, you guys, shut up and watch the game,” Madison deflected, though her voice was laced with pure satisfaction. Betty turned to me, mouthing the word: Pathological. When the final buzzer sounded, Betty grabbed her bag. “Harper, stay right here. Don’t move. I’m going down there, I’ll be right back.” Before I could protest, she had grabbed a bottle of Gatorade and was sprinting down the bleachers. I noticed Madison’s seat was already empty; she had beaten Betty to the floor. I sat quietly, watching the tide of students file out. Against the current, a guy in a black-and-white jersey was taking the steps two at a time, making a beeline for me. I didn’t blink as Jaxon reached my row, dropping his massive frame into the empty seat beside me. He looked at me, a breathless, cocky grin on his face. “I thought you were pursuing me. Where’s my post-game water?” “Sorry,” I said, my voice soft, my eyes completely devoid of remorse. “First time chasing a guy. I’m a little rusty on the protocols.” Jaxon, still chest-heaving from the game, let out a raspy laugh. He tilted his head back, taking a swig from his own water bottle. I watched his Adam’s apple bob. He was objectively devastating to look at. With the sweat glistening on his collarbones and the faint red flush high on his cheeks, the whole “bad boy” aesthetic was dangerously potent. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaned in close, and dropped his voice to a low murmur. “Stop torturing me, baby.” “Let’s just drop the act and go public. Please?” He smelled intensely of adrenaline and cedarwood. The sheer force of his proximity made me instinctively lean away. “Sit back,” I ordered, pressing a single index finger against his chest to push him away. I tilted my head, studying him. “So. You like me?” He sat up perfectly straight, nodding with aggressive sincerity. “But…” I dragged the word out, pointing down toward the court where Madison was currently hovering near the benches in a pleated tennis skirt. “What exactly is your relationship with her? Because the rumor mill says you two have history.” Jaxon’s dark amber eyes locked onto mine, suddenly incredibly serious. “Cole, Madison, and I grew up in the same neighborhood. Our moms are close. But I swear on my life, she is nothing more than an acquaintance I’m forced to acknowledge on holidays.” “Really?” I asked softly. I shifted my gaze to look just over his shoulder. Madison had marched up the bleachers and was standing right behind him, her face thunderous. “Jaxon!” she spat, her voice trembling with indignation. “Where the hell did you go? I was looking all over the court for you. Unbelievable. You ditch your real friends the second you see a pretty face?” I watched the two of them without saying a word. Jaxon’s jaw clenched. He turned his head just enough to look at her over his shoulder. “I told you downstairs. I don’t accept drinks from anyone unless it’s my girlfriend.” “I… I’m not just ‘anyone’!” Madison’s eyes instantly pooled with weaponized tears. She looked like a wounded doe. “We grew up together! What’s wrong with me bringing you water? Just because you get a girlfriend means we can’t be friends anymore?” Madison turned her tear-filled, doe-eyed gaze on me, her voice trembling perfectly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you sitting up here. I didn’t know you were his girlfriend. I hope I didn’t cause a fight between you two.” Wow. She threw the grenade, pulled the pin, and played the victim all in one breath. Spending my whole life sick indoors meant I had read an ungodly amount of historical romance and contemporary drama. I was practically a scholar in the art of dismantling manipulative women in literature. I had just never had the chance to deploy it in the field. Until now. I practically rolled up my mental sleeves. But before I could speak, Jaxon beat me to it. His brow furrowed in genuine disgust. “What are you talking about? She hasn’t even agreed to be my girlfriend yet, but the way you’re talking to her is seriously pissing me off.” Madison’s face froze. The manufactured tears literally halted in her eyes. Right then, my phone rang. It was Betty. “Harper. Let’s go.” I picked up Betty’s tote bag from the bleacher, standing up to leave. Jaxon looked up at me, absolute panic in his eyes. I smiled, reaching into Betty’s bag and pulling out an untouched bottle of Evian water. I let my gaze slide lazily over to Madison, making sure she was watching. I held the bottle out to Jaxon. “Here.” Jaxon’s amber eyes lit up like Christmas morning. His large hand, veins faintly tracing the back, practically snatched it from my grip. “Hey, we’re all going out to get food after this,” Jaxon said breathlessly. “Do you and Betty want to come?” I stepped around the seats, stopping directly in front of Madison. Jaxon shadowed my every move like a bodyguard. I gave her a sickeningly sweet smile. “Excuse me. You’re blocking the aisle.” Madison’s jaw locked. She stepped aside. I walked down a few steps, then paused and looked back over my shoulder. I gave Jaxon a bright, genuine smile. “See you around, Jaxon.” When I reached the ground floor, I grabbed Betty—who was staring at me like I had grown a second head—and pulled her toward the exit. She kept looking back at Jaxon, who was standing at the top of the bleachers staring after me like a man who had just seen God, and then looked at me. “Holy shit. What… what did you do to him? He looks like a domesticated wolf.” “Trade secret,” I whispered.

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In this life, I made a conscious effort to let her pass me by. When she left the Pentagon through the front entrance, I slipped out the back. When she took her “soulmate” to the movies, I stayed home alone, organizing case files. In my previous life, I had been a fool. I knew her heart belonged to him, yet I used every ounce of leverage I had to make her marry me. The result? A lifetime of sleeping in separate rooms. We became the military’s most infamous “unhappy couple.” She hated me for the schemes I used to have her true love transferred to a remote border outpost. I hated her for marrying me while remaining utterly cold for a decade. Ten years of marriage, and we had carved each other into hollow shells through endless cycles of resentment. It wasn’t until I was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer that she finally softened. She became gentle, attentive, a devoted wife at last. I allowed myself to believe—to hope—that she had finally learned to love me. But as the final round of chemo failed and my vision began to blur into the dark, she leaned in and whispered the truth. “The debt I owed your father… I’ve paid it in full now, Nate.” She looked at me with a weary, clinical pity. “In the next life, I won’t marry you. I won’t need you or your father to save me. Let’s just let each other go.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back. It was the day of the inter-district personnel transfers. Without hesitation, I walked into the Chief of Personnel’s office. “Sir, I believe my skill set is better suited for a deployment to the High Ridge frontier outpost.” Charlotte West, this time, I’m leaving your soulmate by your side. I’m giving you back your life. … 1 Colonel Miller looked up from a stack of files, his brow furrowed. “Last month, you filed three separate requests insisting on a post at HQ because your fiancée was stationed here. That’s why we swapped you with Brody.” He tapped a pen against the desk. “The ink is barely dry on the orders, Nate. You want to change it again?” I pushed the new application across his desk and stood at a sharp, perfect attention. “Reporting for duty, Colonel. I’ve thought it over. I’m volunteering for the High Ridge outpost.” Miller stared at me for a long beat, eventually waving a hand in dismissal. “Fine. Suit yourself. But keep in mind, that’s twelve thousand feet up. It’s brutal. The last guy we sent up there? His girlfriend waited two years before she ran off with a guy from the USO.” I saluted, my face a mask of iron, and walked out. In the hallway, a group of officers gathered around the bulletin board. Brody’s name was at the top of the list for the HQ staff position. He stood there with his head down, his eyes rimmed with red. A few junior officers were whispering nearby, their voices laced with sympathy. “He’s got the highest marks in clinical psychology. If someone hadn’t pulled strings…” “I know, right? He and General West were practically ready to file their marriage intent, and then suddenly—” The voices cut off abruptly as I approached. A dozen pairs of eyes stabbed at me like serrated blades. I walked through them without a word. In their eyes, I was the pathetic snake who had stolen another man’s future. But it didn’t matter. Soon enough, I would be handing Charlotte West back to him. In my last life, Charlotte had been ambushed during a tactical mission on the border. My father, defying direct orders, led a rescue team into the hot zone to save her. He took a bullet to the chest and died in the extraction bird. I used her crushing guilt to force a ring onto her finger. I knew she loved Brody, her childhood sweetheart, so I used my connections to have him shipped to the harshest outpost in the country. I thought if I just gave enough, if I loved her hard enough, I could earn her heart. I woke up two hours early every morning to prep her briefing materials. I stayed up all night running combat simulations for her. I stocked every drawer in her office with her favorite snacks and the specific ointment she needed for her winter skin. Slowly, she started letting me straighten her uniform. She stopped pulling away when I reached for her hand. She even agreed to midnight movies. I was convinced she was finally falling for me. Until the night I collapsed during a training exercise. Charlotte rushed me to the hospital. She spent the entire night outside the OR, and in doing so, she missed Brody’s emergency distress call from the border. The news hit the next day: Brody’s recon team had been ambushed. He was killed during the retreat. Charlotte spent three days at the National Cemetery, standing like a statue in front of his headstone. After that, she never spoke his name again. When my cancer was found after the surgery, she requested a transfer out of active command to care for me for five years. To any outsider, she was the perfect, grieving, devoted wife. Only I knew the truth. The look in her eyes whenever she held my hand wasn’t love. It was a ledger. She was simply paying back a debt, cent by agonizing cent. The bitterness rose in my throat, and I took a long, steadying breath. Not this time. This time, I would give them their happy ending. And in doing so, I would finally save myself. 2 After work, Charlotte’s black SUV was idling in front of the building, just like always. We drove in a heavy, suffocating silence. I knew she’d seen the transfer announcement. I opened my mouth to explain, but she cut me off before I could speak. “Brody leaves for the Ridge next month,” she said, her voice clipped. “A few of the old team are getting drinks tonight. Since you’re the one who took his spot at HQ, it’s only right that you show up.” I didn’t argue. I followed her into the private room of a high-end steakhouse downtown. Brody was the center of attention, his eyes still puffy. Someone vacated the seat next to him when Charlotte walked in, and she took it naturally, as if that was where she belonged. I didn’t care. I found an empty chair near the door. The moment we sat, Brody raised a glass. “Charlotte, you’ve looked after me for years. This one’s for you.” Out of habit, I reached out to stop her. “She’s got a sensitive stomach, she shouldn’t be drinking—” In my past life, I went to every one of these dinners just to be her designated driver and her shield against the alcohol she couldn’t handle. But this time, Charlotte didn’t even look at me. She picked up the glass and drained it in one go. Brody laughed, a little spark returning to his eyes. “See? I knew she could handle it.” Someone down the table smirked. “Major Montgomery, I think you just don’t know the General as well as you think. Whether she drinks or not depends entirely on who she’s drinking with.” A ripple of knowing laughter went around the table. Charlotte didn’t contradict them. The conversation quickly shifted to their shared history—basic training together, weekends away during the Academy, inside jokes I could never understand. They were building a world I had no part in. I ate my meal in silence. In my previous life, I would have fought so hard to wedge myself into the conversation, forgetting that to them, I was nothing more than an unwanted guest. When dinner ended, someone suggested a movie. Charlotte finally looked at me, but her expression was cold. “Take an Uber home, Nate. I’m going with them.” By the time I got back to the officers’ quarters, my phone was buzzing. It was Mrs. Gable, the mother of a fallen soldier I’d been helping. Her daughter’s housing benefits had been stalled for months due to red tape. I’d spent all week getting the paperwork in order. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Gable,” I said into the phone. “I’ve got the file. I’ll walk it through Finance tomorrow morning.” I went to my home office to grab the blue folder, but it was gone. Charlotte didn’t return until nine-thirty. The moment she walked in, I asked, “Have you seen the Gable file? The housing materials?” She hung her hat up, her tone indifferent. “I gave them to Brody.” I froze. “What?” “I spoke to your Chief. I told him to transfer the case to Brody. He needs the credit.” I felt a surge of cold fury. I headed for the door. “No. I’m getting it back.” Charlotte blocked my path, her brow knitting into a familiar look of annoyance. “It’s a housing dispute, Nate. A few hundred dollars in back pay. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” “I gave my word to Mrs. Gable.” “Brody is heading to the border soon. He needs a high-profile win for his year-end evaluation. This case is a perfect example of veteran advocacy.” I was about to tell her that I was the one going to the border, not Brody, when her phone chimed. It was a text from Brody. He had questions about the file. Charlotte turned and walked into the office, her voice softening into a tone she never used with me. “Look at Article 28 of the Benefits Code… Yeah, start there. Compare it to that case in the Western Command last year. I’ll send you the link.” I stood in the hallway, paralyzed. I remembered when I first started in the Political Department. I’d gone to her—a General—to ask for advice on a complex family dispute. She hadn’t even looked up from her laptop. “It’s a policy issue, Nate. Can’t you look up the regulations yourself?” “I did, but the wartime disability standard is—” “I don’t have time. I have a live-fire exercise tomorrow.” I had stayed up for three nights straight to figure it out on my own. When I finally won the case, I told her, hoping for a shred of pride. She had just given me a distracted “Mhm.” I used to think she was just too busy. That my work was too small for her. Now I knew the truth. She just didn’t want to waste her time on me. The conversation in the office went on for over an hour. I walked back to the bedroom and felt my phone vibrate. It was a photo from Sarah, one of Charlotte’s colleagues. The photo was taken in the dark of a movie theater. Brody was holding Charlotte’s hand. She wasn’t pulling away. The text underneath read: Some things can’t be stolen, Nate. Give it up. I looked at the photo and let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. I scrolled up through my chat history with Sarah. It was a pathetic record of my own desperation. “Hey Sarah, it’s Charlotte’s birthday. Any idea what she’s been wanting lately?” “You mentioned your kid likes model planes—I found a limited edition one, I’ll drop it off…” Every message was a bribe, a plea for a crumb of information that might make Charlotte love me. Every reply from her was polite, short, and clinical. I had been so small. I clicked on Sarah’s profile and hit Delete. I turned off the light and lay down. For the first time since the “rebirth,” I didn’t feel the phantom pain of cancer or the crushing weight of anxiety. I fell into the deepest sleep I’d had in years. 3 The next morning, I went to the base hospital for a full physical. In my last life, the doctor told me that if we had caught the cancer even a few months earlier, my odds would have been vastly better. In this life, my health was my only real currency. I had just pulled my ticket for the lab when Charlotte called. “Come to my office. Now. It’s urgent.” “I’m at the hospital for a check-up.” “The check-up can wait,” she said, her voice brooking no argument. “I just got orders. I’m heading to a joint operations seminar this afternoon. You need to take the Special Ops cadets through the simulation training. You know the drills.” In my past life, this was our routine. I was her shadow. I edited her students’ reports, I coordinated her logistics, I even drove sick cadets to the ER in the middle of the night. When she’d return, she’d give me a curt “Good job,” as if it were my duty to do her work for her. “They’re your cadets,” I said. “Figure it out.” The line went silent for two seconds. Her voice dropped an octave, dangerous. “I don’t have time—” I hung up. The results came back quickly. The doctor pointed at the CT scan. “No signs of malignancy. However, a few of your blood markers are elevated. I want to start you on a preventative regimen and see you back here every three months.” I took the paperwork, my fingers trembling slightly. The weight on my chest finally lifted. As I walked out of the hospital, I saw a social media notification. One of Charlotte’s cadets had posted a video. Brody was on the simulation field, leading the team. The camera panned to see Charlotte rushing onto the field to join him. In the background, the cadets were cheering. “Brody is a natural! Look at them, the General and Brody look so good together.” In the last few seconds of the video, Charlotte suddenly stumbled. She clutched her stomach, her face turning ashen, and she collapsed. “General!” Brody screamed. The video cut to black. I realized then—it had been two days since I’d reminded her to take her medication. My phone rang. It was Brody, his voice cracking. “Get to the Base Hospital! Charlotte has a gastric bleed! She’s in emergency surgery and I don’t have her ID or medical records—I can’t sign the paperwork!” When I arrived, the “Surgery in Progress” light was red. Brody and a handful of cadets were huddled by the doors. One of the male cadets spotted me and marched over, his face red with anger. “You knew the General had a stomach condition! Why didn’t you make sure she took her meds?” A female cadet whispered, “If you had just helped with the drills like she asked, she wouldn’t have had to rush back and trigger an attack.” Brody pulled at her sleeve. “Stop it. The only thing that matters is that she’s okay.” I ignored them. I walked to the nurse’s station, pulled out my military ID, and signed the authorization forms. An hour later, the surgeon emerged. He walked straight to Brody. “Family?” “Yes,” Brody said quickly. “How is she?” “Acute gastric hemorrhage. We’ve stopped the bleeding. She needs a strict diet and consistent medication. Keep her stress low.” As the doctor spoke, Brody nodded fervently, the cadets hanging on every word. No one noticed me standing in the corner. I waited for the doctor to finish, then walked over and handed the payment receipt and the medical history folder to Brody. “I’m leaving.” As I walked away, their voices faded into the hum of the hospital. I spent the next few days buried in work, finalizing my transfer and writing my handover reports. It wasn’t until a week later that I returned to the officers’ quarters. I pushed the door open and stopped. Charlotte was on the sofa, still pale. Brody was sitting next to her, peeling an apple. Charlotte’s parents were there too. Her mother glanced at me, her tone flat. “You’re back?” I nodded and started toward my room. Her father called out, “Wait. Your wife has been in the hospital for a week and you haven’t shown your face once. Now that she’s home, you don’t even have a question for her?” Her mother chimed in. “You were the one who insisted on getting married. Now that you have her, you treat her like an afterthought?” I turned around. “Actually, I—” “Don’t be mad at him, Mrs. West,” Brody interrupted gently. “Nate’s been busy with work. I’m sure he’s been worried in his own way.” Her mother’s expression softened as she patted Brody’s hand. “You’re always so thoughtful, Brody.” Charlotte glanced at me, but she said nothing. They went back to their conversation, looking for all the world like a happy family. I didn’t bother explaining. I walked into my room and closed the door. 4 On my last day at HQ, I cleared out my office early. I gave my plants to the colleague next door, archived my files, and emptied the drawers. Everything I owned fit into a single tactical backpack. As I stepped out of the building, a group of people swarmed me. Some were holding cameras. “Major Montgomery? What’s your response to the loss of Mrs. Gable’s veteran benefit records?” “As the officer in charge, do you admit to professional negligence?” A microphone was shoved inches from my face. I backed away, the edge of a camera lens catching my forehead, a sharp sting of pain blossoming there. Realizing this was a setup, I turned and retreated into the building. The guards at the gate held the crowd back. My heart was racing. My phone buzzed with a news link sent by a colleague. Title: Officer Loses Critical Records; Martyr’s Mother Denied Emergency Funds for Six Months! The report detailed how Mrs. Gable’s son had died in combat and how she was waiting on the money for her husband’s emergency surgery. At the bottom of the article was a screenshot of the task assignment log. The name under “Lead Officer” had been changed to Nate Montgomery. A text followed from a coworker: I thought Brody was handling that? Why is your name on it now? I logged into the internal system. Two days ago, the name on the Gable file had been changed from “Brody” to “Nate.” I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. I messaged the Chief. Colonel, why was the Gable file transferred to me? I never accepted this case. The reply was instant. Brody told me two days ago that you’d discussed it and you agreed to handle the final filing. Why are you denying it now that there’s a problem? I called Brody. Busy signal. I called ten times. No answer. I waited until dark for the crowd to disperse. Finally, Brody picked up. “Where are you?” I growled. “We need to talk. Now.” I heard the clink of silverware, then Brody’s cheerful voice. “I’m at your place, Nate. Charlotte just got out of the hospital and needs looking after. Since you’re so busy with work, I thought I’d come over and cook dinner.” I hung up and sprinted home. I burst through the door. Brody was sitting next to Charlotte, holding a bowl of soup. He stood up, smiling. “Hey, Nate, you’re back! I made—” I stepped forward and slapped him across the face. Hard. The bowl shattered on the floor, soup splashing everywhere. Brody stumbled back, clutching his cheek, eyes wide with shock. Charlotte jumped up, grabbing my wrist. “Are you insane?” I shook her off and glared at Brody. “Where are the original documents? You’re coming with me right now to clear this up.” Brody’s eyes instantly filled with tears. “Nate, I’m so sorry… I was at the hospital looking after Charlotte, I just got distracted… I’ll go explain!” Charlotte grabbed his shoulder. “No. If you go now, it’ll only make it worse. This will go on your permanent record as a major failure. You could be discharged.” She turned to me, her voice cold and calculating. “Let Brody say there was a communication error during the handover. You write the statement and take the primary responsibility. That way, we control the fallout.” I laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. “So I’m the scapegoat? Not a chance.” Charlotte was silent for a moment. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “If you don’t take the fall for this, I will find the tactical report from the night your father died. I’ll make sure the investigation into his ‘unauthorized actions’ is reopened.” I froze. I looked at her as if I were seeing a stranger. My father had died saving her. And now, she was using his sacrifice as a weapon against me. The room was deathly quiet. After a long time, I finally spoke. My voice sounded like it was coming from a great distance. “Fine. I’ll do it.” 5 That night, the internal memo went live. The news of my “admission” spread through the base like wildfire. My phone was a constant stream of vitriol. People called me a disgrace to the uniform. Someone even photoshopped my service portrait into a black funeral frame. I shut off my terminal, but the words still echoed in my head. At 4:00 AM, I opened my encrypted military laptop. I began compiling every scrap of evidence regarding Mrs. Gable—the initial application logs, the scanned copies of the martyr certificates, the hospital invoices. By dawn, I had it all backed up in three separate locations. At 9:00 AM, the doorbell rang. Brody was there, holding a military-grade recorder and a small tripod. “Nate, the Ethics Committee needs you to record a video statement.” Charlotte had left for the training grounds early. The red light on the camera blinked on. I sat in front of the lens. “I am Major Nate Montgomery. Regarding the loss of the Gable records, I am here to formally apologize…” Suddenly, there was a commotion outside. Voices were shouting, “He’s in there! Montgomery, come out!” The door began to rattle under heavy pounding. I realized something was wrong and looked at Brody. He was looking down at his tablet, a small, triumphant smirk playing on his lips before he could hide it. I lunged forward and snatched the tablet from his hands. It wasn’t a recording. It was a live stream. There were 178,000 people watching. The chat was moving too fast to read. “There he is, the coward!” “Look how robotic he is, he doesn’t even care!” “He shouldn’t be allowed to wear the uniform!” I looked at Brody. He didn’t look scared anymore. He looked satisfied. “A live apology carries more weight, doesn’t it, Nate?” The pounding on the door grew louder. I went to the drawer and grabbed a tactical multi-tool—one Charlotte had used for survival training. Then, I called Base Security. I walked to the front door, took a deep breath, and threw it open. I held up Brody’s tablet, the camera pointed directly at the faces of the people on my doorstep. “You’re trespassing on a restricted military residential area. Go ahead, get your faces on camera. I’ve already alerted Base Security. Address: Unit 7, Block 3.” I held the multi-tool in my other hand, the blade pointed down. The crowd went silent. The man in the front looked at the camera, then back at Brody, who had retreated into the shadows of the hallway. “You… you wouldn’t,” the man stammered, backing away. I pointed the camera at the dented lock. “This is self-defense. Security is two minutes out. Trespassing on a federal installation carries a heavy sentence. You want to stay and find out?” They scrambled. Within minutes, the hallway was empty. By the time Security arrived and took the report, it was over. I closed the door and went to my bedroom. I pulled out my tactical rucksack. I packed my ID, my passport, my bank cards, a few changes of fatigues, and my medical records. Everything else—the photos, the souvenirs, the watch Charlotte had given me—I left behind. Thirty minutes later, I was downstairs. I waited at the gate for twenty minutes until a transport bus for the military airfield pulled up. The driver was a veteran in his late forties. “Headed to the Ridge?” he asked, glancing at my bag. “Going home for the holidays?” I blinked. “It’s New Year’s Eve, Major,” the driver said, starting the engine. “Your family isn’t waiting for you?” Outside, the sun was setting. The distant lights of the base were beginning to flicker on. “Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m going home.” The bus hit the highway. The city lights faded, replaced by the dark silhouette of the mountains. Three hours later, we pulled up to the airfield. The engines of a C-130 transport plane roared in the freezing wind. Under the dim, amber lights of the cargo bay, I realized for the first time: I was actually free of her.

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The high school alumni group chat started pinging in the dead of night. Someone, probably bored and nursing a drink, threw out a prompt: “Three keywords to describe your high school experience. Go.” The chat, which had been dormant for years, suddenly saw a name pop up that made my heart skip a beat. It was Camille—Camille Sterling—the undisputed prom queen of our graduating class. “Vibrant,” she wrote. “Passionate.” Then, after a deliberate pause, she added one more: “And Nate.” The chat exploded. Even after a decade, they were still the “it” couple of our high school’s tragic lore. The rebellious, wealthy bad boy and the ethereal, gentle honor student. They had loved each other with a raw, burning intensity that everyone envied, only for it to end in a messy, rain-soaked heartbreak the summer after graduation. Every person in that chat had been a witness to their epic saga. Including me. I shifted my gaze to Nate, who was sleeping soundly beside me. The jagged edges of the boy I once knew had been smoothed over by time and tailoring. Nathaniel Vance was no longer the leather-jacket-wearing delinquent; he was my husband. Distinguished. Composed. And completely, utterly indifferent to me. That old thorn, the one I’d pushed deep into my skin years ago, began to throb with a dull, familiar ache. 1 It seemed the onlookers were more invested in the ghost of their relationship than the actual people involved. “Camille’s Instagram says she’s single. But Nate… does anyone actually know?” “He went dark after the breakup. Dropped out of the loop completely. Now the only place I see him is on Bloomberg.” “Please, the man is a machine. No scandals, no tabloid shots, just work. There’s no way he has a girlfriend.” “Makes sense. When you lose the love of your life that young, everyone else is just… noise.” “Why did they actually break up, anyway?” “Classic ego. She wanted to head to the Sorbonne, he was being a prick about it. They both leaned into the drama instead of the compromise.” “Ugh, it’s like a second-chance romance novel waiting to happen. I’m obsessed.” They kept spinning the fantasy, and I kept my mouth shut. I stared at the ceiling, wondering if I was the “noise.” Was I just the compromise he made when he realized he couldn’t have the real thing? I reached over to turn off the lamp, but Nate’s phone lit up on the nightstand. [Unknown]: I’m back, Nate. There was no contact name. But I didn’t need one. Only Camille called him “Nate” with that specific, casual intimacy. He was out cold, his hand resting instinctively over my stomach as it often did in his sleep. His wedding ring, cold against my skin through my silk nightgown, felt heavier than usual tonight. A wave of nausea hit me. My thumb hovered over his screen, wanting to delete the message before he could see it. I knew his passcode—579579. It was a pattern on the keypad, a sequence I’d long convinced myself was a code for their names or some anniversary. I stared at the lock screen for two full minutes, my heart hammering against my ribs, before I finally set it down. Going through his phone felt beneath me. Besides, Nate didn’t indulge me the way he’d indulged her. I remembered a day in tenth grade when Camille had been fuming because a freshman girl wouldn’t stop texting him. Nate had just laughed, sliding his phone across the desk to her. “You jealous, babe?” he’d whispered, his eyes dancing. “I already blocked her. But go ahead. Check the logs. Delete anyone you don’t like. I’m all yours.” Thinking about it now kept the sleep away. I stayed awake until seven, when the light finally started to bleed through the curtains. 2 Nate’s internal clock was usually surgical. He was a man of routines—gym, shower, black coffee, office. But today, he stayed in bed. He stared at his phone for a long time, his thumbs moving slowly as he typed. He didn’t get up until eight. “Nate,” I called out as he stood by the dresser. “Yeah?” “The high school centennial is this weekend. Are you going?” We weren’t the kind of couple that shared everything. We shared a bed, a mortgage, and a quiet life, yet I had to find out about the biggest event of the year from a group chat while he slept inches away. He paused, adjusting his cufflinks. “Yeah. Are you?” I shook my head. High school wasn’t a highlight reel for me. For most people, it was a place to visit old haunts and mentors. For me, it was a museum of humiliations. He didn’t push. He probably didn’t want me there anyway. I glanced at my own phone. The group chat was at 100+ notifications. Camille had finally emerged from the shadows. “Just woke up! Can’t wait to see everyone next week.” The replies were instantaneous. “The Queen has returned!” “Did you see all the stuff we were saying last night? I thought you’d muted us!” “I feel like a fan caught stalking a celebrity…” Camille sent a playful winking emoji. “It’s fine. I found it… interesting.” That word felt like a weight in my gut. Interesting. “So, is Nate actually coming? He’s always flying off to Tokyo or London. Does he even remember us mere mortals?” “I can’t believe the guy who used to set off illegal fireworks for Camille is now a boring CEO.” “Is he even coming? Can anyone confirm the legend will be there?” Camille’s reply popped up a second later: “Don’t worry. He just texted me. He’ll be there.” 3 “Claire.” Nate was standing in the doorway, checking his watch. “Aren’t you getting up? You’re going to be late.” Eight-thirty. I scrambled out of bed, forcing the phone out of my mind. I had a nine o’clock appointment to play chess with Mr. Jackson at the retirement villa. I’m a stickler for time. I hate being late. It’s a habit born from a lifetime of trying to be invisible. Except for that one time in junior year. A massive pile-up on the highway had stalled the bus. I’d jumped out and ran the last half-mile, gasping for air as I reached the school gates. I had one minute left before the bell. Nate was there, too. He was leaning against the brick wall, leisurely eating a breakfast burrito. He could have made it easily, but he just stood there. He even bent down to slowly tie his shoe, watching the clock tick down. He waited until he saw Camille jogging up from the parking lot, breathless and beautiful. He hadn’t been late because of the traffic. He’d stayed outside to be late with her. I looked at him now, sitting at our breakfast table, sipping his coffee and reading the Journal. On a whim, I decided to test the waters. “Nate, I’m running behind. Do you think you could drop me off?” He didn’t look up from the paper. “I have a meeting at ten. I’ll have my driver take you.” I blinked. “Right. Thanks.” “No problem.” “Thank you” and “No problem.” That was the vocabulary of our marriage. We were polite. We were considerate. We were strangers who knew how each other liked their eggs. The driver got me there on time. Mr. Jackson was already waiting in the gazebo, his eyes twinkling. He was a grumpy old man who cheated at chess and talked too much, which was why no one else would play with him. We’d become unlikely friends over the years. At the time, I hadn’t known he was Nate’s grandfather. To me, he was just Arthur, the man who complained about his “stubborn, blockhead grandson.” “Claire, dear,” Arthur said, waving a hand in front of my face. “You’re miles away today. You just walked right into a scholar’s mate.” I looked down. The board was a disaster. I forced a smile. “You got me, Arthur. I’m off my game.” He studied me, his eyes sharp. “Did you and Nate have a fight?” I shook my head. We didn’t fight. We didn’t have enough friction to spark a flame, let alone a fire. “That boy,” Arthur sighed. “He’s always been emotionally stunted. I’ll have a word with him.” The idea of Nate being “stunted” was almost funny. In high school, he was the definition of “soulful.” He was a romantic extremist. He’d bought roses for every girl in the senior class just so Camille wouldn’t feel singled out by her strict parents. He’d braved a suspension to light up the sky with her name. I’d seen the roses. I’d seen the fireworks. I was just the girl in the background, benefitting from the fallout of his love for someone else. The realization hit me then, sharp and cold. I was afraid. 4 I have spent my life waiting. Waiting for the 50% off stickers at the grocery store. Waiting for the last bus in the rain. Waiting in the foster system for a family that never came. I was falling into the old habit again. I was waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for Nate to realize he still loved her. Waiting for the “we need to talk” conversation. Waiting to be discarded. Usually, the waiting was a numb, dull thing. But this time, it hurt. I decided, for the first time in my life, to be brave. I went to Nate’s office. I rehearsed the questions in my head the whole way there. Do you still love her? Are we over? I didn’t even make it past the lobby. The receptionist gave me a polished, pitying smile. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Vance, but Nate is in a closed-door session. Unless it’s an emergency?” I wasn’t even sure if Nate wanted his employees to know he was married to someone like me. I hadn’t pushed for a public profile. “It’s fine,” I said. I pulled out my phone to call him, just as the elevator dinged. Nate walked out, surrounded by a phalanx of VPs. He looked at his phone, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, but he didn’t answer. I hung up instinctively. He was walking slower than usual, leaning back to listen to someone behind him. As they cleared the corner, I saw her. Camille. She looked exactly the same—the kind of timeless beauty that didn’t need filters. She was walking beside him, her hand occasionally brushing his arm. “Is that the same ringtone?” she asked, her voice carrying across the lobby. “I can’t believe you still use that piano track. It was my favorite.” Seventeen-year-old Nate listened to nothing but grunge and heavy metal. But Camille loved Chopin. Nate had changed his entire world for her. Apparently, he’d never changed it back. The receptionist cleared her throat. “See? I told you he was busy.” “Right,” I whispered. “Thank you.” I went home and crawled into bed. I just wanted to sleep it off, but the group chat was a wildfire. “OMG guess who I just saw at Le Bernardin? Nate and Camille!” “It’s happening. The endgame is finally here.” “@Camille, give us the tea! Is the flame back on?” Camille posted a photo. A view of the city, a glass of expensive red, and a man’s forearm resting on the table. You couldn’t see his face, but I knew those veins, that watch, those fingers. “The food here is still incredible,” she captioned it. I zoomed in on his hand. The hand I’d held every night for two years. His wedding ring was gone. 5 Nate came home early. He didn’t come to the bedroom. He went out to the balcony and lit a cigarette. He’d quit the day we got married. Seeing her had clearly broken his resolve. When he finally came inside and showered, he climbed into bed and pulled me against him. It was a rare gesture of affection outside of our sex life. “Claire,” he whispered into my hair. “We should talk.” About what? The divorce? The fact that you’re moving her into my spot? My breath hitched. I felt my body go rigid. “Never mind,” he sighed, sensing my tension. “Why did you call me today? You never call the office.” “It was an accident,” I lied. “A pocket dial.” “Oh. I figured.” That night, he was different. He kissed me with a slow, agonizing tenderness that felt like a goodbye. I’d always preferred it when he was a little rough, a little wild. In those moments, I could see the ghost of the boy he used to be. I knew he was capable of passion—I’d seen him fight for her, seen him laugh until he couldn’t breathe. With me, he was always so… quiet. I realized then that I couldn’t do this anymore. I didn’t have a family to turn to. I only had Arthur. The next afternoon, I sat with Arthur at the chessboard. I stared at the pieces, unable to see a way out. The first rule of chess: if you’re in a losing position, don’t play for a draw. Fold. “Arthur,” I said softly. “I don’t think I can solve this one.” He looked at the board, then at me. He reached out and swept the pieces into a messy pile. “Then start over,” he said. He was right. The seasons were changing. I didn’t bother swapping my summer clothes for winter ones. I didn’t restock the pantry. I started packing my books into cardboard boxes. Nate found me in the study, looking at the half-empty shelves. “Where are your books?” “I’m donating them,” I said. Another lie. I just didn’t want to be scrambling when the time came. I’d rehearsed my speech a hundred times. I walked to his home office that night and stood outside the door, taking three deep breaths. I turned the handle. Nate was at his desk, one hand over his eyes, the other holding his phone. “Camille, I can handle the logistics on this end,” he was saying, his voice weary but soft. “It’s been too long. I don’t want to wait anymore.” I didn’t stay to hear the rest. I backed away and closed the door. He was in more of a hurry than I was. He was just waiting for the right moment to “handle” me. That night, I didn’t wait for the perfect moment. I chose the most abrupt one. As he leaned in to kiss my neck, I pulled away. “Nate,” I said, my voice steady. “I want a divorce.”

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My mother told me the will had nothing to do with me. On the other end of the line, her voice was as flat as if she were deciding what to have for lunch. “Your father’s estate is a family matter. We’ll sit down and divide it ourselves. You just stay busy with whatever it is you do.” Family. I’ve lived as a member of this family for thirty-eight years. But in my mother’s vocabulary, “family” has never included me. I didn’t say anything. “Did you hear me?” she pressed, her tone sharpening. “The lawyer notified me,” I said. “I’ll be there.” There was a beat of silence. “Lawyer? What lawyer?” “The one Dad hired. He said I’m required to be present for the reading.” Three seconds of dead air. Then, she hung up. 1. When I arrived, the living room was already packed. My brother, Ben, and his wife, Jessica, were on the main sofa. Ben had his arm draped over the backrest, legs crossed with an air of casual ownership. Jessica was busy peeling a tangerine, giving me a brief, wordless glance before looking away. My younger sister, Melanie, sat in the armchair, her eyes rimmed with red. She clutched a ball of damp tissues, sniffing occasionally. My mother, Martha, sat dead center. On the coffee table before her sat a spread: tea, a fruit platter, and a box of Kleenex. When I walked in, nobody moved to make room. The sofa was full, and two dining chairs had been dragged over—one for my Uncle Joe and one for Aunt Sarah. There wasn’t a seat for me. I stood in the doorway for a few seconds. Then, I walked to the utility closet and pulled out a dusty metal folding chair. Nobody seemed to find this strange. I set the chair at the very edge of the room. I sat down. My mother glanced at me, said nothing, and then turned to Uncle Joe. “Mr. Marshall said he’d be here by two.” Mr. Marshall was the attorney. My father had hired him privately before he passed. Only my mother had known about his existence, but until I mentioned it on the phone yesterday, she hadn’t realized the truth—that this lawyer wasn’t just a formality. “When did your father hire a lawyer?” she had posted in the family group chat last night. No one replied. No one knew. At 2:03 PM, the doorbell rang. Mr. Marshall walked in. He was in his mid-forties, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and carrying a weathered leather briefcase. “The reading of David Miller’s last will and testament requires all legal heirs to be present,” he announced. He scanned the room. “Mr. Benjamin Miller.” “Here,” Ben said, straightening his posture. “Ms. Katherine Miller.” “Here.” “Ms. Melanie Miller.” Melanie sniffed. “Here.” “Mrs. Martha Miller.” My mother gave a curt nod. Mr. Marshall opened his briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers. “The will is four pages long. I will read it in its entirety.” My mother took a sip of her tea, her expression composed. She wasn’t nervous. To her, this was just a hurdle to clear. She already knew how things were “supposed” to go. “With your father gone, I’m the one in charge of this house,” she had told Ben over the phone two days ago. I heard her. Not because I was eavesdropping, but because Ben had her on speakerphone. He hadn’t realized I was in the next room, packing up the last of Dad’s clothes. Mr. Marshall flipped to the first page. “Article One: The residence located at 412 Sycamore Street, including all real property, is bequeathed to Benjamin Miller.” Ben nodded. His expression was one of quiet, expected triumph. “Article Two: The savings account at Chase Bank, totaling one hundred and fifty-three thousand dollars, is bequeathed to Melanie Miller.” Melanie sniffed again. This time, her face twisted slightly—maybe she thought a hundred and fifty grand wasn’t enough. “Article Three: All family jewelry and the cash contents of the home safe are bequeathed to Martha Miller.” My mother set her teacup down, nodding slightly. The first three items were done. The room fell silent for a moment. Then my mother spoke up. “Fine. If that’s everything—” “I’m not finished.” Mr. Marshall turned the third page. “There is one final page.” My mother’s hand froze in mid-air. “What?” Mr. Marshall didn’t look up. “Article Four.” He paused. “This section is extensive and includes an addendum. Please allow me to finish before commenting.” The living room went deathly quiet. Even Melanie forgot to wipe her nose. I sat there on my cold metal folding chair at the edge of the room. No one looked at me. It felt exactly like every other day of the last fifteen years. 2. I don’t remember exactly when I became invisible. Maybe I always was. When I was little, we took family portraits. My dad would be holding Melanie, and my mom would have her arm around Ben. I’d be standing off to the side. The photographer would say, “Everyone, squeeze in tight!” My mom would pull Melanie closer to the center. I’d lean in, trying to catch the edge of the frame. But when the photos were developed, I was always on the far left, my arm half-cropped out. That photo hung in the living room for ten years. Eventually, they replaced it with a newer one. I was in that one, too. Still on the edge. This time, I was barely a sliver of a shadow. At Thanksgiving, the house was always full. Uncle Joe’s family, Aunt Sarah’s family, all of us. There would be ten places set at the table. When I arrived, I’d count the silverware. Always nine sets. I never said anything. I’d just go to the kitchen, grab a plate and a fork, and find a small stool to squeeze into a corner. The stool was too low, so I’d have to hunch over just to reach the turkey. It wasn’t a one-time mistake. For seven years straight, there was one place setting missing. They didn’t do it on purpose. They just… forgot. They forgot I needed to eat, too. On Christmas, the checks were handed out. My mom would pull them from her purse. One thousand dollars for each of Joe’s kids. One thousand for Sarah’s. Two thousand for Ben’s son, Leo, followed by a coo: “Grammy loves you most, Leo!” Melanie wasn’t married and had no kids yet, so she got her own “special” gift. I was married. I had a daughter, Sophie. My mom finished handing out the envelopes and zipped her purse. I waited. “Mom… what about Sophie?” She blinked, looking genuinely startled. “Oh.” She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a stray envelope that looked significantly thinner. “Here.” Sophie took it and went to the other room to open it. Two hundred dollars. The other grandkids got one or two thousand. My daughter got two hundred. Sophie left the check on the table. She was eleven; she understood the math. “Mom, why is mine the smallest?” “Grandma was in a rush,” I told her. “She probably just made a mistake.” She didn’t ask again. But she was quiet the rest of the night. So was I. On my twenty-sixth birthday, there was no cake. No phone call. Not even a text. On Melanie’s twenty-first, my mother threw a gala at a country club for eighty people. She posted a gallery of nine photos on Facebook with the caption: “My baby girl, forever my little angel.” On Ben’s birthday, she Venmo’d him three thousand dollars with the note: “Happy birthday to my favorite son.” My birthday is in October. In our house, October has no meaning. For nine years, no one remembered. In the tenth year, I decided to cook dinner for everyone on my birthday. I made everything they liked: roast beef, garlic mashed potatoes, honey-glazed carrots. I set the table. “Dinner’s ready.” Everyone sat down. My mother served a prime cut of beef to Melanie. “Eat up, sweetie, you look too thin.” Nobody said thank you. Nobody asked what the occasion was. After dinner, I cleared the plates. I washed the dishes. I wiped the counters. Then I went to my room. My phone buzzed. It was a text from my daughter. “Happy birthday, Mommy.” Followed by a cake emoji. I stared at that emoji for a long time. I typed back, “Thanks, baby.” I put the phone down and went to the laundry room to fold the towels. 3. The phrase my mother used most was: “Can’t you just step aside?” When we were kids, Ben wanted to go to an elite summer camp. It was expensive. I wanted to go to a local art program. “Can’t you just step aside? Ben is the boy; he needs the networking for his future.” I stepped aside. Later, Melanie wanted private piano lessons. “Can’t you just step aside? Melanie is delicate; music is good for her soul.” I stepped aside. When Ben went to college, the family paid for everything—tuition, housing, his fraternity dues. The summer I graduated high school, my mother said, “Your father’s health isn’t great. We can’t afford two tuitions. Your grades are… fine, but maybe you should just go to community college and get a job sooner.” I had a 4.0 GPA and a 1500 SAT score. Ben’s SAT had been a 1080. I didn’t argue. I went to community college. I worked as a bookkeeper during the day and studied at night. I paid for my own bachelor’s, then my master’s, then my CPA exams. It took me six years. My family didn’t contribute a single cent. When Melanie went to college, they didn’t just pay her tuition; they gave her a three-thousand-dollar monthly allowance. My mother told the neighbors, “Melanie is at NYU. The city is so expensive, but as a mother, how can I let her struggle?” I listened. I said nothing. The gap in the money only grew. When Ben got married, the family gave him eighty thousand for a down payment, not counting the rehearsal dinner. When I got married, my mother gave me two thousand dollars. Two thousand. She handed it to me in an envelope the night before the wedding. “You know how things are. We spent so much on Ben’s wedding last year. You’re successful now, so don’t be petty about it.” I took the envelope. “Okay.” At the wedding, my mother sat in the front row. She didn’t cry. She didn’t look sentimental. But on Melanie’s wedding day (whenever that would happen, my mom was already saving), she’d be a wreck. Actually, what did Melanie get for her engagement? A hundred-thousand-dollar trust fund and a new Lexus. Same mother. Same father. When Ben bought a bigger house, they gave him another fifty thousand. “Ben needs the space for the baby. Can’t you just step aside?” I never asked them for a dime when I bought my house. I knew the answer before I could finish the question. My husband and I saved for four years for our down payment. Our mortgage is four thousand a month. After that, things are tight. But every month, I still sent my parents a thousand dollars. I started doing that the year I got my first real job. Fifteen years ago. One thousand, times twelve, times fifteen. One hundred and eighty thousand dollars. That was just the base. The holiday gifts, the birthday checks I sent them, the designer clothes for Mom, the premium health supplements for Dad—I never tracked it. But my father did. 4. Two years ago, Dad was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. The doctors said it was treatable, but the costs were astronomical. The immunotherapy alone was ten thousand a month. My mother sat outside the ICU for an hour, then called Ben. “Your father is in the hospital. Give him a call so he knows you care.” She called Melanie. “Your father is sick. Don’t worry too much; your sister is here.” “Your sister.” In her mouth, that was always my name. My function. Ben, who lived three states away, called once. “Hey, Dad. Hang in there.” The call lasted ninety seconds. Melanie, who was “too stressed” by her new baby, sent a text. “Get well soon, Daddy!” with a heart emoji. And that was it. For the next twenty-two months, I was the one. I woke up at 5:00 AM to prep his meals. I drove forty minutes to the hospital before work. I fed him. I cleaned him. I talked to the doctors. I signed the forms. I took three months of unpaid leave, losing nearly thirty thousand in salary and bonuses. At home, I still had to be a mother to Sophie and a wife to my husband. My husband helped as much as he could, but in that hospital room, it was always just me. After the first round of treatment, my mother invited the whole extended family to the hospital to “visit” Dad. Uncle Joe, Aunt Sarah, all the cousins. My mother stood by the bed and said, “We’re so lucky to have Ben. He calls every single day to check on his father. And Melanie is such a sweetheart, always sending her love.” I was standing in the corner, holding a tray of ice chips. Nobody mentioned me. Uncle Joe glanced my way. “Kate’s been working hard, too, Martha.” My mom blinked, as if suddenly remembering I existed. “Oh, right. Well, she lives close by. It’s just easier for her to drop in.” Drop in. For twenty-two months. Every single day. I put the ice chips on the nightstand. “Drink some water, Dad.” My father looked at me. His lips moved, but no sound came out. But his eyes… his eyes were different from everyone else’s in that room. The bill for the first round was twenty-four thousand. I wired it to my mother. The second round was twenty-six thousand. I paid that, too. The third was eighteen thousand. Totaling the specialty drugs and the home care, I had spent over sixty thousand dollars out of my own savings. My mother told the family, “Ben sent so much money home to help his father.” She even sent a voice note to the family group chat: “Ben is so busy with his business, but he’s the one making sure his father gets the best care.” I stared at that message for a long time. How much did Ben actually give? Five thousand. One time. He told her it was for “Dad’s comfort.” I didn’t say anything in the chat. I put my phone down and went back to the kitchen to make the bone broth I’d be bringing to the hospital the next morning. 5. My father passed away at 3:00 AM on a Tuesday in September. I was the one who got the call. When I arrived, my mother was already there, sitting by the bed. Ben caught the first flight out and arrived by evening. Melanie drove in with her kids. I handled the funeral. I chose the cemetery. I ordered the flowers. I wrote the obituary. I organized the wake. My mother was “too distraught.” Melanie couldn’t stop crying long enough to talk to a caterer. Ben said he’d “handle the costs.” He gave five thousand. Again. The funeral was packed. I stood at the door of the chapel, greeting every guest. I handed out programs. I said thank you for coming a hundred times. I stood from 8:00 AM until 2:00 PM without a sip of water. When it was over, I went back to Dad’s house to pack his things. His suits. His reading glasses. The chess set he loved. In the bottom drawer of his desk, there was a small metal lockbox. The key was on Dad’s keychain. I opened it. Inside was a thick manila envelope. On the front, in Dad’s steady, familiar handwriting: “For Kate.” My hands shook. I didn’t open it there. But I did find something else in the box—a ledger. I flipped to the first page. It was filled with tiny, meticulous numbers. Dates, amounts, sources. “March 2010. Kate wired $1,000.” “June 2010. Kate paid electric bill. $340.” “Sept 2010. Kate bought formula for Ben’s baby. $680.” Every single cent. He had recorded everything. I flipped through page after page. Fifteen years of my life, documented in his handwriting. His script started clear and bold, then became shaky, then nearly illegible toward the end. The last few pages were from his time in the hospital. The lines were crooked, but the numbers were firm. “Jan 2024. Kate paid $24,000 for hospital. Martha told the family it was Ben. It wasn’t. It was Kate’s money.” I sat on the floor, the ledger heavy on my knees. I stared at it until the room went dark. Then I put it back in the box, locked it, and took it home. 6. Three days after the funeral, Ben and Melanie were still at the house. I knew what they were waiting for. They were waiting for the spoils. My mother knew it, too. But she hadn’t mentioned a will because she didn’t know one existed. Until I made that phone call. “The lawyer notified me.” That was the first time she realized that Dad—the quiet man she thought she controlled—had gone behind her back. “When did this happen?” she asked at dinner that night. Ben shrugged. “Don’t worry, Mom. Having a lawyer is better. It keeps things clean.” What he meant was: Legality will ensure I get my share. Melanie said nothing, but she kept glancing at me. Her look was suspicious, as if she were thinking: What do you know that I don’t? I knew plenty. The ledger was in my bag. But I hadn’t opened the letter yet. Dad had marked it “For Kate,” and I wanted to wait until the reading of the will to see what it meant. Maybe it was connected to the estate. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, it was the only thing Dad had left specifically for me. In fifteen years, this family had given me a two-thousand-dollar check, a few holiday dinners, a thousand “step asides,” and a folding chair. Now, I had a metal box. I took it with me and went home. 7. The day of the reading. Today. Mr. Marshall has just finished the first three items. The house goes to Ben. The cash goes to Melanie. The jewelry goes to my mother. It’s exactly what everyone expected. I’m sitting on my folding chair, my face a mask of calm. This is my life. Fifteen years of being the backup. Ben stands up, ready to shake the lawyer’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Marshall. I think that covers everything—” “I’m not finished,” the lawyer repeats. He turns to the final page.

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I had been following a popular home-renovation influencer online, and on a whim, I brought up the idea of finally fixing up the house my late parents had left me. My husband shut it down immediately. “We already have a nice place to live. Why would you waste time renovating that old house?” Without his support, I let the idea die. Until this weekend. I was walking past my old neighborhood and thought I’d stop by to film a quick video of the exterior. The front door swung open, and a woman and I locked eyes. Behind her, the home I had lived in for over twenty years was completely unrecognizable. And I knew this woman. She was the exact home-renovation influencer I had been following. 01 I stared at the brass numbers on the door, checking them three times just to be absolutely certain I hadn’t made a mistake. But how could I? I had lived in this house for over two decades. You don’t forget the geometry of your own childhood. A hot spike of anger shot through my chest. “Who are you?” I demanded. “Is this your house?” The woman looked at me like I had lost my mind. She cleared her throat, shifting her weight defensively. “If it isn’t mine, is it yours? Back off, lady. You’re acting crazy.” Before I could utter another word, she slammed the door in my face. I stood frozen on the welcome mat, the blood turning to ice in my veins. A rapid-fire montage of every single video this influencer had ever posted flashed behind my eyes. In her polished, aesthetically pleasing clips, she constantly talked about her husband. Her eyes would crinkle with that saccharine, newlywed sweetness. I vividly remembered one specific video where she mentioned her husband had a severe mushroom allergy. I had even left a comment: Wow, what a small world! My husband has a severe mushroom allergy too! Small world. Right. After my parents passed away in quick succession, my husband, Ryan, had taken over the management of their estate. I couldn’t bear to go back—the grief was still too raw, the ghosts too loud—and between the heavy fog of mourning and raising our toddler, I had simply trusted him. I never imagined that my childhood home was being handed over to someone else. I wandered back to our apartment in a daze. I collapsed onto the bed, my eyes burning holes into the ceiling. When Ryan got home from work, the apartment was dark. I hadn’t cooked dinner. I had even called my cousin to come pick up our daughter, Sophie, for the evening. He walked into the bedroom, his voice sharp with entitlement. “Why isn’t dinner ready? Where’s Sophie?” His tone was so incredibly presumptuous. Normally, that edge in his voice would flood me with guilt. He worked so hard for our family, I would tell myself. The least I could do was be a flawless, supportive backbone. But today, I felt nothing. I just looked at him, my voice eerily flat. “I didn’t cook today. Someone else is watching Sophie.” That was when Ryan finally noticed the absolute deadness in my eyes. His posture shifted instantly, his voice dripping with sudden, practiced honey. “What’s wrong, Rach? Are you not feeling well?” He walked over, his hands warm as he gently pushed my shoulders back against the pillows. “You just rest. I’ll take care of dinner.” He even pulled the duvet up to my chin, tucking me in like a child. A little while later, he carried a tray of food into the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the mattress and trying to feed me spoonful by spoonful. “I’m sorry, babe,” he murmured, kissing my forehead. “I had a bad attitude when I walked in. Long day. That’s on me.” I chewed the food he fed me, but all I could see was the woman in the doorway. If I recalled correctly, she and I were exactly the same age. But standing face-to-face with her, I looked a decade older. I swallowed hard, finally breaking the silence. “I really think I want to renovate my parents’ old house.” A flicker of raw panic crossed Ryan’s face. The hand holding the spoon trembled, just for a fraction of a second, before he forced his features into a mask of casual concern. “Why are we bringing this up again?” he asked lightly. “I just think it’s a waste to let it sit empty,” I said, holding his gaze. “Might as well update it.” He sighed, setting the bowl down and taking my hand. “I just don’t want you dwelling on the past. You’ll go in there and get swallowed by the grief again. Plus, you have your hands full with Sophie. You don’t have the bandwidth for a massive project. And honestly? We just don’t have the spare cash for a renovation right now.” It was the exact same script he had used two years ago. Back then, I had swallowed every word, entirely convinced he was fiercely protecting my mental health. But now, the ugly, glaring truth was sitting right in front of me. How could I ever look at this man and believe a single syllable out of his mouth again? When I didn’t reply, he let out a heavy, self-deprecating sigh. “Look, I know it’s my fault. I’m just not successful enough yet to give you and Sophie the lifestyle you deserve.” He was playing the pity card. In the past, that specific line would have shattered my heart. I would have rushed to comfort him, to build his ego back up. But tonight, it just made my skin crawl with irritation. He kept rambling, oblivious to the shift in the tectonic plates of our marriage. “I promise you, I’m going to grind even harder at work. I’m going to give you guys the best life. Once I secure the bonus on this next project, I’ll personally hire a designer for the house, okay?” I didn’t offer him the reassurance he was fishing for. I just gave a hollow nod. The man I had shared a bed with for five years suddenly felt like a total stranger. 02 The next morning, right after dropping Sophie off at preschool, I got on the subway and headed straight for the old house. For the entire forty-minute ride, I aggressively scrolled through the influencer’s social media. Her handle was Lexi’s Home Diaries. She had over three hundred thousand followers. The engagement on every single post was massive. I scrolled back chronologically, dissecting every perfectly color-graded frame, hunting for the ghosts of my life. August of last year: She posted a video of the newly renovated master bedroom. The caption read: Hubby is obsessed with this color palette. December of last year: A video of a sprawling, gourmet dinner spread. The caption read: Waiting up with late-night cravings for my guy after his overtime shift. Her husband never showed his face in the videos. But in one clip, a pair of masculine hands was unboxing a package. On his left wrist was a silver watch. It was the exact watch I had bought Ryan for our third anniversary. I had skipped lunches and hoarded grocery money for months to afford it. How had I not recognized it? It wasn’t that I hadn’t recognized it; it was that my brain had absolutely refused to make the connection. For the last seven years, I had poured every ounce of my soul into my family. When he worked late, I kept dinner warm in the oven. When he went to networking events, I left the porch light on. Whatever he said, became my gospel. Including the lie that the house needed to stay empty to protect my heart. The automated subway voice announcing my stop snapped me back to reality. I walked into the familiar gated community. Stan, the elderly doorman, was still working the front gate. He blinked in surprise when he saw me. “Well, if it isn’t the Mitchells’ girl! Haven’t seen you around here in ages.” I forced a tight smile. “It’s been a few years, Stan.” He leaned on his podium, conversational. “Your husband comes by all the time, though. Just saw him a few days ago. Said he was keeping the place up for you.” I had expected that answer, but it still felt like a physical blow to the ribs. Armed with my property deed, I marched straight into the HOA management office. “I’m the owner of Unit 502 in Building 3,” I said smoothly. “Some things have gone missing from my property, and I need to review the elevator security footage for the past six months.” The property manager glanced at me, then down at the name on the deed. A deeply uncomfortable, knowing look flickered across her face. I nodded, sliding my ID across the desk. “I appreciate your help.” She hesitated, but policy was policy. She pulled up the archives. Ryan’s face was everywhere. Last Wednesday. The night he claimed he was stuck at the office until 2:00 AM. On the screen, Lexi was leaning her head against his shoulder. They looked ridiculously, sickeningly domestic. She took a sip of her iced boba tea, then held it up to Ryan’s lips. He leaned in and drank from the exact same straw without a second thought. I kept scrolling back. February 14th. Valentine’s Day. He walked into the elevator carrying a massive, ostentatious bouquet of red roses. When the camera caught him leaving hours later, the flowers were gone, and his tie was undone. January 1st. New Year’s Eve. He had told me he got too drunk at the company party and crashed at a coworker’s place. On the screen, he was carrying two bags of takeout. Lexi, wearing a silk nightgown, opened the door, jumped into the air, and wrapped her legs around his waist. Every frame was a scalpel, meticulously carving out my heart. I wrote down every single date, thanked the manager, and walked out of the office. When I got home, I sat on the living room sofa, completely paralyzed. My fingers were still trembling. My phone was heavy with the photos I had taken of the security monitors. I had documented everything. Hours later, Ryan walked through the door carrying several plastic bags. “Hey! I passed by that organic market and saw they had the first strawberries of the season. Got you a box,” he called out cheerfully. “I know how much you love them.” He walked into the kitchen, turned on the faucet, and began washing them with agonizing care. I stared at the back of his head, a wave of pure, unadulterated nausea washing over me. In five years of marriage, this man had rarely bought me fruit unprompted. Looking at it now, I realized the truth: he was simply taking the overflow of the romantic energy he poured into his mistress and tossing the scraps to his wife. He walked over, holding the bowl, and picked up the largest, reddest strawberry, offering it to my lips. I turned my head away. His hand hovered in mid-air. A flash of profound irritation tightened his jaw, but he quickly smoothed it out into a look of saintly patience. “What’s going on, Rach? Still feeling sick? Do we need to go to urgent care?” Looking into those deep, concerned eyes, a chill ran down my spine. How was he this good at acting? I stood up. “I’m fine. I’m going to go pick up Sophie.” He gently caught my shoulder, pressing me back down. “Let me do it. You stay here and rest. You’ve looked so pale the last few days, don’t push yourself.” Once, this kind of tender micro-management would have made me feel so intensely loved I could cry. Now, I just felt like the punchline to a sick joke. “No,” I said, sidestepping his touch. “I’ll go get her.” 03 For the next few days, I performed my role flawlessly. I didn’t let a single crack show in my facade. But at night, while he snored softly beside me, I would lie completely paralyzed, staring into the dark, replaying the footage behind my eyelids. The way she jumped into his arms. The effortless, joyful way he caught her. That was the kind of electricity we had when we were twenty-two. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment his touches had devolved into obligatory hugs and sterile, schedule-mandated kisses. I had foolishly believed it was just the natural progression of a long-term marriage. I didn’t realize his passion hadn’t faded—it had just been relocated. On the fourth night, during dinner, his phone rang. He took the call in the hallway, then came back with a heavy sigh. “Corporate is sending me out of state for a site audit. It’s probably going to take a month.” I kept my eyes on my plate, pushing some rice around. “Okay.” “The reception out by the site is supposed to be garbage, so don’t panic if you can’t reach me right away, alright?” “Okay.” He genuinely believed I was still his blind, devoted, easily managed little wife. But the script had changed. The morning of his “business trip,” he pulled me into a tight embrace by the front door. “I’ll bring you back something nice, I promise,” he whispered. I smiled beautifully. “Sounds great.” The absolute second the deadbolt clicked into place, my smile vanished. I called an Uber and headed straight to the old house. Standing in front of the door, I took a deep, steadying breath, and leaned on the doorbell. Lexi opened it. She looked just as flawless in person as she did on Instagram. Her loungewear was impeccably steamed, her hair loosely pinned up with a silk scrunchie. When she recognized me, she paused, her perfectly threaded brows pulling together. “You again?” I didn’t say a word. I just pushed past her into the foyer. She grabbed my arm, her manicured nails digging in. “Excuse me? What is wrong with you? This is trespassing!” I calmly reached into my leather tote, pulled out the official property deed, and held it inches from her face. “Read it carefully,” I said, my voice lethal. “The sole legal owner of this property is Rachel Mitchell.” All the color drained from her face. But she recovered quickly. A slow, mocking smirk spread across her lips. “So what?” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You have a piece of paper. Big deal. Your husband gave this place to me.” She said it with such brazen entitlement it almost took my breath away. I stared dead into her eyes. “How long has this been going on?” She inspected her nails, utterly unbothered. “About two years.” She leaned back against the entryway console. “He said the place was just sitting here rotting, and it would be perfect for my content studio. Honestly, since you never showed up, I assumed the two of you were already legally separated.” 04 Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days. Every single night he was “stuck at the office.” Every “emergency site visit” on a weekend. He was here. She leaned against the doorframe, her eyes raking over my body with undisguised pity. “Look in the mirror, lady,” she sneered. “Just look at yourself. The bags under your eyes are practically bruised. Your hair is completely fried. And what even is that outfit? Target clearance?” With every syllable, I felt myself shrinking an inch. “Why do you think your husband came looking for me?” she asked, tilting her head. “He told me that after you had the baby, you just gave up. You stopped dressing up, you obsess over mundane household chores, and the only things you ever talk about are the grocery bill and preschool. He said he has absolutely nothing in common with you anymore.” She took a step closer, twisting the knife. “He said just looking at you exhausts him. But he can’t say anything, because the second he does, you start crying, and it’s suffocating.” Every single word was a bullet to the chest. I opened my mouth to defend myself, but the air was trapped in my throat. Because she was right. I had become that woman. I had stripped myself of my own identity to keep the machinery of his life running flawlessly. Seeing me paralyzed, her smugness amplified. “So why are you here? You want money? You want him back? Do you really think you have what it takes to keep him?” She let out a sharp laugh. “Trust me. Even if you made him choose right now, he’d pick me.” I gripped the property deed so hard the heavy paper crumpled. “This is my house. Get out.” She laughed again, a bright, chiming sound. “Your house? Honey, you need to wake up. Your husband gave this to me. He promised me this house would officially be ours eventually. As for you…” She paused, her eyes glittering with malice. “…he’s just waiting until you’re no longer useful with the kid. Then he’s filing the papers.” A loud, high-pitched ringing erupted in my ears. My knees buckled. I had to throw a hand against the hallway wall just to stay upright. She watched my devastation like it was an entertaining movie, casually adding the final blow. “Oh, yeah. He also mentioned you were incredibly naive. Said you’ll believe literally anything he tells you.” She smiled. “He said being married to you is like having a golden retriever. Low maintenance.” My fingernails bit so deeply into my palms they almost broke the skin. It hurt. But it was absolutely nothing compared to the agony tearing through my chest. Before I could speak, the heavy thud of footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Ryan appeared at the top of the landing, dragging a sleek aluminum suitcase. The absolute second his eyes locked onto mine, he froze like he’d been struck by lightning. “R-Rach… what are you doing here?” I didn’t speak. I just stood there, staring at the man I had given my twenties to. “Rach, baby, please, just let me explain…” I cut through the air with a voice I didn’t recognize. “Explain what? Explain how keeping me around is as low maintenance as a golden retriever? Or explain how this house is ‘eventually going to be yours’?” The terrified, placating smile died on his lips. He dropped the suitcase and rushed toward me, reaching out to grab my hands. I took a sharp step back, dodging him like he was diseased. His hands hung suspended in the empty space between us, pathetic and trembling. “Rach, I swear to God, she’s lying! She’s crazy, I would never say anything like that! You are my wife, you’re the mother of my child—” I let out a harsh, broken laugh, pulling my phone from my pocket. I swiped open the photo album and shoved the screen an inch from his nose. I looked at him, enunciating every single syllable with lethal precision. “Ryan. I know everything.” The last remnants of color vanished from Ryan’s face. He looked like a corpse. “No… no, it’s not what it looks like… Rach, please, just listen to me…” I pulled my lips into a grotesque, devastated smile, my eyes locked on his. “There is absolutely nothing left for us to say to each other.” I took a deep breath, feeling the last thread tying us together permanently snap. “We’re getting a divorce, Ryan.” I turned my gaze slowly back to Lexi. “And by the way. Thank you so much for the free renovations. With all these trendy updates, my property value just skyrocketed. It’s going to sell for a fantastic price.” Lexi’s face went ghost white. 05 Ryan looked completely destroyed. He opened his mouth, desperately trying to formulate a sentence, but all that came out was a pathetic, broken stutter. It was Lexi who recovered first. She let out a harsh, derisive scoff, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe, crossing her arms like she was watching a bad reality TV show. “Wow, so we’re just throwing around the D-word? You better think this through, honey. Where exactly are you going to go? You have a kid, you have a massive gap in your resume, and you have zero income. How are you going to survive?” Her eyes raked over me again, looking at me like I was a piece of trash left on the curb. “Ryan is a Senior Project Manager now. He’s clearing over a hundred and fifty grand a year. You divorce him, you’ll be on food stamps by next month.” I didn’t even blink at her. I kept my eyes entirely focused on Ryan. “Is that true? You’re making a hundred and fifty thousand a year?” The “allowance” Ryan transferred into my account every month to manage the entire household was exactly two thousand dollars. If he had a particularly good quarter, he would generously bump it to twenty-five hundred. He constantly told me his company was struggling, that budgets were frozen, and that we should just be grateful he hadn’t been laid off. He stared at the hardwood floor, refusing to meet my eyes. The silence was a confession. A manic urge to laugh bubbled up in my throat. For five years of marriage, I had coupon-clipped, shopped exclusively at discount racks, and agonized for days over buying a thirty-dollar sweater for myself. I had saved for months in secret to buy him that watch. I never once complained when we sent generous checks to his mother for the holidays. I truly, deeply believed we were in the trenches together. Building our future, sacrificing together, surviving together. Turns out, I was the only one making sacrifices. When I didn’t engage with her taunting, Lexi snapped. “Hello? I’m talking to you. Are you deaf?” I finally turned my head to look at her, my expression utterly void of emotion. “What’s your full name?” The abrupt shift in my tone caught her off guard. “Lexi. Lexi Davis,” she answered defensively. I gave a curt nod. “I will be reclaiming possession of this property through my attorney. As for whatever is going on between you and my husband, I couldn’t care less. I’m out.” Her smug demeanor cracked. “What the hell does that mean?” “It means,” I said, my voice dropping to a terrifying calm, “I don’t want either of you.” Ryan’s head snapped up, his eyes wild with panic. “Rach! No! You can’t do this! Think about Sophie! She needs her dad—” I let out a cold, hollow laugh. “Sophie has a dad. And starting today, her dad is going to wire his child support payments on the first of every single month.” I turned on my heel and walked toward the stairs. After two steps, I paused. I looked back at the door—the door to the home where I had spent twenty years of my life. “Oh, one more thing. I expect this house to be restored to its exact original condition.” “Everything my parents left behind, every single wall you knocked down, every tile you replaced. I want it put back exactly the way it was.” Lexi practically shrieked. “Are you out of your mind?! I paid for all of this! Do you have any idea how much those custom cabinets cost? Fifteen thousand dollars!” I smiled. A genuine, terrifying smile. “That sounds like a ‘you’ problem. Did you get written consent from the legal property owner before initiating construction?” “No? Then you’ll be ripping it all out and restoring the property. Otherwise, I’ll see you in court.”

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My husband didn’t ask for my permission. He just took it—a vial of my blood, stolen while I slept, to see if I was a match for his “One Who Got Away.” That night, he came home practically vibrating with a manic sort of joy. He pulled me into a crushing hug, his breath smelling of expensive scotch and desperation. “Elena, it’s a miracle. You’re a perfect match. You can save Serena. You can give her the bone marrow she needs.” I looked into Miles’s eyes, searching for a flicker of the man I thought I’d married three years ago. All I saw was a stranger obsessed with a ghost from his past. I placed a hand on my stomach and whispered, “Miles, I’m pregnant.” His expression didn’t even soften. “We can have another baby later,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, manipulative register he used when he wanted a deal closed. “But if Serena misses this window, she’s gone. She’ll never recover.” He gripped my shoulders, his fingers digging in. “Elena, if you ever truly loved me, don’t make me live the rest of my life with this regret. Don’t let her die.” I looked at him for a long beat, the silence stretching between us like a physical chasm. Finally, I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.” ………… “Have you lost your mind? You’re seven months along, Elena. You’re talking about terminating a third-trimester pregnancy for a transplant?” Dr. Joanna Miller slammed her water glass onto the mahogany desk, the sharp crack echoing through the sterile private clinic. Joanna had been my mother’s best friend for decades; she’d seen me through every scraped knee and every heartbreak. Now, she looked at me with a mixture of terror and fury. “This isn’t just irresponsible to the baby,” she hissed, her eyes bright with tears. “It’s a death wish for you. You’ve always had a delicate system. An induction this late? You’re looking at permanent infertility, or worse. Hemorrhage, sepsis—the risks are astronomical.” I sat on the edge of the examination table, my fingers tracing the hem of my maternity top. I felt hollow, as if the soul had already left the room. “I don’t want the baby anymore, Joanna. Just… please. Help me end it.” Joanna slumped into her chair, her face aging a decade in seconds. She didn’t say another word; she just picked up the phone and dialed my mother. A moment later, the door swung open. Miles marched in, checking his Rolex with an air of clinical impatience. “Are we done yet? How long does a simple procedure take? Serena’s vitals are dipping. She needs that marrow yesterday.” Joanna’s head snapped up. She took in Miles’s expensive suit and his callous expression, and the pieces clicked together. “Elena, tell me you aren’t doing this for her,” she whispered. “Tell me you aren’t sacrificing your child for his mistress.” I kept my head down, staring at my shoes. Miles let out an exasperated sigh. “Are you going to perform the surgery or not, Doctor? If you’re too ‘emotional’ for the job, stop wasting our time. There are plenty of other clinics in the city.” “I will not be a party to this butchery,” Joanna said, her voice trembling with cold rage. “Fine. Expect a formal complaint for patient abandonment,” Miles snapped. He turned on his heel and stormed out. As the door swung, I saw the faces in the waiting room. They had heard the shouting. I saw the way they looked at Miles—pure, unadulterated disgust. Then they looked at me, and their pity felt like acid on my skin. One older woman even stepped forward as Miles disappeared down the hall. “Honey,” she whispered, leaning into the room. “Don’t do this. That man… he isn’t worth the dirt on your boots.” “Is it true?” another woman chimed in from the hallway. “You’re giving up your child for his ex? That’s not love, sweetie. That’s… well, it’s pathetic.” I swallowed hard, my voice a mere ghost. “You don’t understand him. He’s just… stressed.” Joanna stood up and slammed the door shut, cutting off the whispers. She grabbed my shoulders, checking my arms, my neck, her eyes searching for bruises. “Elena, look at me. Is he hurting you? Is he blackmailing you? I will call the police right now.” I shook my head, a small, jagged smile playing on my lips. “I just want him to be happy, Joanna. If he’s happy, nothing else matters.” Before I could finish the lie, a sharp, stinging pain erupted across my shoulders. I spun around. My mother, Katherine, was standing there in her wheelchair, her face a mask of grief and fury. She was gripping her cane, her knuckles white. She swung it again, hitting my arm with a desperate, clumsy force. “I’ll kill you myself!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “I’ll kill you before I let you be this foolish! You disgraceful, spineless girl!” I stood there and took it. I didn’t move. I didn’t flinch. I was an only child. Three years ago, my parents were involved in a horrific car accident while scouting a new location for our family’s textile empire. My mother lost the use of her legs. My father ended up in the ICU, clinging to life by a thread. On his deathbed, Miles had proposed to me. He had knelt by the beeping monitors and sworn to my father that he would take my name, protect our legacy, and care for my mother until her last breath. My father, moved to tears, changed his will. The company went to Miles and me. My mother was left with the real estate, but she didn’t care. She just wanted me to be loved. She wanted a grandchild to fill the silence of the house my father left behind. And today, I was destroying everything she lived for. “Get on your knees,” my mother sobbed. I sank to the floor. She cupped my face with her trembling hands, her tears falling onto my cheeks. “Why, Elena? If he has something on you, tell me. I’ll give him everything. I’ll give him every house, every cent, just tell me the truth. Don’t do this.” “Mom,” I whispered, my heart feeling like it was being squeezed by hot pliers. “I just love him. I’d do anything for him.” Her hand came down across my face—a sharp, ringing slap. Miles burst back into the room then, grabbing my arm and yanking me up. He stepped between us, shielding me from my mother. “Katherine, enough! You’ll bruise the donor site. She has a procedure to get to.” My mother looked like she was having a heart attack. Her finger shook as she pointed at him. “You think we don’t know? Everyone knows you’ve been sneaking around with Serena Vance for months. But I never thought you were a monster, Miles. This is your child. Your son.” Miles’s face darkened, turning into a mask of cold arrogance. “Katherine, Serena and I are friends. If you keep spreading these sordid rumors, you’re only embarrassing your daughter. Not me.” He looked at me then, a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He knew he had me. He had always known. I was the rich girl who had chased him, the “trophy husband” from the wrong side of the tracks. I had spent our entire marriage trying to prove I wasn’t looking down on him, and in doing so, I’d given him the whip to lash me with. “Elena,” my mother begged, grabbing my hand. “Leave him. Divorce him. Have this baby. He can have the Lynn name, he can be our legacy. Just don’t do this.” I pulled my hand away slowly. “I’m an adult, Mom. Let me make my own choices. If you keep pushing me… I’ll have to cut you out of my life.” The color drained from her face. She looked like she had aged twenty years in a heartbeat. Just then, my mother-in-law arrived. She didn’t even look at me; she just grabbed the handles of my mother’s wheelchair and started pushing her toward the exit. “Oh, hush now, Katherine. They can have another one. A baby is just a baby. I had four miscarriages and three abortions trying to get a boy before Miles came along. It’s no big deal.” “Stop! Let go of me!” my mother screamed. In her desperation, she tried to hurl herself out of the moving wheelchair. She hit the floor hard, her cane skittering across the linoleum. Her designer handbag fell open, and out tumbled a pair of tiny, hand-knitted baby booties and a small, quilted blanket. She had spent months on them. She told me that a baby who wears shoes knitted by their grandmother will always find their way home… Now, they were just trash on a hospital floor. My mother crawled toward me, holding up one of the tiny blue booties. “Elena, please. Look at these. Do you really have the heart?” I bit my lip until I tasted blood and turned away. I looked at Joanna. “Do it, Joanna. I won’t go to another doctor. I want you to do it.” I grabbed the consent forms and scrawled my signature before anyone could stop me. “Elena…” my mother gave one last, haunting cry before she fainted. Joanna sighed, a sound of pure defeat. She knew if she didn’t do it, Miles would take me to some back-alley clinic where I’d likely bleed out. I lay on the cold operating table, the induction medication coursing through my veins. The pain was unlike anything I’d ever imagined—as if my body was being physically ripped in half by a dull blade. I drifted in and out of consciousness, sweat stinging my eyes. Then, a sudden, sickening lightness. Something was gone. I heard the nurse whisper, her voice thick with pity. “It was a boy. Perfect little thing. What a waste…” A single tear slid into my ear. After the procedure, I was a ghost. I was weak, hollowed out, but Miles didn’t care. He had me transferred to another hospital within hours. Serena was there. Waiting for my marrow. I didn’t see Miles for those three days. I didn’t see Serena. My mother sat by my bed in her wheelchair, her eyes red and swollen. She didn’t tell me what was happening, but I heard the nurses gossiping in the hall. Miles had apparently been screaming at the surgeons to operate the moment I arrived. But the doctors refused. They told him I was too weak, that I might die on the table if they harvested the marrow now. He had spent those three days in Serena’s room, holding her hand, whispered sweet nothings while I recovered enough to be harvested. I stared at the ceiling, feeling nothing. No anger. No sadness. Just a cold, dead vacuum where my heart used to be. My mother went to get some soup, leaving the room silent. I closed my eyes, trying to disappear. “Elena? Hey, big sister. We came to say thanks.” I opened my eyes. Miles and Serena were standing there, their fingers interlaced. Serena was glowing. She was wearing full makeup and a silk robe that had clearly been tailored to look like a hospital gown—flirty, delicate, seductive. She didn’t look like someone on the brink of death. She looked like she was at a spa. Compared to her, I was a wreck—pale, hair matted with sweat, smelling of antiseptic and grief. Miles didn’t even look at me. His eyes were glued to Serena, as if she were the only source of light in the world. He didn’t notice the door was open, or the freezing draft from the hallway that made me shiver under the thin sheets. “Get out,” a voice cracked like a whip. My mother was back. She used her cane to shove Miles away from the bed, and then she threw the container of hot soup right at Serena. Serena shrieked, ducking behind Miles. The soup splashed harmlessly on the floor, but she acted as if she’d been doused in acid, clinging to Miles’s chest. “I’ve tolerated your disrespect because you’re family,” Miles growled at my mother, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light. “But if you touch Serena again, I don’t care how old you are. I’ll make you regret it.” My mother began to sob, the sound raw and broken. Then, a tall, imposing man stepped into the room. He moved with a quiet authority that instantly changed the air. He stepped next to my mother, placing a steady hand on her shoulder. “Is there a problem here, Miles?” he asked. “Are you really threatening a woman in a wheelchair?” It was Arthur Bennett. My father’s oldest friend, the COO of our company, and a man who had known me since I was in diapers. He set a bag of groceries on my nightstand, his eyes softening as he looked at my pale face. He walked over and firmly shut the door. Miles cleared his throat, clearly intimidated but trying to hide it. “Serena has something to say to Elena.” Serena reached into her designer bag and pulled out a stack of legal documents. She handed them to me with a shy, faux-innocent smile. “Elena, please don’t take this the wrong way. But I’ve read stories online… about donors who give once and then refuse to help if there’s a relapse. For my peace of mind, could you sign this? It’s just an agreement that if I need another transplant in a few years, you’ll be there for me.” My mother began to cough violently, her face turning purple with rage. Arthur looked like he wanted to throw Miles out the window. I looked at the papers, then at Miles. I smiled—a small, chilling thing. “Of course. I’ll sign. I’m happy to help.” Arthur froze. My mother looked at me with pure despair. “I should have died with your father,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have lived to see this.” My chest tightened, but I didn’t stop. I signed my name in a firm, clear hand: Elena Lynn. Miles’s face lit up with greedy satisfaction. He pulled out another folder. “Since you’re going to be recovering for a while, Elena, you won’t have the energy for the company. I’ve prepared some documents to give me full power of attorney over your shares. It’ll make things easier.” Arthur slammed his hand down on the papers. “Elena, don’t. I came here to tell you—this boy has been draining the company accounts for months. He’s stripping the assets, moving them into shell companies. If you sign this, the Lynn legacy is gone. He’s gutting us.” I looked at Arthur, my expression serene. “Arthur, you’re being paranoid. Miles loves me. He’s my husband. Why would he hurt me? It doesn’t matter whose name is on the paperwork, right?” I signed the second set of papers. Arthur slumped into a chair, a mountain of a man reduced to tears. “Oh, Edward… I’m so sorry. I couldn’t save your home.” The moment the ink was dry, Miles grabbed the folders and headed for the door. In the hallway, I heard him barking at a passing doctor. “Start the harvest! Now!” “But Mr. Scott, her vitals are still—” “I said now! If she dies, she dies. Just get the marrow!” I went under the knife in a haze of betrayal. I didn’t see Miles again after the surgery. Two weeks later, while my mother was finalizing my discharge papers, I slipped out of the hospital and took a cab to our house. When I walked through the front door, I stopped. Miles was on the velvet sofa, Serena curled up in his lap. They were laughing at a comedy special on TV. Miles looked up, his brow furrowing as if I were a telemarketer who had interrupted his dinner. “What are you doing here?” I smiled. “I missed you.” He rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t have called? You’re ruining the mood.” Serena ran a hand down Miles’s arm. “Oh, don’t be grumpy, babe. It’s fine that Elena’s back. I’ve actually been craving her signature seafood chowder.” Miles glanced at me. “Well? You heard her. Go on.” I was ushered into the kitchen like a servant to cook for them. I listened to their laughter echoing from the living room. That night, Miles took Serena into our master bedroom. I lay in the guest room, staring at the wall, listening to the sounds of their intimacy through the thin drywall. They weren’t even trying to be quiet. Eventually, I got up, threw on a robe, and knocked on their door. Miles ripped the door open, looking like a feral animal. “Are you insane? It’s two in the morning! What is wrong with you?” I looked at him, my voice flat. “I lost my baby and gave up my health for your girlfriend. And this is how you treat me?” Miles let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “You’re barren now, Elena. The doctors said the induction did too much damage. I need an heir. Serena told me that when she has my baby, she’ll let you be the godmother. You should be thanking her for being so generous. Without her, you’d die alone in a gutter with no one to claim your body.” “And what am I to you?” I asked quietly. “What is she?” He sneered. “I knew your ‘kindness’ was an act. You’re finally showing your true colors, trying to cling to a title you don’t deserve. You Lynns always looked down on me. The ‘charity case’ husband. Well, I’m done. Get out.” He reached into a drawer and threw a packet of papers at my chest. “I don’t want anything from your pathetic family.” I looked at the papers. In the divorce settlement, I got the company back. He kept everything else—the real estate, the liquid cash, the cars. He had already finished the asset transfer. He had left me a hollowed-out shell of a business. Without a word, I signed. He signed: Miles Scott. The second the ink dried, Serena’s “sweet girl” persona vanished. She stood up, her eyes gleaming with malice, and began throwing my clothes and suitcases out onto the driveway. “Now,” she spat. “Get the hell out of my house.”

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On a community forum I frequented, a girl posted a listing: “One mature, steady Golden Retriever.” “Unable to keep him due to personal reasons.” “Any ladies interested, DM me. First come, first served!” Knowing how much my husband loved Golden Retrievers, I immediately sent her a private message. The next day, I showed up at the address she gave me. I had barely knocked when the door clicked and swung open a crack. A man wearing a plush Golden Retriever mask was on his hands and knees. He nudged his head affectionately against the girl’s hand, rubbing his face into her palm. “Stacey, I’m your dog. Only yours. You can’t give me away.” “I’m not married. That marriage certificate is a fake.” The girl whimpered softly, looking incredibly wronged. “What does it matter if the certificate is fake?” “You’ll still live with her. You’ll have children together.” The man’s face tightened with panic. He hurriedly reached up to wipe away her tears. “I slipped her something. She can’t have kids.” “As soon as my company goes public, I’ll leave her.” The girl’s tears vanished, replaced by a radiant smile. She mentioned hearing my knock and urged him to open the door fully. When the door swung wide, I froze. My husband was playing dog for another woman. 1 The air went deathly quiet. A flash of shock and sheer panic seized Carter’s face. He lunged to slam the door, but I grabbed the handle, my knuckles turning white. “Carter, you…” I stared at him, my vision tunneling. Before I could finish, the girl stepped into the entryway. “You must be the lady who messaged yesterday about picking up the dog.” “I am so sorry about this.” “My boyfriend and I had a fight. The Golden Retriever I posted about… is actually him.” She looked at me, her expression practically dripping with apologetic sweetness. “We made up today. I completely forgot to tell you not to come.” My gaze darted back and forth between Carter and the girl. My mind was a screaming blank. I couldn’t process a single word she was saying. I opened my mouth, desperate to form a sound, but Carter shot me a warning glare that cut me to the bone. Seeing me speechless, the girl playfully punched Carter in the chest. “This is all your fault. You made this poor woman come all the way out here for nothing.” Carter soaked up her touch like a sponge. He immediately wrapped his arms around her waist, his voice dripping with indulgent affection. “Stacey, you’re right. It’s all my fault.” “Punish me however you want, but please, don’t give me away.” “I’m your dog. I only answer to you.” I snapped back to reality, a plastic, strained smile stretching across my face. Stacey unclipped a slender silk scarf from her handbag and held it out to me. “Here, to make up for the trouble, take this.” Before I could react, she took a step forward and deftly looped the fabric around my neck. “It’s a Hermes Twilly.” “We went out on December 3rd and my boyfriend was late, so he bought this for me to hit the quota for a bag.” I stopped breathing. The silk was cool against my skin, but my neck burned as if scorched by an iron. December 3rd was my birthday. Carter had been out of state, supposedly drowning in meetings for the IPO. He had offered to fly back just to celebrate with me, but, worried about him taking a red-eye flight, I had told him: “You’re working too hard, honey. We can celebrate when you get back.” Right after we hung up, a small silk scarf had been delivered to our apartment. The exact same scarf now tied around my neck. I had held that little piece of silk like it was a holy relic. I stared at it until my eyes blurred, terrified of ruining it. I had silently vowed, right then and there, to do whatever it took to help him get his company off the ground. Only now did I realize that the gift I cherished like a treasure was nothing more than a leftover consolation prize he had bought for his mistress. Before I could find my voice, Stacey chimed in with breathless enthusiasm. “You must be a massive dog lover to drive all the way out here.” “My boyfriend loves dogs too. Golden Retrievers are his favorite.” “If you ever find a real one, you have to send me a picture!” My face felt entirely drained of blood. Carter cleared his throat softly. “She came a long way. It wasn’t an easy drive.” “It’s getting late. We should let her head home.” Stacey gave a theatrical, exaggerated pout. “Fine, fine. Whatever you say.” “You men are so clueless. You don’t understand girls at all. You’re so annoying!” As she pushed the door shut, Stacey leaned up and planted a quick, echoing kiss on Carter’s cheek. Listening to their muffled laughter from behind the closed door, my gaze dropped to my stomach. Tears finally breached the dam, blurring my vision. No wonder we hadn’t been able to conceive all these years. I pulled the IPO application files out of my tote bag. I stared at the thick stack of paper. For months, I had been quietly working behind the scenes, untangling the legal red tape for his company. This final application was all that was left. It was supposed to be my grand surprise for him. But now, there was no point. I tore the documents down the middle, again and again, until my hands ached, and shoved the pieces into a nearby trash can. As I walked out of her apartment complex, my phone buzzed. A text from Carter. [Wait for me. Let’s go home together. I’ll explain everything.] 2 I didn’t reply. He fired off three more texts in rapid succession. I powered off my phone. When I finally got back to our apartment, I turned it back on. A notification popped up immediately. [‘Golden Retriever Breeder’ has followed you back.] It was Stacey. She had followed my social media account. We had been together for eight years. Married for six. Driven by a morbid, masochistic curiosity, I tapped into her profile. [May 20, 2021: Met my absolute crush today. Should I make the first move?] [May 20, 2022: Finally dating my crush! I went for it, and I got him.] [May 20, 2023: One-year anniversary! He got me a Hermes bag. Beyond happy!] May 20th. Our wedding anniversary. It was also the day Carter started his relationship with another woman. The dates burned my eyes. I realized, with a sickening jolt, that we hadn’t actually celebrated our anniversary in years. On May 20, 2021, Carter was in the early, desperate stages of his startup. I had attended a grueling dinner with potential investors on his behalf, drinking until I vomited blood and ended up in the ER with a gastric hemorrhage. On May 20, 2022, I worked a double shift to cover our rent. Walking home in the dark, I was harassed by two men and narrowly escaped being assaulted. When I called Carter, trembling and terrified, he told me he was busy and hastily hung up. On May 20, 2023, he finally promised we’d have time to celebrate. I waited up until past midnight. I got a phone call instead of a husband. I ordered a plain bowl of noodles and ate it alone at the kitchen counter to ring in our third anniversary. And the years after that… 2024, 2025… I barely even remembered them. Six years of marriage. Five years of infidelity. A wave of sheer, suffocating despair crashed over me, pulling me under. Late that night, Carter finally came home. Seeing me sitting barefoot on the hardwood floor, his brow furrowed in that familiar, protective way. He scooped me into his arms. “You’re going to catch a cold sitting on the floor like this.” “Chloe, you’re doing this just to make me worry, aren’t you?” Tears spilling down my cheeks, I shoved him away with all my strength. “Stop acting. Do you really give a damn about me?” “Drugging me. Cheating on me for five out of our six years of marriage.” “That was all you, wasn’t it?” “Oh, wait. We aren’t even married, are we?” Huge, heavy tears dropped from my face, splashing onto the wood. It felt like someone was physically tearing my heart in two. Carter lunged forward and grabbed me in a tight embrace. “Chloe, calm down. It’s not what you think.” “My future was so uncertain back then. I didn’t want you gambling your life on me. I didn’t want to trap you in a marriage.” “As for Stacey… once the company goes public, I promise I’ll give you a proper explanation.” My control shattered. Ignoring the sharp, twisting pain flaring in my stomach, I screamed at him. “Do you think I’m that pathetic?” Carter’s face darkened with anger. He opened his mouth to snap back, but his phone started ringing frantically. He answered it. Stacey’s shrill, furious voice echoed from the speaker. “Carter, are you with that old woman right now?” “I knew you were lying to me earlier.” Carter looked momentarily annoyed, but his voice instantly dropped into a soft, coaxing purr. “I’m not with her.” “I’m out taking care of some business. I’ll be right back.” Listening to him lie so effortlessly, a bitter, breathless laugh escaped my lips. Five years. Countless days and nights. This was exactly how he had been lying to me. Stacey’s voice spiked in volume. “That old hag is right there next to you!” “Carter, you’re still lying to me!” Carter froze, realizing what she meant. His voice turned ice-cold. “How do you know that?” Stacey broke into dramatic, heaving sobs. “You installed spyware on my phone to make me feel ‘secure,’ remember?!” “And now you’re mad at me!” She sounded like she was on the verge of a total breakdown. “Carter, I trusted you! How could you lie to me?” “You come back here right now, or I swear to God, I’ll jump off the balcony!” Right at that moment, a cold sweat broke out across my body. The pain in my stomach exploded into agony. My legs gave out, and I crumpled to the floor. Carter caught me just in time. His face was a mask of sheer panic and conflict. “Stacey, Chloe just collapsed.” “I think she’s really sick…” Before he could finish, a photo came through. Stacey, sitting precariously on the ledge of a high-rise window. “Carter, if you aren’t here in five minutes, I’m jumping.” Carter bolted for the door. Just before I lost consciousness, I heard him say: “Chloe, call an ambulance.” “I know Stacey. If she doesn’t see me, she’ll actually do it.” 3 When I opened my eyes again, the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room blinded me. I forced myself to sit up, my mouth dry as dust. “Where’s my laptop bag?” The doctor standing near the bed sighed in exasperation. “You young people treat your bodies like garbage.” “You nearly went into hypovolemic shock from a severe gastric bleed, and the first thing you ask about is work?” His words dragged me fully back to reality. I used to work myself to the bone just to ease Carter’s burdens. Now… now it all felt like a sick, twisted joke I had played on myself. The doctor gave me a few stern instructions and left the room. As the door swung shut, I caught the hushed gossip of two nurses passing by in the hallway. “It’s crazy how different patients get treated.” “The girl in Room 3 with the stomach bleed? She almost died.” “When we called her husband, he actually told us gastric bleeding only happens from binge drinking and told her to stop faking it.” “But that young girl in the VIP suite? She just scraped her knee.” “Her boyfriend completely lost his mind. Demanded a consultation from every department head in the building.” “I heard he’s the CEO of the Carter Group.” “God, she’s so lucky. That’s the kind of man you want to marry.” I rolled over, curling into a tight ball, clutching my aching chest. The man who had brought me stomach medicine yesterday, gently scolding me to eat on time. Today, he was the hospital’s shining example of a perfect, devoted partner to someone else. Carter. You made my entire existence feel like a punchline. Before I could dwell on it, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. “Did you start those rumors online about Stacey being a homewrecker?” “Her DMs are flooded with death threats.” “She’s just a young girl, Chloe. She can’t handle this kind of abuse.” “You’ve gone too far this time.” The interrogation hit me like a physical blow. Carter’s rage was palpable through the speaker. Cheated on for years. Robbed of my ability to have children. And now, branded a cyberbully. I couldn’t stop myself from defending what little dignity I had left. “Carter, I wouldn’t waste my time doing something like that.” “If you don’t believe me, hire someone to trace the IP address.” He let out a harsh, dismissive scoff. “The truth doesn’t matter anymore.” “Stacey is hysterical. You need to apologize to her, publicly.” My voice shook. “Why the hell should I?” Tears slipped silently onto my pillow. A memory flashed in my mind—Carter at twenty years old. We were so broke back then. Working back-to-back shifts just to survive. Once, my boss at the convenience store grabbed me inappropriately. When I told Carter, he didn’t say a word. He just marched down to the store and laid the guy out with two punches. He ended up in a holding cell that night. But when I visited him, he wasn’t scared. He just cupped my face through the bars and said so softly: “Chloe, don’t cry. It’ll be okay.” “I swear, I will always protect you. I’ll never let anyone hurt you.” Eight years. In just eight short years, the boy who swore to protect me had become the man destroying me. Carter laughed, a cold, empty sound. “Fine. Don’t apologize.” “But it’s going to be a real shame when all of your sister’s academic research mysteriously goes up in smoke.” A wave of pure, paralyzing terror washed over me. Every breath felt like inhaling glass. “Mia and I only have each other. You know she has Asperger’s.” “Her biology research is her entire world. If you ruin that, you ruin her life.” Carter’s voice was utterly devoid of emotion. “Whether Mia is hailed as a brilliant young scholar or exposed as an ‘academic fraud’ who slept her way to the top… that’s entirely up to you.” “Make your choice, Chloe.” I choked back a sob, my nails digging into my palms until they bled. “I’ll apologize.” 4 Following Carter’s orders, I walked into Stacey’s VIP suite. It was massive—a full bedroom and a sprawling lounge area. The lounge was packed wall-to-wall with reporters, their camera lenses trained like weapons. Carter pulled me aside, his grip bruising my arm. His eyes were dark with warning. “Apologize properly. Once Stacey forgives you, this all goes away.” I looked up at him, my vision swimming with tears. “How exactly do you want me to apologize so that ‘Miss Stacey’ is satisfied?” “Do I say I made it all up? Or do I admit that I am the actual mistress?” A flicker of hesitation—maybe even guilt—crossed Carter’s face. “You don’t have to call yourself a mistress. That’s a bit…” Stacey strolled into the lounge, cutting him off effortlessly. “Of course she has to admit she’s the mistress. I want her to know exactly how it feels.” She didn’t look remotely surprised to see me. She practically melted into Carter’s side. “Carter, I need her to admit she’s the other woman. It’s the only way I’ll feel better.” “Otherwise…” She didn’t finish the threat, but Carter’s posture instantly went rigid. His face hardened into stone. “Do what Stacey says.” The reporters readied their mics. The live streams were up. Thousands of people were pouring into the feeds. Standing in the center of that room, under the glare of the ring lights, I felt myself free-falling into an abyss. I opened my mouth. “Hello, everyone. I am the person who spread the malicious rumors about Miss Stacey being a homewrecker.” “I am here to apologize to Miss Stacey.” “I apologize for being with a man for six years, only to be cheated on for five. I apologize for being handed a fake marriage certificate. And I apologize for letting a monster secretly drug me until I was permanently infertile.” Chaos erupted. The live stream chats exploded with hashtags: #[StaceyHomewrecker], #[StaceyApologize]. Stacey’s phone began pinging incessantly, a relentless barrage of incoming hate. Carter Group’s stock price immediately began to tank in real-time. Carter scrambled, screaming at the media to cut the feeds. He turned to me, his teeth bared like a cornered animal. “Chloe, are you really forcing my hand?” A second later, my phone rang. It was Mia. She was sobbing hysterically. “Chloe, everyone at school is looking at me weird.” “They’re calling me a fraud. They’re saying I slept with the professors to get my papers published.” “Why are they saying that, Chloe?” “Did I do something wrong? Did I make them mad?” “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” I could hear the sickening thud, thud, thud of Mia hitting herself in the head. Every strike felt like a sledgehammer to my own skull. Mia’s world consisted of two things: her biology research, and me. If they took her research, she wouldn’t survive it. I hadn’t expected Carter to pull the trigger so fast. “Mia, sweetie, listen to me. They’re just jealous of how smart you are. I’m going to fix this right now, okay?” I fought to keep my voice steady, bolting toward the hospital doors as I spoke. But before I even made it to the lobby, Carter’s security team intercepted me. They dragged me backward, locking my arms behind my back. As the minutes ticked by, I felt the true, chilling extent of Carter’s cruelty. “Carter, I’m sorry. Please, let my sister go.” “I’ll go back out there right now. I’ll say I’m the mistress.” He let out a harsh, breathless laugh. “Five minutes. You cost my company millions in five minutes.” “If you want to apologize now, you have to tell them you suffer from severe schizophrenia.” “I think you know exactly what story to tell to make the internet believe you.” I knew exactly what he meant. It was my deepest, most agonizing scar. I had only ever told one person in my entire life. Carter. And now, he was taking that secret, sharpening it into a blade, and plunging it into my chest. My entire body shook violently. My fingernails bit into my palms, slick with my own blood. “I know.” In the center of the lounge, the cameras were back on. “Hello everyone. I am Chloe. I am an employee of the Carter Group, and I am the one who fabricated the rumors about Miss Stacey.” “I confess that everything I said about her was a lie.” “When I was a child, I was sexually assaulted by my cousin. It caused me to develop severe schizophrenia. Mr. Carter saved my life once.” “I fell in love with him. Because my feelings were unrequited, I grew insanely jealous of Miss Stacey and tried to ruin her reputation.” “I sincerely apologize to Mr. Carter and Miss Stacey.” I forced every word out of my throat. Within a minute, the narrative flipped. The internet rallied, branding me a delusional, ungrateful psychopath. And worse—someone leaked Mia’s condition. The mob demanded a full investigation into the “mentally ill” sister’s academic credentials. I used every ounce of strength I had left to dial Carter’s number, but it rang out. I needed him to retract the fake evidence against Mia, but his and Stacey’s suite was heavily guarded. No one was allowed in. His voice drifted through the heavy wooden door. “You can leave when Stacey decides she’s ready to forgive you.” The guards forced me to my knees in the hallway. Finally, someone picked up my phone. “Are you the next of kin for the deceased? Please come down to the precinct to identify the body.” The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the floor. The voice on the other end kept talking, but I couldn’t hear the words anymore. I threw my entire body weight forward, violently breaking free from the guard’s grip. I sprinted toward the window at the end of the corridor. And I jumped. Carter. In this life or the next, I hope to God I never see your face again.

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My boyfriend’s childhood best friend found out I was severely allergic to cilantro, so she secretly poured cilantro extract into every single dish at the dinner party. Almost immediately after taking a bite, a fiery rash exploded across my skin. Panic setting in, I shoved my hand into my pocket, pulled out my small pillbox, and threw a tablet into my mouth. But a second later, the blood drained from my face. The antihistamine—my lifeline—had been swapped out for a strawberry gummy. Seeing my face swell and turn a mottled red, my boyfriend’s best friend erupted into laughter. “Hahaha, surprise! I had Valentine swap them out especially for you!” “You’re such a drama queen. Who actually dies from a little cilantro?” I snapped my head toward my boyfriend, gasping hard, my chest tight. “Valentine,” I wheezed, “if you don’t give me the pills right now, I’m actually going to die!” Valentine just frowned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. “Do you really have to play the fragile little princess all the time? I’ve never heard of anyone dying from a damn herb.” “Chloe is right. You’re just putting on a show. It’s pathetic.” I realized then that arguing was useless. With trembling fingers, I reached for the panic button hidden in my necklace and pressed it hard. 1 Valentine caught the movement. His eyes narrowed slightly. “What did you just press? Don’t tell me you’re calling the cops over a stupid prank.” He reached out and yanked the small bear pendant right off my neck. He inspected it for a moment, turning it over in his hand. Finding nothing obviously electronic about it, he scoffed, tossed it onto the floor, and crushed it under his heel. I reached out, trying to grab the broken pieces, but my throat was already closing up. My movements were becoming sluggish, heavy. “I’m having an anaphylactic reaction,” I gasped out, my voice raspy. “Please. Give me the medicine.” Chloe crossed her arms, watching me with an amused smirk, completely unbothered. “Are you really in that much pain, Lady Stacey? Or are you just trying to steal Valentine’s attention again?” “I mean, it’s one thing when you make up excuses to monopolize him on a normal day, but today is his birthday. Could you stop being such a buzzkill for five minutes?” It felt like invisible hands were wrapping tightly around my windpipe. I stared at Chloe, entirely helpless. She and Valentine had grown up together. They always played the “we’re basically siblings” card. Whenever I expressed even a hint of insecurity, Valentine was quick to shut it down. “She’s just like a little sister to me, Stacey. If there was ever going to be anything between us, it would have happened years ago.” And Chloe would chime in, playing the perfect tomboy best friend, to prove how platonic they were. “Honestly, only a saint like you would put up with a dense, unromantic guy like Valentine.” Like a fool, I believed them. I genuinely thought it was just a pure, lifelong friendship. But slowly, the cracks started to show. At every group hangout, whenever I tried to talk to Valentine, she would accidentally-on-purpose interrupt. Then, she would pivot the conversation to some inside joke, some shared memory only the two of them understood, effectively shutting me out. I would just sit there in silence, unable to get a word in edgewise. And right on cue, she would throw me a bone—laced with poison. “Oh no, Stacey, you aren’t mad that Valentine and I are having fun, are you?” “Girl, we practically shared a crib. You can’t be this insecure, can you?” When the hostility became too obvious to ignore, I tried bringing it up to Valentine. He just laughed and called me paranoid. And now, that hostility wasn’t just obvious; it was weaponized. She was wearing her malice like a badge of honor. “No tiara, but all the princess syndrome. Does it physically hurt you if Valentine doesn’t revolve his entire universe around you for one day?” “So now you’re faking a severe allergy just to get him to pity you?” A few of Valentine’s friends chuckled, the sound ugly and mocking in the private dining room. “I really am allergic to cilantro,” I forced out, my voice tearing into a raw, desperate scream. “Give me the medicine!” The room fell silent for a single heartbeat. Then, a wave of uproarious, mocking laughter crashed over me. Among all the jeers, Chloe’s voice was the loudest, dripping with pure venom. “Hahaha, you’re really committing to the bit, aren’t you? This performance belongs in an acting masterclass!” “Valentine, don’t tell me you’re actually falling for this?” Before Valentine could even open his mouth, his frat brothers chimed in. “Oh man, if you start babying her now, you’re doomed for life!” “Bro, you aren’t really whipped by this drama queen, are you? You can’t indulge this kind of toxic behavior!” Spurred on by his friends’ taunts, any hesitation Valentine might have felt vanished completely. He tilted his head back, looking down his nose at me. “Who says I’m babying her? Frankly, I think we let her off too easy.” He lightly nudged my leg with his foot. “Drop the act, Stacey. Seriously. One more second of this and I’m actually going to be pissed.” When I didn’t—couldn’t—respond, a flicker of doubt finally crossed his face. He started to lean forward, but Chloe immediately grabbed his arm. “I told you she was a good actress. You almost bought it! Who turns purple from an allergy anyway?” I struggled to lift my head, forcing the words through a throat that felt like it was packed with wet sand. “The pills… please…” Before I could finish, Chloe shoved my head back down. She slapped my cheek—hard, twice. My face, already swollen, burned a violent red. “Is this what you want?” She pulled a small, familiar plastic bottle from her pocket, tipped the little white pills into her palm, and tossed them lightly in the air, taunting me. My eyes tracked the pills like they were my only salvation. “Give them… to me…” My breathing was shallow and erratic. I used every ounce of strength I had left to reach for her hand. But just as my fingers grazed the plastic, Chloe snatched her hand back and danced out of reach. I collapsed sideways onto the leather sofa. My vision blurred, but I could still see clearly enough to watch Chloe dump every single pill into a dirty ashtray on the coffee table. Then, she poured half a glass of stale beer over them. The pristine white pills dissolved into a muddy, toxic sludge, dark bubbles clinging to the edge of the glass. My stomach heaved, and I dry-heaved, the violent motion tearing at my swollen throat. 2 “Oh, look at that! She still knows how to act disgusted. Doesn’t look like an allergic reaction to me!” Chloe glared at me, her face twisting with impatience. Valentine’s expression darkened, his eyes reflecting pure irritation. “Stacey, enough! Can you just stop making a scene and let me have one normal birthday?” One of Chloe’s friends rolled her eyes, groaning. “Seriously, we used to pull this kind of stunt in middle school. Can’t you come up with some new material?” My entire body began to convulse. Every breath I fought for felt like swallowing broken glass. “I’m not… I’m really… allergic…” I prayed, silently screaming for someone, anyone in that room to help me. But no one moved. Chloe grabbed Valentine’s arm and pulled him toward the lounge area on the other side of the room. “Just ignore her. Let’s go cut the cake. Once she realizes she doesn’t have an audience, she’ll magically recover.” Valentine sliced the cake. And then, whether by accident or entirely on purpose, the slice slipped from Chloe’s hand. A massive dollop of frosting landed squarely on her chest. The room erupted into catcalls and whistles. “Chloe! Giving us a free show for dessert?” “Don’t waste napkins, let Valentine clean it up!” “That’s not a punishment, that’s a reward! Hahaha!” “Wait, won’t Valentine’s little girlfriend get jealous?” “Nah, she’s too busy pretending to die. She won’t even notice!” They laughed, a chorus of cruel, careless sound. My vision was tunneling, the edges going dark. But through the blur, I saw Valentine shoot a glance in my direction. Then, he lowered his head toward Chloe’s chest. Amidst the roaring cheers, I watched their silhouettes merge. It felt like a million fire ants were marching through my veins. Every inch of my skin felt pierced by hot needles. I clawed at the sofa, trying to drag myself toward the door, but the moment I lifted my head, the last of my strength evaporated. Just as despair threatened to swallow me whole, a memory flashed: A few days ago, one of the pills had slipped out of the box and fallen into the lining of my jacket pocket. I scrambled frantically, my numb fingers digging into the fabric. When my fingertip brushed against the chalky surface of the pill, my breath caught. I clamped my hand around it, slowly drawing it out of my pocket. As I brought it toward my lips, my heart pounded so hard I thought it might crack my ribs. I was going to live. But my hand was shaking violently. My grip slipped. The little white pill bounced off my collarbone and rolled onto the floor. I dove for it, but a designer heel slammed down before I could reach it. Chloe pivoted on her toe, grinding her heel directly into my swollen, sausage-like fingers. The pain was blinding. I didn’t even have the breath left to scream. Why? Why was she doing this to me? Chloe crouched down, bringing her face level with mine. “Word is, your family is pretty loaded. And you’re an only child. Say you happened to tragically pass away tonight… wouldn’t your grieving parents eventually leave everything to your devoted, heartbroken fiancé?” “And then, if I just so happened to marry your fiancé… wouldn’t all that money end up with me?” A white-hot rage flared in my chest. I wanted to kill her. She wasn’t pulling a prank. She had fully intended for me to die. But her twisted little fantasy was flawed. Yes, I was my parents’ only child, but the Scott Group was a massive corporate empire with branches run by extended family. Even if I died, another Scott heir would step up. She wouldn’t see a dime. My eyes practically burned with fury. But to Chloe, my anger just looked pathetic. She smiled—a slow, terrifying smirk that belonged on a demon. “You’re really hard to kill, aren’t you? Let me help you along.” 3 Chloe reached for me. Her cold fingers clamped around my throat, applying pressure. Maybe it was the sheer terror of death closing in, but a sudden, primal surge of adrenaline flooded my system. I roared with everything I had left: “Get off! GET OFF!” Pushing off the sofa, I lurched upwards, swaying wildly. The commotion wasn’t loud, but it was enough to make Valentine turn his head. “What’s going on?” Chloe shot me a venomous glare and quickly dropped her hands. Losing my balance, I slumped heavily against her. She gave a sickly sweet smile and suddenly threw herself backward. My dead weight carried us both down, and I crashed on top of her. Chloe shoved me off violently. “Look at all that energy! I thought you were dying of anaphylaxis? You’re not even trying to make this believable anymore!” My forehead slammed directly into the sharp bottom edge of the glass coffee table. A welt the size of a golf ball formed instantly. Valentine walked over and stood above me. He looked down, his eyes filled with absolute disappointment. “Stacey, when does this end? My patience has a limit.” But as he took in the greenish, mottled hue of my face, a tiny sliver of unease flickered in his eyes. He started to bend down to help me up, but Chloe snatched his hand. “Valentine! Are you an idiot? She’s playing you!” “If she’s actually having an allergic reaction, I will chop my head off and let you kick it like a soccer ball.” Valentine still hesitated. “But… she looks like she’s in a lot of pain. Maybe we should just give her the medicine.” Chloe clapped her hands together like she had just heard the funniest joke in the world. “Wait, you actually believed her? Hahaha, we were just messing around!” She grabbed my arm and shook me like a ragdoll. “Look at her face! Red one minute, green the next. She’s really putting her back into this performance.” “Oh, right! Earlier Stacey said she was thirsty. That’s probably why she looks so faint.” The tension immediately drained from Valentine’s face. “Just thirsty? Well, that makes sense.” He quickly grabbed a glass of ice water from the table. As the freezing glass touched my lips, I shook my head frantically. My throat was swollen shut, feeling like it was packed tightly with cotton. Even a microscopic movement caused agonizing pain. Valentine’s hand hovered in the air, a shadow of doubt crossing his face again. “See? She’s faking again!” Chloe snatched the glass from his hand. “Valentine, you don’t understand girls. When they play hard to get, it means they want you to force them.” She pinched my jaw, her knuckles white, her fingernails digging deep into my swollen skin. Freezing water and crushed ice poured violently down my throat. I choked, a brutal, racking cough tearing out of me. The water spilled down my chin and into my collar, the sudden cold raising a fresh wave of angry red hives across my chest. Chloe just laughed harder. “Look at her! Doesn’t she look much more energetic after some water?” My vision went completely black at the edges. I dug my fingernails so hard into my palms that they broke the skin. But Valentine just smiled and nodded. “Yeah, much better. Guess she was just dehydrated.” He turned to walk back to the party, but I clamped my hand around his pant leg, gripping the fabric like a vise. I forced my eyelids open, using the absolute last dregs of my strength to push the broken syllables past my lips: “Help… me… I am… the heir… to the Scott… Group…” He looked down at me like I was a circus animal performing a trick. He let out a sharp, derisive snort. “The Scott heir? Why don’t you just tell us you’re the Queen of England while you’re at it?” The laughter in the room hit a deafening crescendo. Someone banged their fist on the table. “Man, she is really committing to the role! Should we get her an Oscar for this soap opera?” Another voice chimed in: “With how pathetic she looks, the only thing she’s inheriting is a cardboard box under a bridge!” Chloe was laughing so hard she was bent double. Suddenly, she grabbed a handful of my sweat-drenched hair and slammed my head toward the table leg. “Still pretending to be a billionaire heiress? I’ll let you inherit this table leg!” My wounded forehead cracked against the solid wood. Blood mixed with cold sweat, running into my eyes, burning like acid. “Say it! Tell us again about your fake inheritance!” She yanked my hair again, throwing me face-first onto the floor. My face smashed into the discarded cake scraps. Buttercream and blood smeared across my cheeks. Valentine stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his voice light and unbothered. “Take it easy, Chloe. Don’t actually leave a mark.” He didn’t sound worried about me. He sounded worried that his favorite toy was going to break too soon. I felt the oxygen being slowly, agonizingly vacuumed from my lungs. It felt like I had swallowed a burning coal that was lodged permanently in my windpipe. Every breath tasted like rust. Chloe’s manic grin, Valentine’s cold indifference, the roaring laughter of the crowd. They swirled in my fading consciousness like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from. I stared up at the warm, amber lighting of the private room, but the light felt millions of miles away. I felt untethered, like my soul was slowly peeling away from my broken body, drifting upward toward the ceiling. Just as my eyes slipped shut, a familiar, thunderous voice shattered the noise. “STACEY!” A second later, the heavy oak doors of the private room burst open, and blinding light from the hallway flooded in.

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