When Preston Carmichael’s little sidepiece threatened to kill herself for the umpteenth time, he postponed our wedding. Again. That made nine times in five months. My stomach was so swollen by now that anyone with eyes could see I was carrying his child. This time, I didn’t shrink back. I looked him dead in the eye and asked, “Are we getting married or not?” In my past life, my chronic weakness allowed him to push the date back until it became a cruel joke. It dragged on until my mother, sick with the stress and humiliation of it all, was hospitalized. Desperate, heavily pregnant, I had gone to beg his mistress to leave us be. Instead, she spun a web of lies, claiming I was bullying her to the brink of death. Then, with a calculated shove, she pushed me down a flight of concrete stairs. I lost the baby. I lost my ability to ever become a mother again. And Preston? He didn’t seek justice. He blamed me. He said my own toxicity had killed our child. The grief and rage had been so violently suffocating that it triggered a massive heart attack, stopping my heart right there on the hospital floor. Given a second chance, waking up in this timeline, the fog has completely lifted. I am not going to bury my one, precious life for a monster. … 1 Preston’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing into cold, judgmental slits. “Are you giving me an ultimatum? Susie, do you have any idea what’s at stake here? It’s a matter of life and death. Will you only be satisfied if she actually ends it?” His voice was pure ice, devoid of an ounce of empathy, looking at me as if I were the one committing some unspeakable crime. The hand resting on my belly trembled slightly, but a soft, hollow laugh escaped my throat. “I’m driving her to death? You’ve canceled our wedding nine times, Preston. I think you’re the one trying to kill me.” It was a mirror image of my past life. As my bump grew larger, the vicious whispers in our social circle grew louder. “I bet the kid isn’t even a Carmichael. Why else would he keep delaying? He’s just making a fool out of her.” “That’s what happens when a charity case tries to marry into generational wealth. She thought a pretty face could trap him. Joke’s on her!” My pregnancy had always been high-risk. Back then, the anxiety had eaten me alive, leaving me vomiting until I couldn’t even stand. Yet Preston had never bothered to defend my honor or just sign the damn papers. Instead, he had blamed me for forgetting my pill, for saddling him with “this inconvenience.” Hearing my challenge now, his brow furrowed deeply. He stared at me, his gaze dark and chilling. “You’re blaming me?” His tone was razor-sharp, but as his eyes dropped to my stomach, his expression shifted into a flippant, patronizing smile. “It’s just a party, Susie. Is it really that deep? If it comes down to it, we’ll just throw the wedding after the baby is born. It’s the same difference.” He reached out, carelessly stroking my hair, his tone softening into a faux-gentle cadence. “The girls on the outside are just fleeting distractions. You’re the only one who gets to be Mrs. Carmichael.” The moment the words left his mouth, his phone shattered the silence. Preston instantly pulled his hand away, turning his back on me to rush toward the door. I knew immediately. Madison was threatening to end it all again. Feeling absolutely nothing—no panic, no heartbreak—I called an Uber and headed to the women’s clinic. Right before I went back to the procedure room, I saw Madison’s latest Instagram story. “Never fails! Like I always say, if a man truly loves you, he won’t let you suffer for a single second. I barely scratched my wrist, and he dropped everything to rush to my side.” Under the blinding weight of that contrast, my battered heart still managed a sharp, phantom twinge of pain. I closed my heavy, exhausted eyes and powered off my phone. Two hours later, I was wheeled into recovery, swimming in a numb, anesthetic haze. The nurses, assuming I was still completely under, didn’t bother lowering their voices. “That’s her, right? The society bride whose fiancé postponed nine times?” “It’s her. It was all over Page Six. God, I don’t know why she puts up with it. The guy obviously doesn’t give a damn about her.” They sighed in mutual pity. Suddenly, one of them gasped, pointing toward the pharmacy wing through the glass doors. “Oh my god, look. That’s Preston Carmichael out there picking up meds with some girl. He’s treating her like she’s made of glass.” I forced my eyes open, turning my head. Sure enough, it was Preston. His arm was wrapped protectively around Madison’s waist, whispering sweet nothings to soothe her, acting every bit the devoted partner. I had been five months pregnant. In all that time, he hadn’t accompanied me to a single doctor’s appointment. The nurse noticed I was awake. A flash of profound pity crossed her eyes. “Honey, do you want me to go out there and tell him you’re here?” “No.” My voice was barely a whisper. I closed my eyes and sank back into the dark. I don’t know how much time passed before my phone finally buzzed. 2 Preston had sent ten thousand dollars over Venmo. It was his signature move, his way of buying absolution. Just like years ago, when he claimed he was roofied at a party, cornered me, and assaulted me. His first act of “contrition” was writing a check to cover my entire college tuition. I had sobbed until I choked, telling him I wasn’t something to be bought. Preston had just pulled me into his chest, petting me as a dark, obsessive fire burned in his eyes. “Oh, sweet Susie, of course you aren’t. I’ve been crazy about you for a long time. Once you graduate, I’m going to put a ring on your finger.” He had kept that promise, technically. But putting a ring on my finger never stopped him from treating Manhattan like his personal tasting menu. After a few minutes of radio silence from my end, another text popped up. “Why aren’t you at the penthouse? Where did you go?” My head was spinning from the lingering anesthesia. I didn’t reply. A while later, I discharged myself and took a cab to our shared penthouse. But when the front door swung open, it wasn’t Preston standing there. It was Madison. She was wrapped in my La Perla silk robe, her eyes flashing with a territorial hostility. But the moment Preston’s footsteps echoed from the hallway, her face melted into a mask of trembling innocence. “Susie, I swear I didn’t mean to intrude on your space! I just got caught in the pouring rain, and Preston said I could use the guest shower.” It was such a blatant, pathetic performance. Does rain somehow cause fresh, bruising hickeys along a woman’s collarbone? Noticing my gaze dropping to her neck, Madison pushed her chest out just a fraction, a triumphant gleam in her eye. Before I could even speak, Preston stepped in front of her, physically shielding her like a knight protecting his ward. His face was rigid with defensive anger. “I’m the one who brought her here. If you have a problem, take it out on me—” “Excuse me. I need to pack.” I didn’t let him finish. I breezed right past them into the foyer, not sparing him a single glance. Preston froze, his face dropping into a stunned, ugly scowl. He stepped away from Madison and followed me into the master bedroom. He stood there, watching my silhouette as I quietly folded my clothes into a suitcase. “So you come home and immediately throw a tantrum?” his voice dropped into a menacing, icy register. “Can’t you just let me have one moment of peace?” He pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a drag. When he looked up, I hadn’t paused my packing for even a second. He clenched his jaw, muttering a curse under his breath. “Fine! I’ll call her a car right now, okay? You’re heavily pregnant, what the hell are you doing dragging a suitcase around?” My hands paused. A dry, jagged laugh escaped my lips. He didn’t even notice my stomach was completely flat under my loose sweater. Playing the concerned father was just another act. My eyes stung. There was no baby anymore. Seeing the strange, eerie smile on my face, a flicker of unease crossed his expression. But before he could process it, Madison suddenly burst into the room and threw herself to her knees right in front of me. “Susie, please don’t be mad at Preston! It’s all my fault! If you need to hit someone, hit me!” She grabbed my hand, trying to forcefully slap her own cheek with it. Seeing her degrade herself, Preston barked a sharp command, yanking Madison up from the floor. “Enough! If she wants to leave, let her leave! We’ll see who regrets it tomorrow!” Then, his eyes dropped to Madison’s knee with sickening tenderness. “Did you scrape your knee on the hardwood? Come here, let me put some Neosporin on it.” Madison blushed, shaking her head with a sickly sweet smile. “Oh, that’s not from the floor. That’s from earlier, on the bed…” Panic flashed in Preston’s eyes. He instantly shot a look at me. But I remained perfectly, beautifully hollow. Suddenly, Madison let out a sharp cry of pain, dramatically pulling her arm away. “Preston, you’re holding my wrist too tight!” Preston didn’t even hear her. He was already running out the door, chasing after me. 3 “Susie, where the hell do you think you’re going?” He grabbed my forearm, the veins in his hand bulging with force. I stood perfectly still for two seconds. Then, I looked up and met his gaze with dead eyes. “We’re done, Preston. We never signed the papers, so it’s clean. It’s over.” The blood drained from Preston’s face. He stood paralyzed, as if I had suddenly started speaking a foreign language. “Is this a joke to you? What about the baby?!” His anger flared, and he reached out, instinctively trying to press his hand against my stomach. But in that exact second, Madison dramatically swooned in the hallway, collapsing onto the floor in a heap. The moment Preston whipped his head around to look at her, I slammed the door of my Uber shut and told the driver to step on it. In the rearview mirror, I watched him standing in the driveway, completely frozen. Once I got to my own small apartment, I took pictures of my designer wedding gown and listed it on StillWhite. Then, I sent a mass BCC email to our bridal party and family, stating the wedding was permanently canceled. When it was all done, I let out a long, shaky breath and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Monday morning, I went back to work at the prep school where I taught literature. But the second I stepped onto the campus, I could feel the suffocating weight of staring eyes. “I can’t believe Ms. Montgomery is actually like that. She seemed so normal.” “She grew up dirt poor, and her mom is chronically ill. How do you think she afforded all those designer bags in college? She’s a sugar baby.” “I heard she even got knocked up and had to get rid of it. She’s total trash. No wonder her fiancé keeps leaving her at the altar.” “Honestly, I bet she slept her way into this job, too.” A loud ringing erupted in my ears. White-hot fury spiked through my veins, and I reached for my phone, ready to call the police for harassment and defamation. But before I could, Madison came rushing out from the courtyard, tears streaming beautifully down her face as she pleaded with me. “Ms. Montgomery, please, just give me my necklace back! It was my mother’s sweet sixteen gift to me, and she’s dead! It’s the only thing I have left of her!” Students and faculty began to circle us, their faces twisted in disgust and moral superiority. “Susie, why are you stealing from a young girl? Give it back!” one of my colleagues snapped. “Have some basic human decency. We all know your own mother is in the hospital—you should be praying for some good karma, not stealing!” At those words, a vicious, calculating shadow passed through Madison’s tear-filled eyes. She pulled out her phone, dialing a number. “I’ll just call your mom. I’m sure she’ll understand my pain.” Pure terror gripped me. I lunged forward, snatching the phone from her hand. “My mother is in the ICU! Are you trying to kill her?!” Madison fell backward onto the pavement, sobbing with theatrical despair. The crowd swelled, their whispers turning into shouts. A cold realization washed over me—this was a highly coordinated, premeditated hit to destroy my life. I turned to push my way out of the crowd, but Madison wrapped her arms around my legs, anchoring me to the ground. Suddenly, a furious roar shattered the chaos. A bouquet of expensive white lilies dropped to the concrete as Preston shoved through the crowd, scooping Madison into his arms. He glared at me, his chest heaving with disappointment, his lips trembling with rage. “I actually came here to apologize to you, Susie. But look at you. You are so vicious, so vindictive!” Madison buried her face in his shirt, weeping hysterically. “Susie, please, I’m begging you. It’s my mother’s dying memento.” The crowd’s condemnation crashed over me like a tidal wave. I bit down on my tongue until I tasted copper, turning my back on them to walk away. “This is absolute insanity.” But a split second later, a searing pain shot through my arm. Preston yanked me backward with brutal force, shoving me down so hard my knees slammed into the rough asphalt. He towered over me, barking, “Susie, you don’t want to lose your career over this. I am going to say this one last time. Apologize!” The skin on my knees was scraped raw and burning. With red-rimmed eyes, I looked up at the man I had spent my twenties loving, only to see him look away with cold indifference. The voices around me swelled. Dirty, malicious, degrading. “God, did she really just sleep her way to the top?” “She’s been bad news since high school. Guess the rumors were true.” I suddenly doubled over, my organs twisting into knots, nausea rising in my throat. Preston knew. He knew better than anyone that when I was nineteen, the vicious cyberbullying at my university had driven me to slit my own wrists. He was the one who had found me covered in blood and rushed me to the ER. He was the one who had cleared his schedule for three months, sitting by my bedside, pulling me back from the ledge. And now, just to avenge his bruised ego and placate his mistress, he was leading the mob to crucify me over a lie. I would rather die than confess to something I didn’t do. I lunged forward, sinking my teeth violently into the hand he had clamped down on my shoulder. Preston screamed, violently jerking back. Madison shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at me. “Are you an animal?! You almost took a chunk out of his arm! We’re calling the cops!” I tilted my head, spitting a mouthful of his blood onto the pavement. I didn’t say a single word. I simply pushed myself off the ground and walked away. I went home, emailed HR requesting a one-week leave of absence, and collapsed into my bed, letting the darkness take me. 4 I was jolted awake by the relentless ringing of my phone. I shook my heavy head, fully expecting to hear Preston screaming at me. Instead, the first thing he said was, “I think I was a little too rough today. Are you okay? If you’re hurting, go to the hospital. Don’t let your stubborn pride get in the way. The baby’s safety is what matters.” Hearing the word baby, a dry laugh cracked from my throat. There hasn’t been a baby for days. Unwilling to waste another syllable on him, I hung up. I quickly washed my face and took a cab straight to the hospital to check on my mom. But before I even reached her ward, I heard my mother’s frail, desperate sobs echoing down the hallway. “You’re lying! My daughter is a good person! Cough, cough You’re lying!” Every alarm bell in my nervous system went off. I shoved past the nurses and burst into the room. The first thing I saw was my mother crumpled on the linoleum floor, coughing up blood. “Mom!” My vision went red. I rushed over, gathering her frail body into my arms. My mother looked up at me through tear-soaked eyes, her hands trembling as she grabbed my shirt. “Susie… this girl came in… she said you stole her necklace. Tell Mom the truth. You didn’t take it, did you?” My mother had lived a life of quiet, unshakeable integrity. After my father left, she raised me on her own, every single dollar she earned washed in honest sweat. The thought of her beloved daughter being branded a thief was literally breaking her heart. I whipped my head around to look at the architect of this nightmare. Madison stood by the door, arms crossed, a smug, contemptuous smirk playing on her lips. “Do yourself a favor and stop trying to seduce Preston. Take your sick mother and get the hell out of the city. Otherwise, I will make sure neither of you ever find peace.” She let out a scoff, turning on her heel to leave. A high, thin ringing filled my brain. I looked down at the blood staining my hands. She had ruined my career. And now, she was torturing my dying mother. I lunged. I tackled her to the floor, my hands immediately finding her throat. I clamped down, squeezing with every ounce of strength I possessed. Madison’s face turned a violent shade of crimson. Her manicured nails clawed uselessly at my arms, tearing my skin. Suddenly, a massive force ripped me backward, throwing me onto the ground. Preston stood there, his face pale with horror, his hands shaking violently. “Are you insane?! You almost killed her!” In my peripheral vision, my mother lay unconscious on the floor, her life slipping away, while Preston stood over me, fiercely guarding his mistress, terrified I might scratch her again. The dam finally broke. Hot, bitter tears streamed down my face as I screamed from the depths of my soul, “THEN SHE SHOULD DIE!” Smack. The force of his hand across my face sent me crashing sideways onto the hard floor. Preston froze. He looked down at his own trembling hand, a look of profound disbelief washing over his features. He stumbled toward me, his voice breaking into a panicked stutter. “I’m sorry. Susie, God, I’m so sorry. I just saw red, I—” But his voice abruptly died in his throat. Because of the fall, my oversized sweater had ridden up, exposing my bare stomach. It was perfectly flat. In that second, the color completely drained from Preston’s face.

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In the eleven years I’d been with Valerie, she had never once thrown me a birthday party. But on the evening of my twenty-ninth birthday, her private driver dropped me off at the entrance of a lavish banquet hall. It was a sensory overload of imported orchids and a towering, decadent dessert bar. The vibrant, dopamine-inducing color palette made the entire venue feel like a scene pulled straight from a glossy Manhattan society magazine—expensive, intoxicating, and deeply romantic. I was just pulling out my phone to call her when the massive LED screen at the front of the room flared to life. A high-fashion editorial slideshow of Beckett began to play. “Mr. Beckett, this is a birthday gift from Ms. Valerie. She wishes you the happiest of birthdays!” Valerie’s executive assistant brushed past me, walking straight toward Beckett, who was dressed to the nines in a bespoke tuxedo. The velvet box was snapped open. Nestled inside was the exact set of jewelry I had once told Valerie was my ultimate dream to own. My gaze slowly lifted, locking onto Beckett’s eyes. They were gleaming with a sharp, triumphant provocation. In that singular, crystal-clear moment, I finally understood where his hostility had come from since the day we met. Valerie had betrayed our love. And she had done it a long time ago. 1 “Mr. Samuel, I am so sorry. I forgot I swapped shifts with Tommy today. He was supposed to drop Mr. Beckett here, and I was supposed to take you to the Upper East Side to have dinner with the Dowager. Should we head out now?” Valerie’s driver, panicked at the realization that he had brought me to the wrong address, hurried up behind me. He was practically wiping the nervous sweat from his forehead, his eyes darting to my face to gauge my reaction. “It’s fine,” I said. I forced a mechanical smile, waiting for the icy numbness to bloom in my left ventricle, spreading out to my fingertips before slowly receding. I finally found my voice. I didn’t make a scene or give the driver a hard time. Knowing this opulent party was not for me, I turned on my heel to leave. “Samuel, don’t misunderstand. Beckett is my right-hand man. I threw him this party to reward his dedication to the company.” Valerie approached from the other side of the room. She naturally, almost gravitationally, positioned herself right next to Beckett. She frowned, throwing an explanation at me like a bone to a dog, while simultaneously shoving a stained suit jacket into my arms. “Someone spilled wine on this earlier. Take it home, hand-wash it, and have the driver bring it back. I have an industry mixer with Beckett later tonight, and this jacket pairs perfectly with his tuxedo. Do me this favor.” Her mouth said the words do me a favor, but her eyes held zero warmth, zero remorse, zero tenderness. “Valerie, we’re done. Wash his clothes yourself.” I offered a faint, hollow smile and took a deliberate step back, letting the jacket drop. I didn’t reach out to catch it like I always had before. “Can you stop being so goddamn sensitive? I just explained it to you. What more do you want?” She was so used to my absolute subservience. Seeing me refuse, her eyes widened, brimming with a mix of disbelief and sudden anger. “So what? You throw an excuse at me, and I’m just supposed to swallow it?” I used to think that if this day ever came, I would be hysterical. I thought I would scream, demand answers, ask why him, why not me? But looking at her standing there—how, when forced to choose a physical space between me and Beckett, she instinctively anchored herself to him—I felt a profound, sweeping sense of relief. Sand that you cannot hold is better left to the wind. “Happy birthday, Beckett.” I didn’t bother wasting another glance on Valerie. I merely lifted my heavy eyelids, gave the smug, preening Beckett a passing look, and walked out of the hall. The second I got into the back of the town car, I dialed Beatrice, Valerie’s grandmother. I gently explained that I wouldn’t be able to make it to dinner tonight. Then, taking a steadying breath, I told her that Valerie and I had broken up, and that she needed to take good care of herself from now on. Hearing the news, Beatrice sounded utterly heartbroken. She pressed me for the reason. I told her the truth. Not long after I hung up, my phone lit up with Valerie’s name. “Samuel, what the hell are you playing at?” “When did I ever agree to a breakup?” “Is this about the jewelry? I bought him a set you liked. So what? It’s his birthday. What’s wrong with a boss buying her employee a nice gift?” Valerie was practically screaming into the receiver. Clearly, Beatrice had just torn into her. Every word out of her mouth was entirely centered on her own twisted logic. “So, you did remember that I wanted that set.” A bitter laugh scraped its way out of my throat. I had thought, maybe, she had just forgotten. I had told her years ago. I designed that jewelry. Before my career was derailed, my blueprints had been stolen by a rival. I knew I would never get my name on the patent, but I had told Valerie that owning a physical set of my own stolen masterpiece would finally give me some closure. Back then, she had held me in her arms, kissing my temple. With a soft, aching tenderness, she had promised me that the second it hit the market, she would buy the very first set for me. A week ago, the launch campaign went live. I had stared at the screen for ten solid minutes. Valerie had seen me. She had promised to buy it. I just never imagined she would buy my stolen legacy to drape over her lover’s neck. “If you really want it that badly, I’ll buy you another set tomorrow. Just stop throwing a tantrum.” “Go straight to the Upper East Side and have dinner with Grandma. Her arthritis is acting up again, and no one else knows the right massage techniques. Only you can soothe it.” There it was. The real reason she was calling. When did it start? When did her calls become nothing more than a string of transactional demands? I’m craving that soup you make. Bring a thermos to the office. I drank too much. Bring me that hangover remedy you brew. I got into a fender-bender and I’m late for a client meeting. Wait on the side of the highway in the freezing wind for the insurance guy and handle it for me. There were even times when she, drunk and belligerent, had gotten into physical altercations at clubs, and it was me who had to show up to apologize and pay off the victims. My friends used to joke about it. Those who knew our history remembered we were a couple. Those who didn’t thought I was her unpaid, live-in personal assistant. On call, twenty-four seven. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year. No sick days. “I’m going to say this one last time, Valerie. We are breaking up. Do not call me again.” “I just texted you the video tutorial on how to relieve Beatrice’s arthritis. If you actually give a damn about your grandmother, you’ll go take care of her yourself.” “If your love for her is just lip service, then that’s your problem. I’ve spent eleven years with you. My conscience is clear. I owe nothing to you, and nothing to your family.” “Are you forcing me to call your mother? Samuel, you know exactly how desperately your mother wants you to marry me. If we break up, aren’t you terrified of the hell she’ll rain down on you?” Realizing I was actually walking away, Valerie dropped her voice. It was a low, venomous threat. “She’s going to find out eventually. She’ll just have to learn to live with it,” I replied, though the mere mention of my mother made my scalp prickle with anxiety. When Valerie and I first started dating, my mother was violently opposed to it. Valerie was a struggling entrepreneur back then, drowning in debt. My mother had wanted me to follow her script—to marry a wealthy, divorced woman in our hometown who could provide for our family. But I chose Valerie. I threw myself into helping her build her startup, alienating myself from my family for three grueling years. By the fourth year, my mother saw Valerie on the cover of Forbes Midas List. Suddenly, she showed up in New York, practically begging Valerie to lock me down with a wedding. Over time, my mother started bypassing me entirely, calling Valerie directly to chat. It was through their growing alliance that Valerie learned the darkest truths about my childhood—how my mother had always neglected me, constantly draining my resources to pave a golden path for my younger brother, all under the guise of “family duty.” “Your mother is currently waiting for me to wire the money for your brother’s wedding. Are you seriously telling me she’s going to ‘live with it’ right now?” “…” Hearing that my brother was actually at the altar, I froze for a fraction of a second. “Samuel, don’t blame me for not taking you seriously. Your own mother doesn’t even love you. How do you expect me to cherish you?” “Be a good boy. Go home and wait for me. I’ll make it up to you tonight. I’ll admit, yes, I have feelings for Beckett. But I never planned on leaving you. Beckett doesn’t mind sharing, so why can’t you be a little generous? Stop letting his existence bother you.” She took my silence as submission. “So, what is this? A modern-day corporate queen with her harem? Valerie, my brother is a grown man. If he wants to get married, he needs to earn his own life. I’m done fixing his messes, and I will certainly not be buying his wife with my dignity.” “You don’t own me anymore.” I could hardly believe the sheer, unadulterated audacity coming from the woman I had worshipped for over a decade. I was suddenly profoundly grateful that the driver had accidentally taken me to Beckett’s party. Otherwise, I might still be rotting in the dark. The fiery, passionate girl I fell in love with had been completely devoured by the ruthless corporate world and the intoxicating fumes of power. She was unrecognizable. I couldn’t even conjure the memory of the girl she used to be. “You haven’t held down a real job in years. If you leave me, how exactly do you plan on surviving out there? Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. With me, you’ll never have to worry about your allowance.” “Step outside my shadow, and you’ll realize just how brutal the real world is to people like you.” She had forgotten. She had forgotten that I built the foundation of her company. She had forgotten that I was the one who secured her very first venture capital check. All she remembered was that I hadn’t worked a 9-to-5 in years. What she didn’t know was that in the endless, lonely nights waiting for her to come home, I had quietly clawed my way back into my own profession, building a quiet but lucrative freelance portfolio. As her empire expanded, the only thing that occupied her heart was herself. She stopped caring about me. She stopped knowing me. “That is my problem, Ms. Valerie. We are officially strangers. Have a nice life.” I didn’t bother defending myself. I certainly wasn’t going to tell her about the money I had made. The “allowance” she gave me was sitting in an envelope in the nightstand of our master bedroom. I had never touched a single cent of it. For years, every household expense, every grocery run, every electric bill—I had paid it all out of my own pocket. I used to be too proud to touch her money. But now? Now I realized it was back pay. Realizing it was a substantial amount, I tapped the glass partition and told the driver to reroute to our newly purchased penthouse. The renovations had just finished, and we had only been living there for a month. Every single tile, every piece of custom furniture, every piece of art—I had picked them all out with meticulous love. I used to sit on that velvet sofa and dream about us growing old in that space. Now… The fantasy cracked. And finally, my eyes were open. I grabbed the debit card from the nightstand, packed my minimal clothes into a duffel bag, and headed for the door. Just as I stepped out, the private elevator doors parted. Valerie stepped out, her arm wrapped tightly around Beckett’s waist. Six eyes met in the hallway. The air instantly violently flatlined. I was the first to recover. I stepped sideways, giving them a wide berth to pass. We were broken up. It was her penthouse. Who she brought home to screw was her business. I felt absolutely nothing. “Samuel, I knew you were just throwing a fit. I knew you wouldn’t actually leave.” Misreading the duffel bag and my presence, Valerie’s eyes lit up with a sickening flash of relief. She dropped Beckett’s waist, lunging forward to grab my wrist, trying to bury her face against my chest. “Get off me!” My voice was absolute ice. My eyes swept over her with naked disgust. She reeked of that heavy, musky scent. I didn’t even have to guess—they had already slept together in a hotel room before coming back here to shower. The thought of those hands, the same hands that had just been tracing Beckett’s skin, touching me… It made my stomach violently heave. I yanked my arm away. “Still pouting? Beckett agreed to let you have the jewelry. Look, just stop making a scene, okay?” Valerie extended her hand, taking the velvet box Beckett smoothly offered her. She shoved the diamonds—the ones I had poured my soul into designing—against my chest, expecting me to light up with gratitude. I stared down at the blinding stones. Then, I swiped my hand, sending the box clattering violently across the marble floor. “We may have been together for eleven years, Valerie, but clearly, you know nothing about me.” “I don’t do second-hand goods. Not objects. And definitely not people.” I turned to step into the elevator. Suddenly, Beckett lunged, grabbing me by the collar and violently hauling me out of the elevator bay. He dragged me to the door of the adjacent penthouse. He punched in a code, shoving me inside. The layout was identical to the home I had just meticulously designed for Valerie and me. The exact same fixtures. The exact same wallpaper. But hanging on the wall of the foyer was a massive, professionally framed wedding portrait of Valerie and Beckett. During our renovations, I knew the neighbor’s unit was also being gutted, but I had never bothered to look inside. I never knew that, separated by merely six inches of drywall, Valerie had built herself two parallel lives. A biting, terrifying chill seeped into my marrow. I gasped for air, staring at the wedding photos—taken with the exact same photography studio package we had used—and stumbled backward onto the sofa. “What exactly are you playing the victim for, Samuel?” “I am willing to accept you! Why can’t you tolerate me?” “Since we both love her, why can’t we just coexist? She bought both these penthouses, designed them exactly the same—it proves we are completely equal in her heart!” Beckett looked down at me with an expression of bizarre, twisted self-righteousness. He actually pointed around the room, detailing the furniture, the decor, the styling of the photos. “Do you know how much I sacrificed? I told her I wanted a traditional black-tie wedding shoot, but because you liked the vintage aesthetic, she made me compromise.” “When we first got together, she promised me we’d get legally married. But then she said you were better suited as the ‘official’ husband for the press, and she gave the marriage certificate to you. I swallowed my pride and agreed.” “And this building? I fucking hate this neighborhood. But so she could easily walk between our beds, I bit my tongue and moved in. Piece by piece, compromise by compromise—I have been nothing but accommodating to you! Don’t push your luck, Samuel!” As the shock slowly wore off and I could breathe again, I subtly slid my hand into my pocket and hit record on my phone. Listening to his deranged monologue, watching his face—completely devoid of shame, genuinely believing this twisted reality was logical—I had a fleeting moment of vertigo. Was I the crazy one? Were they right? But the fog cleared instantly. Valerie and Beckett were sick. They were morally bankrupt and profoundly broken. They were the monsters. Not me. I pulled my phone out completely, recording a clear, sweeping video of the room and their wedding portraits. “Since you two are so deeply in love, I’m stepping aside. You should be thrilled.” I was much calmer than I expected. I looked at Valerie, and my heart was a completely stagnant pool of water. It was strange. The very second I truly committed to walking away, she morphed into a stranger. And whatever insane, shameless things a stranger did on the street had nothing to do with me. “You are the one choosing to leave! Don’t you dare regret this! Even if you come crawling back on your knees, I won’t take you back! Think very carefully about what you’re doing!” Valerie’s jaw clenched. She hadn’t anticipated that even after Beckett’s “generous” compromises, I would still walk away. She yanked the front door open, gesturing violently for me to get out. I walked past them without a sideways glance. “Tommy! He is no longer my boyfriend. You are forbidden from driving him! Let him walk!” Valerie spat the words through her teeth, her voice trembling with barely suppressed rage.

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In my third year as a high-end wedding planner, I hit a wall. I’d presented five different design concepts to a difficult client, and she’d rejected every single one of them with a wave of her manicured hand. Then, she saw it. My personal booking for my own wedding venue. “Why don’t you just give it to me?” she asked, her voice airy as if she were asking to borrow a pen. “I’ll pay five times whatever you put down.” She leaned back, admiring the photos of the venue on my desk. “The date is perfect for me and my husband. I want to surprise him.” I thought about what it took to secure the Conservatory at The Heights. I’d worked myself to the point of physical exhaustion, pulling double shifts for months just to scrape together the non-refundable deposit. My fiancé was three thousand miles away, working a grueling corporate job in London just so we could afford a life together. The venue wasn’t just a space. it was the summit of our five-year climb. I didn’t even have to think about it. I politely declined. The next day, she showed up at the front of my apartment building. This time, she wasn’t alone. She was draped in designer labels, clinging to her husband’s arm and pouting like a spoiled child. “That planner is being completely unreasonable, honey. You have to do something,” she whimpered, her voice loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “If I don’t get the Conservatory, I’m not having a wedding at all!” The man looked down at her with indulgent adoration. “I’ll pay a hundred times the price if I have to, princess. Your wish is my command.” He patted her hand, a smug smile playing on his lips. “I’ll handle her. No one says no to my girl.” As he stepped closer, laughing at something she whispered, he looked up. The smile died on his face. The air seemed to get sucked out of the street. We both froze. This was the man who claimed he was broke. The man who said he had to live in a cramped flat across the ocean for five years just to save for our future. My fiancé, Simon. 1 For a split second, I saw a flash of pure, unadulterated panic in Simon’s eyes. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a sharp, warning glance. Camilla, oblivious to the earthquake happening beneath our feet, pulled a checkbook from her Chanel bag and thrust it toward me. “Let’s be real,” she said, her tone dripping with condescension. “Write down any number you want. I want the Conservatory, and my husband is paying the bill.” I looked past her, searching Simon’s face for a shred of guilt. A hint of remorse. Anything. There was nothing. I remembered standing in line for three days and nights in the freezing rain just to get that booking. My skin had broken out in hives from the cold; my feet had gone numb. When a spot finally opened up because another couple canceled, I’d cried with relief. I hadn’t slept that night. I’d stayed up until dawn on a video call with Simon, describing every detail of the glass ceiling and the way the moonlight would hit the dance floor. We’d dreamed about our future together until the sun came up. Now, looking at him, I realized he had never even opened the floor plans I’d sent. He didn’t care that I chose the Conservatory because it was exactly five blocks from where we had our very first date. I didn’t take the check. Simon spoke finally, his voice deep and unsettlingly calm. “Are you in such a hurry to get married?” I didn’t know who was asking—the man I’d loved for five years, or the stranger standing next to a socialite. He knew my parents had been haunting me about a wedding date since our third anniversary. He knew how many times I’d forced a smile and told my mother, “Not yet, Mom. We’re just waiting until we have enough saved.” He knew I was losing my hair from the stress of the distance. He knew I was barely holding on, all because I didn’t want to pressure him while he was “struggling” abroad. I let out a sharp, hollow laugh. “Not anymore. I’m not in a hurry at all.” Simon’s expression shifted, something dark and complex crossing his features. Camilla beamed, reaching up to plant a victory kiss on his cheek. “See? I told you my husband could handle anything!” She scribbled a number on the check that I had never seen in my bank account: one million dollars. “Take it,” she said, tucking the slip of paper into my coat pocket. “I spend more than this on my nails in a year. My husband and I are spending forty million on this vow renewal. The Conservatory is the only place classy enough for us.” She looked me up and down, her lip curling in pity. “Honey, don’t try so hard to live a life you can’t afford. Take your little boyfriend to a nice bistro or something. It’s more your speed.” I was wearing a coat from three seasons ago. I looked like a ghost standing next to her. But that coat was the only “expensive” gift Simon had ever given me for my birthday. Simon gave her arm a gentle tug, and she finally took the hint to leave. “I’m just a blunt person, don’t take it personally,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Oh, and here’s my husband’s card. We still need to finalize the details for his tuxedo.” I looked down at the heavy, embossed cardstock. Simon Montgomery, CEO of Montgomery International. The man I knew wore the same three t-shirts until they were threadbare. He cut his own hair in the bathroom to save twenty bucks. Every time I’d bragged about winning a hundred-dollar gift card at work, he must have been laughing at me behind my back. I watched them walk away, their silhouettes merging into one as they stepped into a waiting Maybach. Five years of long distance. Five years of working myself to the bone to save for a life that was already a lie. My phone buzzed in my hand. A text from Simon. Meet my assistant at the villa in an hour. We need to talk. 2 The fury in my chest was a living thing, clawing at my throat. I fired off message after message. Why did you lie? Why didn’t you tell me you were married? What was I to you? Just a hobby? The messages went unread. The “delivered” status felt like a slap in the face. Simon’s assistant—a man who looked at me like I was a piece of gum stuck to his shoe—shoved me into a black car and drove me to a secluded estate on the outskirts of the city. “This is a private property the Mrs. doesn’t know about,” he said coldly. “Wait for Mr. Montgomery inside.” As I walked through the iron gates, the staff’s eyes followed me. I could see the judgment in their stares. To them, I wasn’t a fiancé. I was a “kept woman.” A mistress. The interior of the villa was a masterpiece of marble and gold. It was a suffocating display of the wealth he’d hidden from me. I thought of the drafty, leaking basement apartment I’d lived in for five years to save three hundred dollars a month in rent. I thought of the nights I’d eaten instant noodles so I could send him “care packages” in London. Then, I saw it. On the mahogany nightstand in the master bedroom: a marriage certificate in a silver frame. The date they were married… it was the day my father died. I remembered that day with agonizing clarity. I had collapsed on the floor of the hospital, sobbing into the phone, begging Simon to come home. “I can’t, Norma,” he’d said, his voice sounding so pained, so convincing. “The office is on lockdown for the merger. If I leave now, I lose everything we’ve worked for.” He hadn’t been at an office. He’d been at an altar. When the door clicked open, Simon walked in. He reached for me, trying to pull me into his arms with that same familiar rhythm I used to crave. “Norma, listen to me,” he whispered. “She’s a family connection. It was a merger of interests. I had no choice.” He looked at me with those soulful eyes that I had once trusted with my life. “I know how understanding you are. You’ve always been my rock. Can you just try to understand this?” I shoved him back, my vision blurring with hot, angry tears. “Five years, Simon! What were we? What was I?” “I’m a bastard, okay?” he snapped, his patience fraying. “That’s why I’m doing this. I’m going to take care of you. You’ll live here. You’ll have everything you ever wanted. As long as Camilla doesn’t find out, we can have our life.” I looked around the room—at the expensive linens that smelled like another woman’s perfume, at the life he’d built on a foundation of my misery. “You want me to be your secret?” I laughed, the sound jagged and raw. “You want me to be the ‘other woman’ in a life I helped you build?” I swung my hand with every ounce of strength I had left, the crack of my palm against his cheek echoing through the room. “In your dreams, Simon!” Suddenly, there was a noise at the door. “Ma’am, you can’t go in there—” Camilla stood in the doorway, her face a mask of shock that quickly curdled into rage. She marched toward me before I could even breathe, her hand coming down across my face so hard I tasted copper. “You pathetic slut!” she shrieked. “I wondered why he smelled like that cheap perfume. I should have known he was keeping a little toy on the side.” Simon panicked, stepping between us, trying to shield me. “Camilla, let me explain—” She shoved him aside with a manic strength, grabbing me by the hair and dragging me toward the landing of the grand staircase. “Get out of my house! Get out!” I clawed at her hands, trying to find my footing, but the marble was slick. My heel caught on the edge of the top step. The world tilted. I felt the sickening rush of air before the first impact. My scream tore through the silence of the villa as I tumbled down the long, cold flight of stairs. Simon started to run down after me, his face pale with horror. But then, Camilla let out a sharp cry of her own, clutching her stomach. “Simon… the baby… I think something’s wrong…” With those three words, Simon stopped. He didn’t look back at me. He didn’t see me lying broken at the bottom of the stairs. He scooped Camilla up in his arms and stepped right over my body, rushing for the door. I lay in a pool of my own blood, my bones feeling like shattered glass. I called his name, a broken, wheezing sound, but he didn’t even turn his head. I looked to the servants for help. They just turned away, whispering the word “mistress” like a curse. Five years of devotion crumbled into the red puddle on the floor. I dragged myself toward my phone with trembling fingers. I dialed a number I hadn’t called in half a decade—a man from my past who had once promised me a way out. “You said there would always be a place for me,” I whispered into the receiver. “Does that offer still stand?” The line went quiet for a second before a calm, steady voice replied, “Always. Where are you?” Before I could answer, a notification flashed across my screen. A high-priority alert from the hospital. My mother’s heart was failing. 3 By the time I crawled into the hospital, I was a ghost of a person. My mother lay in the ICU, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. “Norma…” she rasped, her eyes filled with a devastating shame. “Why? Why would you do that to another woman?” I froze. “Mom, please, let me explain—” She turned her head away, unable to even look at me. On the small television above her bed, the local news was scrolling. Camilla had gone public. She had posted their marriage certificate alongside a tearful video, accusing a “predatory wedding planner” of trying to dismantle her marriage and endanger her unborn child. The comments section was a bloodbath. Homewrecker. Slut. Social climber. The physical pain from my fall combined with the crushing weight of the betrayal was too much. The room began to spin, the sound of the heart monitor fading into a dull roar. I collapsed into the blackness. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed of my own. Simon was sitting in the chair beside me, dark circles under his eyes. There was no warmth in his gaze. Only a cold, calculated threat. “You need to post an apology to Camilla,” he said, his voice flat. “She said if you admit you were the aggressor and beg for her forgiveness, she’ll let this go. She might even let me keep you around.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Five years of my life had been stolen, and now he wanted me to sign a confession for the crime he committed. “You’re a monster,” I spat, the words catching on the soreness of my throat. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he pulled a stack of papers from his briefcase. Medical bills. My mother’s records. “I’ve been paying for her treatment for years, Norma. If you don’t cooperate, the funding stops today. I think we both know she won’t survive the week without it.” I stared at the bills. This was the man who once swore that as long as he was alive, I’d never have to worry about money again. I nodded, my soul feeling hollowed out. The moment I posted the statement, the internet descended like vultures. My phone didn’t stop vibrating with death threats. People mailed razor blades to my apartment. I didn’t leave my room for days, until the silent alarm for my shop went off. I rushed to the studio, my heart hammering against my ribs. As soon as I stepped onto the sidewalk, a bucket of red paint splashed over my head, stinging my eyes. “Homewrecker! You almost killed a pregnant woman!” “You used your job to seduce a married man! You’re disgusting!” Inside, my life’s work—the mood boards, the fabric swatches, the dreams of a hundred brides—was being torn to shreds by a mob of “moral crusaders.” “Stop it! Please!” I screamed. Camilla appeared from the crowd, her hair artfully disheveled, tears streaming down her face. “You knew we were getting ready for our big day,” she sobbed for the cameras. “You threw my custom gown into the sewer just to hurt me. You can hate me, but how could you try to ruin a wedding?” She pulled back her sleeve, revealing faint, fresh scratches on her arm. “You’re a psycho.” The crowd growled. Camilla turned to Simon, who was standing by his car, watching the spectacle. “Simon, if you won’t protect me from her, then the wedding is off! I’ll just leave so she can have you!” My heart lurched. I waited for him to say something. To tell them the truth. To remember the girl he used to love. Simon stepped forward, his eyes burning with a dark, cold fury as he looked at me. “I thought your apology was real. I didn’t realize you were planning to sabotage her behind my back.” He turned to the men standing behind him—three large security guards. “Since she refuses to learn her lesson, give her something to remember it by.” A cold dread settled in my stomach. The guards pinned me to the pavement. I felt a sharp, agonizing snap as they began to break my fingers, one by one. The sound of my own screams filled the air, but Simon didn’t blink. He just watched, his face a mask of indifference. “You’re a coward!” I shrieked through the pain. “You’re a pathetic, soulless coward!” Simon turned his back on me. “Break three fingers every day,” he told the guards. “Don’t let her out until she truly understands what she did wrong.” As Camilla followed him to the car, she looked back at me. The tears were gone. In their place was a smirk of pure, triumphant malice. 4 I was a prisoner in my own ruins. For days, I huddled in the corner of my destroyed shop, waiting for the guards to return for their daily ritual of cruelty. By the time Camilla returned, my hands were mangled, my legs broken from a “fall” the guards orchestrated. I was a broken doll tossed in the dirt. She stood over me, draped in a white fur coat. “How does it feel to be the most hated woman in the city? Do you finally get it? Simon loves me. He’d burn the world down to keep me happy.” I closed my eyes. The pain was so constant it had become a rhythm. “You think because he did this to me, it means he loves you?” I whispered. “It just means he’s a monster. And eventually, he’ll turn on you, too.” She laughed, a sharp, tinkling sound. “Oh, honey. You still don’t know the best part, do you?” She leaned down, her voice a poisonous whisper. “While you were ‘recovering’ in the hospital after your fall? Simon had the doctors perform a little procedure. You don’t have a uterus anymore, Norma. You’re never going to be a mother. You’re just a broken toy now.” The world went silent. I reached down, my trembling, broken fingers feeling the jagged scar beneath my clothes that I had been too traumatized to investigate. “He said a woman like you—a common mistress—didn’t have the right to carry a Montgomery heir,” she sneered, patting her own stomach. “There’s only room for one child in his life.” I couldn’t even scream. The betrayal was so deep it bypassed the vocal cords and went straight to the soul. Every “I love you” he’d ever whispered was a lie. Every dream of a family we’d shared was a weapon he’d used to gut me. Then, she dropped a final piece of paper onto my lap. A death certificate. “Your mother died this morning, Norma. The doctors said she just lost the will to live. Or maybe she was just embarrassed to have a daughter like you.” A low, guttural wail broke from my throat. I lunged for her, but my broken legs gave out. I fell into the red paint on the floor, sobbing into the dust. “You’ll pay for this,” I wheezed. “Both of you.” “I doubt it,” Camilla said, stepping toward the door. “I can’t have you lingering around, reminding him of his mistakes.” She slipped out and locked the heavy deadbolt from the outside. Seconds later, the sharp, cloying scent of gas filled the room. I scrambled toward the door, my broken fingers clawing at the wood until my fingernails ripped away, leaving ten bloody streaks on the frame. Boom. A wall of heat slammed into me. The orange glow of the fire reflected in my eyes as the shop—my life, my memories, my grief—began to melt. As the smoke filled my lungs, I had a hallucination. I saw Simon, years ago, kneeling in the rain with a ring, promising me forever. I realized then that the girl who loved him had already died a long time ago.

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Three years of long-distance. I flew back to Boston a week early, heart in my throat, ready to surprise my fiancé. On the cab ride over, I was mindlessly scrolling through a local viral thread on a gossip subreddit. [UPDATE: Faking a confession to my boss so I wouldn’t get laid off.] “You guys can stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. We’re officially together.” “Two years of enemies-to-lovers tension. Turns out, even the coldest corporate king can be brought to his knees. ;)” The photo attached to the post was meant to be a casual flex—two hands intertwined, showing off matching couple’s rings. My thumb froze over the screen. Right there, on the webbing of the man’s hand between his thumb and index finger, was a faint, jagged scar. My fiancé had the exact same one. “We got into a stupid fight yesterday and he’s been icing me out. Ugh. But a smart woman knows when to drop her ego and coax her man.” “Anyway, I’m literally standing outside his gated community right now.” The image on my screen slowly bled into the reality unfolding in front of me. I looked up, dazed. A gorgeous, vibrant girl in her early twenties was standing just outside the wrought-iron pedestrian gate, flashing me a brilliant smile. “Hey! Could you do me a huge favor and scan me in?” 1 The scanner beeped, recognizing my face, and the heavy iron gate clicked open. The girl thanked me profusely, took two steps inside, and then spun back around. “Oh, by the way, do you know which way Phase Two, Unit Three is?” She stuck her tongue out playfully. “I came completely unannounced. Trying to give my boyfriend a surprise.” Phase Two was a newly developed, ultra-exclusive row of townhouses. There were only a handful of units in that specific section. Carter Dalton lived in Unit Three. A familiar scar. A matching address. My fingertips went numb. A surreal, hysterical feeling bubbled up in my chest. It’s impossible. I looked at the girl. Her username was Kelsey. She was a vision of youthful, effortless beauty. Voluminous beach waves, a flawless natural makeup look, and pristine French tips. The spring air was still biting and cold, but she was braving it in a tiny pleated skirt. Anyone looking at her would smile at the sheer, unstoppable force of young love. I pointed her in the right direction, and she beamed. “Wait, which way are you heading?” she asked. I swallowed the sandpaper in my throat. “That way, actually.” “Oh, perfect!” She immediately looped her arm through mine, pressing in close like we were old friends. “I was low-key terrified of walking through this massive place by myself.” Kelsey was exactly like her online persona: a relentless chatterbox. In the short walk down the manicured path, she filled the silence. Every third sentence circled back to her boyfriend. “He’s actually the VP of our division. When I first started, my numbers were awful, so I fake-confessed my love to him just to make him uncomfortable. But guess what? The tips of his ears turned bright red!” “After that, he magically crossed my name off the layoff list.” “He acts so tough, but he’s incredibly possessive. Once, I wore a dress that was a little too low-cut to a client dinner. He looked like he wanted to murder someone, dragged me into the hallway by the restrooms, and kissed me breathless.” As I listened, the suffocating cloud of dread in my chest began to dissipate. Her boyfriend got jealous. He lost his temper. He picked petty fights that lasted until dawn. That sounded absolutely nothing like Carter. My Carter was a baseline of steady, unwavering gentleness. I almost laughed at my own paranoia. Right. A scar on the hand wasn’t exactly a one-of-a-kind birthmark. And Carter wasn’t the only person who owned property in this zip code. Long-distance really did make people crazy. It made you invent ghosts in the dark. How could I ever doubt the boy who had literally taken a knife for me? Thank God, I thought, the tension bleeding out of my shoulders. Thank God I’m home. Kelsey pouted, letting out a dramatic sigh. “We fought all night yesterday, and he wouldn’t even reply to my texts. So here I am, delivering myself to his doorstep as an apology.” She shook her designer tote bag, revealing the corner of a familiar dark blue box. She caught me looking, her eyes dropping to the modest diamond on my left ring finger, and gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Let me guess, you’ve been away from your husband for a while? Do you have any of these at home? I can spare a few if you need them.” Heat rushed to my face, and I looked away. “N-no, I’m good.” Kelsey giggled, playfully trying to press the box into my hands. “Take some! I bought two jumbo packs. We’ll never get through all of them.” My hands froze mid-push. It was a specific luxury brand. A specific ultra-thin line. Carter hated change. He only ever bought this exact kind. My heart dropped like a stone. Suddenly, a phone rang. Kelsey answered it, her voice instantly dropping into a coquettish whine. “Mmm? How did you know I was outside your house?” A pause. “Are you tracking my location again? Honestly, Mr. Dalton, you need to reel in your control issues.” Mr. Dalton. My feet stopped moving. I felt anchored to the concrete. “Okay, okay, I know. Just forgive me this once, please?” She hung up, gave me a hurried, ecstatic wave, and practically skipped toward the heavy oak door of Unit Three. The door opened. She flew like a joyful little bird straight into the arms of the man standing in the foyer. He looked down, his arm circling her waist with practiced ease. Through the half-open wrought-iron gate of his courtyard, from barely ten feet away, I had a front-row seat. It was clear as day. It was my Carter. 2 “You’re freezing. You never dress for the weather.” The words were a reprimand, but the tone was thick with indulgence. Carter stripped off his cardigan and draped it over her shoulders in one fluid, habitual motion. As if sensing a shift in the air, his eyes flicked upward toward the gate. “Who’s that behind—” Kelsey cut him off, wrapping her arms around his neck and breathing against his jaw. “I hand-delivered myself to you, and you’re looking at someone else?” “Mr. Dalton,” she whispered, loud enough to carry through the crisp spring air. “I bought a new set. Today… I’ll let you do it anywhere you want.” “The kitchen island, the sofa, the balcony… let’s try them all.” Carter didn’t say a word. But I knew the subtle darkening of his eyes. I knew the way his jaw tensed. He was turned on. The heavy front door slammed shut. It locked out the rest of the world, leaving me standing alone in the biting wind, surrounded by the blooming spring I had been so desperate to return to. How? How could it be him? But my eyes didn’t lie. When I was three years old, my parents moved us to a house at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. Five-year-old Carter Dalton had marched right up to me, pinched my cheek, and then blushed furiously. “Are you going to live next door?” When we were nine, playing house in his backyard, I claimed the role of the mom. Carter shoved the other boys aside, smiling that easy, brilliant smile. “If Natalie is the mom, then I have to be the dad.” When I was eighteen, a home invasion turned violent. A man cornered me in the kitchen. In the second before the blade sliced across my neck, Carter lunged, grabbing the raw edge of the knife with his bare hand. Blood poured down his wrist, staining my shirt crimson. By the time the paramedics arrived, he was ghost-pale, yet he still managed to smile at me while they bandaged his ruined hand. “Don’t cry, Nat. You’re safe. Your protector isn’t hurting at all.” The nerve damage left him with a permanent tremor in that hand. I chose to go to medical school because of him. During our undergrad years at different colleges, every guy who tried to ask me out was “coincidentally” intercepted by Carter. He played the role of the overprotective older boy next door, scaring them all away. Until one night, smelling of cheap beer and desperation, he pinned me against the wall outside my dorm, his voice ragged. He said it over and over. “Natalie, I don’t want to just be the boy next door anymore. I can’t do it.” Four years after we officially got together, I was accepted into a prestigious medical fellowship in London. Knowing how heartbroken I was to leave, Carter gathered both our families and all our closest friends for a massive farewell dinner. Right there, in front of everyone, he dropped to one knee. His eyes were entirely mine. “Nat, go chase your dream. When your fellowship is over and you come back to me, we’re getting married.” I believed him. I suppose fate loves nothing more than making a mockery of fools who believe in things too deeply. It only took one look. Twenty years of devotion, of shared history, of an unbreakable bond. Obliterated in a single, earth-shattering second. The spring rain started to fall. Fine, misty droplets hit the pavement. I couldn’t tell if my face was wet from the rain or from my own tears. It wasn’t until I pulled out my phone that I realized my hands were shaking violently. It took me four tries to hit his contact name. Ringing. Ringing. Voicemail. I didn’t stop. I knew he was up there. Separated from me by nothing but brick and drywall. But I didn’t have the courage to walk up to that door and confront them. So I just stood in the rain, pressing redial. Over and over. Like a complete idiot. Half an hour later, he finally picked up. His voice was rushed, the underlying breathlessness poorly concealed. “Nat? Hey, baby, what’s wrong? Did something happen?” I swallowed the jagged glass in my throat. “Nothing… I just missed you.” “Where are you?” I heard the subtle exhale of relief on his end. “I’m still at the office. Things are just crazy right now, lots of fires to put out…” He didn’t even get to finish his lie. A sickeningly sweet female voice drifted through the receiver, entirely too close to the mic. “Mr. Dalton, this project is very urgent. We really shouldn’t waste any time.” The muffled friction of skin and sheets cut through my ear like a serrated blade. Carter cursed under his breath and hurried to hang up. “Nat, I’ve got to go handle this. I’ll call you back later tonight. I love you.” Every single time we hung up, Carter ended it with “I love you.” Today was the day I learned the truth. I learned that he could say those three words to me, while physically inside someone else. My phone vibrated again in my palm. I frantically wiped my eyes. “Mom.” “Yes. My flight landed. I’m back.” She was practically glowing through the phone. “Oh, honey! Have you seen Carter yet? Have you guys set a firm date for the wedding?” It was spring. The cherry blossoms were blooming everywhere. On a FaceTime call last year, Carter had planned it all out: “Nat, you’ll be back right when the weather turns. We’ll do an outdoor garden wedding. It’ll be perfect.” I opened my mouth, but only the bitter taste of ash came out. “Mom.” “There’s not going to be a wedding.” 3 It wasn’t until I was back in my childhood bedroom that the freezing dampness of the rain began to fade. My mother hovered in the doorway, her face etched with careful concern. “Did you two have a fight?” When I didn’t answer, she seemed to take it as confirmation, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Natalie, listen to me. When two people have been together as long as you have, friction is normal.” “Your father and I watched Carter grow up. You two have practically spent your whole lives together. You don’t just throw away a wedding over a little spat.” Right. From the time we were three, up until today—my twenty-seventh birthday. Every single brilliant, sunlit memory of my life was tethered to Carter Dalton. When did it rot? When did the foundation turn to sand? I stopped listening to my mother’s reassurances. I offered a hollow nod and gently closed the door. I turned my phone back on. I pulled up Kelsey’s profile. I scrolled all the way to the very first post, and I started reading. She hadn’t lied about a single thing. It had all started with that ridiculous, brazen confession to save her job. Carter’s attitude toward her had slowly shifted into something ambiguous. Something dangerous. He had saved her job, then promoted her three times in two years, bumping her all the way up to his executive assistant. Drunk on her own success, Kelsey had only grown bolder. “I complained yesterday that I couldn’t sleep without someone next to me, and he brought me back this custom room spray from his business trip! Does anyone recognize the brand?” My finger hovered over the photo. It wasn’t a brand. I had made it myself. Carter had always struggled with insomnia. While studying in London, I took an apothecary class, carefully blending lavender, cedarwood, and chamomile, and tucked the bottle into his suitcase the last time he visited. When I asked him on the phone if it helped him sleep, he had evaded the question, his voice dropping low. “Nothing works when you aren’t here.” I had been too busy blushing at the compliment to realize he had handed my handmade devotion straight to his assistant. The betrayal had started so long ago. Fighting the sharp, agonizing spasms in my chest, I kept scrolling. Last March, Kelsey had been hospitalized for an acute stomach ulcer. I recognized the extravagant arrangement of pink Stargazer lilies in the corner of her hospital room photo. I had ordered them. That was the night Carter called me at 3 AM London time, frantic, saying a close friend had collapsed. I spent hours on the phone, leveraging connections with visiting American doctors to get his “friend” bumped into a VIP private room. I sat awake in my cold apartment the entire night, terrified that he was the one who was sick and hiding it from me. It was her. It was always her. And then, the post from two days ago. Kelsey standing under a massive, sprawling oak tree. “My boss finally brought me to his childhood home.” “I dug up the time capsule he buried ten years ago. Honestly, who cares about a childhood sweetheart? I am his future now, and as of today, I’ve claimed his past too.” The caption was aggressive. Pointed. I understood exactly what she was doing. My heart, piece by piece, turned to ice. Inside that time capsule was a Polaroid of me and Carter. On the back, in his messy handwriting, he had written: “To my Natalie. Now and forever.” Kelsey knew exactly who I was. Our encounter at the gate wasn’t an accident. It was an ambush. A notification popped up at the top of the screen. Kelsey had just posted a new update. A selfie of her flushed, glowing face, with torn blue wrappers scattered across the hardwood floor behind her. It wasn’t even subtle anymore. A wave of pure nausea hit me, so violently I had to grip the edge of the desk. I forced myself to breathe. Then, I dialed Carter’s number. “Nat, baby, I’m so sorry, I was just slammed with—” “Carter,” I interrupted him, my voice dead flat. “You once told me you would do anything for me. Is that true?” “…” “Of course it is.” “Your new executive assistant. I don’t like her.” “Fire her. Right now.” 4 Dead silence on the other end of the line. When Carter finally spoke, his voice was tight. Defensive. “…Where is this coming from?” “Who’s been talking to you?” He was struggling to keep his temper in check. “Kelsey is just an assistant. I kept her on because she gets the job done. It’s not easy for a young girl trying to make it in the corporate world. You expect me to just fire her on a whim?” Perhaps realizing how harshly he was snapping at me, he took a breath and softened his tone. “Nat, is this just pre-wedding jitters? Are you feeling insecure because we’ve been apart for so long?” “I promise you, I only have eyes for yo—” I let out a breathless, broken laugh. The tears were falling freely now, hot and fast. “Carter.” “I never even told you her name.” Before he could say another word, I ended the call. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, walked over to my safe, and opened it. When my fingers brushed the cold, heavy gold of the vintage bangle inside, I froze. During my medical rotations, I had seen so much death. Unrequited love, bitter divorces, grudges held for decades, the inability to let go. In the end, it all just turned into ash by a hospital bed. Life is too short. Loving someone fiercely is never a mistake. And walking away when it’s broken isn’t a failure either. Even if… even if it ends as ugly as this. Making the decision took less than a second. I opened my contacts and sent a mass text to every single family member and close friend who had attended our engagement dinner. The next afternoon. The private dining room of our favorite country club slowly filled up. Everyone who walked in greeted me with a knowing, teasing smile. “Well look who’s back! Planning a massive surprise for Carter, huh? Absence makes the heart grow fonder!” Every single person in that room thought I had called them here to fast-track the wedding. Only Carter’s parents looked slightly confused. “Natalie, sweetheart, why all the secrecy? The courthouse is already closed today, isn’t it?” Mrs. Dalton asked. “Are you two planning an elopement? Wait, where are your parents?” I didn’t answer her directly. I poured her a cup of tea and set it gently in front of her. “Mr. and Mrs. Dalton. My parents felt it was best they didn’t attend today.” Mrs. Dalton frowned, opening her mouth to ask another question, when the heavy mahogany doors burst open. Carter rushed in, his hair disheveled. He made a beeline for me, grabbing my hands, panic radiating off him. “Nat, when did you get back? Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” “Whatever you heard about her, I swear to God it’s just office rumors, you have to belie—” He cut himself off. He finally looked around the room, the color draining from his face. “What… why is everyone here? Mom? Dad?” For a few agonizing seconds, he just stared. And then, his panicked expression smoothed out into a fond, exasperated smile. His eyes filled with that familiar, indulgent warmth. “Oh, I get it. You were just messing with me yesterday, weren’t you? Making me sweat for this big surprise.” The jagged scar on his hand was pressed directly into my palm. I looked down at it. Then I looked up, meeting his incredibly convincing, deeply affectionate gaze, trying to find the man I thought I knew. Kelsey’s aggressively floral perfume still clung to his collar. On his right hand, the silver band she had bought him was gone, leaving only a faint indent in his skin. I wanted to ask him how he did it. How he could look me in the eye and pretend absolutely nothing had happened. But I realized that asking him would only invite more lies, stretching this nightmare out indefinitely. I was done. I slowly, deliberately pulled my hands out of his grip. I picked up the heavy velvet box and slid the heirloom Dalton bangle across the table to his parents. The room went dead silent. Every person in our circle knew exactly what that bangle meant. “Mr. and Mrs. Dalton. The wedding is off.” Carter’s pupils blew wide. The charming smile contorted into genuine anger. “Natalie! Do not make jokes like this in front of my parents!” “The wedding is off? Twenty years of our lives, and you’re just throwing it away? Over what? Office gossip?” I looked him dead in the eye, my voice barely above a whisper. “Over what?” “Carter. When you were balls-deep in Kelsey Monroe yesterday, playing me for an absolute fool, did you think about our twenty years then?”

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My husband and I were the youngest tenure-track professors at the university. I had just officially stepped aside, giving him my slot for the prestigious international research fellowship in London, when he came home to make a confession. “June, I’ve fallen in love with someone else. She only finished high school, but she’s… vibrant. Pure. She has a kind of courage neither of us ever had.” He paused, looking at me with a mixture of pity and resolve. “You’re not like her. You’re established here; you have a brilliant career ahead of you in the States. But her? She needs to get out. Going with me is her only chance at a real life.” He took a breath, then added, “I’ll leave you everything in the divorce. The house, the savings—take it. It doesn’t matter. Once I’m overseas, I’ll have everything I need.” I nodded slowly, my voice trapped in my throat. I agreed to his terms. Then, as soon as the door closed behind him, I dialed the Provost’s office. If he was so intent on leaving with nothing, he could start by leaving behind the fellowship I’d gifted him. 1. Arthur actually had the audacity to chuckle when he saw the shock in my eyes. “Daisy is just… she’s a beautiful soul, June.” “She used to bring me late-night takeout when I was pulling all-nighters in the lab. She’d just leave it at the door and text me a heart.” “When the pressure got too high, she’d just sit next to me in silence. She doesn’t understand the physics, but she’s willing to try and understand me.” In that moment, I forgot how to breathe. The year Arthur was finishing his PhD, he worked himself into a literal stomach ulcer. I was the one who stayed by his hospital bed for three days and nights, feeding him broth spoonful by spoonful. The first time his grant proposal was rejected and he locked himself in his office, I was the one who climbed through the window with a bottle of scotch and sat on the floor with him until dawn. I thought those things didn’t need to be said. We were a team. We had crawled out of the same state-run group home together, two kids with nothing in this world but each other’s ambitions. But now, the very things that were supposed to be understood—the years of silent, grinding support—were being used as his justification for leaving. I forced my hands to stop shaking and found my voice. “You’re thirty years old, Arthur. She’s eighteen. She’s a child.” He didn’t even flinch. “I know. Age is just a number when two souls connect.” I looked him dead in the eye. “You started university at sixteen. You have a doctorate. You’re a rising star in academia. She’s a girl who barely passed her GED.” Arthur’s brow furrowed. “June, don’t be an elitist. Education isn’t the same thing as character. I won’t have you looking down on her.” I felt like he’d doused me in ice water. Maybe my expression was too horrific to look at, because his tone softened slightly. “Look, June, you don’t need to cling to me. You have your work. You have your chair. You’ll be fine without me.” I waited for the ‘but.’ “But Daisy is different,” he continued, his eyes glazing over with a sickening kind of tenderness. “Her parents split when she was a toddler. She was raised by a grandmother who died last year. She’s been alone since then. Do you have any idea how hard it is for a girl like that? No degree, no connections, just scraping by in a world that wants to chew her up?” He actually looked misty-eyed. “She needs this. She needs a fresh start in a place where no one knows her past. She needs me to save her.” It was absurd. I was six when I was dumped in that group home. When I was twelve and burning up with a 104-degree fever, the staff told me to “tough it out.” I was the one who crawled out of bed and walked two miles to the clinic alone. When I got into the best prep school in the state on a scholarship at sixteen, I didn’t have money for the meal plan. I spent my weekends scrubbing floors to pay for my books. I had clawed my way up every single inch of the mountain. But he didn’t see that. He only saw the girl who was “pure” enough to play the victim, the one who made him feel like a hero. Just this afternoon, the Provost had called me into his office. He told me there was only one opening for the prestigious fellowship in London this year. After looking at the publications, they wanted me. I declined. I told him Arthur needed the opportunity more, that his research direction was better suited for the European labs. I told him I was happy to stay behind and manage our department. The Provost had been surprised, but he’d smiled. “You’re a supportive wife, June.” I wasn’t a “supportive wife.” I was just the girl who remembered being twelve years old when the home gave out one piece of candy per child, and Arthur gave me his. I remembered being fifteen when some local kids tried to jump me, and Arthur ended up with a broken nose protecting me. I remembered being eighteen, both of us broke in college, and him eating ramen for a month so he could buy me a decent coat for my first internship. I thought we were family. And now, the moment I handed him his future on a silver platter, he was planning to use it to fly another woman away. She needed a new life. What about mine? I grabbed the glass of water from the coffee table and hurled it at him. “Get out!” The glass clipped his shoulder and shattered against the floor, soaking his expensive wool sweater. He didn’t move. He just reached into his bag, pulled out a manila envelope, and set it on the table. “The divorce papers are already signed,” he said quietly. “Like I said, I’m taking nothing. The house, the equity, the accounts—it’s all yours. Everything we built here stays with you.” He hesitated. “Think about it. When you’re ready to be rational, we’ll go to the courthouse.” 2. Arthur left, and I knew he wasn’t coming back tonight. The silence in the living room was deafening, punctuated only by the drip of water from the table. I walked into the bathroom and stared at the woman in the mirror. I saw the lack of sleep in the dark circles under my eyes, the subtle fine lines at the corners of my lids, the way my face had thinned out from years of stress and ambition. I looked like a woman approaching thirty who worked sixty hours a week. I didn’t look like an eighteen-year-old girl. But I had been eighteen once. I had been the one with the glowing skin and the bright eyes, looking at him as if he were the sun. I had been the one who skipped three grades and started my Master’s alongside him because I couldn’t bear to be behind. Because I loved him, I had nearly erased myself. I edited his papers. I polished his grant proposals. I stayed up until 3:00 AM pulling data for his projects. In the beginning, he was guilty about it. “June, thank you. I’ll make it up to you, I swear. We’ll go to the Caribbean as soon as this is over.” Then it became: “Can you just take one more look at this?” And finally: “Finish this and email it to me when you’re done.” The year he got his Associate Professor title, I had even let him put his name as lead author on one of my papers. He’d said his tenure track was more “precarious” than mine, that he needed the win more. I was the fool. I hadn’t realized that while I was building a pedestal for him, I was digging my own grave. I hadn’t realized that at twenty-nine, I was already the more successful academic. I was the youngest full professor in the department’s history. And I had almost given it all to him. I looked at my reflection and slapped myself. Hard. The sting on my cheek was nothing compared to the rot in my chest. June, you absolute idiot. Betrayal by a man is one thing. Betrayal of your own potential is an unforgivable sin. My phone buzzed. A mutual friend had posted a photo to a group chat. There was Arthur at a local dive bar, his arm draped around a girl with messy blonde hair and a crop top. He was laughing. He looked… unburdened. I didn’t reply. I walked back into the living room, picked up the divorce papers, and signed my name with a steady hand. Then I called the Provost back. “Sir? About that London fellowship. I’ve had a change of heart. I want it.” There was a long silence on the other end. “Are you sure, June? Arthur just submitted his resignation for his current position. If you take that slot, he’s… well, he’s going to be out of a job and a project.” This time, I didn’t hesitate. “I’m sure. That was his choice. It has nothing to do with me.” I wasn’t a supportive wife anymore. And I was going to be an even worse ex-wife. 3. A few days later, I was at the federal building to expedite my visa paperwork when I ran into her. Lexie—the “pure, vibrant” girl Arthur was so obsessed with—was currently at the service counter, screaming at a clerk. “What do you mean I can’t get a long-stay visa without a sponsor or a work permit? That’s literally discrimination!” The clerk was trying to remain patient. “Ma’am, as I’ve explained, you don’t meet the educational or professional requirements for this specific visa category. You need a different form of application.” She wasn’t listening. Her voice rose an octave. A manager finally stepped out to escort her to a side seating area. I stayed in my line. When it was my turn, I handed over my university credentials and my fellowship award letter. The process was seamless. As I turned to leave, Lexie blocked my path. She pointed a finger at me and yelled at the manager, “Why does she get to go through and I don’t? Look at her! She’s way older than me! If she can go, why can’t I?” The manager sighed. “Ma’am, her qualifications and documentation are in order. This has nothing to do with you.” Lexie turned her glare on me. It was pure venom. “I know who you are. Artie told me everything. He said you’re a stalker who won’t sign the papers. Are you following him to London? Are you really that desperate?” She stepped closer, her breath smelling like cheap energy drinks. “You’re clinging to a man who doesn’t want you. You’re literally trying to be a third wheel in our relationship. Don’t you have any dignity, you old hag?” I’ve met all kinds of people in my life, but the sheer audacity of this girl was something new. I gave her a cold, thin smile. “Let’s get one thing straight. Arthur and I are still legally married. In the eyes of the law, I am his wife. You? You’re just a girl he’s using to feel young because he’s terrified of his own mediocrity.” She let out a harsh laugh. “What century are you living in? The one who isn’t loved is the real outsider. Do you know Artie drives forty minutes out of his way every night to bring me my favorite cupcakes? He stays up until 2:00 AM watching reality TV with me even when he has an 8:00 AM lecture. He tells everyone he’s ‘at the lab’ just so he can sneak out to see me.” My heart did a slow, painful somersault. All those nights I thought he was grinding away at his research. All those nights I stayed up late proofreading his work so he could “sleep,” he was actually with her. I had been fighting for our future while he was playing house with a teenager. “He also said you’re like a dead fish in bed,” she sneered, leaning in. “That’s why he’s leaving. You’re boring, June.” I didn’t think. My hand moved on its own. The slap echoed in the marble lobby. But before I could pull my hand back, a grip tightened around my wrist. It was painful. Arthur was suddenly there, his face contorted with rage. “June! What the hell are you doing?” Lexie immediately collapsed into him, her voice turning into a pathetic whimper. “Artie, I just wanted to help with the visa stuff so we could be together… and she just started calling me names… she said she was going to kill me…” Arthur’s eyes were like flint. “June, we signed the papers. We’re done. If you have a problem, take it out on me. Leave her out of this.” People were starting to whisper. “Is that the ex? God, how embarrassing.” “She looks so professional, but she’s acting like a crazy person.” The comments stung, but I kept my eyes on Arthur. This was a man I had known for twenty years. From the group home to our wedding day. I thought I knew every fiber of his soul. Now, he was a stranger. I took a deep breath and smoothed my coat. “Done? Fine. But if we’re truly ‘done,’ then I want everything back. The papers I wrote for you. The data I collected for your experiments. The projects I secured for you. And especially that lead-author credit on the paper that got you your promotion. Do you want to return those, Arthur?” I said it calmly, but Arthur’s face went white. In our world, that wasn’t just a divorce dispute. That was academic fraud. It could end his career in a heartbeat. His grip on my wrist loosened. “June… let’s not be dramatic.” I didn’t answer. I rubbed my wrist, turned around, and walked out into the sunlight. 4. For the next few days, my phone was a graveyard of texts from him. At first, he tried the “reasonable” approach: June, what happened at the federal building was a mess. Let’s just move on with our lives. Don’t say things you’ll regret about the papers. Let’s keep this civil. I didn’t reply. Then he started fishing, trying to see if I was actually going to report him for academic dishonesty. When I still didn’t respond, he turned nasty: June, think very carefully. If you try to burn me down, I’ll take you with me. We can both lose our jobs. Don’t be a spiteful bitch. I swiped the notifications away and turned off the screen. Eventually, the texts stopped. He probably assumed I was just blowing off steam and didn’t have the guts to follow through. He started posting on Instagram again. Photos of him and Lexie with captions like: When you finally find the one, time doesn’t matter. Arthur, who used to hate being in front of a camera, was suddenly grinning in every shot. Our mutual friends were losing their minds. People were tagging me, asking if we’d split, asking who the “mystery girl” was. He didn’t hide it. He went into the group chats and announced our divorce as if it were a victory. “Some people look good on paper,” he wrote, “but in real life, they’re just calculators. They don’t know how to live. My Lexie is pure. She hasn’t been corrupted by the ‘system’ like some people I know.” Everyone knew who he was talking about. The chat went silent for a few seconds. I received a dozen “I’m so sorry” texts. I ignored them all. The day my fellowship was officially processed, the university called me in. They were finalizing the travel grants and the formal announcement. As I walked toward the administration building, I saw them. Lexie was clinging to Arthur’s arm, practically hanging off him. When she saw me, she made a face and buried her head in his shoulder. Arthur stopped as I approached. He looked down at me with a strange kind of pity. “June,” he said softly. “It’s over. We’re moving on. It’s better this way.” I said nothing. He took a few steps past me, then looked back over his shoulder. He looked like a man who thought he’d won—the man who got the girl and the career, while his “boring” wife was left in the dust. We were called into the conference room. The Provost was there, along with the Dean of Sciences and a few people from the Ethics Committee I didn’t recognize. Arthur stood confidently at the head of the table. Lexie hovered by the door, trying to peek in. The Provost looked at us and picked up a folder. “We’ve called you here to announce the final selection for the London Fellowship. This year’s recipient is—”

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Reid had been a genius since we were in pull-ups. When we were kids, I would stay up until one in the morning, nursing a cold cup of tea and highlighting textbooks until my eyes blurred, while he’d be out like a light by nine. And yet, every single time, he’d beat my scores by thirty points without breaking a sweat. In college, it was the same story. It took me a full semester of grueling library sessions to wrap my head around advanced calculus; he’d glance at the problem set once and solve it before the professor finished writing on the board. Even when I spent six months meticulously preparing for the state revenue service exams, he just flipped through the study guide a few days before the test. Predictably, he took the top spot in both the written and oral rounds. Luckily, there were two openings. I had placed second. I went to the HR department with him, my hand steady as I held my folder of certification documents, ready to sign my future into existence. But before I could reach the desk, Reid reached over, snatched my papers, and ripped them into a dozen jagged pieces. He didn’t even look at me. He just stared at the hiring manager. “You want me on your team? Fine. But Lexi comes with me.” The manager looked like he wanted to laugh, but the expression curdled into disbelief. “Do you realize she didn’t even pass the written exam? She’s not even on the list.” Reid let out a cold, sharp laugh. “That’s my condition. Either Lexi gets a desk next to mine, or your number one recruit walks out that door right now.” I felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my own throat. He was a talent, sure. But in the sea of people clawing for a career in the public sector, talent was the only thing we had in surplus. Suddenly, I realized: if he walked, I wasn’t just second place anymore. I was the new number one. 1 The white scraps of my life’s work fluttered down like mocking snow, landing on my shoulders and the scuffed linoleum floor. My hands shook as I reached down to grab the remnants of my certifications. I looked up at Reid, my voice a strangled whisper. “You’ve completely lost your mind.” Reid ignored me, his gaze locked onto the manager with a chilling confidence. “Lexi goes where I go. If she’s not hired, I won’t accept the position. I’ll give you some time to think about it.” “Reid!” I finally found my voice, sharp and trembling. “Those were my papers! I earned the second slot. You have no right—” He turned to me then, flashing that signature, crooked smirk—the one that used to make my heart skip a beat when we were teenagers, back when I thought he was my protector. “Relax, Norah,” he said, his tone infuriatingly patronizing. “We grew up together; I know how much you hate being away from home. Lexi doesn’t like long-distance either. Just be a good girl and wait, okay?” “You—” The manager cleared his throat, his face a mask of professional restraint. “Mr. Scott, I’ve seen your scores. Your aptitude is undeniable. I truly hoped you would join us.” “And I will,” Reid said, leaning back. “As soon as you process Lexi’s paperwork.” “But Lexi Wells failed,” the manager snapped. “She is ineligible for public service. We cannot hire her.” “Then you don’t get me.” “I see.” The manager took a deep, steadying breath, his jaw tight. “Fine. If she doesn’t come, you don’t come? Message received.” He stood up, smoothing his tie. “You can leave now.” Reid’s eyebrows shot up. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, but he quickly masked it with arrogance. “Thank you for understanding.” He tossed a smug look over his shoulder at me. “See you at home, Norah.” The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him. I stood there, clutching the shredded paper, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Sir…” The manager didn’t say a word. He reached into a drawer, pulled out a fresh set of forms, and slid them across the mahogany desk toward me. “Fill these out. Go get your documents reprinted and notarized,” he said, his voice level. “Since he’s declined, the top spot moves to you by default.” My breath hitched. A spark of pure, unadulterated triumph lit up in my chest. “As for the second opening,” the manager continued, “it will go to the candidate who placed third. Someone who actually wants to work.” I bit my lip to keep from grinning. “Thank you, sir.” I almost wanted to run after Reid and thank him. Did he really think the real world was like our prep school? Where the dean would bend every rule just to keep the ‘golden boy’ happy? He was about to find out that out here, everyone is replaceable. 2 By the time I got back to campus, the news had already traveled through the grapevine. A group of seniors was huddled near the career center, their voices loud with excitement. “Did you hear? Reid basically forced the State Revenue Department to hire Lexi! Oh my god, that is literally like something out of a romance novel!” “I’m so jealous. Here I am, getting rejected by every internship, and Lexi gets a government job handed to her on a silver platter because her boyfriend is a genius. I need a Reid in my life.” I pulled my backpack straps tighter and tried to walk past them, but they spotted me. “Norah? Hey! Didn’t you take the exam too? Why are you at the career fair? Didn’t you get in?” “Of course she didn’t,” a familiar, sugary voice rang out. Lexi stepped out from the crowd, her arm linked with Reid’s. She looked at me with a pitying smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Norah. I guess it’s another win for me. It seems like history is repeating itself. Just like your mom couldn’t keep your dad from my mother… you just can’t seem to beat me, can you?” I turned my gaze to Reid. He knew. He knew everything. My father’s betrayal, the way he walked out on my mother and me to start a ‘real’ family with Lexi’s mom—it was the defining trauma of my life. When it first happened, Reid was the one who held me while I cried. He was the one who skipped class to stand outside Lexi’s house, shouting at my father for being a coward. Until the day Lexi finally opened the door. I remember the moment clearly. Reid had frozen mid-sentence, his eyes tracing the delicate lines of Lexi’s face. From that second on, he never said another word against her mother. He shifted his allegiance so fast it gave me whiplash. Now, he just stood there, watching Lexi bait me with a lazy, satisfied smile. I didn’t lose my temper. I didn’t scream. I just smiled back. “Why would I compare myself to you, Lexi?” She blinked, caught off guard. In the past, I would have dropped my bags and fought her tooth and nail. “Instead of looking for a cheap ego boost here,” I said calmly, “you should probably focus on polishing your resume. You’re going to need a backup plan.” Lexi’s face twisted. She turned to Reid, her lip trembling. “Reid! She’s being mean to me!” Reid laughed, pulling her into a protective embrace. “Don’t mind her, babe. When someone fails as hard as she did, they tend to get bitter. She’s just jealous that I’m taking care of you.” Lexi smirked, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I guess I can let it slide since you’re so pathetic. Good luck finding a job that pays more than minimum wage, Norah. You’ll need it.” I didn’t say another word. I just watched them walk away, basking in the sunlight of their own delusions. Over the next few weeks, they went into full ‘celebration’ mode. While the rest of us were grinding through finals and final interviews, my social media feed was flooded with photos of them at beach resorts and high-end restaurants. The whispers in the hallways turned into muffled snickers whenever I passed. “What’s the point of being a straight-A student if you can’t even land a job?” “I heard the department didn’t want her because she’s a total stiff. No social skills.” I stayed silent. I did my work. I waited for the moment the hammer would drop—the moment they realized the offer letter they were waiting for was never coming. But before the truth could reach them, fate threw a curveball. The director of the Federal Bureau of Finance reached out to Reid directly. “We heard you declined the State Revenue Department. We have a prestigious opening here. Are you interested?” 3 Reid was, objectively, a brilliant candidate on paper. It wasn’t surprising that other agencies were headhunting him. When he saw the email, he frowned. He typed back a reply with the casual arrogance of a man who thought he held all the cards: I didn’t decline. I simply stated that I will not accept an offer that doesn’t include my partner. If you can accommodate us both, we can talk. The reply came back almost instantly: But the State Revenue Department already filled their vacancies with the second and third-ranked candidates. Haven’t you seen the public notice? Lexi was leaning over his shoulder. Her eyes widened as she read the screen. She looked at Reid, her voice small and uncertain. “The manager didn’t agree to let me take Norah’s spot?” Reid scoffed, reaching up to pinch her cheek playfully. “Of course he didn’t—not yet. My scores were leagues above the others. This is just a tactic. They’re trying to scare me into thinking I’ve lost the spot so I’ll come crawling back. It’s a classic negotiation move.” Lexi’s face cleared, and she beamed at him. “I knew it. You’re the best.” Reid typed his final response: Sorry, but my partner and I have our hearts set on the State Revenue office. We’ll wait for their call. The Bureau responded after a long pause: We’ve reviewed Lexi Wells’ file. While she doesn’t qualify for the analyst track, we have a clerical position in our regional office that she could fill. If you’re willing to relocate to the Bureau, we can create a spot for her. When I heard about this through mutual friends, I was stunned. The Bureau. That was the big leagues. Even the “clerical” spot they were offering Lexi was something thousands of people would kill for—a job that usually required passing a rigorous screening she had failed. If I hadn’t been so focused on staying local to help my mom, I would have applied there myself. But a week later, more news trickled down. Lexi had decided the Bureau’s office was too far from the mall and her favorite yoga studio. She made Reid turn it down, insisting they hold out for the State Revenue job because it was “closer to home.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Finals ended. Graduation passed. My bags were packed, and my career was set. I decided to head back to my hometown for a week before my start date. But the moment I walked through the door, my mother looked like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. 4 “How could you let that girl win again?” My mother broke down in tears the moment she saw me. When she said “that girl,” she meant Lexi. And by extension, she meant Vanessa—Lexi’s mother, the woman who lived in the upscale development across the park with my father. My mother’s voice was thick with suppressed rage and heartbreak. “It was bad enough when that woman took your father. Now her daughter is taking your future! Lexi isn’t half as smart as you, yet Reid Scott is carrying her into a government career while you’re coming home with nothing! Do you have any idea how Vanessa is gloating? She’s telling everyone you’re a failure!” My younger sister, Chloe, poked her head out from the hallway, her eyes wide. “Norah, everyone at school is saying you’re just a bookworm who couldn’t cut it in the real world. They say Lexi is the one who really won…” “Go do your homework, Chloe!” my mother snapped, rubbing her temples. She looked at me, her face lined with exhaustion. “You should probably go back to the city. Start looking for something—anything. A retail job, maybe?” I set my suitcase down and looked at her. “Go back for what, Mom?” “To find a job! You’ve already lost to Lexi. Are you just going to sit here and let them bury us?” I let out a soft, tired laugh. “Mom… is it possible that I’m actually the only one who got the job?” 5 My mother froze. She looked up at me, blinking through her tears. “Mom,” I said, my voice firm. “I’m the only one going to the Revenue Department. Reid and Lexi? Neither of them got in. They’re unemployed.” She stayed paralyzed for a long moment. Then, a bitter, hollow laugh escaped her lips. “You’re lying to make me feel better. You’ve never been a good liar, Norah.” She reached onto the sideboard and shoved a thick, cream-colored envelope into my hand. I recognized the handwriting immediately. It was my father’s—elegant, bold, and utterly devoid of remorse. In celebration of our daughter Lexi Wells and our dear family friend Reid Scott on their prestigious appointments to the State Revenue Department. We cordially invite our friends and neighbors to a gala in their honor. The date was set for this Friday. “They’ve already booked the ballroom at the country club,” Mom whispered. “The whole neighborhood knows. How could it be a lie if they’re throwing a party?” I looked at the ink on the paper, a cold smirk spreading across my face. I tucked the invitation into my pocket. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s go to the party. I want to see how this ends.” 6 I stayed at the house for the rest of the week. My mother didn’t understand, but she stopped crying. I spent my days sleeping in and catching up on my reading, enjoying the quiet before the storm. Then came the afternoon I ran into them. I was walking back from the local market, carrying a heavy gallon of water for my mom, when I turned the corner and saw a crowd gathered near the park entrance. At the center were Reid and Lexi. My father was there, too. He had his arm around Lexi, his face beaming with the kind of pride he used to reserve for me. Seeing him like that—the same way he used to carry me on his shoulders when I was five, telling everyone, “This is my girl! Isn’t she the smartest?”—it felt like a physical blow to the stomach. I tightened my grip on the handle of the water jug and tried to slip past. “Norah.” Reid’s voice cut through the air. The crowd went silent, all eyes turning toward me. He looked at me with a strange mix of pity and disapproval. “You don’t have a job yet,” he said loudly. “Why are you back in town so early? You should be out there pounding the pavement.” The neighbors started whispering, their eyes scanning me like I was a cautionary tale. I stopped and forced a smile. “Don’t worry about me, Reid. I’ve got my future sorted. Maybe you and Lexi should spend more time checking your own status instead of worrying about mine.” “Norah!” My father stepped forward, his brow furrowed in annoyance. “What right do you have to speak to them like that? Lexi and Reid are starting careers that people dream of. You’re just… well, you’ve always been a bit of a recluse. Don’t let bitterness ruin your character.” Vanessa, Lexi’s mother, stepped up next to him, smoothing her expensive silk dress. “Oh, Robert, let her be. Some people just can’t handle losing. She’s just like her mother—all pride and no substance. Norah, honey, Lexi isn’t heartless. If you’re struggling for rent next month, I’m sure she’d find a way to help you out. Wouldn’t you, Lexi?” I felt my knuckles turning white. Lexi stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with triumph. She reached out to take my hand, her voice a mock-whisper. “Sister, it’s okay. The job market is hard. It’s not your fault you’re not as… connected as we are. Besides, a girl doesn’t really need a career if she finds the right man to take care of her, right? If you need anything, just ask.” She squeezed my hand. I felt a surge of pure, white-hot fury. “Let go.” “Norah, are you upset?” she asked, her voice rising so everyone could hear. “I was only trying to be nice—” “I said, let go!” I yanked my hand back, pulling the heavy water jug toward me for leverage. Lexi let out a theatrical gasp. She didn’t just let go—she threw herself backward, stumbling over her own feet and landing hard on the grass with a muffled cry. “What is wrong with you!” Reid reacted instantly, shoving me aside so hard I nearly fell. He dropped to his knees, pulling Lexi into his arms. He looked at her tear-streaked face and then glared at me, his teeth grit. “I’m the one who took the spot, Norah! If you’re mad at someone, be mad at me. Stop taking it out on her!” My father pushed me, too, his eyes cold and full of shame. “Get out of here, Norah. Look at what you’ve become.” I started to laugh. It was a jagged, ugly sound. “I pulled the jug toward myself. She threw herself backward. Are you all actually blind, or just choosing to be?” “Enough!” Vanessa snatched the water jug from my hand and, in a fit of calculated rage, poured the entire gallon over my head. The cold water soaked through my clothes, clinging to my skin. She stood over me, trembling with fake sobs. “So what if you can’t find a job? Does that give you the right to assault my daughter? My Lexi was trying to help you! You’re a monster, Norah. Just like your mother!” The neighbors swarmed in, offering tissues to Lexi and glares to me. “She needs to learn some manners.” “Sad. All that education and she’s still a failure.” I wiped the water from my eyes, ready to lung at Vanessa, but a hand caught my wrist. It was my mother. She had seen the whole thing. Her face was bright red, her eyes brimming with tears of humiliation. She didn’t say a word to them. She just dragged me back toward our house. Once the door was shut, she turned on me. “Can’t you just let me have some peace? Just once?” “Mom, she faked it—” “I don’t care!” she screamed. “They’ve won! They have the jobs, the money, the reputation! We just have to stay quiet and wait for them to leave. We are not going to that party tonight.” “No,” I said, my voice like ice as I stripped off my soaked shirt. “We are absolutely going to that party.” 7 The ballroom was packed. It wasn’t just the neighbors; my father had invited everyone—his business associates, old college friends, even the local press. He wanted to cement his new family’s status as the town’s elite. Lexi had even invited a dozen people from our graduating class. My mother and I sat at a small table in the back. She was mortified, her face flushed as people whispered around us. “Isn’t that the girl who was supposed to be so smart? Guess Lexi really showed her.” I ignored them, calmly pouring my mother a glass of juice. Lexi spotted us from across the room and sauntered over, a glass of champagne in her hand. “Oh? You actually showed up? I thought you’d be too busy crying into your textbooks.” One of her friends chimed in, snickering. “Give her a break, Lexi. She probably just wants to soak up some of your success by osmosis.” Lexi laughed, her eyes flashing with malice. “Success is earned, sweetie. You can’t just wish for it. I’d offer you some of this good luck, but I don’t think you’d know what to do with it.” The table erupted in laughter. Someone called out, “Hey Lexi, Reid! Tell us again—which department did you guys get into? Was it the State Revenue office?” Lexi tossed her hair back. “The State Revenue Investigative Division. Reid already talked to the director. We start Monday.” A guy from our class, a quiet kid named Leo who was always on his phone, suddenly frowned. “Wait, really? I just checked the official state portal for the final roster. I didn’t see your names.” Lexi’s smile faltered. “What are you talking about? Reid handled everything.” “But the public notice is up,” Leo said, holding up his phone. “It’s on the main landing page.” He tapped the screen and read aloud: “Candidate Reid Scott has officially withdrawn his application for personal reasons. The final appointments for the State Revenue Department are as follows:” The room went deathly silent. “1. Norah Scott.” “2. Silas Thorne.”

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The day I graduated, my parents handed me their primary debit card. “Maren, honey,” my mom said, her voice thick with that practiced fragility she wore like a shawl. “You’re out there on your own now. We can’t do much, but this is our life savings. It’s our retirement fund—our safety net. We want you to have it.” I looked at that thin piece of plastic, feeling a weight in my chest that didn’t feel like gratitude. It felt like a debt. I knew how hard they’d worked, so I made a silent vow. Every month, I’d transfer fifteen hundred dollars back to them from my salary, just to make sure they were taken care of. That lasted until my younger brother, Tyler, decided it was time for him to get married. He didn’t ask. He demanded. “Maren, Mom and Dad gave you the entire family nest egg. I’m trying to put a down payment on a house and I’ve got nothing. You owe me sixty thousand dollars. Now.” I stood in their kitchen, drying a dish, and didn’t even turn around. “I don’t have it,” I said flatly. “Not a dime.” 1 Tyler exploded. He slammed his fork onto the table, the silver clattering against the porcelain. “Do you even have a soul, Maren? There was over a hundred and fifty grand in that account! I’m asking for sixty, and you’re acting like I’m robbing you!” “Don’t be greedy, Tyler,” I replied, finally turning to face him. My dad snapped then, glaring at Tyler. “Sit down! Who do you think you’re talking to? Your sister is a single woman living in a brutal city. That money was meant to be her protection.” “Dad, you’re being ridiculous! You’re totally playing favorites!” My mom reached over and swatted Tyler’s arm, though there was no sting in it. “Hush! A man provides for his own wife. Besides, didn’t we try to help you talk to the bank about a loan?” “Nobody’s lending right now!” Tyler shouted, pacing the linoleum. “I don’t care. Maren, you have the card. Give it to me.” I let out a cold, sharp laugh. “You want money? You’ll have to cut it out of me. Go ahead, Tyler. Give it your best shot.” “You—!” Tyler lunged forward, but Mom caught him by the waist. “Stop it! She’s your sister!” “She’s a hoarder! She’s sitting on our family assets while I can’t even start a life. That money belongs to me just as much as her.” My dad slammed his fist on the table, making the water glasses jump. “That money belongs to me until the day I’m in the ground! And while I’m breathing, I’ll give it to whoever I damn well please!” Tyler shrunk back, muttering under his breath. “Fine. But at least give me fifteen. For the earnest money. The good listings don’t stay on Zillow for more than a day.” I shrugged. “Like I said. Not a dime.” “You’ve changed, Maren. You’re obsessed with money. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars… five years of interest alone should be twenty grand. You’re crying poverty? No one believes you.” I smirked. “You don’t believe me? Fine. Let’s go to the bank tomorrow. We’ll pull the full statement.” “Fine! Let’s go!” Mom suddenly looked panicked. She grabbed Tyler’s arm and then reached for my hand, her palm sweaty. “Oh, stop it, both of you. Fighting over money like this… it’s embarrassing. What would the neighbors think?” I pulled my hand away. Dad stood up and grabbed Tyler by the ear, hauling him toward the back bedroom like he was ten years old again. I could hear Tyler’s muffled protests as the door slammed. I didn’t stick around. My apartment in the city was only a forty-minute train ride away. Within the hour, I was staring at my ceiling, the silence of my own space finally wrapping around me. Then, the phone rang. Mom. “Maren, don’t be hard on him. He’s just stressed about the wedding. His fiancée, Brittany… she won’t walk down the aisle without a deed in her hand.” “Sounds like a Tyler problem,” I said. “Maybe I should just give the card back to you and Dad.” “No!” Mom’s voice spiked, nearly a shriek. She caught herself quickly. “I mean… no, honey. We gave it to you. It’s yours.” I felt a chill go down my spine. “Well, it’s a shame,” I said, my voice dripping with irony. “Uncle Pete and the rest of the family aren’t exactly flush with cash either, or I’m sure they’d lend to you.” “Money is tight everywhere,” she sighed. “I hate that you’re being put in this position.” “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my voice steady. “Actually, I can help. I’ll text you the numbers for a few private lenders and some personal loan officers I know. They can get Tyler the cash.” “Maybe you could even take out a second mortgage on your house. You’d get the sixty thousand easily.” There was a long, suffocating silence on the other end. “I… I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she finally whispered. 2 “Why not? If the family won’t help, that’s the only way. Unless… you want the card back?” “No! Goodnight, Maren!” She hung up abruptly. I didn’t hesitate. I pulled up the family group chat and dropped the contact info for three high-interest lenders. @Dad @Mom, check these out. They’re legitimate lenders for quick cash. My dad replied almost immediately: What loans? Mom said you guys were struggling to find the down payment for Tyler. These guys are fast. The chat went silent for ten minutes. Then Dad: Forget about it. Just focus on your job. Your mother and I will figure it out. Mom added: I was just venting, Maren. Don’t worry. We would never touch your money. Then Tyler entered the chat like a wrecking ball. Maren, you’re a piece of work. Mom asks for help and you send her to a loan shark? Who does that? I typed back with a smile: You’ve got a clean credit score, Tyler. You could probably pull a hundred grand on your own. Then you wouldn’t even need a down payment; you could buy in cash. Try it. Tyler’s response was a sixty-second voice note. I didn’t even play it. I knew the tone: the high-pitched vitriol of a boy who had been told ‘no’ for the first time in his life. I silenced my phone and went back to my laptop. My coworker, Ben, looked over from the next cubicle. “Everything okay? You look like you’ve been in a war zone.” “My family wants sixty thousand dollars for my brother’s house,” I said, not looking up from my spreadsheet. “Sixty? God. I know you make good money, Maren, but that’s insane. Do they think you’re a bank?” I just shrugged. I let the information sit there. I wanted the people around me to know the situation—a preemptive strike in case Tyler decided to show up at my office and make a scene. I’d worked hard for my life. I had a condo, no husband, a six-figure salary, and a reputation for being untouchable. That made me a target for people like Tyler. I knew he wouldn’t let it go. I just didn’t expect them to show up so soon. That Friday, as I walked out of the glass lobby of my office building, there they were. Mom, Dad, and Tyler. Standing by the fountain like a welcoming committee from hell. “Must be nice,” Tyler sneered the moment he saw me. “Designer suit, corner office, playing the big-shot executive while your family rots.” I nodded. “It is nice. I worked sixty hours a week for four years to get that annual bonus. It was fifteen thousand this year. And you’re not seeing a cent of it.” Tyler looked like he was about to vibrate out of his skin. Dad grabbed his shoulder. “Knock it off. We just came to see your place, Maren. Tyler, if you can’t behave, get back in the car.” Tyler fumed but stayed quiet. I led them to my condo—a spacious, sun-drenched loft with floor-to-ceiling windows. Mom’s jaw practically hit the hardwood. “Maren… this is… how much does a place like this even cost?” “With the current market? Around eight hundred thousand,” I said casually. “Between my salary and the savings I’ve built up, the mortgage is manageable.” Tyler was spiraling. “Eight hundred thousand? You’re living in a million-dollar palace and you won’t give me sixty grand? You used Mom and Dad’s retirement to buy this, didn’t you? You thief!” 3 I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “You think so? Fine. You want the card? Take it.” I reached into my purse, pulled out the “nest egg” card, and tossed it at his chest. “Here. The PIN is your birthday. Go ahead. Go to the bank and see what’s in there. Get the full transaction history while you’re at it.” Tyler caught the card, stunned. “You’re… you’re serious?” “Dead serious.” The grin started to spread across his face, but Mom lunged forward and snatched the card out of his hand. “What is wrong with you?” she hissed at me. She tried to shove the card back into my purse. “Don’t listen to him, Maren. We just came to visit.” Tyler’s eyes went red. “Mom, stop it! You’re being so biased it’s sick! Brittany said if I don’t have a house, the wedding is off. She’s pregnant, Mom! Do you want your grandkid living in a rental? Do you want me to be a loser forever?” He actually sat down on my designer rug, looking like a broken child. Dad sighed, looking exhausted. “If we can’t afford a house, we can’t afford a house. People rent all the time.” Mom turned on Dad, then on me. “It’s because he isn’t like you, Maren. You were always the smart one, the capable one. Look at this place! Look at your life! And look at your brother…” Dad waved a hand dismissively. “Enough. Let’s not fight. Diane, go in the kitchen and start some dinner. We’re all hungry.” As Mom headed into the kitchen, I followed her to “help.” Outside in the living room, I could hear Dad trying to talk sense into a sobbing Tyler. In the kitchen, Mom leaned over the island, her voice a low, desperate whisper. “Maren, I know you’ve worked hard. But he’s your only brother. I’ve been thinking… I can scrape together ten thousand. If you could just find another fifty… maybe ask your boss for an advance? You said you got that bonus…” I looked at her. Really looked at her. I saw the desperation, but I also saw the calculation. “You want me to go into debt for him, Mom? I have a mortgage. I have bills.” “But you’re so successful! Please, Maren. For me?” I stayed silent for a heartbeat. “I’ll think about it.” Mom visibly deflated with relief. After dinner, while my parents were “napping” in the guest room, I pulled Tyler aside. I slid the debit card back into his hand. “While they’re asleep, grab their IDs from Mom’s purse. I’ll drive you to the bank right now.” “You mean it?” “Yeah. Let’s settle this.” Tyler didn’t hesitate. He was a greedy moth flying straight into a blowtorch. He swiped the IDs, and we were at the bank branch the moment it opened the next morning. He shoved the card into the ATM, his fingers trembling as he punched in his birthday. The screen flashed. Balance: $0.00. He whirled around, shouting in the quiet lobby. “Maren, you bitch! You played me! There’s nothing in here!” I feigned a gasp. “What? That’s impossible. I never touched that money. Get a printed statement, Tyler. We need to see where it went.” “You’re lying! You spent it on that condo!” He was screaming now. “The card was with you! Where else would it go?” “I didn’t take it,” I said, my voice calm and loud enough for the bank manager to look over. “Get the receipts.” He stomped over to the teller desk, demanding a printout. While the printer hummed, my phone vibrated. Mom. “Maren? Where are you? My ID is gone!” “We’re at the bank, Mom. Tyler wanted to check the balance. We’re getting the statements now.” A sharp, choked gasp came from the other end. “Who told you to do that? Stop! Stay right there, I’m coming!” I didn’t stop. I took the stapled pages from the teller and tucked them into my bag. Tyler sneered at me. “Acting’s over, Maren. Give me the papers.” “No. The money isn’t with me. If you think I stole it, call the cops.” “Fine! You think I won’t? I’m doing it!” He pulled out his phone, his face contorted with rage. “911? I want to report a theft. My sister stole a hundred and fifty thousand dollars from my parents’ retirement fund.” 4 He was howling in the middle of the lobby. Saturday morning customers were everywhere, their necks craning, their eyes wide with the kind of voyeuristic glee that only comes from watching a family fall apart in public. I just crossed my legs, leaned back on the velvet bench, and waited. A few minutes later, my parents burst through the doors, breathless and pale. They saw Tyler, then they saw me. Mom looked like she was about to faint. She grabbed Tyler’s arm. “What are you doing? Stop this madness!” Tyler’s eyes were bloodshot. “Mom, she took it! It’s all gone! Every cent of your retirement! She bought that luxury loft with your blood and sweat, and now she’s letting me rot! She’s a monster!” Mom’s hand flew out. Slap. The sound echoed through the bank. Tyler froze, his cheek blooming red. Mom’s lips trembled; she couldn’t find the words. She looked at me, and for the first time, I saw the sheer, unadulterated terror in her eyes. She knew. The crowd began to murmur. You could hear the judgment in their whispers. “Can you believe her? Stealing from her own parents like that.” “Look at that bag she’s carrying. Probably costs three grand.” “Typical. The successful child thinks they’re entitled to everything while the brother gets nothing.” I didn’t move. I just watched Tyler. Tyler, sensing the crowd was on his side, played it up. “They worked their whole lives for that money! They sacrificed everything so she could go to college, so she could have a career! And this is how she pays them back? By leaving them with nothing?” Mom grabbed his arm again, her voice a panicked hiss. “Tyler, shut up! This is family business! Let’s just go home!” “No! I want everyone to see what she is!” Dad tried to grab my arm to pull me up. “Maren, get up. We’re leaving.” I shook him off. “Why are you in such a hurry, Dad? Afraid of what the police will find?” “You’re being a brat! Your brother is emotional, but you—you should know better!” “I know exactly what’s going on,” I said. “And I’m not going anywhere.” Across the lobby, a teenager had his phone out, livestreaming the whole thing. I looked directly into his camera and gave a small, chilling smile. The comments on his screen were flying by: Toxic sister! Absolute gold-digger! Justice for the parents! One comment caught my eye. It was from a profile I recognized. A guy from my office. I know her. She’s a total ice queen. Always acting like she’s better than everyone. Figures she’s a thief. I pulled out my own phone, found the stream, and replied: I know you too, Dave. You’re the guy who asked me out, tried to make me pay for your $12 avocado toast, and then complained to HR when I said no. Keep talking. My phone buzzed. A text from my boss: Maren, what is happening? Fix this. Do not let the company’s name get dragged into a family spat. I replied: Don’t worry, sir. The truth is about to come out. Finally, two police officers walked in. Tyler ran to them like they were his saviors. “Officers! She did it! She stole the money! A hundred and fifty thousand!” The officers looked at me—the woman in the expensive suit looking perfectly composed—and then at the disheveled, screaming brother and the trembling parents. “Is this true, ma’am?” the officer asked. I stood up slowly. “No, Officer. I didn’t take a cent. But I do have the bank statements right here.” I reached into my bag and pulled out the stapled packet.

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I’m a midnight driver. My business is… specific. My passengers even more so. It’s the kind of work that would break most people within a week. One evening, my mentor, Gus, told me to pick up an old friend of his. He described the man as a “heavyweight”—someone whose soul carried the weight of an empire. I didn’t take the assignment lightly. I’d prepared the traditional offerings—high-end spirits, artisanal cakes, the things that smooth the transition from this world to the next. I was driving through the quiet, wooded outskirts of Kingsport when I saw three figures waving frantically by the roadside. It was pitch black. No other cars, no streetlights. Against my better judgment, I felt a flicker of human pity. I thought I’d give them a lift to the nearest station. The second I pulled over, a man drenched in designer labels—from his Gucci loafers to his padded Moncler vest—shoved his way into the passenger seat. He didn’t say hello. He just slapped a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills against my cheek. “Downtown. The Royal Meridien,” he barked. “And stop at a CVS. I need a few boxes of Magnums.” His two friends piled into the back, trampling over the silk-wrapped gift boxes I’d placed carefully on the seat. “What is this junk?” one of them complained. “There’s no legroom with all these baskets.” Before I could protest, I heard the dull thud of my offerings hitting the asphalt. They’d tossed the expensive fruit and the hand-crafted cakes out into the dirt like common trash. My blood ran cold. The effort, the respect I’d put into this mission—discarded in a second. I felt my face tighten, my skin prickling with a heat that had nothing to do with the car’s heater. “Get out,” I said, my voice low. “I’m not taking you.” The man in the passenger seat barked out a laugh, as if I’d just told a hilarious joke. “You’re a cab driver, sweetheart. You don’t get to ‘not take’ us. One phone call and I’ll have your hack license shredded before sunrise. You’ll never work in this city again.” The two in the back joined in, their laughter sharp and jagged. “Do you even know who he is?” the girl, a blonde in a micro-skirt, sneered. “This is Barrett Huntington. You should be thanking him for the privilege of having his ass in your seat.” “He’s the guy who owns the skyline you’re driving toward, loser,” the other guy added. “Show some respect or start looking for a cardboard box to live in.” I gripped the steering wheel. I didn’t know much about the “Huntington” social circle, but I knew the Veil. And in my world, the living were the ones who didn’t belong. 1 “Did you hear me? Drive,” Barrett snapped. He reached over and slammed his palm onto the horn, the blare echoing through the silent woods. The girl, Tinsley, giggled. I cursed my moment of empathy. I’d invited a curse into my car. I forced myself to take a breath, trying to stay professional. “Look, I’m sorry, but this car is pre-booked. I have a VIP pickup. I can drop you at the gas station two miles up—it’s well-lit and easy to catch an Uber from there.” Silence followed, then a hand reached from the back and whipped a stack of bills across my face. The edges of the paper stung like a series of tiny papercuts. “The car is booked by me now,” the guy in the back said. “How much? Name a price. Everyone has one.” I pushed the money away, my heart hammering. “It’s not about the money. I’m on a schedule. The city isn’t on my route.” Suddenly, a heavy boot slammed into the back of my driver’s seat, jolting my spine. “I could crush you like an ant and not even lose sleep over it,” Barrett hissed, leaning into my personal space. “Drive. Now.” They weren’t leaving. And I couldn’t exactly pull out my Sanctum ID and explain that I was a courier for the dead without making things worse. I decided to get them to the gas station and handle it there. Within minutes, the cabin was thick with the acrid stench of expensive cigars. I started to cough, the smoke stinging my eyes. “Could you please not smoke in here?” The guy in the back let out a plume of smoke. “This cigar costs more than your monthly rent, honey. You’re getting the secondhand high for free. You should be paying me.” “Exactly,” Tinsley added, grinding her cigarette out directly onto the leather upholstery. The smell of burning hide filled the car. “If our Maybach hadn’t broken down, we wouldn’t even be in this piece of junk.” My heart ached. This wasn’t just a car; it was a custom SSS-Class Shadow Vessel, enchanted and rare. “What are you doing? You have no idea what this car is worth!” They erupted in another round of shrill laughter. “Worth? My family has sixty cars in the garage,” Barrett said, checking his gold watch. “Any one of them could buy your life ten times over. This bucket of bolts is filthier than my dog’s kennel. Stop acting like it’s a Ferrari.” My knuckles were white on the wheel. I had a job to do. I couldn’t let these parasites derail me. When we reached the gas station, I pulled over firmly. “This is it. You have phones. Call a car, call a friend, I don’t care. I’m not charging you for the ride. Just get out.” They exchanged a look and, surprisingly, piled out. I let out a long, shaky breath, thinking the nightmare was over. I stepped out for a moment to see if I could salvage any of the fruit from the trunk to offer as a gesture of apology to the VIP. When I walked back toward the front of the car, my heart stopped. Every window had been shattered. My phone, which had been on the dashboard, was a mess of glass and plastic on the pavement. Barrett stood there, twirling my driver’s license between his fingers, a smirk plastered on his face. “Well, well. It turns out our little driver is a fraud,” he said. “A ‘Gold-Tier Veil Courier’? What kind of delusional psych-ward bullshit is this?” 2 Panic flared. That license was my only protection in the darker corners of the city. I lunged for it, but Barrett was faster. He shoved me back, and I stumbled, my palms scraping against the grit of the parking lot. “Using a fake ID to run an illegal taxi? That’s a felony, isn’t it?” he mused, leaning against the ruined door of my car. “Maybe we should call the cops. See how they feel about your ‘Veil’ business.” Dealing with the living was so much more exhausting than dealing with the dead. I bit my lip, tasting copper. “What do you want?” Barrett pulled Tinsley close, kissing her deeply before looking back at me with cold, bored eyes. “Nobody says no to me. Not in this city. You tried to play tough, and now you’re going to pay for it.” He stepped closer, his breath smelling of expensive bourbon and malice. “You’re going to be my dog tonight. You go where I say, when I say. Right now, Tinsley wants to see the moon over the river. Get in.” “I can’t,” I whispered. “Please. I have somewhere I have to be.” He tutted, reaching out to slap me. I flinched away, and the movement seemed to trigger something feral in him. “You dare move?” he roared. “In Kingsport, I’m the closest thing to a god you’ll ever see. You should be crawling on your knees for the chance to serve us.” Tinsley and the other guy drifted closer, their faces twisted in mockery. “Look at her,” the guy said. “Driving an illegal cab with a crazy-person ID. She’s probably a high-end hooker who lost her mind.” “I bet if we check the back, we’ll find used needles,” Tinsley added. I hated myself for stopping. I hated my own kindness. But Barrett’s expression suddenly shifted into something disturbingly calm. “Tell you what,” he said, flipping my ID like a coin. “I’ll give you a break. Drive us to one more spot—just one—and then you can go back to your ‘VIP.’ If you don’t, I call the police, hand them this ID, and tell them you tried to rob us.” The location he named was, by some miracle, on the way to my original destination. I didn’t know what he was planning, but I was running out of time. Punctuality wasn’t just a professional habit in my line of work; it was a matter of spiritual life and death. Gus had recruited me because of my “unfortunate” disposition—I was born with a “Thin Veil” constitution. I saw things I shouldn’t. I was a magnet for bad luck until Gus found me. “Working for the Sanctum builds merit,” he’d told me. “Do this, and maybe in the next life, you’ll be the one in the back of the Maybach. It’s a government job, kid. Just… a different branch of government.” He was right. Usually, the powers that be on both sides of the line gave me a wide berth. I drove them to the spot Barrett requested—a secluded stretch of road near the cliffs. The moment I put the car in park, the night was flooded with light. A dozen black SUVs switched on their high beams, surrounding us. Before I could even process the trap, my door was ripped open. A hand tangled in my hair and dragged me out onto the cold hard ground. Barrett’s voice was like ice. “Total the car. And then, break her legs.” 3 My scalp screamed in pain. I felt the sting of gravel on my face, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. “You gave me your word!” I choked out. Barrett stood over me, looking down like I was a bug he was considering stepping on. “I said I’d let you drive us here. I never said I’d let you walk away.” Several men in dark suits approached my car with sledgehammers. The first blow shattered the hood with a sickening, heavy thud. Again and again, they swung. The enchanted metal groaned, the interior being ripped into shreds of leather and wire. And then, they doused it in gasoline. That car was a masterpiece of the Other Side, a vessel for souls. Watching it burn was like watching a living thing die. I tried to scream, to run toward the flames, but my arms were pinned behind my back. In the flickering orange light, Tinsley clapped her hands. “It’s so much prettier this way, don’t you think?” I looked at her, my eyes burning. “You have no idea what you’ve done. That car was for a Guest. If he isn’t picked up on time, the shadow he leaves behind will tear this city apart.” Barrett just laughed and tossed a titanium credit card onto my chest. “It’s a car. I’ll buy you ten of them.” “I don’t want your money, Barrett. Some things can’t be fixed with a check.” He pulled out my license again, grinning. “In this town, there is nothing I can’t fix. But you, Riley? You’re a special kind of crazy.” He signaled to one of the men. “Check her file. I want to know who this ‘Veil Courier’ really is.” A man with a tablet stepped forward. “Riley St. Claire. Her grandmother was a ‘spiritualist’ in New Orleans. Classic nutcase. Riley was kicked out of boarding school for claiming she saw ‘shadow people.’ Spent two years in Saint Jude’s Psychiatric.” I remembered Saint Jude’s. That’s where I met Gus. He was the only one who didn’t try to medicate the ghosts away. Tinsley rolled her eyes. “Great. We got a ride from a literal psycho. No wonder the car smelled like a funeral home.” I looked at them, a cold dread settling in my gut. They didn’t understand the debt they were accruing. “You should leave,” I said softly. “The clock is ticking.” Barrett knelt beside me. “I want to see if your knees are as tough as your car.” He wasn’t joking. I felt a shiver of pure, primal terror. I was outnumbered and broken. “Barrett, please,” I whispered, my pride dissolving into a desperate need to survive. “I’ll apologize. I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me go.” I lowered my head to the dirt, the ultimate sign of submission. Barrett stayed silent for a moment, then grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. “A little late for that, isn’t it? But fine. If you take us to this ‘Guest’ of yours, maybe I’ll reconsider.” I shook my head violently. The Guest was not for the living. To bring these people into his presence would be a death sentence for their entire bloodline. “I can’t. For your sake, I can’t.” Barrett’s face twisted. He stood up and signaled to the man with the sledgehammer. The heavy iron swung down. I heard the crack of my own bone before I felt the pain—an agonizing, white-hot explosion in my knee. I collapsed, howling, my world narrowing down to the pulsing rhythm of the trauma. 4 “Take us there. Now.” Barrett was obsessed. He thought this was a game of status, a secret club he was being excluded from. He didn’t realize he was banging on the door of a tomb. I gasped for air, bile rising in my throat. “You won’t… you won’t like what you find.” Tinsley tugged at Barrett’s arm. “Barrett, let’s just go. She’s pathetic. Look at her.” Barrett ignored her and kicked me hard in the ribs. The air left my lungs in a wet wheeze. I spat blood onto his shoes. “Fine,” I managed to choke out. “I’ll take you.” I had warned them. I had tried to save them. But the universe has a way of balancing the scales. If they wanted to walk into the abyss, I would be their guide. They dragged me into the back of one of the SUVs. My leg was a twisted mess of agony, but I forced myself to stay conscious. I gave them the coordinates. A private, high-security hospice tucked away in the hills—The Evergreens. As we wound higher into the mist, Barrett’s bravado began to flicker. “This… this is where my grandfather stays,” he muttered. “He doesn’t see anyone. Not even the board members.” He turned to me, his eyes wide and suspicious. “Who are you, Riley? How do you know this place?” I didn’t answer. Suddenly, Barrett’s phone buzzed. He answered it, his face turning the color of ash. “Sir?” a voice crackled through the speakers. “Where are you? Your grandfather… he just passed. Ten minutes ago. Your mother is frantic. You need to get here.” The car became deathly silent. Tinsley whispered, “It’s just a coincidence, Barrett. She’s a stalker. She must have known he was sick.” I clutched my shattered knee, staring out at the dark trees. I knew better. When we pulled up to the main gates, a woman in a black designer suit—Barrett’s mother—was waiting. She saw Barrett first, her face a mask of grief and fury. “Barrett! Your grandfather is gone, and you arrive smelling like a bar? Have you no shame?” Then she saw me being hauled out of the car, my leg dripping blood. Her jaw dropped. “Miss St. Claire? What… what happened? You were supposed to be here an hour ago. We had an arrangement.” I looked at Barrett’s horrified face and felt a cold, sharp satisfaction. “You should ask your son, Mrs. Huntington,” I rasped. And then, a wave of oppressive, freezing air rolled out from the hospice doors. A darkness so thick it swallowed the porch lights began to bleed into the night.

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During dinner, Jordan suddenly set her fork down. She looked me straight in the eye and asked, “Who is Clementine Frost?” My hand froze, mid-air. My heart skipped a beat, then hammered against my ribs. Clementine Frost. That was a name Chase and I had invented during a bender one night, a fictional person born from a bottle of cheap bourbon. We’d made a pact: if one of us ever got into trouble—real trouble—and couldn’t be reached, we’d use “Clementine Frost” as a distress signal. Apart from the two of us, no one in the world knew that name existed. And Chase had been missing for exactly thirty days. He had gone to Tulum for a solo “soul-searching” trip. He never came back. I looked at Jordan’s face. She looked perfectly composed, almost bored. My stomach began to sink, a cold, heavy weight settling in my gut. How did she know that name? … We came up with the name Clementine Frost the night we graduated from college. We were sitting on the bleachers of the football field, halfway through a case of beer, watching the moonlight hit the empty turf. Chase had his arm around my shoulder, his speech slurred and thick. “Miles,” he’d said, “we need a code. A failsafe.” “A code for what, man?” “Just… life. If one of us goes off the grid, or if things get dark. If you hear that name, you know I’m in over my head. You know it’s time to move.” I’d laughed at him, calling him a paranoid action-movie junkie. But we spent an hour brainstorming anyway. We settled on Clementine Frost because it sounded like the heroine of a trashy airport romance novel—the exact opposite of our aesthetic. The only two people who knew the weight of those three syllables were me and Chase. And Chase had been gone for thirty-one days. Before he left for Mexico, he’d FaceTimed me from the airport lounge, shouting over the terminal noise. “Miles! What do you want? I’m bringing you back something ridiculous!” That was the last time I saw his face. After that, his texts went grey. The calls went straight to voicemail. His Instagram feed froze on a picture of a sunset over the Caribbean. I’d called the police. His parents had called the embassy. The Mexican authorities were “investigating.” But there was no body. No trace. Chase had simply evaporated. And now, my wife, Jordan—a woman who technically moved in different circles than Chase, a woman who rarely even liked his photos—had just dropped that name into the middle of a Tuesday night dinner. “What’s with the face?” Jordan asked, a small, playful smile touching her lips. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” “It’s nothing,” I said, forced myself to look down, and shoved a piece of steak into my mouth. It tasted like cardboard. “Just never heard the name before. Where’d you get it?” “Oh, just something a colleague mentioned,” she said, taking a casual sip of her wine. “Just curious.” She pivoted the conversation to her office politics, her voice smooth and melodic. I didn’t hear a word of it. My mind was screaming. How does she know? How the hell does she know? After dinner, Jordan went to take a shower. I sat on the sofa, my palms slick with sweat. I listened to the sound of the water hitting the tiles, then stood up and walked toward her phone on the dining table. I knew her passcode. Our wedding anniversary. My fingers trembled as I scrolled through her messages, her call logs, her notes. Nothing. It was too clean. It was unnervingly clinical. No one’s phone is that pristine. I moved to her laptop in the study. She never kept it from me; our lives were supposedly an open book. I went through her browsing history, her downloads, her cache. Then, I opened a travel booking app. My heart stopped. A month ago, Jordan had told me she was going to Chicago for a three-day corporate retreat. I’d even driven her to the airport. But the booking record showed she hadn’t gone to Chicago. She had booked a flight to Cancun. She’d departed one day before Chase. She’d returned two days after he went missing. The shower stopped. I slammed the laptop shut, retreated to the living room, and pretended to scroll through TikTok. Jordan walked out, towel-drying her hair, glancing at me. “Still up?” “Yeah, just unwinding,” I said, flashing a smile that felt like it was cracking my face. She went into the bedroom and turned off the light. I stared at the dark doorway, my fingers digging into the upholstery of the sofa until my knuckles turned white. Jordan. What were you doing in Mexico? The next morning, I told Jordan a “fire” had broken out at a project site and I had to head out of town for a few days. She was putting on her earrings, not even turning around. “Where to?” “Atlanta.” “When will you be back?” “Three, maybe four days. It’s a mess.” She caught my eye in the mirror and smiled. “Be safe, Miles.” “You too,” I said. I didn’t go to Atlanta. I caught the noon flight to Cancun. When I landed, the air was a wall of heat and humidity that made my head spin. Chase’s last photo was taken in this city. A vibrant market, neon lights, the press of the crowd. He’d been standing in front of a taco stand, giving a thumbs-up, grinning like an idiot. I didn’t have time for grief. I went straight to his hotel. I’d seen the booking confirmation Chase had sent me before he left—a boutique place called The Lotus Courtyard on the edge of the jungle. At the front desk, I pulled out a photo of Chase and spoke to the clerk in hurried English. “This man stayed here a month ago. Do you remember him?” The clerk shook his head. “His name is Chase Reed,” I added. He checked the system and nodded slowly. “Yes. He stayed three nights. He never checked out. His luggage is still in our storage room.” My chest tightened. He never checked out. His life was still sitting in a suitcase in a basement. I swallowed hard and asked the question I was terrified to voice. “A month ago, was there a woman staying here? An American woman?” I handed him a photo of Jordan. The clerk looked at the screen, his expression shifting to something hesitant. “Yes. She stayed five nights.” Five nights. Longer than Chase. “What room?” “312.” “And Chase?” “315.” Same floor. Two doors apart. I stood there, the world tilting on its axis. My first thought was the most clichéd one imaginable: They were having an affair. They were in Mexico together, in adjoining rooms. But as soon as the thought formed, I rejected it. Chase hated Jordan. Not a polite, “I don’t really get her” kind of hate, but a vocal, visceral dislike. We’d had dinner once, the three of us, and Chase had gotten a few drinks in him and told me straight to my face: “Miles, your wife is a black box. There’s too much happening behind those eyes. Watch yourself.” Jordan’s face had turned to stone. They hadn’t looked at each other since. They weren’t here for an affair. So why was she in the room next to him? What was she doing? “I need to see your security footage,” I told the clerk. He looked uneasy. “Sir, I would need to ask the manager… and perhaps the police.” “My best friend is missing,” I interrupted, my voice low but vibrating with a terrifying intensity. “He’s been gone for a month. This is the last place he was seen. Do you want the police involved? Because I can make that happen very quickly.” The clerk went quiet. Then he picked up the phone. Twenty minutes later, the security head led me to a cramped room filled with monitors. He pulled up the footage from a month ago, starting with the day Chase arrived. I watched the screen, my heart in my throat. Day one: Chase walks in, dragging his battered duffel bag, chatting with the girl at the desk. Seeing him move, seeing the back of his head, made my throat ache. Then, in the bottom corner of the frame: A woman enters. White linen shirt, baseball cap, oversized sunglasses. It was Jordan. She didn’t go to the desk. She sat in the lounge, holding a magazine up to her face. But her eyes never left him. She watched him check in. She watched him take his key. She watched him enter the elevator. A cold shiver raced down my spine. “Fast forward,” I said. Day one, afternoon: Chase leaves the hotel to go for a walk. Two minutes later, Jordan follows. Same hat, same glasses. Keeping a steady twenty-yard distance. Day one, evening: Chase is eating at the hotel restaurant. Jordan is in the corner with a drink, positioned so she can see his every move. Chase never notices her. Day two: Chase goes to a local ruin. Jordan is there. Chase goes to the night market. Jordan is there. Chase stops to pet a stray dog; Jordan is across the street, pretending to check her phone. In every shot, every frame, she was a shadow. My hands started to shake. This wasn’t an affair. People having affairs don’t wear masks and stalk each other from twenty yards away. They hold hands. They share meals. She hadn’t spoken a single word to him. Chase had no idea she was even in the country. This wasn’t infidelity. This was hunting. “What about day three?” I asked, my voice cracking. The security guard pulled it up. Day three, morning: Chase leaves the hotel. He has a map in his hand and looks energized. He heads east, away from the beach. Two minutes later, Jordan exits through a side door, following the same path. And then, the footage ends. The hotel cameras only covered the perimeter. Beyond that fifty-yard radius, they vanished into the world. “Is there more?” I asked. The guard shook his head. “Only the street cameras, but you’d need the local police for that.” I stood there in the silence of the room. I opened the maps app on my phone. Chase had headed east. Following that road led through a small market, past a gas station, and finally to the coast. A cliffside overlooking the ocean. I stared at the map, my fingers ice-cold. He went there. She followed him. And then he was gone. I rented a scooter and drove the route. The road ended at a rugged stretch of coastline. The cliffs were high, the waves crashing against jagged rocks below. The wind was fierce, threatening to knock me off my feet. It wasn’t a tourist spot. There were no railings, just a dirt path overgrown with weeds leading to the edge. I looked down at the rocks and the thick brush below. If someone fell from here… I couldn’t finish the thought. I started asking around. There was a small fishing village nearby, just a few scattered huts. I showed Chase’s photo to anyone I could find. No one recognized him. I was about to leave when I saw a boy, maybe seven or eight, sitting under a large tree playing in the dirt. He was holding something. A phone. It had a black case with a tiny, faded sticker on the back. It was a photo-booth sticker Chase and I had taken the night of our graduation. Two idiots, squished together, grinning like morons. I had stuck it on his phone myself as a joke. My brain went numb. I walked over, trying to keep my voice steady. “Hey, kid. Where did you get that phone?” The boy looked up, instinctively hiding the phone behind his back. “Is it yours?” I asked softly, kneeling to his level. “No…” he whispered. “I’m not a bad guy,” I said, looking him in the eye. “That phone belongs to my brother. He’s lost, and I’m looking for him. Can you tell me where you found it?” The boy bit his lip. There was something in his eyes that shouldn’t be in a child’s—fear. Not of me, but of a memory. “Did you see something scary?” I asked. His lip trembled. He stayed silent. I pulled out a handful of pesos and held them out. “Tell me, and I’ll buy you something good to eat, okay?” He looked at the money, then at me. He hesitated for a long time. Then he whispered, “I found it at the bottom of the hill.” “Which hill?” He pointed toward the cliffs. My heart dropped into my stomach. “Did you find anything else?” The boy didn’t answer. He looked away. “You found something else, didn’t you?”

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I was known across the internet as the ugliest daughter of Hollywood royalty, the grotesque shadow standing behind my universally adored, drop-dead gorgeous younger sister. When my parents first brought my sister home—born with a severe facial deformity—they wept over her suffering and begged me to step back from the spotlight, to hand over my modeling contracts and acting roles so they could build her up. I did. But slowly, terrifyingly, my own skin began to break out in weeping, cystic pustules. Meanwhile, my sister’s birthmarks faded. Her features sharpened into something breathtaking. She even snatched the exclusive global beauty campaign right out from under my fiancé’s nose. In the dressing room before a major gala, my makeup artist looked at the surgical mask hiding the lower half of my face and sighed. “It’s just the genetic lottery, honey. Your sister has a perfect canvas. Try not to let it eat at you.” I forced a smile, my voice muffled by the fabric, trying to explain that we shared the exact same genetics. The makeup artist’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Then how on earth did your face end up rotting like that?” The words were a physical blow. I thought I just wasn’t trying hard enough. I went home and subjected my skin to brutal chemical peels, aggressive anti-aging lasers, and even rigorously applied a bespoke, holistic poultice my sister had sworn by. Now, fresh off the operating table from a desperate jaw-shaving surgery, my face swathed in bloody bandages and my body trembling from the anesthesia, I looked up at the television in the recovery room. There was my sister—the girl doctors once said would never have a normal face—clutching the trophy for a massive, televised international beauty pageant, smiling with practiced, flawless grace. 1 I slumped against the sterile leather of the recovery room chair, feeling the warm, metallic seep of blood against my bandages. I pressed a trembling hand to my jawline, gasping as a sharp, electric pain shot through the fresh incisions where the surgeon had shaved down the bone. My eyes were glued to the flat-screen mounted on the wall. Blair Montgomery stood center stage, bathed in the blinding glare of the pageant’s spotlights, a diamond crown nestled in her hair. She was my biological sister. When our parents finally tracked her down and brought her into the Montgomery estate two years ago, her face had been a map of twisted cartilage and deep, sprawling discoloration. The Blair on the screen today possessed a complexion like poured cream and features carved by an absolute master. The camera cut to the judges, their microphones picking up breathless whispers. “Utterly flawless. That right there is a generational beauty, given straight from God.” A live feed of social media reactions scrolled rapidly across the bottom of the screen. [Oh my god who is this absolute goddess!!!] [Blair Montgomery is the IT GIRL! The real Montgomery heiress hits different!] [Where’s her sister though? Heard she botched her face trying to keep up lmaooo] I gripped the edge of my hospital gown, my knuckles bleeding of color. Two years ago, when Blair first stepped foot into our Bel-Air mansion, a dark, bruised-purple port-wine stain had consumed the entire left side of her face, dragging from her temple down to her jaw. Her nasal bridge was collapsed, her eyes spaced unnervingly far apart. I still remembered the top Beverly Hills plastic surgeon sliding the scans across his mahogany desk, his voice laced with pity. “It’s a congenital bone and vascular malformation. The probability of surgical correction is next to zero.” Slowly, I raised my hand, my fingertips grazing the swollen, throbbing mass of flesh beneath my bandages. I used to be the beautiful one. The golden child. By eighteen, I had locked down three international luxury campaigns. The tabloids called me the undisputed muse of young Hollywood. Then, a year ago, the nightmare started. My skin erupted. Deep, painful cysts colonized my forehead and cheeks. I flew to the top dermatologists in New York, underwent the most excruciatingly expensive laser treatments, and took every experimental pill they threw at me. Nothing worked. My face decayed a little more every day. And every day, Blair’s face healed. My phone buzzed against my thigh. A text from my mother, Evelyn. [Blair won the crown! She is the pride of this family! Stay at the clinic and rest, Camilla. Don’t come out and make a scene.] I stared at the glowing pixels until they blurred, rubbing the heel of my hand against my eyes. I let my head fall back against the wall, the memories from a year ago rushing in to fill the quiet, sterile room. It was shortly after Blair had moved in. My father, Richard, had sat across from me in his study, staring at his scotch glass. “Camilla, your sister has survived a lifetime of cruelty out in the real world,” he had said, his voice heavy. “That face of hers… people stare. They point.” He looked up, his eyes pleading. “I’m asking you for a favor. Step out of the limelight for a bit. Hand your current PR resources and brand contacts over to her. Let her build some confidence. Once she finds her footing, I swear to you, I’ll make it up to you tenfold.” My mother had been sitting on the velvet sofa, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “Your sister is so broken, Camilla. You’re the older sister. Is it really so hard to share?” I had caved. I thought bleeding myself dry was the price of a whole, happy family. The moment I stepped back, Blair consumed it all. She took my agents, my campaigns, and eventually, she even moved into the master suite that had been mine since childhood. I opened my eyes and pulled up Blair’s Instagram on my phone. Her latest post was a candid shot of her with Tristan Croft. Tristan’s arm was wrapped possessively around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The caption read: [My Blair. The most beautiful girl in the world.] Tristan was my fiancé. A tremor started in my fingers and quickly hijacked my entire hand. I remembered the first time Tristan had met Blair. He hadn’t even bothered to shake her hand. Later, in the privacy of my car, he had shuddered. “Your sister,” he had muttered, adjusting his Rolex. “Christ, she’s hard to look at.” Now, he couldn’t take his hands off her. Another notification slid down my screen. A text from Blair. [Cam! I won! I’m still shaking! Btw, are you still applying that botanical poultice I gave you?] [My holistic guru just gave me an upgraded formula, I’ll overnight it to you. You HAVE to keep applying it every night! Love u ~ ] I stared at the little pink heart, biting the inside of my lip so hard I tasted copper. The door to the recovery room clicked open. My surgeon walked in, holding a manila folder, his expression grim. He pulled off his reading glasses. “Camilla… I’m incredibly sorry,” he started, his voice adopting that quiet, devastating professional tone. “The post-op tissue rejection from the jaw-contouring is much more aggressive than we modeled.” He hesitated. “We are seeing signs of localized nerve necrosis in your lower face.” “Meaning?” I whispered, my voice scraping like sandpaper. “Meaning, if the necrosis spreads… your face will never return to a baseline state of normalcy. The damage is permanent.” I didn’t move. I just sat perfectly still against the leather chair, while on the screen in my hand, my sister continued to smile. 2 Three days later, I walked into the hospital lobby to pick up my pathology reports. I kept my head down, the oversized sunglasses and medical mask hiding the fact that the skin around my jaw was peeling in angry, red flakes. I hadn’t looked in a mirror since the surgery. I was just turning the corner toward the elevators when I heard a familiar voice echoing off the marble. “Hey, slow down. You’re going to twist an ankle in those heels.” I froze. It was Tristan. I glanced over my shoulder. Blair was walking down the sunlit corridor, her arm threaded through Tristan’s. He had one hand hovering protectively over the small of her back, the other carrying her Chanel bag. This was the man who used to let heavy glass doors slam in my face because he was too busy checking his emails. “Are you tired, B?” Tristan murmured, leaning in close. “Want me to carry you to the car?” “Stop it, Tristan, you’re being embarrassing,” Blair giggled, shoving his shoulder playfully. Then, she looked up. Her eyes locked onto me, standing like a ghost in the shadows of the alcove. The flirtatious smile vanished, instantly replaced by wide-eyed, theatrical concern. “Camilla!” She let go of Tristan and practically sprinted over, her eyes raking up and down my form. “Are you here for your follow-up? How is the healing going?” She leaned in, her gaze dropping to the visible edges of my ruined skin, her pupils dilating with something that looked sickeningly like hunger. I quickly shoved the manila folder containing my necrosis diagnosis behind my back. “…Fine.” “Oh, thank god! I’ve been making myself sick worrying about you.” She reached out and grabbed my free hand, squeezing it tight. Tristan strolled over, his gaze sweeping over me with barely concealed pity, before his lips pressed into a tight, strained line. “Camilla,” he said, giving me a stiff nod. The elevator pinged. The steel doors slid open, revealing my parents. My mother’s face immediately soured the second she saw me. “What are you doing out of the house?” she snapped. “I told you to stay out of sight until you healed.” But the moment her eyes shifted to Blair, her entire posture softened into mush. She pushed past me and grabbed Blair’s hands. “Blair, darling! Oh, look at that dress on you. You could wear a trash bag and make the cover of Vogue!” “Mom, I just came for a routine check-up,” Blair said, resting her head on Evelyn’s shoulder. Tristan chimed in, practically preening. “Evelyn, Blair has a global shoot for LUMINE next month. They’re flying her to Paris. The creative director personally requested her.” He offered my mother a deferential, charming smile. “It’s going to be massive for the Montgomery name.” Evelyn beamed, showing all her teeth. “Well, obviously! Blair is the face of this family now. She’s our little miracle.” My father stood a step behind them, nodding emphatically. “Damn right. She’s doing us proud.” I stood three feet away, entirely invisible, listening to them build a world I was no longer a part of. After a long moment, Evelyn finally turned back to me, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “Camilla, have those disgusting cysts cleared up yet?” A few nurses walking by turned their heads at the volume of her voice. I swallowed a thick knot of humiliation. “…No. Not yet.” Evelyn’s brow furrowed, her mouth pulling down into a harsh scowl. “Do you know how much money we’ve burned on your dermatologists? Does any of it actually work? It’s like you’re not even trying—” My father sighed, adjusting his golf polo. “Tristan has that charity gala next week. He’s expecting you to be on his arm. You can’t go looking like… that.” I gripped the edge of my medical file so hard the paper tore. I didn’t say a word. Blair tugged gently on our mother’s sleeve. “Mom, leave her alone. She’s trying.” She turned to me, tilting her head with an innocent blink. “Speaking of trying, Cam… have you been using that bespoke botanical poultice I sent you? The one from the apothecary?” I opened my mouth, the memory of that thick, foul-smelling paste rising in my throat. I had been slathering it on twice a day, exactly as she instructed. “…Yes. I use it.” “But it doesn’t work. If anything, the breakouts are spreading, and my skin feels like it’s burning.” Blair’s eyes widened to comical proportions. She looked down at her own porcelain, flawless hands, and then back up at the raw, angry skin peeking out from my bandages. “Really? That is so weird…” she murmured. “Whenever I use it, my skin feels like silk.” She tilted her head, her gaze locked onto mine. “Maybe your genetics just… reject it? I’ll ask my guru if there’s a modified batch he can make—” “Don’t bother.” I cut her off, taking a step backward. “I need to go.” I turned on my heel and power-walked toward the lobby doors. Behind me, I heard my mother’s voice, sharp and embarrassed. “Look at her attitude! You try to help her, Blair, and she acts like a petulant child.” Blair let out a soft, forgiving sigh. “She’s just hurting, Mom. Don’t be mad at her…” Just before the heavy glass doors swung shut, I caught a glimpse of Blair in the reflection. She wasn’t sighing. The corners of her mouth were curled up in a triumphant, razor-sharp smirk. 3 I walked into the ground floor of a high-end luxury department store. My doctor had prescribed a specialized neuro-repair serum to slow down the nerve death, and the only place that stocked it was the clinical beauty counter here. As I approached the cosmetic aisles, a massive, backlit billboard caught my eye. It was Blair. Printed in elegant, minimalist font in the bottom right corner were the words: [LUMINE Global Ambassador: Blair Montgomery.] That contract had been mine a year ago. I tore my eyes away, ducking my head and walking faster toward the pharmacy section. I barely made it two steps before someone screamed. “THAT’S HER!!!” A teenage girl, clutching a glossy magazine with Blair’s face on it, lunged out from behind a display counter. Before my brain could even register the movement, the girl reached out and violently ripped the mask off my face. I let out a choked gasp, throwing my hands up to cover my cheeks. The cool, air-conditioned air hit the raw surgical incisions and weeping pustules. It burned like battery acid. The girl blocked the aisle, putting her hands on her hips, and screamed at the top of her lungs. “HEY EVERYONE! Look! It’s Camilla Montgomery!” “Blair’s psychotic older sister! The one who’s trying to sabotage her contracts and steal her campaigns!” All the color drained from my face. “What are you talking about—” “Don’t play dumb! We know everything!” The girl spat, her eyes wild. “We know you’ve been calling the brand reps behind Blair’s back, trying to tell them you deserve the LUMINE deal! You’re so jealous you’re actually sick. It’s pathetic!” “I never did that! I’m just here to pick up a prescription!” The girl sneered, her eyes dropping to the manila folder I had instinctively tucked against my stomach. “Medicine? What kind of medicine does a botched plastic surgery freak need? What’s in the folder? Show us!” “No—” I tried to twist away, but she was faster. She yanked the pathology report right out of my hands. Her eyes scanned the bold text at the top of the page, and a malicious bark of laughter erupted from her throat. She waved the paper in the air, turning to the crowd of shoppers that had started to gather. “Oh my god, you guys, she’s actually trying to surgically copy her sister’s face! She got her jaw shaved and the surgery failed!” “She’s got facial nerve necrosis! She’s literally a rotting, stitched-together Frankenstein!!!” The crowd closed in. Phones were whipped out, camera lenses pointing at my face like the barrels of guns. I heard the rapid-fire click-click-click of shutters. “Jesus, that’s her sister? The genetic drop-off is insane…” “Trying to look like her little sister? That is profoundly unhinged.” “Karma, honestly. Blair is a natural beauty, and this girl is just butchering herself.” The whispers hit me like physical blows. I clenched my fists so hard my fingernails broke the skin of my palms. “It’s not true! I wasn’t trying to look like her! I—” The girl took a step closer, shoving her phone camera right into my face. “You’re what?” she sneered. “If my face looked like roadkill, I’d blow my brains out. Do us all a favor and drop off the grid. You’re disgusting.” I curled my shoulders inward, a violent tremor wracking my body. “That is quite enough!” I was about to scream when a hand clamped down hard on my shoulder. It was Evelyn. She pulled me behind her, her face dark with fury, though not at the crowd. At me. “Stop making a scene!” she hissed in my ear. “Are you trying to humiliate us? Get in the car, now!” “Mom—” “Do not call me Mom right now!” Evelyn stepped into my personal space, her voice a venomous whisper. “Look at you! Everywhere you go, you drag drama behind you like a stray dog! Your sister is finally at the peak of her career, and you’re out here getting photographed looking like a leper! Are you trying to drag her down with you?” I bit down on my trembling lip, the metallic taste of blood returning. Suddenly, Blair appeared from the crowd, looking like a distressed angel. she reached out and gently gripped my arm. “Cam, it’s okay. Ignore them.” She turned to face the mob of onlookers, offering them a deeply apologetic, sorrowful look. “Please, everyone, stop taking photos. My sister… she’s struggling right now.” She paused, letting a perfect tear well up in her eye. “She’s had a really hard time processing some… cosmetic procedures that didn’t go as planned. Her mental health hasn’t been stable. Please, just give her some grace, okay?” She pressed her palms together, bowing her head in a gesture of pure, saintly humility. Someone in the crowd murmured, “Blair has such a big heart… having a toxic sister like that must be exhausting.” The fight drained out of me completely. My arms fell limp at my sides. I shook Blair’s hand off my arm, turned around, and walked away. I made it all the way to the underground parking garage before my legs gave out. I collapsed into a crouch behind a concrete pillar, pressing my face into my hands, choking on my own tears. Then, a voice echoed from the stairwell. “Yeah? Hey B, it’s done. I did exactly what you said…” I froze. “Yeah, tore the mask off, grabbed the medical records. She was literally sobbing in the middle of the store…” “Mhm, don’t worry about it, B. The crowd was mostly the extras I hired off Craigslist…” “Two grand, right? Perfect. I’ll text you my Venmo.” It was the girl from the department store. I knelt there in the oily darkness of the garage, holding my breath. I did exactly what you said. Extras I hired. Slowly, I lowered my hands. I wiped the tears from my ruined face, my fingers curling into tight, cold fists. 4 I pushed the heavy oak door of the house open, my face completely blank. The foyer was dark, save for the ambient light bleeding in from the street. A figure rose from the living room sofa and walked toward me. “Camilla?” Damon Royce frowned as he took in my appearance, his hands coming up to gently grasp my arms. “What happened? You look like you’re going to pass out.” Damon was my husband. To the world—and to my family—he was just a nobody. A guy with no money and no pedigree who married into the Montgomery wealth because I had insisted. Nobody knew he was actually the sole heir to the Royce conglomerate, an empire that could buy and sell my father’s company ten times over. He kept his identity hidden and endured my family’s constant belittling because of a promise he made to me years ago. But right now, I didn’t have the mental capacity to think about his secret billions. “It’s nothing,” I lied, dropping my gaze. “Just came from the doctor. He said healing takes time.” Damon studied me for a long moment, seeing right through the lie. Without a word, he pulled me flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around me. “Whatever it is,” he murmured into my hair, “I’ve got you.” I leaned my weight against him, burying my face in his shirt, and finally let out a long, shaky breath. Hours later, fresh out of the shower and lying in the dark, I stared at the ceiling. I mentally rewound the tape of the last twelve months. That bespoke botanical poultice Blair sent me. The smell was vile—like iron, rotting flowers, and old copper. Every time I put it on, it felt like my skin was in a frying pan. When I told Blair, she assured me it was “cellular purging” and that the toxins had to come out before the skin could heal. I had religiously applied it for three months. For three months, my face decayed at an accelerated rate. But the morning after I applied it, Blair would always wake up looking positively radiant. Glowing. Buzzing with energy. None of it made sense. Blair survived on a diet of vodka, sugar, and late-night Taco Bell runs. She slept three hours a night, never washed her makeup off before bed, and baked in the sun without a drop of SPF. With a lifestyle like that, her skin should have been a wrecked, inflamed mess. But she didn’t have a single pore out of place. Meanwhile, I lived like a monk. No dairy, no sugar, gallons of water, sleeping by ten PM, slathering on the most expensive barrier-repair creams money could buy. And my face was literally rotting off my skull. I sat up slowly in the dark, my heart hammering against my ribs. A terrifying, impossible thought clawed its way into my brain. What if her beauty wasn’t hers? What if she was stealing it from me? I turned my head. Sitting on my nightstand was the fresh jar of the poultice Blair had just overnighted to me. The thick, black paste sat behind the glass, radiating that faint, sickeningly sweet, metallic smell. My phone lit up. A text from Blair. [Cam! Did the new batch arrive? You HAVE to put it on tonight! This one is ten times stronger than the last! Put on a thick layer! Sweet dreams ~] Followed by three pink heart emojis. A year ago, that text would have made me smile, grateful that my sister cared. Tonight, it made the blood in my veins run cold. I threw the blankets off, marched over to my vanity, and grabbed a heavy-duty trash bag. I swept every single glass bottle, serum, prescription cream, and chemical exfoliant off the marble into the bag. Then, I picked up the jar of the ancient poultice, unscrewed the lid, and dumped the foul, black sludge directly into the trash can. I didn’t even flinch at the stench. I picked up my phone, opened Postmates, and ordered eighty dollars’ worth of greasy fried chicken, loaded fries, and a massive chocolate milkshake. Damon, who had been leaning against the bedroom doorframe watching my manic purge, raised a single, dark eyebrow. “Going scorched earth, I see?” “If my face is going to rot, I might as well enjoy the ride,” I mumbled around a mouthful of a crispy chicken thigh twenty minutes later. “I haven’t eaten a carb in three years. This is so f*cking good.” After I ate, I stayed up until 4 AM playing Call of Duty, eventually passing out and sleeping until noon. For the next seven days, I abandoned everything. I threw away my diet. I ate jalapeño poppers and drank cheap wine. I stayed out late with Damon at dive bars. I stopped washing my face. I stopped moisturizing. I stopped avoiding the sun. On the night of the seventh day, my phone began to vibrate violently. The screen flashed Blair’s name. Over and over. I ignored the first three calls. On the fourth, I hit accept. “CAMILLA! What the hell have you been doing for the past week?!” Blair’s voice was frantic, breathless. I took a bite of a spicy barbecue wing, dragging out my chew before answering. “Eating ribs. Why?” “No—what about your poultice?! Mom told me she saw you throw all your skincare away! Have you lost your mind? Your face is literally falling apart and you’re just going to give up?!” Her voice hit a shrill, hysterical pitch that I had never heard from her before. Hearing the absolute, naked panic in her tone, I smiled. I finally had her.

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