The school my daughter attends recently planned an event called the “Summer Kickoff Trip.” The very evening I paid the activity fee, the class group chat was set up. I never expected the chaperone, the moment she joined the chat, to directly @ me, claiming there was something wrong with my profile picture. She bluntly accused my photo of being “overly suggestive,” even using words like “trashy.” “Chloe’s mom, did you consider the feelings of the other children and parents when you chose a picture like this? Please have some self-respect!” she announced publicly in the group. I was completely blindsided. It was just an ordinary selfie. To prevent my daughter from becoming the subject of gossip among her classmates, I hurriedly changed the picture and suggested that if she had any further issues, we could discuss them privately. But my concession wasn’t met with understanding; instead, it earned me another reprimand from the chaperone. “There’s no need for private messages. Whatever needs to be said can be made clear right here in the group! Also, pull Chloe’s dad into the chat. I need to communicate with him!” she commanded, leaving no room for argument. I had no choice but to do as she said and add my husband to the group. However, the very next second, I found myself kicked out of the parents’ chat. … 1 It was absolutely absurd. Even though I had changed my profile picture to a plain white background with no image whatsoever, and had publicly apologized to the chaperone, Ms. Monroe, in the group chat, she still wouldn’t let it go. And every single message she sent @’d me. “Chloe’s mom, could you please stop spamming? You’re not the only parent in this group!” “Changing your picture to a stark white background is quite morbid, don’t you think? The kids are going on their summer trip tomorrow; safety and good vibes have to come first.” “Your profile picture is going to bring bad juju to our trip. I suggest you change it immediately!” My head was pounding. I had no idea what kind of picture to change it to. I had never felt so much pressure over a simple avatar in my entire life. So, I changed it again, this time to a solid red background. Unbelievably, she @’d me once more. “A red profile picture looks violent and bloody. It’s going to ruin the luck for our trip tomorrow! Chloe’s mom, what exactly are you trying to do?” “Communicating with you requires a level of mind-reading I just don’t have. It’s far too exhausting and is going to slow down our departure.” “Please, just add Chloe’s dad to the group so I can communicate with him!” With that single sentence, Ms. Monroe left me completely speechless. Honestly, my patience had already been stretched to its absolute limit. My stomach was tied in knots of anger. I even considered trying to talk my daughter out of going on the trip altogether. Just from these few exchanges, I could tell Ms. Monroe was going to be difficult, and my daughter is so soft-spoken and sweet. I was genuinely terrified she’d end up feeling neglected or bullied. But my daughter didn’t understand any of this. She was only in the second grade and had been looking forward to this trip for weeks. “Mommy, I really, really want to go. We’re going to Disney, and we get to sleep in the castle hotel! I’ve been waiting for this forever.” She looked up at me, her eyes brimming with tears, a picture of pure heartbreak. “Sigh.” I let out a helpless breath, forcing myself to swallow my frustration. “Alright, sweetheart, you can go. But you have to promise Mommy: keep your smartwatch on you, and if anything happens, you call me immediately, okay? Don’t let anyone make you feel bad.” She nodded frantically, a bright smile instantly replacing the tears. She was bouncing like a little rabbit, thanking me over and over. Just to keep Ms. Monroe from throwing another fit, I dutifully added my husband, Mason, to the group chat. At first, my heart was in my throat, terrified Mason would be her next target. His profile picture was of him holding a steering wheel, a flash of a luxury watch visible—it was a bit corporate, maybe even a little showy. To my shock, Ms. Monroe didn’t say a single word about his picture. In fact, her tone did a complete one-eighty. “Welcome to the group, Chloe’s dad! Here’s to a wonderful and successful two-day summer adventure!” 2 The very next second, Ms. Monroe removed me from the group. I wasn’t even allowed the dignity of lurking. Before I could even voice a complaint, Mason noticed the shift and jumped off the couch, furious. “Is this teacher missing a few brain cells? I join, and she kicks you out? I’m calling Chloe’s homeroom teacher right now to figure out what the hell is going on.” Mason was fuming, pacing the room and threatening to escalate things. I quickly reached out and grabbed his arm to stop him. “Forget it, forget it. It’s fine. As long as you’re in the group, we’re okay. Chloe has her heart set on this trip; let’s not make a scene. It’s only for one night anyway. The time will fly by.” Mason sighed, his anger deflating slightly. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me like he was comforting a child. “But I hate seeing you treated like this. You didn’t do anything wrong. She’s just picking a fight for the sake of it. Sounds like someone hates her job and is taking it out on the parents.” “What can we do? Chloe is under her supervision right now. I can swallow a little pride for her sake.” Mason squeezed my hand sympathetically, telling me to sit down and rest while he finished packing Chloe’s overnight bag. This was Chloe’s first time being away from me overnight. Honestly, I think I was more anxious about it than she was. The dread had started creeping in the night before. Especially after that bizarre little drama, my stomach was in a constant state of churn. I barely slept that night. When I finally dragged myself out of bed the next morning, Mason had already dropped Chloe off at school. By eight o’clock, they were on the road to Disney. I was so worried about her that I secretly texted her smartwatch, asking if she was feeling carsick. Ten minutes later, my phone rang. It was Mason, sounding rushed and slightly awkward. “Hey, honey… did you text Chloe?” “Yeah, I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t feeling motion sick. She hasn’t texted me back.” Mason let out a heavy sigh. A second later, my phone pinged with several screenshots. “Stop texting her. Ms. Monroe took her smartwatch away. She just sent another message to the group, using you as a cautionary tale.” I clicked on the images. Once again, it was a wall of @ symbols, and her words were just as venomous as before. “Some parents really need to learn how to appropriately let go. Children grow up in the blink of an eye; they don’t need you hovering over their every move.” “This is Chloe’s mother. I had to remove her from the group last night, and today she’s pulling these kinds of stunts.” “I hope the rest of the parents don’t follow her example. I have confiscated the smartwatch, and I hope the rest of our trip can proceed pleasantly.” I couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t even in the group anymore, and she was still finding ways to publicly humiliate me? The next screenshot showed Mason apologizing on my behalf. Ms. Monroe accepted it graciously, replying with sickening sweetness. “It’s completely fine. As long as I can communicate effectively with you, Chloe’s dad, nothing else matters.” She punctuated the message with two aggressively cute emojis. I felt physically nauseous. “Is this woman just desperate for male attention? I noticed she’s been perfectly pleasant to you. At least she let it go. She chewed me out for half an hour yesterday. Do you think she just has it out for me?” “I doubt it.” Mason sounded puzzled. He scrolled through the rest of the chat history, but couldn’t find anything overtly suspicious. “She hasn’t targeted any of the other moms. It’s mostly just standard updates. I bet she was just jealous of how pretty your profile picture was and decided to take it out on you.” Listening to Mason trying to cheer me up, the dark cloud hovering over me finally began to dissipate. I pushed the incident out of my mind, merely reminding Mason to keep a close eye on the group chat and let me know how Chloe was doing. 3 That afternoon, Mason forwarded a barrage of photos to me. They were all taken by Ms. Monroe and posted in the group. Every kid looked like they were having the time of their lives. But Chloe barely featured in any of them. I didn’t see a single clear shot of her face—just half of her profile here, the back of her head there. And the Elsa dress I had packed for her? She wasn’t wearing it. Instead, one of her classmates was. I zoomed in on the picture just to be sure. It was definitely Chloe’s dress. I had it custom-made for her, complete with her initials embroidered on the hem. My immediate thought was that Chloe was being bullied. I dialed Mason’s number without a second thought. He declined the call and sent a quick three-word text: In a meeting. Knowing he wouldn’t be free anytime soon, I begged him to add me back into the group chat. Mason hesitated, but ten seconds later, I saw the notification that I had been added. The moment I entered, Ms. Monroe was in the middle of uploading a massive batch of photos, which quickly buried the system notification of my arrival. Just as I was secretly congratulating myself, thinking she wouldn’t notice—ping. She @’d me again. “Chloe’s mom, don’t think you can sneak back in here just by changing your display name and picture. Could you please dial back the control issues?” “I am doing this for Chloe’s own good. She needs to learn independence, not be constantly surveilled by you. She needs space to breathe.” “Have some dignity and leave the group yourself. We only need one parent present. Otherwise, I will have to remove you again.” She fired off three paragraphs in rapid succession, each one dripping with a condescending, self-righteous tone. It felt like she was trying to nail me to a cross in front of the entire PTA. My temper flared. I was just typing out a furious response when my screen flashed. I had been kicked out again! I tried sending Ms. Monroe a friend request several times, wanting to ask her directly why she was so relentlessly targeting me. She rejected every single one, eventually blocking me entirely. Out of options, I tried contacting Mason again, desperate to know what was happening in the chat. I needed him to ask why Chloe’s classmate was wearing her custom dress. But Mason was still tied up in his meeting, entirely unreachable. I reached out to two other moms from the class. Both confirmed they hadn’t experienced anything remotely similar. The panic began to set in. It felt like my daughter was being held hostage by this woman. I couldn’t contact her, I couldn’t see her, and the knot in my stomach was tightening with every passing minute. I had no outlet for my frustration. Faced with such blatant, inexplicable malice, my skin crawled. I felt like I was sitting on pins and needles, unable to stay still. Consumed by anxiety, I sent a barrage of messages to Mason, begging him to forward a carefully drafted text to Ms. Monroe as soon as his meeting ended, just to ask if Chloe was having fun. Part of me genuinely wanted to demand Mason drive out to Disney and bring her home right then and there. After an agonizing hour, Mason finally finished his meeting. Reading the essay I had sent him, he replied with an awkward emoji, followed by a voice memo. “Honey, aren’t you spiraling a bit? Please don’t worry so much. My phone was buzzing non-stop during the meeting. I had no idea you sent all this; I didn’t even have time to look.” “Chloe is having a blast! The teacher already explained the dress thing. I just didn’t have a chance to forward it to you.” He quickly sent over a screenshot. It was a picture of Chloe, beaming brightly. Ms. Monroe had voluntarily explained to him that Chloe had lent the Elsa dress to a classmate, and the classmate had given Chloe a small gift in return. The two girls were getting along famously; there was no conflict or bullying whatsoever. “See, honey? You were overthinking it. Just let it go. I’ve got to get back to work!” 4 Staring at Mason’s final message, my heart turned to ice. The fiery indignation and profound sense of grievance I had been harboring suddenly felt choked off, forced back down my throat. It was obvious that Ms. Monroe was targeting me. Even the most oblivious person would have picked up on her hostility. I was just trying to stand up for myself. Yet somehow, I was the one painted as the neurotic, hyper-fixated, unbearable mother. The life drained out of me for the rest of the afternoon. I couldn’t get any updates on my daughter, and I wasn’t allowed to ask. The trip I had been so excited for her to take had morphed into a waking nightmare. I finally made it through the workday, only to receive a text from Mason saying he had to work late and not to wait up for dinner. With Chloe gone, the house felt cavernous. The silence was so profound that the beating of my own heart seemed thunderous. I couldn’t even muster the appetite to eat. I sat listlessly on the couch until a sudden thought pierced the gloom: Chloe was staying at the Disney hotel tonight. They were supposed to do a goodnight video call with the parents. A surge of adrenaline hit me. I rushed to my laptop and forced Mason to authorize a web login for his messaging app. Ten minutes later, I was in. I sat glued to the screen, not daring to move, waiting for Chloe’s call. But a message from Ms. Monroe popped up before the video call did, syncing across the laptop and burning into my retinas. “Chloe’s dad, she was an absolute star today. She had so much fun. She talked my ear off, and she just kept bragging about how smart and capable her daddy is.” “We’re going to do our goodnight video calls soon. Are you ready, Chloe’s dad? Get ready to catch all our love!” “Chloe’s dad, are you there? Just send a quick reply if you are. I’m actually a little nervous! I’m about to call you.” Reading those messages, the excitement that had just flared to life turned to ash in my mouth. Scrolling up, I realized Ms. Monroe had added Mason as a contact much earlier in the day. They had been chatting back and forth, exchanging pleasantries for hours. All the clear, smiling photos of Chloe? Ms. Monroe had sent them privately to Mason. She peppered her messages with cutesy emojis, constantly initiating conversations and fishing for topics to discuss with him. And that last message… Was that really how a teacher should speak to a married man? What exactly was she nervous about? A white-hot fury ignited in my chest. I slammed my hands onto the keyboard to reply, but before I could hit send, the video call request popped up. I clicked ‘Accept’ instantly. On the screen, Ms. Monroe was smiling a sickly-sweet smile. Chloe was nowhere to be seen. The laptop’s camera cover was slid shut, so she couldn’t see me. Assuming it was Mason, she pitched her voice into a sickeningly breathy register. “Chloe’s dad? Are you there? Mason, are you there? Is the connection bad? Did it freeze?” She giggled, a coy, flirty sound that made my blood boil. I reached up and violently flicked the camera cover open. The smile vanished from Ms. Monroe’s face. The moment she saw me, her expression contorted into one of profound disappointment. She sneered, rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck, and hung up. That’s when the realization hit me like a physical blow. I thought back to Ms. Monroe’s face on the screen. The more I thought about it, the more familiar she looked. One minute later, Mason was logged out of the messaging app. Ten minutes later, the husband who was supposedly ‘working late’ burst through the front door, panting and frantic. Before he even took his coat off, he started berating me. “Lydia, if you want to read the messages in the group, just read them quietly! Why the hell did you answer my video call? You got Chloe’s teacher so upset she complained to me again!” “Complained?” I let out a harsh, barking laugh. The puzzle pieces had finally snapped together. I knew why Ms. Monroe looked so familiar. “Ms. Monroe adds you privately, flirts with you all day, and then initiates a video call with you while our daughter isn’t even in the room. What right does she have to complain?” “Lydia, what kind of nonsense are you spouting? It was a perfectly normal conversation! See? You’re overthinking everything again.” “Mason! Don’t treat me like an idiot. I know exactly who she is! How long were you two going to keep this from me?” Mason froze, his mouth dropping open. He stood there in stunned silence, clearly struggling to formulate a lie. And in that silence, I finally understood why Ms. Monroe harbored such a venomous hatred for me…

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I used to be a ghost in the neon haze of the city—a pureblood succubus masquerading as the most expensive escort in the most exclusive high-rise clubs. In my last life, I flew too close to the sun. I played too hard with the heir to a political dynasty, a mistake that ended in his accidental death and my own brutal murder. When I opened my eyes again, I wasn’t in hell. I was in the sprawling, gilded estate of the Emerson family, reincarnated as Janice, the pampered daughter of a high-ranking political strategist—a man they call the Kingmaker. I had planned to spend this second life in quiet luxury, hiding my true nature within the thick walls of the manor. But a succubus is a creature of hunger. Lately, my skin has been humming with a restless, agonizing heat. My instincts are screaming. As fate would have it, the city’s most powerful figure—a man whose influence rivals that of the President—has issued a summons. It’s an “Elite Selection,” a strategic social vetting for the daughters of the nation’s power players. The prize is a position in the inner circle of the “Blackwood Empire.” Rumor has it that Killian Blackwood, the head of the empire, is a man possessed by a primal, volcanic energy. They call him the “Executioner” in boardrooms and a “Demon” in private. The whispers are scandalous: he’s obsessed with dominance, with the bite of leather, and he possesses an endurance that borders on the supernatural. The women who have been “selected” before? They say they were carried out of his penthouse on stretchers, broken by the sheer intensity of his appetites. The debutantes of the city are terrified. I’ve heard of girls trying to shave their heads or eloping with gardeners just to escape the “honor” of his bed. My father, the Kingmaker, has aged ten years in a single night, even whispering about sabotaging his own career just to keep me off Killian’s radar. But me? I listened to the rumors and felt a familiar, wicked smile tug at my lips. “A man who brings his own toys and never runs out of steam? A high-octane tyrant with energy to burn? Honey, that’s not a nightmare. That’s an all-you-can-eat buffet.” 1 The selection took place at the Blackwood Plaza, in a ballroom that felt more like a throne room. Outside, the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and desperate fear. The other girls stood with slumped shoulders, looking like they were waiting for the guillotine. My father’s hand was a vice around my arm, his palm slick with sweat. “Janice, listen to me,” he hissed. “When it’s time for the draw, stay in the back. Do not catch his eye. The man is a monster. Entering that inner circle is a death sentence.” I nodded obediently, but my heart was hammering a different rhythm. The succubus within me was clawing at my ribs. I licked my lips, my eyes fixed on the velvet-lined box on the dais. A man with a relentless drive and a penchant for the whip? He wasn’t a monster. He was my cure. “Mr. Blackwood has arrived.” The room went dead silent. Everyone bowed their heads as if a god had walked in. Killian Blackwood was a silhouette of sharp lines and dark shadows. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit that looked like armor. He moved with a predatory grace up the marble stairs, the embodiment of cold, masculine power. I swallowed hard. The contrast was intoxicating. In public, he was the picture of ascetic restraint. In private? A man who lived for the burn. My legs pressed together instinctively. The selection began. One by one, the debutantes stepped forward, pulling white cards from the box—the signal that they were safe. They would exhale, offer a shaky thank-you, and practically run out of the room. Then it was my turn. My father tried to hold me back. “Janice, just grab any card and get out!” I shook him off and stepped forward with a confidence that turned heads. As I passed Killian, I executed a calculated stumble. I’m a pureblood; I know how to fall. I did it with a precision that ensured I collapsed directly toward him. It was a move designed to let him catch my scent—the unique, pheromonal musk of my kind—and feel the curve of my body against his. Except, he didn’t catch me. Killian stepped a half-inch to the side with surgical indifference. I hit the polished floor with a dull thud. It hurt like hell, and I had to grit my teeth to keep from swearing. A wave of muffled giggles rippled through the room. Tiffany, a socialite known for her razor-sharp tongue and fake “innocence,” leaned over with a smirk. “Oh, Janice. Are you that desperate for a man? Even a common gold-digger knows not to trip over the King himself.” I ignored her, pushing myself up and smoothing my dress. Fine, Killian. Play it cool. I walked to the box and reached inside. There was only one card with a raised embossed seal—the one I’d paid a staffer a small fortune to place there. I gripped it and held it high above my head. “I’ve been selected.” The room gasped. My father’s eyes rolled back, and he fainted right there on the carpet. Tiffany’s face contorted into a mask of pure jealousy. “That’s impossible! How could she get it?” I turned to Killian, a daring smile playing on my lips. “Mr. Blackwood, when do I move into the penthouse?” I was already imagining the leather and the long nights. Killian turned to look at me. His gaze was heavy, lingering on my face with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. “Who said anything about the penthouse?” I blinked. “Isn’t this a selection for your… personal circle?” Killian let out a cold, dry chuckle and turned to his Chief of Staff. The man stepped forward, adjusting his glasses, and announced in a booming voice: “By order of Mr. Blackwood: The selection for a domestic partner is indefinitely suspended.” He paused, looking directly at me. “However, the Emerson daughter, having drawn the seal, is hereby appointed as the Executive Assistant to the Chairman. A three-month probationary period begins tomorrow.” The silence lasted two seconds before the whispers exploded. I stood there, stunned. I’m ready to strip, and you’re giving me a desk job? Killian stopped in front of me, looking down from his towering height. “Janice Emerson, right?” “Yes,” I managed. “Six a.m. sharp in my office. Be late by thirty seconds, and you’re fired.” He swept past me without another word. I watched his broad shoulders disappear into the inner sanctum, my temper beginning to simmer. Oh, I see. You want to play the boss-assistant game? You want the thrill of the forbidden office tryst? Fine, Killian. You have no idea what you’ve just invited into your office. 2 The next morning, I arrived at the Blackwood Tower. I was wearing a silk blouse that was just sheer enough to be questionable and a pencil skirt that left very little to the imagination when I sat down. I walked into the executive suite and ran right into Tiffany. She was actually there. “Janice, look at you. Are you here to work or to audition for a street corner?” Tiffany sneered, looking me up and down. I rolled my eyes. “None of your business. You didn’t even get a card. Why are you here?” Tiffany lifted her chin. “My aunt is on the board. I’ve been appointed as the Office Manager. Which means, technically, I’m your boss.” Great. A legacy hire with a grudge. I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. I walked straight to the heavy mahogany doors of the inner office and pushed them open. Killian was behind his desk, illuminated by the floor-to-ceiling windows of Manhattan. He was reviewing a stack of contracts. “Mr. Blackwood, I’m reporting for duty,” I said, my voice dropping into a low, honeyed register. He didn’t even look up. “There’s a copy of the Corporate Governance Manifesto on the table. Transcribe it by hand. A hundred times.” I walked over and picked up the book. As I turned to leave, I ‘accidentally’ let it slip through my fingers. “Oh!” The book hit the floor, pages splaying. I knelt down to retrieve it, making sure my skirt rode up just enough to flash a scandalous amount of thigh. I looked up at him, my eyes wide and pleading. “Mr. Blackwood, I’m so clumsy. Would you mind helping me?” In my past life, men would have been across the desk and tearing my clothes off by now. Killian’s gaze dropped to my legs. For a split second, I saw his pupils dilate. The air in the room grew heavy. My inner succubus purred, sensing the fire in him. I was ready to do this right here on the mahogany. Then, his eyes cleared. He looked back at his monitor. “Janice, are you in heat?” The smile froze on my face. “If you can’t pick up a book, get out. This office doesn’t have room for useless baggage.” His voice was like ice. He wasn’t joking. I was fuming. Is this man broken? The rumors said he was a beast with a primal hunger, yet here I am—a pureblood succubus—and he’s treating me like a nuisance? I grabbed the book, grit my teeth, and went to the side office to start writing. When I finished, Tiffany blocked my path. “Janice, take this coffee in to him. He likes it piping hot.” She handed me a porcelain cup, a nasty little smirk on her face. I took it, sensing the trap. I walked into the office. As I approached Killian’s desk, I ‘tripped’ on the edge of the rug. The coffee didn’t just spill; it launched directly into his lap. If you won’t come to me, I’ll make you react. “Shit!” Killian lunged to his feet, his face turning a dark shade of livid. His expensive trousers were soaked in a very suggestive area. I whipped out a silk handkerchief and pounced, rubbing the spot vigorously. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Blackwood! Let me help, let me get that…” My hand brushed against him, and I felt the truth. The rumors were right. He was reacting—and powerfully. I looked up at him and gave him a slow, heavy-lidded wink. Killian’s breath hitched. His eyes were boring into mine. I thought for sure he was about to grab me, maybe pull out that belt he was rumored to use. Instead, he grabbed my wrist with a grip like iron. “Janice Emerson, you are playing a very dangerous game.” He shoved me back. I stumbled against a bookshelf. He grabbed a towel to dry himself off, then roared, “Tiffany! Get in here!” Tiffany rushed in, looking triumphant. “Mr. Blackwood? Is everything okay? Did Janice mess up again? I told you she was incompetent—” “Shut up,” Killian snapped. He looked at Tiffany with pure vitriol. “Did you tell her to bring me this coffee?” Tiffany blinked, her voice trembling as she confessed. “Security! Escort her out. She’s fired. And tell the board her aunt is next if I see her in this building again.” Tiffany began to wail as security dragged her away. Then, there were just the two of us. Killian stared at me. “Janice, stop the games. The cheap tricks, the provocations—stop.” “Or what?” I challenged. “Or I will make your life a living hell. One you won’t want to wake up from.” He turned and walked into his private suite, slamming the door. I rubbed my sore wrist, staring at the closed door. A living hell? Good. Because the more you resist, the more I want to see you break. Let’s see who lasts longer, Mr. Blackwood. 3 That evening was the “Midnight Gala,” a high-society fundraiser. As his assistant, I had to attend. I wore a dress that was essentially a second skin—sheer lace over nude silk. I sat next to him in the back of the limousine, leaning into his space. As the car took a sharp turn, I let myself fall against his shoulder. “I feel a little lightheaded, Killian,” I whispered. He used two fingers to push my head away. “Sit up.” I huffed and straightened my dress. This man’s willpower was terrifying. Was he actually a saint? Or was he just… incapable? At the gala, Killian was the center of gravity. Every woman in the room was watching him, but no one dared approach. Except for me. I sat beside him at the head table, my thigh pressed firmly against his. The drinks flowed. Killian accepted every toast, glass after glass of bourbon. I noticed his eyes beginning to cloud with a dark red tint. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. His breathing became heavy and rhythmic. My heart leaped. This was it. The “Holy Fire”—his internal heat—was becoming uncontrollable. “You’ve had a lot to drink,” I whispered in his ear, my breath warm against his skin. “Why don’t I take you to the private lounge to rest?” Killian didn’t push me away this time. His body was rigid, his jaw clenched so hard I thought it might snap. “Fine,” he rasped. I led him away under a barrage of jealous stares. The moment the door to the private lounge clicked shut, he spun me around and pinned me against the mahogany door. “Janice…” His voice was a low, agonizing growl. I was ecstatic. Finally. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “I’m right here. Whatever you need, I’ll give it to you…” I arched my body into his, my own succubus heat flaring to match his. I waited for him to rip my dress, for the “monster” to come out. Suddenly, Killian’s eyes snapped into focus. He shoved me back, bolted into the adjoining bathroom, and locked the door. I followed him, throwing the door open. Killian was fully dressed, sitting in a marble tub filled with ice-cold water. The freezing water was overflowing onto the floor. He was gripping the edges of the tub, his knuckles white, his whole body shaking. He was using the cold to suppress the fire. I was stunned. Is he insane? He’d rather torture himself with ice than touch me? I walked over and knelt by the tub. “Killian, you’re going to hurt yourself.” I reached out to unbutton his shirt. “Let me help you.” The moment my fingers touched his skin, his eyes flew open—they were bloodshot, primal. He grabbed my throat and pulled! I tumbled into the tub with him. The ice water soaked through my dress instantly, making it transparent. I gasped, finding myself straddling his lap. Even through the freezing water and his suit, I could feel the terrifying reality of his desire. He was at his limit. “Do you want to die, Janice?” he hissed. I met his gaze and gave him a wicked, beautiful smile. “I want to die happy.” I leaned down and bit his earlobe, hard. Killian’s body convulsed. He flipped us, pinning me against the edge of the tub, his hands tearing at the lace of my dress. Yes! Bring out the whip! Do your worst! But then, he stopped. He was panting, staring at me with a mix of hunger and self-loathing. Then he climbed out of the tub. “Get out!” he roared. I sat in the ice water, shivering and furious. “Killian! What is wrong with you?” He didn’t answer. He went to a cabinet, pulled out a small black vial, and swallowed a pill. A sedative. A high-dose suppressant. He’d rather poison his own system than give in. I climbed out of the tub, dripping and humiliated. He threw a heavy cashmere coat at me. “Cover yourself. Go.” I grabbed the coat, my eyes burning with tears of rage. “Fine, Mr. Blackwood,” I spat. “But I promise you this: I’m going to break you. And when I do, you’ll be the one begging.” I walked out, the wet silk clinging to my skin. 4 The gala moved into its final phase—the “Silent Auction.” I had managed to bribe a server for a spare tuxedo and a mask. I stood in the shadows behind the high-backed velvet chairs of the VIP section, watching Killian. He was sitting there, his back stiff, but I could see the slight tremor in his hands. The suppressant wasn’t working. The heat was too strong. I licked my lips. You threw me out of the tub, but there’s nowhere to run now. The lights dimmed for a presentation on a rare diamond. The room went pitch black. I slipped through the shadows and reached his side. “Mr. Blackwood, I brought you something cold to help with the fever,” I whispered. He turned, his eyes searching the dark. Before he could speak, I dropped a single, frozen grape into his lap. He hissed, a sharp intake of breath. “I’ll get that for you,” I murmured. I dropped to my knees and slid under the long, heavy velvet tablecloth that draped over the VIP table. The lights came back on. Down there, in the dark, the heat radiating from him was like a furnace. “Janice!” Killian hissed, his voice a strangled whisper. He tried to pull back. I grabbed his ankles, anchoring him. I pressed my cheek against the fabric of his trousers. Above us, the auctioneer was droning on about carats and clarity. Under the table, I began to unfasten his belt. Killian’s entire body went rigid. He reached down, his fingers digging into the back of my neck. “Get… out…” he gasped. I ignored him. I could hear the truth in his heartbeat. “Is everything alright, Mr. Blackwood?” my father’s voice suddenly asked from across the table. “You look a bit flushed.” Killian’s hand tightened on my neck. “I’m fine, Robert. Just the heat in the room.” I smiled and made my move. I heard him choke back a groan. His hand on my neck went limp, then tightened again, but not to push me away. Then, the guest of honor stood up. “A toast to the Blackwood Empire! Killian, please, stand and join us!” The entire room turned toward our table. If Killian stood up now, his disarray would be visible to every camera and every power player in the city. He was trapped. He sat there, sweating, his hand trembling as he reached for his champagne glass. He tried to play it off, but I wasn’t finished. As he tilted his head back to drink, I gave him exactly what he’d been fighting against. “Ah!” Killian let out a loud, ragged moan that echoed through the silent ballroom.

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It was the day I went to collect rent that the bottom fell out of my reality. I discovered a truth so deeply unsettling it made my blood run cold. My personal trainer—the guy who counted my reps and wiped down my bench—had been impersonating my husband. He had somehow managed to con every single tenant in my building out of their next three years of rent. Looking back, the warning signs were flashing neon from the very beginning. The shift happened the moment he found out I owned real estate and lived entirely off passive income. The way he looked at me changed. It wasn’t customer service anymore; it was calculation. I had assumed he was just aggressively pushing for a membership renewal. I even asked him point-blank if my prepaid sessions were running out. Instead of answering, he reached out, gave my hip a patronizing pat, and told me, in a tone dripping with unearned authority, that I was strictly forbidden from drinking imported protein shakes anymore. He told me that women with “too much muscle” were unappealing. He said I needed to eat more red meat, drink heavy stews, and get my body fat percentage up. That’s how you prepare a body for carrying a child, he had said, his eyes dark and entirely too familiar. That’s what a real woman is supposed to do. My skin crawled. I took two sharp steps back, my guard instantly up, and asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. He didn’t apologize. He looked annoyed. He gave me a lecture about how a woman of my age was running out of time, how geriatric pregnancies resulted in cognitive delays. Then, the absolute audacity—he pulled a thermos out of his gym bag. It was filled with some dark, foul-smelling herbal brew his mother had allegedly simmered for hours. Drink this, he insisted. It guarantees a healthy baby boy. He didn’t stop there. He casually mentioned that once I was pregnant, he would take over the burden of collecting my rents. I could just stay home and focus on baking the baby. Oh, and when his younger sister got married, he was going to gift her one of my apartments. He couldn’t have his little sister looking like a charity case in front of her new in-laws, after all. I stared at him, completely bewildered, and told him to get his grotesque swamp-water away from me. He snapped. He called me an ungrateful bitch. He said I was an aging, pretentious woman who pranced around in front of men, and that I should be on my knees thanking God a guy like him was willing to overlook my baggage. I felt physically nauseous. I marched straight to the front desk and canceled my membership on the spot. He harassed my phone for a few days, a barrage of manic texts, and then… silence. He vanished. I never expected that the next time his name surfaced, it would be tied to a grift of this magnitude. 1 “Look, Julia, your husband already came by last month and collected three years of rent for the whole building. He even gave us a twenty percent discount for paying upfront. Why are you here asking for it again?” I stared at the bank transfer receipt Gary, the tenant from 2B, shoved into my face. My brain short-circuited. “My husband?” The words tasted foreign on my tongue. “I don’t even have a boyfriend, Gary. What husband?” Gary’s expression darkened into a scowl. “Come on, don’t play games. Bradley showed me the photos from your courthouse wedding.” He crossed his arms. “He told us you were doing IVF, that your hormones were making you emotionally unstable, and he didn’t want you stressing over the properties. That’s why he handled it.” Bradley. The same Bradley I had fired and blocked days ago. The man who had screamed that I was a stuck-up bitch for rejecting his psychotic advances. My hands curled into tight fists. My nails bit into my palms. “Call the police. Call 911 right now, Gary. This is massive fraud.” “Honey, haven’t you made enough of a scene?” a male voice sighed from behind me. I whipped around. Bradley was walking up the front steps, carrying two cheap bottles of drugstore prenatal vitamins. He looked at me with exaggerated exhaustion. “Look, I know you’re still mad I wouldn’t buy you that designer bag, but we’re going to be parents soon. We have to learn how to budget.” He turned to the gathering crowd of tenants. “I put that three years of rent into a high-yield CD. It’s locked away for our son’s college fund.” My finger shook as I pointed it at his chest. “Are you out of your psychotic mind?! Who is your wife? Who is having your son?!” Bradley gave a condescending chuckle and reached out, trying to patronizingly pat my head. “Julia, babe, it’s one thing to throw these little tantrums at home, but do you really have to do this out in public?” He looked around, playing the weary martyr. “I know this building is in your name, sweetheart. But we’re married. It’s marital property now.” He spread his hands. “What’s the crime in me helping you collect the rent? Do you really need to humiliate me in front of all these nice people?” The tenants exchanged glances. The whispers started. Gary shook his head at me. “Julia, this isn’t right. Whatever fights you two are having at home, you don’t drag us into it.” “Yeah,” a woman from the third floor chimed in. “Bradley is just trying to secure your family’s future. Why are you being so completely unreasonable?” I felt the blood rushing to my ears. “I am not wasting my breath on this. I’m having the cops sort this out right now.” Bradley suddenly lunged forward and gripped my wrist. Hard. “Julia, don’t push me,” he hissed, his voice dropping the friendly-guy act. “I handled the rent for your own good. You really want to blow this up?” His grip tightened until my bones ground together. “You want me to air out all your dirty little secrets right here?” I violently yanked my arm free. “Do it! I’d love to see what twisted fantasy you pull out of your ass next!” Bradley reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a thick stack of glossy photographs, and threw them onto the concrete. “Look at these!” he yelled to the crowd. “Look at how she acts when she claims she’s single!” The photos scattered across the pavement. I looked down, and all the warmth drained from my body. Ice filled my veins. They were pictures of me at the gym. Bending over the rowing machine. Squatting. But worse—there were photos taken through the crack of the women’s locker room door as I was changing my shoes. My face burned with a mix of utter violation and raw fury. “You disgusting creep! You were stalking me!” Bradley puffed out his chest. “Stalking? I’m a husband documenting my beautiful wife! You go to the gym dressed like a stripper just to get male attention! If I wasn’t generous enough to put up with you, who else would want damaged goods like you?” The tenants were actively pointing now. “Wow. You think you know people. Dressed so nice, but totally trashy behind closed doors.” “Poor guy. Must be hell being married to a woman who can’t keep it in her pants.” I raised my hand to slap the absolute taste out of his mouth, but before I could, an older woman pushed through the crowd, threw herself onto the concrete, and started slapping her own thighs, wailing at the top of her lungs. “Everyone, look! Look at her! The daughter-in-law is beating her husband! She’s beating her mother-in-law!” It was an Oscar-worthy performance of pure, unadulterated madness. “What did our family do to deserve this curse? She took fifty thousand dollars from us for the wedding fund, and now she’s throwing us away like garbage!” I ground my teeth together so hard my jaw ached. “You are all certifiably insane! I don’t even know who you are!” The older woman—Bradley’s mother—scrambled to her feet and pointed a jagged finger at my stomach. “Don’t know us? You’re carrying my grandson in your belly, and you dare say you don’t know us?!” She stepped into my space, her breath hot and sour. “Listen to me, Julia. We collected that rent, and we’re keeping it! You call the cops, and I will show up at your corporate office. I will show up at your parents’ house in the suburbs. I will ruin you so thoroughly you’ll never show your face in this town again!” I didn’t blink. I pulled out my phone and dialed. “Yes, 911? I need officers at my location immediately. I’m looking at a coordinated fraud scheme exceeding three hundred thousand dollars.” Seeing me actually make the call, Bradley just smirked, entirely unfazed. “Go ahead. Cops hate domestic disputes. Let’s see how you talk your way out of this one, babe.” 2 Two patrol officers pushed through the murmuring crowd. “Who called it in?” I pointed a stiff finger at Bradley. “Officers, I did. This man is impersonating my husband. He just defrauded my entire building out of three years’ worth of rent.” The lead officer turned to Bradley, his hand resting casually on his belt. “Fraud? What’s the dollar amount?” Bradley let out a long, long-suffering sigh. He gave the cops a ‘you-know-how-women-are’ smile. “Officers, I’m so sorry. Please ignore my wife. She’s just throwing a fit.” He tapped his temple. “She’s pregnant. The hormones are making her crazy. She thinks me managing our finances is a federal crime.” The cop looked back at me, his eyes already glazing over with the assumption of a domestic squabble. “What’s going on here, ma’am?” Before I could get a word out, Bradley pulled a manila envelope from his bag and slid out two official-looking documents. “Here. These are the certified copies of our marriage license.” He handed them over. “I’m her legal husband. I helped her collect rent on a property she owns. How is that a crime?” I snatched one of the papers from his hand. Staring back at me was a photo of Bradley and me, side-by-side. My full name, my social security number, my date of birth. It was flawless. “This is forged!” My voice cracked with disbelief. “I have never been married in my life!” I pointed at the photo. “Officers, that is the ID photo I took when I signed up for my gym membership. He photoshopped us together!” The officer took the license back and handed it to his partner to run through dispatch. Bradley’s mother threw herself forward, grabbing the officer’s sleeve, crocodile tears streaming down her face. “Officers, please help us! This woman is a monster! She took fifty thousand dollars of our hard-earned savings, and now that the money’s gone, she wants to kick us out on the street!” I was vibrating with rage. “I never took your money! I am not pregnant with your child! This is a coordinated grift!” Gary stepped out from the crowd of tenants. “Officers, I can vouch for him. Bradley is definitely her husband.” He gestured to the building. “When he came by last month, he showed us their text messages. She was calling him ‘hubby,’ sending heart emojis, telling him to handle the rent because she was too tired.” My eyes widened in sheer horror. “Gary, what the hell are you talking about?! I have never texted him anything like that!” Gary rolled his eyes. “Come on, Julia. Give it a rest. Bradley gave us two months free and a twenty percent discount. Whatever marital issues you guys are having, leave working-class people out of it. We paid. We have the receipts. We aren’t paying you twice.” A chorus of agreement rose from the crowd. “Yeah, Bradley even helped me carry my groceries up the stairs last week. He’s a good guy.” “You’re out of your mind, lady. You get married and still act like a single girl trying to get attention.” “Don’t listen to her, officers. She’s just spiteful.” Bradley tilted his chin up, looking at me with sickening faux-affection. “See, babe? Everyone knows the truth. Just stop fighting it. Come home. Mom made that chicken stew you love so much.” He reached out to grab my arm. I recoiled like he was made of acid. “Do not touch me! Officers, run my name through the state database! I am legally single. Run it!” The second officer, who had been on his radio, stepped forward. He looked at me, his expression hardening. “Ma’am, dispatch just ran your details through the state registry.” He sighed. “The system says your marital status is married. And your listed spouse… is Bradley.” The ground dropped out from beneath my feet. “No. That’s impossible. That is physically impossible.” My breath came short and shallow. “I have never set foot inside a courthouse for a marriage license.” Bradley stepped closer. “Julia, is the pregnancy fog really this bad? We went down to City Hall last month. You literally posted it on Instagram. You’re trying to deny it now?” Before I could process that lie, Barbara reached into her oversized purse, pulled out a piece of black lace lingerie, and tossed it at the officers’ feet. “Look!” she shrieked. “Look at this! This is the underwear she wore yesterday! If we don’t live in the same house, how did I get her dirty laundry?!” She spat on the ground. “She’s a cheap whore trying to steal my son’s money to fund her little boy toys!” 3 I stared down at the black lace on the pavement, my vision tunneling. “You aren’t just frauds. You broke into my home.” I looked up at the cops, my voice eerily calm despite the adrenaline. “Officers. That lingerie was hanging on my balcony drying rack. They stole it. This is a premeditated break-in.” Bradley threw his hands up in the air. “Babe, the lies are getting pathetic. We sleep in the same bed every night. My mom does your laundry, and you call it a break-in?” He shook his head, looking deeply wounded. “If you don’t want to be with me anymore, fine. But you don’t have to slander my mother.” The tenants muttered their disgust. “Wow. Throwing her own mother-in-law under the bus. Vicious.” “Right? The old lady washes her underwear and she calls the cops. Total sociopath.” “Bradley, man, you married a nightmare.” The lead officer looked at me with open exhaustion. “Ma’am, the state registry says you’re legally married. Whatever is going on with the rent money is a civil issue regarding marital assets. We can’t intervene. You need to handle this in family court.” Panic clawed at my throat. I grabbed the officer’s sleeve. “You cannot leave! This is a trap! My actual, physical birth certificate and social security card are locked in a safe at my mother’s house in Connecticut. There is zero chance I got married without them! They hacked the system. I don’t know how, but they faked it!” Bradley yanked me toward him by my elbow. He leaned in, his mouth brushing my ear, his voice dropping to a vicious whisper. “Don’t be stupid, Julia. That three hundred grand? It’s already gone. I invested it. You can scream until your lungs bleed, nobody is going to believe you.” He tightened his grip. “Play the good little wife, and I’ll manage this building for you. Keep fighting, and I will completely destroy your reputation.” I shoved both hands against his chest and shoved him backward with everything I had. “Get off me, you parasitic freak!” Bradley let himself fall backward, hitting the pavement with a dramatic thud. His mother immediately threw herself on top of him, wailing. “Murder! She’s trying to kill my son! Officers, you saw it! She attacked him right in front of you! Arrest her! She’s trying to murder our family!” The cops moved in, pulling us apart. “Alright! Enough! Both of you, knock it off!” The lead officer pointed between us. “Since nobody can agree on basic reality, you’re both coming down to the precinct to make formal statements.” “Fine,” I said, my chest heaving. “I will gladly go to the precinct. But I need to go up to my apartment right now to get the deed to this building and my passport. They are in the safe in my bedroom. That will prove he’s lying.” The officer nodded. “Fine. Let’s go.” We walked up to the penthouse unit. I pulled my keys from my purse and slid the key into the deadbolt. I turned it. It stuck. I tried to jiggle it, but the cylinder wouldn’t catch. Bradley reached over my shoulder and gently pulled my hand away. “Babe, did you forget again?” He looked at the officers. “She was paranoid about break-ins yesterday, so she made me hire a guy to install a biometric lock.” He looked back at me, his eyes gleaming with malice. “You set the passcode yourself last night. How could you forget?” He pressed his thumb against the scanner. It beeped green. The deadbolt clicked open. He pushed the door open. I stopped dead in the doorway. A wave of nausea hit me so hard I swayed. The apartment—my sanctuary—was entirely unrecognizable. My minimalist beige sofa was gone, replaced by a cheap, oversized brown leather sectional. Huge, blown-up wedding portraits of Bradley and me hung on my walls. Dirty men’s socks were tossed over the armrest. The glass coffee table was cluttered with protein powder tubs and half-empty beer bottles. I gripped the doorframe to keep from collapsing. Barbara shoved past me, marching into the living room. “Look at this floor! It’s filthy! What kind of wife are you?” She turned and glared at me. “Get in here and mop this up before you embarrass us any further!” I pointed a trembling finger at the massive canvas on the wall. “That is photoshopped! What the hell are you trying to do to me?!” Bradley stepped close, boxing me into the doorframe. “What am I trying to do?” he murmured, his smile cold and terrifying. “I’m just trying to build a life with my beautiful wife.” He leaned in closer. “Your house. Your money. Your body. It all belongs to me now. If you don’t play along, I will make sure the entire internet knows Julia is a slutty little con artist who scams men out of wedding rings.” He grabbed my cold hand, his fingers intertwining with mine. “Come on, honey. Let’s go down to the station and chat with the nice officers.” 4 The interrogation room at the precinct was suffocatingly quiet. I sat with my hands folded tightly on the metal table, keeping my breathing regulated. Sitting across from me, Bradley played the golden boy to perfection. “Officer, I swear to you, I have no idea why my wife is acting like this. She told me she was exhausted from managing the properties. She practically begged me to take over, and even signed a power of attorney.” He pulled a manila folder from his leather bag and slid it across the table. “Here. Look for yourself. Her signature, her fingerprint.” The detective looked over the document, then slid it toward me. “Julia, that appears to be your actual signature. Care to explain?” I stared down at the paper. The ink loops, the sharp slant of the ‘J’—it was undeniably my handwriting. But I had never signed a power of attorney. Then, a memory clicked into place. A week ago, at the end of a grueling session, Bradley had handed me a clipboard. Standard liability waiver for the new high-intensity program, he had said. I was sweating, exhausted, and barely looking. I signed it and gave him a thumbprint for the gym’s biometric check-in. “He tricked me,” I said, my voice steady. “That was a physical assessment form for the gym. He transferred the signature.” Bradley gave a sad, slow shake of his head. “Julia… the lies are getting out of control. You didn’t just sign the paperwork. You recorded a video for me, just in case the tenants didn’t believe me.” He looked at the detective. “I have the video right here on my phone.” He tapped the screen and turned it around. There I was. Sitting on my (original) couch, looking directly into the camera, smiling warmly. “Hi everyone, this is Julia,” the digital version of me said. “I’ve been feeling pretty awful lately due to the pregnancy, so from now on, my husband, Bradley, will be taking over all rent collections for the building. Please cooperate with him. Thanks so much.” It was my voice. My cadence. My exact facial expressions. I lunged across the table to grab the phone. “That is a deepfake! Look at the micro-expressions! Look at the lip-syncing around the hard consonants! It’s an AI generation! It is fake!” The detective snatched the phone back, glaring at me. “Ma’am, sit down and calm down, right now.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Based on the state database, the signed documents, and this video evidence, you two are legally married, and you legally authorized him to collect your rent.” He fixed me with a hard look. “If you are seriously alleging that all of this—the database, the signature, the video—is a massive, technologically advanced conspiracy against you, you need hard proof. Otherwise, this is a domestic dispute, and you are wasting police resources.” I slumped back in the uncomfortable metal chair. My state records were hacked. My signature was lifted. A deepfake video had been synthesized. My apartment lock was overridden, and my home was staged. Bradley hadn’t just tried to scam me. He had built a meticulously planned, terrifyingly modern psychological cage to swallow my assets and my identity. Barbara rolled her eyes loudly from the corner of the room. “Detective, please, just let us take her home. Pregnancy brain is a real thing. Once she pops out my grandson, her head will clear up.” She grabbed her purse. “Come on, son. Let’s get her out of here. This is embarrassing.” Bradley stood up, walking behind my chair. He placed a heavy, possessive hand on my shoulder. When the detective looked away, Bradley leaned down. “You’re dead,” he whispered into my hair. I looked up at him. I didn’t blink. “Bradley, do you really think you won?” He froze, his hand tightening slightly. “What game are you playing now, babe?” I ignored him, turning my gaze dead-center onto the detective. “Detective. I need to report a crime. I am currently under investigation for illegal corporate fundraising. I am requesting that you immediately freeze all financial assets tied to my name.”

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On our eighth wedding anniversary, I had everything perfectly arranged. The candlelight was soft, the steak was resting, and tucked beneath my napkin was a positive pregnancy test—the surprise I had waited years to give him. Then, my phone buzzed. A FaceTime call from Gary. The background was a chaotic blur of a dimly lit lounge. His voice was thick, a strange, gravelly rasp that made my skin crawl. But it was the angry red mark on the side of his neck that caught the light, bright and unmistakable. “Hey, babe. Guess what I’ve been up to?” He grinned, that lopsided, playful smirk that used to make my heart melt. Now, his tone felt like a needle driving into my ear. The blood in my veins turned to ice. My hand shook as I gripped the edge of the table. “Gary… are you with someone else?” A woman’s sultry giggle drifted through the speaker, followed by a blonde head leaning into the frame. “Mr. Smith, I told you your wife wasn’t stupid. You look a little too… satisfied to be at a business meeting.” Gary didn’t even look guilty. If anything, he looked amused. “Don’t be like that, honey. Eight years is a long time. Things get a little stale. I just needed a bit of a spark.” “I know it’s our anniversary,” he added, his tone dismissive as he checked his watch. “I’ll be home tonight to make it up to you. Consider it a peace offering.” He hung up before I could scream. I stared at the cooling dinner, the candles flickering like dying stars. I picked up the pregnancy test and, with trembling fingers, snapped it in half, then shredded the medical report into a hundred tiny white flakes. Gary, I don’t want your peace offering. I don’t want anything of yours ever again. 1 The first thing I did after hanging up was drive to the clinic. I had an appointment for a follow-up, but I walked in and asked for a termination instead. This was supposed to be our miracle. Eight years of marriage, years of hormones, hundreds of needles, and a cabinet full of failed tests. This was our first. Now, as the cold instruments moved inside me, I felt nothing but a hollow, echoing void. Our child—the future I had built in my head—was gone before it ever truly began. Gary didn’t get home until long after midnight. He carried the scent of expensive bourbon and the musky, metallic tang of sex. He glanced at the trash can, where the ruined dinner sat. He sighed, walking over and resting his chin on my shoulder, his arms looping around my waist. I stood rigid, my skin crawling where he touched me. “What? Still pouting?” he murmured. “Evelyn,” he said, using my name with a patronizing sweetness. “How could you be so oblivious? I’ve been seeing her for a year. Did you really just notice?” “Remember that time you brought lunch to the office? She was under my desk the whole time, wearing that French maid outfit you refused to touch. If you won’t do the things I like, why shouldn’t another woman?” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. I didn’t say a word. I just felt a deep, oily wave of nausea. Somewhere along the line, the man who used to hold my hand in the rain had decided that stability was a prison. He wanted “sparks.” He wanted the thrill of the illicit. I remembered finding a long, honey-blonde hair on his blazer months ago. I remembered the scent of Jo Malone perfume that wasn’t mine. He had told me it was just “lingering smoke from a client meeting.” I had forced myself to believe him. Or maybe I was just too terrified to imagine a world where he wasn’t my anchor. Looking at his smiling, handsome face now, I realized the anchor had become a millstone. “Anyway, I know how big-hearted you are,” Gary said, patting my hip. “I’ll get you that Birkin you wanted tomorrow. And don’t worry—those girls are just playthings. None of them are coming home. You’re still the only Mrs. Smith. You’re the one I love.” He leaned in to kiss me, and I flinched away as if he were a leper. “Why?” I whispered. My voice was a ghost of itself. I wanted to ask how the boy who worked three jobs to buy my engagement ring became this hollowed-out monster. He shrugged, completely unbothered. “There is no ‘why.’ Everyone in my circle does it. Work is stressful, marriage is predictable. If you don’t chase a little adrenaline, what’s the point of living?” Slap. The sound echoed through the sterile kitchen. Gary’s head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint bloomed on his cheek, and a bead of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. Before he could speak, I threw the divorce papers onto the counter. “I want a divorce, Gary.” He slowly turned his head back, wiping the blood with his thumb. His eyes were dark, simmering with a dangerous kind of confidence. “Lydia, you can’t leave me. You know that. Being my wife is the only thing keeping you in this lifestyle. It’s the only thing paying for your grandmother’s specialized care in Zurich.” He smiled, a cold, thin line. “If you walk out that door, you have nothing. I’ll make sure my lawyers don’t leave you a single cent.” He picked up the papers and tore them into confetti, letting them rain down on the floor. 2 That night was the first time we slept in separate rooms. I lay in the guest bed, the air thick with the scent of his expensive tobacco drifting from the master suite, and I cried until my throat was raw. We met in college. Neither of us had a dime. Gary had big dreams of a tech startup, and I believed in him with a ferocity that bordered on madness. I turned down a prestigious grad school fellowship to work double shifts as a waitress and a secretary, funneling every cent into his vision. I even sold the small cottage my mother had left me. For two years, I didn’t even answer my parents’ calls because they hated him. Our wedding had no guests, no flowers. In a cramped, drafty apartment, I wore a twenty-dollar vintage dress and we exchanged vows before a justice of the peace. He slipped a tiny, budget diamond on my finger, his eyes shining like the stars. “Madeline, I promise,” he had whispered. “Once I make it, I’m going to give you the world.” He made it. Within three years, he was the “Golden Boy of Silicon Alley.” Our second wedding—the “real” one—was the talk of the city. A sea of white peonies, a five-course meal, and three hours of fireworks over the harbor. He told the press I was his “North Star.” He used to be so loyal. I remember a story about a business partner trying to set him up with a model; Gary walked out of the room. I remember him accidentally being drugged at a gala and locking himself in a bathroom, slicing his own palm with a key just to stay focused and faithful until I could get there. As I bandaged his hand that night, he had kissed my forehead. “I only ever want you, baby.” “Marriage is predictable. If you don’t chase a little adrenaline, what’s the point?” The two versions of Gary clashed in my mind until I felt like I was losing my sanity. The next morning, my pillow was damp. I walked into the kitchen to find breakfast prepared—avocado toast and poached eggs, just the way I liked them. There was a sticky note on the door: Calling for rain today. Take the umbrella. Love, G. It made me sick. The duality of it. I wished he would just be a villain. I wished he would stop acting like a loving husband while he was out destroying me. It was the “kindness” that felt like the sharpest blade. My phone chimed incessantly. An unknown number had sent a series of media files. I opened them, and my breath hitched. They were photos—graphic, intimate, and devastatingly clear. “Hi Lydia,” the text read. “I’m Gary’s assistant. We spoke on the phone yesterday. I figured it was time we got acquainted. I hope we can find a way to coexist.” Before I could process the bile rising in my throat, another message popped up. “By the way, did you know we’ve been together for over a year? We’ve probably spent more time together in his office chair than he’s spent in your bed lately.” “Don’t be too sad. A man like Gary has needs. I’m not the only one, you know. You should really pay closer attention to the people around you…” 3 The assistant’s words were a poison that seeped into my bones. I stared at the breakfast Gary had made, then swept the plate off the counter. It shattered, egg yolk smearing across the marble. I slumped to the floor, dry-heaving into the trash can. I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t have friends anymore—Gary had slowly replaced my social circle with “corporate couples” who only talked about stocks and skiing. Should I catch him in the act? No. That would only feed his sick need for “excitement.” Finally, I decided to drive two hours to the university town where my younger sister, Rebecca, was finishing her senior year. She was the only person I truly had left. When I arrived at her apartment, she looked startled. Despite the sweltering summer heat, she was draped in a heavy oversized cardigan. “Lydia? What are you doing here? You didn’t call,” she said, her voice tight. “I didn’t want to disturb your classes. I used the spare key,” I said, my voice cracking. I reached out to hug her, the dam finally breaking. “Gary is cheating. I tried to leave, but he’s threatening me. I don’t know what to do, Becca.” Rebecca stood there, stiff as a board. She didn’t hug me back. Her hands were buried deep in her sleeves. “Aren’t you hot?” I asked, a strange intuition prickling at the back of my neck. I reached out and pulled the cardigan off her shoulders. I froze. Her neck and collarbone were a map of purple bruises and bite marks. “Who did this to you?” I demanded, my protective instincts flaring. “Which bastard did this? Tell me, I’ll call the police.” Rebecca’s face went white, then a deep, shameful red. She wouldn’t look at me. Then, the bedroom door creaked open. A man stepped out, shirtless, rubbing a towel over his damp hair. My heart didn’t just break; it disintegrated. The world stopped turning. The air left the room. It was Gary. “It is what it is, Lydia,” Gary said calmly. He walked over and pulled Rebecca into his side, draped his arm over her bruised shoulder. “Becca and I are together now.” “You couldn’t give me a child,” he continued, his voice as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “But I need an heir. Becca is family. She’s the perfect choice.” “When?” I whispered. My vision was blurring at the edges. Gary chuckled. “Last summer. When she came to stay with us. Remember that day at the lake? You were in the shallows because you can’t swim. Becca and I were out by the buoy. She screamed, remember? You asked if she was okay. She told you she had a cramp. In reality, I was taking her for the first time. She couldn’t help the noise.” “And the next night, when she had a ‘fever’ and you went to the hospital to get her meds? We were in the guest room before you even pulled out of the driveway…” “Gary, stop…” Rebecca whispered, her head hanging low. “You monster!” I screamed. I grabbed a paring knife from the fruit bowl on the counter and lunged at him. I had raised her. I had protected her. I thought she was an innocent victim, groomed by a predator. Gary didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch as the tip of the blade pierced his skin through his shoulder. “Are you done, Lydia? Feel better now?” He grabbed my wrist, his grip like a vise, forcing me to hold the knife in place. He had that same loathsome, arrogant smile. But it was Rebecca who broke me. “Lydia, stop! Don’t hurt him!” she cried out, her eyes red. “He’s forcing you,” I sobbed. “Becca, come with me, he’s manipulating you!” “He’s not!” she snapped, her face twisting with a sudden, ugly resentment. “I wanted this! I want to give him the baby you can’t have!” She looked at me with pure venom. “Why do you get everything? Why did you get the rich husband and the big house while Mom and Dad always made me follow in your shadow? I love him, too. And I’m going to be the one who actually gives him a family.” The world exploded into white noise. I don’t remember leaving. I don’t remember Gary driving me back to the city. I only remember the feel of his hand—the same hand that had touched my sister—holding mine as he whispered: “Don’t be scared, honey. When Becca has the baby, I’ll let you raise it. It’ll be like it’s yours.” “And don’t bother calling your parents. They already know. They’ve agreed to the arrangement. Just be a good girl.” 4 I was back in the gilded cage. Back in the bedroom we had shared for eight years. Gary tried to touch me, and I fought him like a wild animal until he gave up and left the room. The betrayal was total. My sister. My parents. Even the driver who picked me up had a look of pitying recognition in his eyes. Everyone knew. I was the only one living in a fairy tale that had turned into a slasher flick. “Why her?” I asked him when he came back in to check on me. It was the only question that mattered. Gary wasn’t the type to risk everything for a child. He was too selfish for that. “Because the taboo of it makes my heart race,” he said, tucking the covers around me. “Hearing her call me ‘Gary’ while I’m thinking about you in the next room… it’s the only time I feel alive.” I waited until he fell asleep in the guest room. I waited until the house was silent. My phone buzzed. A text from the assistant. “Lydia, let’s talk. I can get you out.” I didn’t want to answer, but she was persistent. When she called, I finally picked up. “Why are you helping me?” I asked. My voice was dead. “Because I want your spot,” she said bluntly. “With you out of the picture, it’s just me and the sister. And I can handle a college girl. You’re the only one he actually has a history with. Leave. Get out of my way.” “My grandmother,” I whispered. “She’s in a facility he controls.” “I’ve already handled it,” she said. “I have a friend in international medical transport. We’ll move her to a private clinic in France tomorrow morning. Here’s the plan.” The next afternoon, a courier delivered a package. Inside was a set of divorce papers—already signed by Gary. The assistant had slipped them into a stack of “urgent” corporate filings, and he had signed them without looking. There was also a one-way ticket to Paris. That evening, Gary called me on FaceTime. I answered. He was flushed, his breathing heavy. Behind him, I could hear the rhythmic creaking of a bed and a woman’s soft moans. “Lydia… are you being a good girl at home? Don’t hang up…” “I’m with my… assistant… you remember her…” I didn’t say a word. I looked at the man I had spent my youth building. I turned the volume to mute, set the phone face down on the sofa, and walked out of the house with nothing but a small suitcase and a heart made of ash. Goodbye, Gary. I hope the adrenaline is worth the fall.

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When I opened my eyes again, the blue light of my laptop was searing into my retinas. I was back. Back on the day of the interview that would change everything. In the next room, my older sister, Monica, was waiting for the kidney transplant we couldn’t afford. My mother’s solution? Obsessive, pathological “frugality.” I looked at the bottles of expensive, life-sustaining specialty meds sitting on the desk. A cold laugh bubbled up in my throat. Without a second thought, I swept them all into the trash can. “Monica, taking these is just flushing money down the toilet,” I called out, my voice dripping with a mockery she wouldn’t yet understand. “Doesn’t Mom always say that waste is a sin?” Maybe she should just drink more hot water. If her wealthy husband—the one who treated her like a burden—saw how much she was “saving” the family, I’m sure he’d finally give her the gold star she craved. My mother, Lola, was a woman who had carved the word “frugal” into her very soul, even if it meant carving away our humanity to do it. Growing up, I was a ghost in hand-me-downs, wearing Monica’s threadbare rags until they literally fell apart. I remember a fever I had when I was ten—a heat so intense I thought my brain would melt. Lola refused to buy Tylenol. Instead, she forced me to drink a bowl of fermented mung bean soup that had gone sour three days prior. “It clears the heat,” she had snapped, while I gagged on the mold. In my past life, I had fought my way to the final round of interviews for a senior analyst position at a Global 500 firm. A seven-figure salary. My ticket out of this hellhole. I had begged Lola not to touch anything, not to make a sound. But at the climax of the interview, the screen went black. The router died. I had sprinted out of my room only to find Lola standing in the dark, her hand on the main circuit breaker. “Keeping the lights on at this hour is a waste of money,” she’d said, her voice full of smug righteousness. “I did the math. If we shut everything down at night, we save forty cents a month!” For forty cents, I lost a million-dollar career. Later, when Monica’s condition worsened, Lola didn’t ask her “golden boy” son or her “breadwinner” husband for help. She forced me into an unregulated industrial sweatshop, working double shifts in toxic conditions to pay for Monica’s bills. Even on my deathbed in that life, my father and brother were still berating me. “You couldn’t even land a corporate job,” they’d sneered. “You’re a useless drain on resources. After all the money your mother saved to raise you!” 1 The screen went black. I bolted upright in my chair, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I knew that sound. I would know it in my grave. The sharp, metallic clack of the breaker being flipped. In my previous life, that one sound had dismantled twenty-six years of blood, sweat, and ambition. I threw open my bedroom door and stormed into the living room. In the shadows, illuminated only by the sickly orange glow of the streetlights outside, Lola stood by the electrical panel. She had a look of profound self-satisfaction on her face, her fingers moving as she tallied her “savings.” She heard me and turned, her voice a sharp whisper. “What are you doing out of bed? And why was that black box in your room glowing? Those lights, blinking all night… do you have any idea what that does to the electric bill?” “I’m saving us a fortune tonight, Andrea! At least thirty cents!” I stared at her face, twisted by the petty thrill of her calculations. Memories rushed back. Being seven years old, burning with a 104-degree fever. She wouldn’t spend twenty dollars on a clinic visit because she wanted that money for her Saturday poker game. She’d pumped me full of that spoiled soup instead. I’d spent two weeks drifting in and out of consciousness, nearly brain-dead. In middle school, I never had a new coat. I wore Monica’s old uniforms, even when the seams burst. When I complained that the kids laughed at me, she just threw a needle and some mismatched thread at me. “Fix it. Stop being vain. Vanity is expensive.” I felt the metallic taste of rage in the back of my throat. I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg. I walked straight past her, shoved her aside with a shoulder, and slammed the breaker back up. Lola gasped, her voice rising into a screech. “Andrea! You wasteful brat! What are you doing?” I didn’t answer. I stood in front of the panel like a shield. I pulled out my phone and instantly toggled my personal hotspot. I had already paid for an unlimited data plan this time. The laptop reconnected in seconds. Ten seconds left to submit my final assessment. I clicked ‘Submit’ and watched the loading bar crawl. Submission Successful. The moment those words appeared, the tension left my body so fast I nearly collapsed. Lola was still raving behind me. “That computer is a vampire! It sucks the money right out of my pocket! I raised you, and this is how you repay me? By wasting electricity?” My phone vibrated. A call from Monica. I hit ‘Accept’ and turned on the speakerphone. “Andrea,” Monica’s voice came through, weak but demanding. “I’m out of those specialty pills the doctor ordered. I need you to Venmo me eight hundred dollars right now so I can pick up the next batch.” Lola pounced, leaning into the phone. “Did you hear that? Your sister is sick! Give her the money! You have that scholarship money saved up, don’t you? Give it to her!” I looked at Lola’s entitled face. That scholarship money? She had already “borrowed” most of it under the guise of “saving for my tuition,” only to turn around and buy my lazy brother, Sean, a high-end gaming rig. I walked over to the coffee table. There were three bottles of Monica’s medication sitting there—bottles she’d left behind while visiting. I picked them up. I met Lola’s eyes. Twist. Pop. Pour. The white pills cascaded into the trash can, buried under coffee grounds and eggshells. Lola’s eyes nearly bulged out of her head. She shrieked, lunging for the bin. “Are you insane? That’s eight hundred dollars of medicine!” I kicked the trash can away from her. I leaned toward the phone, my voice calm and terrifyingly sweet. “Monica, why waste money on pills? Mom taught us that frugality is a virtue, remember?” “Your kidney issue is just ‘toxins’ in your system. Mom says the best way to clear toxins is to drink scalding hot water and sweat it out. It’s free. If your rich husband finds out how much money you’re saving the family, I’m sure he’ll finally call you a ‘good wife.’” The line went dead as Monica hung up, likely in a fit of rage. Lola raised her hand to backhand me. I caught her wrist mid-air, squeezing until she winced. “Mom, those pills are a scam. The hospital just wants your money. Weren’t you the one who said doctors are all liars? I’m just trying to save you some cash.” Lola trembled, her mouth hanging open. I had used her own twisted logic to trap her. She had no move left. I turned and went back into my room, locking the door. The countdown to my escape had officially begun. 2 The next day was the final pressure test. The last hurdle between me and the seven-figure offer. I knew they wouldn’t let me work in peace. Sure enough, early in the morning, the pounding on my door started. My father, George, was roaring from the hallway. “Andrea! Get out here! Your sister is dying and you’re throwing her meds away? You’ve lost your damn mind!” I pulled on my high-end noise-canceling headphones—something I’d saved up for months to buy specifically for this moment. The morning sun hit my desk, and for a second, I thought of the boy from college. My first love. The one Lola ruined. He had saved up for a month, eating ramen every night, just to buy me a simple floral dress for our anniversary. It was the first time in twenty years someone had looked at me and seen a girl worth cherishing. Lola had found out. She decided he was a “spendthrift” and a “distraction.” She had marched into the campus dining hall, thrown the dress in his face, and screamed at him to give her the cash equivalent. “You’re poor! You can’t afford to be romantic!” she’d yelled in front of everyone. “Two hundred dollars buys a lot of groceries! Give me the money!” My first love, my dignity—she’d ground them both into the dirt while she counted those twenty-dollar bills with a smirk. I pushed the memory down. The pounding on the door stopped. Then, the internet died. I heard Sean laughing outside. “No wifi, no test, Andy! Get out here and start earning your keep!” I didn’t even blink. I had a second burner phone acting as a secondary hotspot. The interface didn’t even lag. On the screen, a panel of executives looked at me. “Ms. Miller, if the firm faced extreme capital pressure, how would you approach cost-cutting without sacrificing core integrity?” The question was a gift. I had spent six months in a literal sweatshop in my past life. I had seen the most brutal forms of exploitation, the most pathological ways to squeeze a penny. I spoke fluently, translating those horrific “black factory” tactics into sophisticated, compliant actuarial models. The executives were nodding, enthralled. As the interview reached its final minutes, the overhead light flickered and died. My laptop chimed: Low Battery. My father had gone into the hallway and smashed the external meter for the apartment. He was willing to live in the dark just to sabotage me. I watched the battery icon hit 1%. I slammed the ‘Submit’ button. The “Success” screen flashed for a microsecond before the laptop died. I took off my headphones and opened the door. George was standing there, his face purple. He swung his hand and caught me across the face. The force was enough to split my lip. “Get dressed,” he barked. “Tomorrow you’re reporting to Big Sal’s plant. Five grand a month, room and board included. The checks go directly to my account.” Lola shoved a hospital bill under my nose. “Monica’s dialysis is two thousand a day! You’re her sister! If you have to sell your blood to pay for this, you’ll do it! You owe her!” I wiped the blood from my lip and looked at these people who claimed to be my parents. “Fine,” I said. “Whatever it takes to ‘save’ Monica. I’ll go.” They froze. They hadn’t expected me to fold so easily. Lola’s face instantly shifted into a manipulative smile. “That’s my girl. I knew you’d do the right thing for the family.” 3 That evening, a black Audi pulled up to the curb. My brother-in-law, Victor—a man who hated our family’s poverty almost as much as he hated his wife’s illness—dumped Monica at the door. “She’s a money pit,” he spat. “I’m done. We’re filing for divorce.” He peeled away before the door even closed. Monica collapsed in the hallway, sobbing. Lola, frantic, helped her inside and immediately called Big Sal. Big Sal was a labor shark. He specialized in sending desperate people into the “toxic” zones of manufacturing plants—places where OSHA didn’t exist and the air smelled like burning plastic. The next morning, three hulking men with greasy hair and cheap suits were sitting in our living room. Big Sal flicked his cigarette ash onto our carpet, eyeing me. “This skinny thing? She won’t last a day in the high-heat zone.” Lola hovered around him, offering a desperate, toothy grin. “She’s tougher than she looks! She’s been a workhorse since she was five!” Panic, cold and familiar, tried to rise in my chest. In my last life, I had spent three months in that 120-degree furnace. No masks, because the five-dollar deduction for safety gear was “too expensive” according to Lola. I had coughed up blood on the assembly line. When the factory dumped me at the hospital, Lola didn’t pay the bill. She’d told me I was “useless” for getting sick and “wasting” a payout. Now, she held the contract out to me. “Sign it, Andrea. Sal is giving us a thirty-thousand-dollar advance. It’ll cover Monica’s next round of treatment!” Sean was in the corner, rubbing his hands together. “Mom, make sure I get eight hundred of that. There’s a new phone coming out.” George just puffed on his cigarette. “It’s time you paid your debts, girl.” The men closed in on me. Lola grabbed my right hand, trying to force my thumb onto the ink pad. The suffocating feeling of being trapped returned. But then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. A specific, high-priority notification chime. I wrenched my hand back and pulled the phone out. The screen lit up with a formal offer letter from the Global 500 firm. Base salary: $1.2 million. Signing bonus: $250k. Stock options included. 4 I kicked the coffee table over, the crash echoing through the small apartment. I shoved the phone into Lola’s face, my voice a raw, primal scream. “Look at this! Look at it! A million-dollar salary! A legal, high-end career!” “And you… you were going to sell me to a sweatshop for thirty grand?” The tears were coming now, twenty-six years of repressed agony pouring out. “When I was a kid, you gave me moldy soup to save thirty dollars. You stole my clothes. You ruined my life in college for two hundred bucks. Your ‘frugality’ was always a weapon you only used on me!” I thought, for one foolish second, that the sheer scale of the million-dollar offer would make her pause. Lola blinked. For a moment, a shadow of doubt crossed her eyes. Then, she spat on my shoes. “A million dollars? That’s ‘make-believe’ money, Andrea. It’s a dream. Sal’s thirty thousand is real cash. It’s right here in his briefcase.” “You’re a delusional brat. If your life can be traded to save your sister’s, that’s the best use for you. It’s common sense. It’s math!” The sheer, impenetrable wall of her ignorance made me feel like I was drowning. My own mother had appraised my soul and decided it was worth less than a used car. George and Sean moved toward me, ready to pin me down. Big Sal reached for his zip-ties. Right as the shadow of the rope fell over me, I stopped crying. I looked at Lola and laughed. It was a jagged, broken sound. I pulled up a medical video I had bookmarked on my phone. An expert explaining “cost-effective treatment.” I cranked the volume to the max. “Mom, you love math, right? Let me help you calculate.” “The high-heat zone at Sal’s plant? A person loses ten pounds of sweat a day in there. The doctors say that extreme sweating is basically ‘free dialysis.’ It flushes the kidneys better than any machine.” I watched Lola’s expression shift from anger to curiosity. “If Monica goes to the plant, you save three thousand dollars a day in hospital fees. And you get the salary. It’s a double win. It’s pure profit.” Lola’s eyes lit up. The biological urge to save her daughter was instantly overridden by the pathological urge to “get a deal.” “Profit…” she whispered. She turned her head slowly to look at Monica, who was cowering on the sofa. “Mom, no,” Monica whimpered. “I’ll die in there!” Lola slapped her. Hard. “Shut up! You don’t know the value of a dollar! The hospital is just bleeding us dry. This is a chance to detox for free and get paid! We’d be idiots to pass this up!” Lola turned to Big Sal. “Change the name on the contract. I’m not selling my younger daughter. I’m giving you the older one.” 5 Sal hesitated, looking at Monica’s sickly frame. Lola didn’t wait. She grabbed the pen, scratched out my name, and scrawled Monica’s. “She’s just a little sluggish! A little sweat will do her good!” She dragged Monica up by the arm. Monica fought, but Sean and George stepped in, pinning her down. To them, it didn’t matter who went, as long as the thirty thousand hit the table. Lola clutched the stack of cash to her chest, her face creasing into a horrific, triumphant smile. “See? I always find the best bargain for this family,” she gloated. Sal shrugged. He’d already paid. He signaled his men to haul Monica out. She screamed for our father to save her, but George was too busy counting his cut of the bills. Sean was already browsing phone specs on his laptop. I watched them. I watched the ugly, naked greed. While they were distracted by the scent of the money, I slipped into my room. I grabbed my pre-packed bag—my documents, my laptop, a few essentials. I walked out the front door and didn’t look back. I breathed in the humid morning air, leaving the cage I had lived in for twenty-six years.

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I’d just finished showing the last property of the day to a client I’d connected with through a professional networking app. On the surface, he seemed thrilled with the place. He was ready to sign then and there, but what he said next made my blood run cold. He leaned in, suggesting a “no-money-down” scheme—a blatant case of mortgage fraud. I didn’t hesitate. I kept my voice firm and professional, telling him that what he was suggesting was illegal and that I wouldn’t be a part of it. Instead of backing off, he let out a wet, raspy chuckle, his rounded belly shaking beneath a sweat-stained shirt. He gave me a look that made my skin crawl. “Look, kid, I know how this industry works,” he said, his voice dripping with an oily confidence. “You brokers always get a kickback for these kinds of deals. I don’t have the cash right now, sure.” Then his eyes traveled slowly down my body, lingering in places that made me want to shower in lye. “But I’ve also heard that when a deal is on the line, you girls are willing to play… ‘creative games’ to get the commission across the finish line.” He actually had the nerve to smirk, as if he were doing me a favor. “Tell you what. I’ll ‘sacrifice’ my afternoon to play with you, and in exchange, you make sure those papers go through with the zero-down clause. Deal?” For a second, my brain just stuttered. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. … 1 I stared at Donnie Russo, my jaw tight with a mix of disbelief and mounting fury. His face was a map of broken capillaries and slick grease, twisted into a grin that made my stomach turn. His gaze was predatory, roaming over me with a disgusting sense of entitlement. Automatically, I pulled my leather portfolio to my chest, a pathetic shield against his eyes. “Mr. Russo, you need to leave,” I said, my voice ice-cold. “This is a legitimate real estate firm. If you’re looking for… ‘other’ services, you’ve got the wrong person and the wrong company.” He didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked amused. Suddenly, his fleshy hand shot out, clamping around my wrist. His skin was rough, clammy with a film of sweat that felt like it was seeping into my pores. He started to rub his thumb against my skin in a way that was supposed to be suggestive but felt like a violation. “Aw, come on. Little firecracker, aren’t you?” Donnie leaned closer. His breath was a toxic cocktail of stale cigarettes and cheap bourbon. “Don’t tell me you don’t play. I know the drill. I don’t have the green, but I’ve got the moves. I’ll make it worth your while, sweetheart. You’ll be thanking me by the time we’re done.” I tried to wrench my arm back, but his grip was surprisingly powerful. My heart started hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. This wasn’t just a bad meeting anymore. This was a nightmare. In broad daylight, in an upscale condo, I was trapped with a predator. The door was only two steps away. I shoved down the nausea and threw every ounce of my weight into pulling away. “Let go!” I shouted, my voice cracking with a sharp edge of panic. “Let go right now or I’m calling the cops!” Donnie didn’t look scared. He laughed, a loud, jagged sound that echoed through the empty hallway. “The cops? Please. Who are they gonna believe? A girl like you, dressed like that, trying to close a deal? I know your type. You’re all the same.” He stepped closer, backing me toward the master bedroom. “This is gonna be my new place soon anyway. You play nice, and maybe I’ll let you keep a key. We can have a regular thing.” As he reached down, his hand moving toward my waist, the fear vanished, replaced by a white-hot flash of survival instinct. I didn’t think. I just drove my heel as hard as I could into his crotch. Donnie let out a choked wheeze, doubling over and clutching himself. I bolted. I scrambled for the exit, but as he stumbled back, his massive frame blocked the entryway to the foyer. He looked up at me, his small eyes no longer greasy with lust, but gleaming with a terrifying, vengeful malice. “You little bitch,” he hissed, his voice trembling with rage. “You think you can do that to me? I’ll kill you before I let you walk out that door.” He started toward me, hobbling but determined. Panic finally won. My reason shattered. I saw the bedroom door to my left and dived inside. In one fluid motion, I grabbed the key from the inside of the lock, slammed the door shut, and turned the bolt. I collapsed against the wood, gasping for air. Seconds later, the heavy thud of footsteps reached the door. Then came the pounding. “Open the door, Casey! Open it now!” The doorframe shuddered under his weight. I backed away, my whole body shaking so violently I could barely stand. “I’m warning you!” Donnie’s voice came through the wood, muffled but toxic. “This door is solid oak. You break it, you pay for it. Be a smart girl. Come out, take care of me, and we’ll call it even.” Pay for it? The absurdity of the comment hit me like a physical blow. I looked around the room. It was minimalist—just a staged bed and an empty closet. There was a large window, but we were twenty-one stories up. Jumping meant death. Staying meant something that felt just as final. I’ve always believed in anticipating the worst in people. It’s how I’ve survived this city. And right now, the worst was screaming on the other side of the door. 2 I couldn’t take the chance. I forced a deep breath into my lungs, trying to steady my vocal cords. I needed him to think I was breaking. “Donnie… Donnie, stop,” I called out, my voice trembling just enough to sound convincing. “Okay, okay! Just… stop hitting the door. Give me a second to get my head straight. I’ll… I’ll come out. Just give me a minute.” While I stalled him, my fingers were flying over my phone screen. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped it. I opened the office Slack channel and dropped my “Live Location” along with one word: HELP. Then, I jumped to the emergency text line. I typed the address—The Pinnacle, 2103—and a brief description of the assault. SENT. The moment those letters appeared, a tiny spark of hope flickered in my chest. But then, the pounding outside stopped. The silence was worse. It was heavy, pregnant with a new kind of threat. Then—BOOM. A kick, harder than the rest, made the entire frame groan. The wood near the lock began to splinter, a jagged white crack appearing in the dark grain. “You think I’m stupid?!” Donnie roared. “You think I don’t know you’re calling someone in there? You’re dead, you hear me? Dead!” My heart stopped. How did he know? I’d been quiet. I’d sent the messages in seconds. There was no more time. The door wasn’t going to hold another minute. I ran to the window and threw it open. Outside, a narrow ledge meant for HVAC maintenance ran along the side of the building. It was barely a foot wide—a concrete tightrope suspended over the abyss. From the twenty-first floor, the cars below looked like colorful grains of rice. The wind whipped my hair across my face, stinging my eyes. If I fell, I’d be nothing but a headline. But if I stayed, I’d be his. Just as I prepared to climb out, my phone exploded in my hand. The caller ID read: Braden Holt. My manager. My lifeline. I swiped ‘accept’ immediately. “Braden! Thank God! Where are you? Donnie Russo—he’s losing it, he’s trying to—” “Casey, listen to me,” Braden’s voice was hurried, but there was a strange, sharp edge to it. “Where are you exactly?” “The Pinnacle! Unit 2103! I’m locked in the bedroom, he’s breaking the door down! I called the cops, they’re on their way!” I expected him to tell me he was five minutes away. I expected him to tell me to hang on. Instead, the line went quiet. Only the faint hiss of static filled the air. “Braden?” I whispered, my stomach dropping. “You…” he finally spoke, his voice low and cautious. “You need to call the police back. Cancel the report.” “What?” I couldn’t believe it. “Braden, he’s trying to rape me!” “Russo has deep pockets, Casey. He has connections. If you blow this up, it’s going to be a PR nightmare for the firm. It’ll ruin your career, too.” Braden sounded annoyed now, as if I were being an inconvenience. “Just de-escalate. I’m on my way. I’ll talk to him. We can settle this quietly.” Settle this? He was talking about me like I was a disputed commission, not a human being in danger. A chill that had nothing to do with the wind crawled up my spine. And then, I heard it. A tiny, mechanical sound from the door. I stared at the handle. It wasn’t being kicked anymore. It was turning. Slowly. Deliberately. Click. He had a key. Of course he had a key. Braden must have given him the master code or a duplicate. Braden was still talking in my ear, but I didn’t hear a word. I hung up. I had one option left: out. “Hehehe… nowhere left to go, little bird,” Donnie’s voice oily and triumphant as the door creaked open. I didn’t look back. I lunged for the window. 3 Whoosh. The wind hit me like a physical wall. Twenty-one stories of empty air pulled at my heels. I didn’t let myself think. I swung my legs over the sill and pressed my body against the cold, rough exterior of the building. My fingers curled around the metal maintenance ladder bolted to the wall. I moved like a shadow, inching toward the neighboring unit’s window. “Hey! What the hell are you doing?!” Donnie’s scream shattered the air behind me. Suddenly, I felt a violent jerk at my waist. I looked back and saw his bloated face, distorted with fury, leaning out the window. His hand was clamped onto the hem of my blazer, tugging hard. “Get back in here!” He yanked, and my feet slipped from the ledge. For a terrifying second, I was swinging in the air, held up only by the grip of my white-knuckled fingers on the ladder and Donnie’s hold on my clothes. The adrenaline was a roar in my ears. My palms were slick with cold sweat. I felt the fabric of my jacket starting to give. Donnie was too heavy to climb out, but his brute strength was enough to drag me back toward the abyss of the room. I looked down. Below my feet was the metal cage of an AC compressor. I made a choice. I jammed my foot into the gap of the compressor’s railing, using it as a fulcrum. With a guttural scream, I threw my entire body weight outward, away from the building. Rrip! The sound of tearing polyester was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. I tumbled onto the narrow ledge of the next unit, my heart thumping so hard it hurt. “You crazy bitch!” Donnie’s face was purple. He stared at me, his eyes wide with a murderous promise. “You think you’re safe? You’re either dying in my bed or hitting the pavement. There is no third option!” SLAM. He retreated and slammed the window shut. I heard the lock turn. He’d just sealed my only way back inside. The phone. I needed to check on the police. I reached into my pocket, my fingers trembling, fumbling for the device. But my hands were too slick. As I pulled it out, the phone hit the edge of the ledge, bounced once, and vanished into the dark crevice between the building’s facade and the structural columns. Gone. My only link to the world, swallowed by the skyscraper. I didn’t have time to cry. I looked up. The maintenance ladder led to the roof—the thirty-second floor. It was a long way up, and the metal was biting into my hands, but it was my only path. I climbed. I didn’t look down. I focused on one rung at a time, my muscles screaming, the wind trying to peel me off the wall. Just as I reached the ledge of the floor above, a sharp, blinding pain exploded at the top of my head. My vision went white. I almost lost my grip, my body swaying dangerously over the drop. Someone had grabbed my hair. I looked up through the haze of pain. It was him. Donnie. He’d run to the stairwell, made it to the next floor, and opened a hallway window. He was leaning out, his face twisted in a hideous sneer of triumph. “Gotcha! You little slut, did you really think you could outrun me?” He reached out with his free hand and delivered a stinging slap across my face. Crack. The sound echoed in the open air. My cheek burned, but the humiliation hurt worse. The fear that had been paralyzing me suddenly curdled into something sharper. Something lethal. “You’re done!” he screamed, raising his hand for another blow. In that split second, I let go of the ladder with my left hand. As he swung, I reached up and drove my fingernails with everything I had into the soft, vulnerable skin of his wrist—right where the pulse thrummed. “AGHHH!” Donnie let out a shriek like a stuck pig. The pain was enough to make him instinctively recoil, his grip on my hair loosening just enough. I didn’t wait. I scrambled up the ladder, moving with a frantic, desperate speed I didn’t know I possessed. “I’m gonna kill you! I’m gonna find you and break every bone in your body!” His curses faded as I reached the thirty-second floor. There was a small maintenance platform there, a tiny concrete island. I saw a window slightly ajar—a service hallway. I shoved it open and rolled inside, collapsing onto the dusty floor. I was in. I barely had a moment to breathe before I heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of footsteps coming up the fire stairs. He was coming. He wasn’t giving up. I looked around wildly. The hallway was empty, under renovation. Near one door sat a stack of large, empty appliance boxes from someone’s recent move. I dove into the largest one, pulling the flaps shut and curling into a ball. I pressed my hands over my mouth, trying to silence the ragged sound of my own breathing. The footsteps got louder. Slow. Deliberate. The silence that followed was deafening. Had he passed? I started to let out a breath I’d been holding. Suddenly, the top of the box was ripped open. Donnie’s sweaty, grinning face appeared in the opening, looming over me like a monster from a fever dream. “Found you.” My blood turned to ice.

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The sun hadn’t even broken the horizon yet. I was huddled on the 4:45 AM commuter bus, the blue light of my phone screen searing into my tired eyes. A post flickered onto my feed, the headline dripping with staged desperation: “My daughter won’t come home after graduation. Who will take care of me when I’m old?” I almost swiped past it. I was too exhausted for suburban melodrama. But a high-engagement comment pinned at the top caught my eye, and my thumb froze. The commenter was clinical, almost predatory. They said that young women these days only care about real estate. If you want a daughter to move back to a dead-end hometown, you use a house as bait. Tell her you’ll put the deed in her name the moment she unpacks. The comment went on: Local jobs are scarce, so she’ll be forced to take a stable, boring government position. That’s how you tether her. Once she’s in that system, she’s yours. My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest. This was my life. Every word felt like a blueprint of my last five years. But it was the next part that made the blood turn to ice in my veins. The commenter bragged that you never actually have to give them the house. It’s just a carrot on a stick. If she asks to see the place, or move in, or check the paperwork, you just lie. You stall. You play the victim. The commenter finished with a digital smirk: My daughter has been back for five years now. I have seven rental properties, and every single one of them is still safely in my name. She doesn’t suspect a thing. The post was flooded with likes. People called the author “brilliant” and “shrewd.” I sat there, the vibration of the bus rattling my teeth, feeling a profound, soul-deep chill. 01 I read the post again. And again. Seven properties. A “stable” dead-end job. Five years since graduation. I checked the user’s IP location—it was right here, in this county. Then I looked at the profile picture. It was a close-up of a white lily. The exact same photo my mother used for everything. My fingers trembled as I typed a response to the comment: [Aren’t you afraid she’ll get angry and leave?] The reply came almost instantly: [Afraid of what? She took a clerk job in the sticks. The pay is pathetic. After taxes, she can barely afford her gas, let alone a security deposit on a new place. Where’s she going to go?] I felt sick. My monthly salary was barely enough to cover my basic needs. I didn’t even own a car; I woke up at 4:00 AM every morning to catch three different buses just to get to the office on time. Someone else asked how she managed to keep the daughter out of the seven houses for five years. [It’s easy,] the Lily responded. [First, I said it was being renovated. Then I said the paint fumes were toxic. Then I said the neighborhood wasn’t safe for a single woman. If she pushes, I just start crying about my heart condition. Works every time.] The bus pulled into my stop, but I didn’t move for a long moment. I dialed my mother, my hand shaking so hard I nearly dropped the phone. “Mom,” I said, my voice tight. “I have to pull overtime this weekend. Can you give me the keys to the condo in the Heights? It’s right by the office. I can stay there so I don’t have to commute in the dark.” My mother’s voice came through the line, instantly pivoting to that familiar, honey-thick concern. “Oh, Myra, honey! That area is so dangerous at night. I wouldn’t sleep a wink knowing you were there alone. Just call an Uber when you’re done, okay? I’ll leave the porch light on for you.” I forced myself to breathe. “Mom, the commute is killing me. My doctor said the sleep deprivation is wrecking my immune system. I was in the hospital last month, remember?” There was a pregnant silence on the other end. Then came the soft, wounded sniffle. “Are you saying we’re a burden to you, Myra? Your father and I just wanted to spend these few years with you before you get married and leave us forever. Is that so much to ask?” I gripped the handrail of the bus seat until my knuckles turned white. The Lily. The “toxic paint.” The emotional blackmail. It was all there. She never had any intention of giving me a home. I was just an insurance policy for her old age, kept in a cage made of empty promises. When my shift finally ended, a co-worker saw me waiting at the curb for a ride-share. “Myra? Still taking the long way home?” he asked, frowning. “Is that condo still under renovation? It’s been, what, five years?” I remembered the lie I’d told everyone when I first moved back. I’d bragged about the three-bedroom place my parents had “bought” for me. Everyone was so jealous. Now, looking at the pity in his eyes, I realized how pathetic I looked. I was the girl with the “rich” parents who lived like a pauper, gray-faced from exhaustion, trapped in a childhood bedroom that smelled like damp carpet. I just nodded, unable to find my voice. 02 When I walked through the front door, my mother was on the sofa, her thumbs flying across her phone screen. A smug little smile played on her lips. I felt a physical jolt of revulsion. “What are you looking at, Mom?” She flipped the phone face-down on the coffee table with practiced speed. “Just Zillow, sweetie. The value of those two units on the east side just jumped. Some developer offered me 1.5 million last week, but I said no. Those are for your future.” She did this once a week. She’d show me “our” assets to remind me why I was working a job I hated in a town that felt like a graveyard. It used to make me feel secure. Now, it just felt like the rattling of chains. “If I can’t live in them, Mom, maybe we should just sell them,” I said quietly. She bristled immediately. “Don’t be ridiculous! We’re just waiting for the HOA to finalize the new security guards. You can’t put a price on your safety, Myra. Those houses are your safety net. You can’t just throw that away.” I wanted to laugh. Safety? For whom? “Mom, I saw a post today. On that community forum. Was it you?” I held up my phone, the “Lily” profile picture front and center. Her face went from pale to a blotchy, panicked red. “I… I don’t know what that is. Why are you looking at trash like that?” “It describes us perfectly, Mom. The seven houses. The ‘toxic paint’ excuse. The ‘dangerous neighborhood’ lie. It’s all there.” She opened her mouth, fumbled for a word, and then the waterworks started. Her eyes welled up with practiced ease. “Is that what you think of me? After everything we’ve sacrificed?” She scrambled to open a text thread on her phone. The contact name was “AAA Property Manager.” The last message, sent a week ago, read: Mrs. Reed, the security team isn’t fully vetted yet. Better not let your daughter move in. Not safe. “See?” she sobbed. “I’m trying to protect you! Why would I lie to my only child?” I looked at the message. It was the only one in the thread. No history. No previous logs. It was a burner or a renamed contact. The front door slammed. My father walked in, his face already set in a scowl. “What’s going on? Myra, why is your mother crying? Can’t you go one night without upsetting her?” My mother threw herself into his arms, wailing about how I didn’t trust her. He glared at me, his jaw set. “She does everything for you. We kept those properties away from your Uncle’s bankruptcy lawyers just to make sure you had a legacy, and this is how you treat her?” “A legacy I’m not allowed to touch?” I countered, my voice eerily calm. “I’m done. I don’t want the houses. I don’t want the legacy.” I looked at them—two people who had spent five years gaslighting me into a life of quiet desperation. “I’m moving out. Tonight.” 03 I turned to head toward my room, but my mother grabbed my arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong for a woman who claimed to have a weak heart. “Myra, please! You’re just upset. If you think I’m lying, I’ll call the manager right now! I’ll prove it!” She was fumbling with her phone, her breathing coming in ragged gasps. I just shook my head. “Mom, do you remember what you told me the day I graduated?” I’d had an offer. A junior executive track in Chicago. Forty-five thousand to start, with a clear path to six figures. My mother had sat me down and told me that the city would swallow me whole. She said that if I came home, I’d have a million dollars in real estate in my name before I was twenty-five. I wanted my own space so badly. My current room was a converted pantry with no windows. When it rained, the walls felt fuzzy with moisture. My bed was the same twin-sized frame I’d had since I was ten. My feet literally hung off the end. She’d used the houses to stop me from going to Chicago. She’d used them to stop me from taking that study abroad program in London. She’d used them to keep me small, keep me local, and keep me available to drive her to her “appointments.” She wasn’t afraid of me being unsafe. She was afraid of being alone. “You lied to get me back here,” I said, the words tasting like ash. “I lost the career I wanted. I lost five years of my youth. And there is no house, Mom. There never was.” Slap. The sound echoed through the small house. My father’s hand was still raised, his face livid. “Your mother loves you more than life itself, and you’re talking to her like she’s some kind of criminal over a piece of property? You’re a selfish brat!” “Robert, don’t! Myra, honey, are you okay?” My mother reached for my face, her eyes wide with faux-horror. I flinched away from her touch. She stood there, her hand suspended in the air. Finally, she whispered, “Fine. If the house is all you care about, I’ll take you to the lawyer’s office tomorrow. We’ll start the deed transfer. Just… let’s all calm down. Please?” She even ran to the safe and pulled out a stack of folders. Title deeds. Property surveys. She laid them out like a peace offering. I looked at the red mark on my face in the hallway mirror, then at my father’s cold eyes and my mother’s desperate, manipulative smile. I didn’t say a word. I went into my room and locked the door. The next morning was Saturday. I was woken up by a sharp rapping on the wood. “Myra? Your aunts are here for brunch,” my mother called out. When I opened the door, the living room was an ambush. Five of them sat there—the “Council of Karens”—holding mimosas and judgment. My Aunt Sarah spoke first. “Myra, your mother tells us you’re trying to force her to sell the family assets? At her age? With her heart the way it is?” Aunt Janie tapped her long nails against the property folders on the table. “I thought we raised you better than this. Demanding a deed transfer like a common thief? It’s incredibly greedy, Myra.” My mother sat in the corner, head bowed, dabbing at her dry eyes. “This is what happens when girls get too much education,” Aunt Martha huffed. “They start thinking they’re smarter than the people who gave them life. It’ll all be yours eventually, Myra. Why are you in such a hurry for her to die?” I looked at my mother. She peeked through her fingers, checking to see if the pressure was working. “I’m not being mean, Myra,” she sniffled. “I just worry. There are so many scammers out there. I wanted to keep the titles in my name to protect you. I’ll give them to you when you get married. I can even write a letter of intent.” “No letters!” Aunt Sarah barked. “She’s your daughter, not a business associate!” “You should be grateful,” Janie added. “Most girls your age are drowning in rent. You have a guaranteed inheritance. Just apologize to your mother and stop this nonsense.” I realized then that this was just another layer of the trap. The “lawyer’s office” would never happen. There would always be another aunt, another “heart scare,” another reason to wait. I looked at my mother and smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was the smile of someone who had finally stopped feeling the weight of the hook in their jaw. “You’re right, Mom,” I said. “I was wrong.” My mother’s face lit up. She stood up to hug me. “Oh, thank God. I knew you’d understand, honey.” “I was wrong,” I repeated, stepping back so her arms hit empty air. “I was wrong to believe a single word you’ve ever said.” I reached behind the door and pulled out the suitcase I’d packed in the middle of the night. “I’m leaving. For good.” My mother’s smile didn’t just fade—it curdled.

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The alarm in my head didn’t just ring; it screamed—a jagged, digital shriek that tore through my consciousness. SYSTEM ALERT: Ten-year commitment mission failed. Marriage license requirement unfulfilled. Termination sequence initiated. Countdown: 48 hours. A wave of icy dread washed over me, drowning out the ambient noise of the boutique wedding chapel. It had all unraveled minutes ago, right as the photographer asked us to lean in for our official marriage license portrait. I had tilted my head toward Elliot, a practiced, joyful smile on my face, expecting him to meet me halfway. Instead, he flinched. He jerked his shoulder away as if my touch burned him, his expression suddenly unreadable. He brought up the raid from yesterday—the one my unit had executed. He said he’d seen me there. I froze, the confusion thick in my throat. I told him it was a classified sting, part of a city-wide vice operation. There was no way he could have been there. But his next words were a serrated blade, carving straight through my chest. He told me that while I was leading my team through the building next door, he was in the shadows, pinning a girl against a brick wall, kissing her until they both lost breath. He described how she had trembled, more terrified than her first time, staying silent even as my colleagues’ boots thundered past the alleyway. She didn’t make a sound until I was gone. I followed his gaze—a look so full of sickening tenderness it made my stomach churn—and saw her. Across the room, holding a professional camera, was Lexie. My brain felt like it was detonating. Lexie. The girl my father had died for. During a high-profile kidnapping a decade ago, my father had taken seven stabs to the chest to shield her. He’d died a hero; she’d survived as his legacy. Just ten minutes ago, she had been holding my hands, tears in her eyes, swearing that if Elliot ever made me unhappy, she’d give her life to make it right. Elliot stepped into my line of sight, shielding her from my gaze. His voice was soft, a velvet caress that felt like poison. He asked me, with a terrifyingly calm tilt of his head, if we were going to finish the paperwork or if I’d rather have a good cry and come back another day. … 1 I stood paralyzed, my blood turning to slush in my veins. Nausea rolled over me in waves, and the edges of my vision began to fray into black. Elliot reached out to steady me, his thumb tracing a path over the tears I hadn’t realized were falling. “You’re going to be a mother soon, Jill,” he murmured, his voice infuriatingly steady. “You need to learn how to keep your composure.” Anger, sharp and jagged, pierced through my shock. I stared at him, my voice a hollow rasp. “Why? Why today of all days?” Elliot paused. His eyes drifted past me to Lexie, and his tone softened even further. “I wanted to keep the lie going. I really did.” He sounded almost regretful. “She was always out there, taking photos of us, smiling through the pain like she didn’t matter. I just… I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep her in the shadows.” He hesitated, then added, “I owe her too much. As for you… I’ve already compensated you with a child.” The last tether of my sanity snapped. “Compensated? What the hell does that mean, Elliot?” He spoke as if he were discussing the weather. “Your last miscarriage. It wasn’t an accident. We… Lexie and I… we were careless with some lubricant on the hardwood near the stairs.” A physical explosion seemed to go off in my skull. I had blamed myself for months. I thought I had been too reckless, too focused on my work, that I hadn’t been careful enough with the life inside me. After the surgery, I had spent weeks curled in a ball, sobbing until my lungs hurt. And every time, Elliot had been there, holding me, whispering that it wasn’t my fault. It had all been a performance. Every comfort, every kiss, every “I love you.” I bit my lip so hard the iron taste of blood filled my mouth. Before I could think, I swung my hand. The slap echoed through the quiet chapel, leaving a bright red mark on his cheek. Elliot didn’t even flinch. If anything, he looked relieved. “I’m glad it’s out,” he said, his voice light with an easy, terrifying freedom. “I’m done making Lexie suffer for your sake. She’s young, she’s fragile. If you’re angry, take it out on me.” I tore the veil from my hair, the lace ripping with a satisfying screech. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, but his smile remained. “I take it we’re done for today. We can sign the papers whenever. We’ve been together ten years, Jill. What’s a few more days?” As he turned to walk away, his footsteps synced perfectly with the voice in my head: 10th Anniversary deadline expired. Mission: Failure. Termination sequence: Initializing. Countdown: 48 hours. A second later, Lexie lowered her camera. She looked at me, her face a mask of faux-innocence. “Jill? Why aren’t you smiling? You’re supposed to be the most beautiful woman in the world today.” She looked around, pretending to notice the tension for the first time. Her voice began to tremble. “Oh, God… Jill… do you know?” I looked at her, my eyes burning, my smile a bitter, bloody thing. Lexie suddenly raised her camera and smashed the lens against the floor, right at Elliot’s feet. He didn’t move. “I told you!” she screamed, her voice raw and theatrical. “I told you I never wanted a title! How could you tell her today? How could you hurt her like this?” 2 Elliot ignored the trickle of blood on his forehead where a piece of glass had nicked him. He just looked at Lexie with an aching devotion. “What about you?” he asked. “When are you ever going to think about yourself?” I watched them, this grotesque display of ‘star-crossed’ passion, and felt like I was watching a cheap soap opera. I turned to leave, but the door swung open, and Captain Wyatt stepped in, blocking my path. “Jill, stop,” Wyatt said, his voice heavy with a condescending pity. “Lexie just wants a family. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” It took me a moment to find my voice. “You knew? The raid last week—you sent me to the wrong sector on purpose?” Wyatt sighed, looking away. “Jill, think about the Bridge Street kidnapping. A hundred hostages. Lexie was the only one who made it out alive. She looks up to you like a sister. You’ve looked after her for years. Even if she made a mistake, isn’t that on you for not raising her better?” He stepped closer. “Don’t be cruel. Her entire family died in that basement. She has no one.” No one? I was the one who had taken her in because I pitied her. I had treated her like blood. But Wyatt seemed to forget that his mentor—my father—was the reason she was breathing. He had been turned into a vegetable saving her, lingering in a hospital bed for years before finally slipping away. “Jill,” Lexie whispered, stepping toward me. “You can hit me. You can hate me. Just don’t hate Elliot.” She reached for my hand, and I saw it—the silver compass hanging from her neck. It was my father’s. The only thing he’d left me. I lunged, ripping it from her throat. Lexie gave a tiny, bird-like whimper. Elliot’s face instantly darkened, and he shoved me back with enough force to make me stumble. I stared at him, breathless with disbelief. “I’ll take you home so you can calm down,” Wyatt said softly. Elliot didn’t even look back as he gathered Lexie into his arms. “She’s scratched. I’m taking her to the ER. We’ll talk about ‘us’ later, Jill.” I didn’t even make it halfway home before my phone buzzed. “Jill, if you have a problem, come at me. Don’t pull this petty, pathetic shit online.” Wyatt slammed on the brakes at the sound of Elliot’s voice through the Bluetooth, and my head cracked against the dashboard. Elliot had sent a screenshot. Someone had posted a photo from the courthouse—Lexie and me. Lexie was circled, the caption reading: So young and already a homewrecker. “I didn’t post that,” I said, my voice dead. “And even if I did,” I added, “is it a lie?” “Enough,” Elliot snapped. “Lexie never wanted to take your place. Why can’t you just let her have a little piece of happiness? She isn’t like you, Jill. Don’t use your ‘detective skills’ to ruin a girl who has nothing.” Wyatt frowned, looking at me through the rearview mirror. “Jill, she’s the girl your father died for. Do you really want to see her life destroyed over a scandal?” Before I could answer, a text popped up from Lexie: Jill, I’m not trying to win. I was actually trying to convince Elliot to apologize to you. But it’s my fault… he wanted to play a game earlier, made me wear a blindfold and guess what he was going to do to me next. I was so worried about you I kept getting the answers wrong. He’s even angrier now. You should probably stay away for a bit. I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white, then clicked the screen off. Noticing my silence, Wyatt softened his tone. “Lexie’s graduation is tomorrow. You’re the guest of honor. You’ll present her award. It’ll kill the rumors instantly.” Elliot’s voice came through again, offering a hollow olive branch. “Do this for her, and we’ll go back to the courthouse the day after. We’ll get it done.” “No,” I said, my voice a dry husk. “You make me sick, Elliot. Is that all you think about? Blindfolds and ‘games’ while my father’s legacy is rotting?” Elliot laughed, a sharp, cold sound. “Oh, please. Don’t act so holier-than-thou. You’ve been used as an ‘enhancement’ for years, Jill. This isn’t new.” Blood rushed to my face. “What?” “The day of your father’s funeral,” he said, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper. “Remember when Lexie called you, crying, trying to comfort you? I was right behind her. I heard every word you said. And I didn’t stop moving for a second. She was so breathless she could barely speak, and there you were, thanking her for being such a good friend.” My blood froze. For the first time in my life, I felt a pure, unadulterated hatred for the world. The System’s voice echoed in my skull: Detection: Hostile environment. User’s will to live is plummeting. Termination countdown accelerated. 24 hours remaining. I tightened my grip on the phone. “Fine,” I said into the receiver. “The graduation. I’ll be there.” 3 The auditorium was bathed in a golden glow. Lexie stood under the spotlight in a custom white gown, the image of the “Perfect Survivor.” Behind me, the students were whispering. “She’s so brave. She’s living for all the people who died in that basement.” Lexie saw me and blew a kiss. “I’m so glad you made it, Jill.” Elliot stood off to the side, giving me a pointed, “do your job” look. I walked to the podium and unfolded the piece of paper he’d written for me. I was hormonal yesterday. I overreacted and hit Lexie. The rumors about her are false, and I will be seeking legal action against those who spread them. I looked at the words, then slowly, deliberately, tore the paper into confetti. I looked at Elliot’s narrowing eyes, grabbed the microphone, and spoke. “Why would I give a parasite a second chance?” The room went silent. “I’m here to clarify,” I said, my voice projecting to the back of the hall. “The rumors aren’t rumors. Lexie is exactly what they say she is.” Chaos erupted. Lexie froze, her eyes filling with tears instantly. “Jill… you’ve done so much for me… I was even willing to help you raise your child as my own… why are you doing this?” “You’re delusional,” I spat. Suddenly, she pulled a small red book from her bouquet. A marriage certificate. Dated yesterday. “Jill, we’re the ones who are legally married.” I spun toward Elliot. He looked at me with total indifference. “I realized yesterday we didn’t have any ‘official’ photos,” he whispered as he approached the stage. “I thought it would be a nice graduation gift to make it legal for a day. I was going to divorce her tomorrow and marry you next month. It was just a gesture, Jill. Don’t be dramatic.” Lexie leaned into the microphone, her voice trembling. “Jill, I know you’re afraid I’ll tell people the truth about how your father’s ‘heroism’ actually caused the deaths of those other hundred hostages. But you shouldn’t have tried to ruin me.” I lunged, my hand raised to strike her. “What did you say? My father saved you!” A hand clamped onto my wrist like a vice. Wyatt had jumped onto the stage. He shoved me back, his face a mask of cold fury. “We’re standing right here and you’re still bullying her? Who’s going to protect her when we aren’t around?” I stared at him. “Why aren’t you defending him? He was your mentor! He was a hero!” Wyatt’s eyes flickered with a brief hesitation, but then he hardened. “If we have to strip you of your ‘Gold Star Daughter’ status to keep you from hurting Lexie, then so be it. You don’t deserve the title anyway.” Elliot leaned in close to my ear. “Jill, your father is dead. The living are what matter now. Just play nice.” In my head, the clock was ticking. Three hours remaining. I laughed, a sound that tore through my throat. “And what about me? What if I’m the one who doesn’t survive?” Elliot’s breath hitched for a fraction of a second. Then, the crowd surged. Someone threw a bucket of red industrial paint. It splashed across my police dress uniform, thick and smelling of chemicals. “Her father killed everyone!” someone screamed. “She’s trying to trap a man with a baby that isn’t even his! Shameless!” “Like father, like daughter! Murderer and whore!” A sea of students swarmed the stage. Hands tore at my collar, shoulders shoved me, spit landed on my cheek. Elliot tried to move toward me, but Lexie grabbed her head with a cry. “My head… it hurts… the basement… I can’t breathe!” Wyatt instantly scooped her up and turned away. Elliot hesitated, then looked at me. “It’s just kids blowing off steam, Jill. You’re a cop. You can handle a little roughhousing.” The System spoke: Vital signs dropping. Critical threshold reached. I couldn’t hear the insults anymore. Everything was a dull roar. I felt a sudden, warm gush between my legs. Someone screamed. “Wait, is that blood? Is she actually hurt?” 4 On the operating table, the instruments were cold and soulless. I felt the last of the life inside me slip away, and for the first time, I felt a strange sense of relief. Maybe this world was too dark for a child anyway. That evening, I dragged my broken body back to the apartment. Elliot looked up from his laptop, noted my pale face, and pushed a glass of water toward me. “I was just about to come pick you up. Don’t be mad at Lexie. If you hadn’t tried to embarrass her in public, she wouldn’t have snapped and said those things.” He sighed. “Stop being so sensitive. You’re a mother now; act like one.” “I told Lexie to file for divorce. Once the waiting period is over, we’ll get our license.” I didn’t speak. I looked at the framed engagement photo on the wall. I grabbed the glass of water and hurled it at the frame. The glass shattered, a jagged shard slicing right through Elliot’s face in the photo. Elliot’s expression darkened. Lexie stepped out of my bedroom, clutching her phone. “Elliot… I’m so sorry. I was trying to file the papers, but I was so shaken up I put the password in wrong three times… the account is locked for seven days.” I didn’t even blink. Elliot studied my face. When he saw that I wasn’t going to explode, he actually chuckled. “Fine. We won’t rush it then. If Jill isn’t in a hurry, why should we be? Everyone knows we’ve been together ten years. She’s already family.” A flash of resentment crossed Lexie’s face, but she quickly masked it. She threw herself at my feet, sobbing. “Jill, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean it! Look, let me show you—” She pressed her phone against my ear, her voice dropping to a demonic whisper. “Is the baby gone, Jill? Is he off to visit your father in hell?” Her voice became a venomous hiss. “Why did your father have to be a hero? If my parents had to die, yours should have too. I like Elliot. He’s a good provider.” “Oh, and by the way? The day your father started showing signs of waking up from his coma? I visited him. I showed him a video of Elliot and me. Did you know he bit through his own oxygen tube? He literally chose to die rather than watch more.” The pain in my jaw from clenching my teeth was unbearable. I gathered every ounce of strength I had left and slapped her across the face. Elliot didn’t wait. He kicked me. The blow landed right on my surgical incision. I hit the floor, the world spinning, as blood began to soak through my shirt. “What is wrong with you, Jill!” I laughed, tears of blood leaking from my eyes. “She killed him… she killed my father!” Elliot froze, but before he could speak, Wyatt burst in. He pulled Lexie toward him, his eyes full of protective rage. “Jill, you’re a police officer! Look at you! You’re pathetic!” He looked at my bleeding stomach and sighed. “The news is spreading. The department is reopening your father’s case—they’re going to remove him from the Memorial Wall. As for you, you’re suspended. Lexie is unstable; you’re going to stay here and take care of her.” Elliot stepped forward. “You’re carrying your father’s badge number. Hand over your gun and your credentials. You aren’t leaving this house until you learn how to apologize.” In my mind, the System began the final ten-second count. I looked at the tiny, triumphant smirk on Lexie’s lips. I reached for my service weapon, stroking the cold metal one last time, and backed toward the open window. As Elliot reached out to take the gun, I flipped it. I pressed the barrel against my temple. “I owe her an apology?” I whispered. “Is a life enough?” Elliot’s face drained of color. He lunged for me, his fingers splayed, his pupils blown wide with terror. I smiled. “I’m sorry.” Bang. The sound of the shot shattered the window glass. “JILL! NO!”

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I was leaning back against my personal trainer’s chest, mindlessly scrolling through my feed, when a post featuring my own home address stopped my thumb dead. The user, some girl cosplaying as a “struggling house help,” was sobbing in her caption. She’d “accidentally” ruined her employer’s haute couture gown and was terrified she could never afford the repairs. I didn’t need a detective to solve this one. It was Faith, the live-in maid at the townhouse I shared with my husband-of-convenience. Usually, she was all thumbs and clumsy apologies, but apparently, she was a pro when it came to curated digital sympathy. The comments were a bloodbath. Half the people were calling her out, saying if you break it, you buy it, and crying for clout wouldn’t pay the bill. The other half—the “eat the rich” crowd—was coddling her. Then, Faith replied. Her tone was the digital equivalent of a bashful tuck of the hair behind the ear. She claimed she wanted to pay for it, but her “Sir” had already found a different way for her to “compensate” him… all night long. The implication was as thick as New York humidity. I couldn’t help but laugh. I hit the share button and sent the link straight to my “Inner Circle”—a group chat filled with the city’s most eligible bachelors who had been orbiting me for years. I typed out a single message: “Whoever can shave five percent off the Pierce Group’s stock price by the closing bell gets the chance to replace my useless husband.” 1. “Ms. Blackwood, the Pierce Group just hit a five-point-three percent drop.” My assistant’s voice crackled through the intercom. I leaned back in my leather executive chair, watching the red candles flicker on the Bloomberg terminal. The sell-off had started at 2:00 PM sharp, volume spiking like a heart attack. “Understood,” I said, hanging up. I opened my phone. The “Inner Circle” chat was blowing up—hundreds of messages. [Caleb: Evie, I leaked their Q3 receivables to three major financial analysts. The numbers are cooked.] [Leo: I’ve got an ESG firm drafting a report on their environmental violations as we speak.] The last message was from Carter Walsh, my childhood best friend and the heir to the Walsh fortune. [Carter: Done. Five points, on the dot.] I smirked and typed back: “You move fast.” “I’ve been waiting three years for you to ask,” he replied instantly. “I don’t miss my window.” I was about to respond when my phone vibrated with an incoming call. Greg Pierce. “Evelyn,” his voice was a low growl, vibrating with suppressed rage. “What the hell are you doing to my stock?” “Greg,” I said, my voice smooth as silk. “The market is a fickle mistress. Your company’s failure has nothing to do with me.” “Don’t lie to me!” he barked. “Is this because I told Faith she didn’t have to pay for that dress?” “That ‘dress’?” I laughed, a sharp, cold sound. “Greg, that was a vintage McQueen. It was my mother’s eighteenth birthday gift to me. It’s worth nearly a million dollars. Your little maid ruined it on purpose, and you think I’m the one being unreasonable?” “She was just trying to be diligent! Besides, I owe her. She’s done things for me you wouldn’t understand. A dress is nothing compared to her loyalty.” “Diligent?” I interrupted. “Is that why she was posting thirst-traps with our home address at 2:00 AM? Claiming I was ‘stomping on her dignity’ while she spent the night ‘compensating’ you?” “She only posted that because you’ve been suffocating her,” Greg snapped. “I know you look down on her, Evelyn. But she works for a living. She’s earned her place more than someone born into a golden cradle ever will.” I was actually stunned into a laugh. “Greg, do you hear yourself? You’re acting like you’re some self-made man of the people. You’re a Pierce. You’re literally the poster boy for old money.” “I know who I am,” he said. “And I know what this marriage is. It’s business. You’ve used my family’s resources for three years; the least you could do is act like a wife. Faith is a girl with nothing. Why are you so obsessed with bullying her?” I looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, watching the clouds roll over Manhattan. This petty drama was beneath me. “Greg,” I said. “Since you want to talk about business, let’s talk about the bottom line.” “What?” “The Blackwood-Pierce merger involves six major projects totaling nearly four billion dollars,” I said, sitting up straight. “Because of your maid’s social media antics, my own stock took a three-point hit today. Do you know what that translates to in market cap?” Silence. “Eleven hundred million dollars,” I enunciated every syllable. “A billion-dollar headache because your ‘loyal’ maid wanted to play victim on TikTok. Now, I’m giving you two choices.” “Choice one: Faith Jenkins makes a public apology, admits she destroyed the dress and lied for clout, and she’s out of New York by tonight.” “Absolutely not!” he shouted. “She’s done nothing wrong—” “Choice two,” I cut him off. “We divorce. And I’m invoking Article Seven of our pre-nup. I assume you remember it?” I heard him catch his breath. Article Seven: In the event of gross negligence or reputational damage leading to the dissolution of the marriage, the offending party forfeits fifteen percent of their personal equity to the spouse. “You’re threatening me, Evelyn?” “I’m giving you an out. You have three days to decide.” 2. Three days later, I walked into the townhouse and found Faith on her knees in the living room, scrubbing the floor. She was using a white cashmere throw—the one I’d just brought back from Milan—as a rag. “Ms. Blackwood!” she squeaked, jumping to her feet. She stood straight, clutching the soaked, ruined fabric. “You… you’re home early.” I looked at the throw. The cashmere was matted, dripping with floor cleaner. “That throw,” I said, my eyes meeting hers, “was five thousand Euros. I’ll be deducting that from your final paycheck.” Her face went pale, her lip trembling. “I didn’t mean to… I just thought it looked soft, and I wanted the floors to be perfect for you…” “Perfect?” I stepped into the room. “Faith, we have a closet full of professional cleaning supplies. You’ve been here three months. Don’t tell me you haven’t found them.” “I… I just want to be better…” Her eyes started to well up, but there was a stubborn glint in them. “I know I’m not like you. I know I’m ‘the help.’ But you can’t just use your luxury items to humiliate me because I’m poor!” “Humiliate you?” I smiled. “Faith, if you break something, you pay for it. That’s a lesson they teach in kindergarten. Since when does being broke give you a license to be a thief?” “I’m not a thief!” She raised her voice, chin trembling like a cornered animal. “I’ll pay it back! I have a savings account. I have three thousand dollars… I’ve worked years for that.” She slammed a debit card onto the marble coffee table. “I’ll pay you five hundred a month for the rest. I’ve calculated it. It’ll take me… thirteen years. But I’ll do it. I’ll work nights, I’ll take a second job—” “Your math is off.” I picked up the card, spinning it between my fingers. “The McQueen dress is currently valued at nearly a million dollars. At five hundred a month, you’ll be paying me back for the next hundred and sixty years. And that’s before interest.” She froze. “And this?” I tossed the card back onto the table. “Three thousand dollars? That wouldn’t even cover the dry-cleaning bill for my rugs.” The tears finally fell, but she bit her lip, refusing to let out a sob. It was a masterclass in the “wronged-but-strong” archetype. I was about to end the performance when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Greg rushed down, and the moment he saw Faith crying, his face twisted into a knot of fury. “Evelyn! Again? You’re still on this?” “On this?” I gestured to the cashmere rag. “Greg, your ‘loyal assistant’ just used five-thousand-dollar cashmere to mop the floor. Asking for compensation isn’t bullying—it’s basic accounting.” Greg looked at the ruined fabric, then at Faith’s neck. There was a faint, moon-shaped birthmark peeking out from her collar. That birthmark was his twenty-year obsession. When he was a kid, abandoned by his stepmother in a rough neighborhood for a few hours, a girl with that same mark had shared her sandwich with him. He’d convinced himself she was his “Guardian Angel.” He’d only “found” Faith a few months ago. “She doesn’t know any better,” Greg said, his voice softening as he looked at her. “You could just teach her instead of—” “Why is it my job to raise your maid?” I snapped. “I pay her a salary to work, not to be my apprentice. This isn’t a charity, Greg.” “You’re so cold,” he hissed. “She’s had a hard life—” “A hard life?” I laughed. “She’s making six figures to live in a mansion and ruin my clothes. That’s a dream life for most people.” I walked up to Faith, looking at her tear-stained face. “Faith, if you want to be ‘better,’ stop talking and start paying. If you can’t afford the lifestyle you’re destroying, stop touching things that don’t belong to you.” She glared at me. The sadness was gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated resentment. “Ms. Blackwood,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I know you look down on me. You were born with everything. You don’t know what it’s like to fight for a scrap of dignity. But I’d rather die than beg for your mercy.” “Brava,” I said, clapping slowly. “Then please, pack your bags and leave my house. As for the compensation… you’ll be hearing from my lawyers.” “Evelyn!” Greg pulled Faith behind him. “You’re really going to do this?” I looked at them—the CEO and the ‘Mistreated’ Maid. A classic melodrama. “Greg, I’m giving you one last chance to be a businessman. Because if we go the legal route, intentional destruction of property at this value carries a prison sentence of three to seven years. Faith, do you want to see if the prison jumpsuits are made of cashmere?” Faith turned ghost-white and grabbed Greg’s arm. “Sir… I don’t want to go to jail…” Greg stared at me, his eyes full of venom. “You’re a monster, Evelyn.” “And you’re a cliché.” I checked my watch. “Five minutes. Both of you. Get out of my house.” I turned and walked upstairs, calling my estate manager to ensure they didn’t “accidentally” pack any of my jewelry on their way out. 3. Three days later was the grand opening of the “Blackwood-Pierce Plaza,” a nearly two-billion-dollar commercial complex. It was the crowning jewel of our merger, the symbol of our families’ union. The gala was held in the glass-walled ballroom on the penthouse floor. Every power player in Manhattan was there. The paparazzi were lined up at the entrance, flashes firing like lightning. I was in a vintage Chanel fishtail gown, holding court in the center of the room. A reporter shoved a mic in my face. “Ms. Blackwood, rumors are swirling about your marriage. Care to comment?” I smiled professionally. “Tonight is about the Plaza. Let’s stick to business.” “But they say you and Mr. Pierce are living apart—” “In business,” I interrupted, “what matters is the ROI. Mr. Pierce and I have always been a high-yield partnership.” Just then, a hush fell over the room. Greg had arrived. And he wasn’t alone. Faith was on his arm. She was wearing a white silk dress—a dress I recognized. I’d tossed it into a donation bin last month because it was out of season. It had been crudely tailored to fit her, cinched tight at the waist to emphasize her curves. But the real insult was the necklace. A strand of South Sea pearls. My father’s wedding gift to me. Worth seven figures. I felt a surge of white-hot rage, but I kept my face a mask of bored elegance. The press swarmed them. “Mr. Pierce! Who is your companion?” “Is this a statement about your marriage, Greg?” Greg looked stiff, trying to shield her from the cameras. “This is my personal assistant. She’s just here to help with the event—” “Sir,” Faith said, her voice soft but perfectly projected for the mics. “Don’t hide me. I’ll tell them.” She stepped forward, giving the cameras a practiced, forty-five-degree-angle smile. “Hi, I’m Faith. I know I shouldn’t be here, but Greg needed someone to lean on. Evelyn is… so busy with work. She doesn’t have time for him. I’m just doing my part to care for him. It’s the least I can do.” The room went silent. Every eye turned to me. I stood my ground, the professional smile still etched on my face. The stage was set. I walked toward the podium and took the microphone. “It seems everyone has seen the headlines,” I said, my voice echoing through the ballroom. “Perfect. Since you’re all here, I have an announcement.” The giant LED screen behind me lit up with a single sentence: “THE CURTAIN FALLS.” “Three years ago, the Blackwood and Pierce families joined in a marriage of strategic interests,” I began, my voice steady. “It was meant to be a model of corporate synergy.” I paused, looking down at Greg, whose face was turning a sickly shade of gray. “Unfortunately, some people forgot that this was just a contract. They started believing in their own fairytales.” “Evelyn!” Greg tried to storm the stage, but my security team blocked his path. “So, tonight,” I raised my voice, “I am announcing three things.” “First: As of this moment, my marriage to Greg Pierce is over. The papers are signed. I wish him and Miss Jenkins a long and… expensive life together.” The room erupted. “Second: All joint ventures between Blackwood Holdings and the Pierce Group are hereby terminated. My legal team is already filing for breach of contract.” “Third…” I looked toward the back of the room. The heavy oak doors swung open.

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When I opened my eyes, the world snapped back into focus with a sharp, terrifying clarity. I was sitting in the same velvet-lined booth at the bistro, across from the man I thought was my future and the cousin I thought was my conscience. Carly didn’t even wait for the appetizers to arrive before she leaned in, her voice a staged whisper. “Nicole, don’t walk away from this guy. Run. He’s a predator. He’s going to lure you into some hellhole and sell you off.” Carly had always been our family’s golden child, gifted with an uncanny, almost supernatural ability to detect a lie the second it left someone’s lips. She was a “human lie detector,” a consultant for the DA’s office, the girl who could never be fooled. Because of that, I had lived my life by her word. In my previous life—or what I remembered as my previous life—she told me my wealthy, venture-capitalist boyfriend was a monster, so I dumped him in a fit of panic. Later, she told me the high-six-figure executive offer I’d landed at a Fortune 500 tech firm was actually a front for a money-laundering scheme. I turned it down without a second thought. Then came the call. Kidnappers. They claimed they had my parents and demanded five million dollars. Carly sat me down, looked me in the eye, and told me they were bluffing. She said it was a scam, that my parents were fine. I believed her. I told the “kidnappers” to go to hell. The next day, my parents—who had narrowly escaped a brutal ordeal—didn’t come home to hug me. They came home to disown me. They called me a cold-blooded sociopath and threw me out onto the street. I had wandered, broken and confused, trying to find Carly to ask her why. Instead, I saw her stepping out of that very same tech firm I’d turned down, draped in designer silk, leaning into the arms of the “predator” ex-boyfriend I’d abandoned. The shock had paralyzed me. I’d lunged toward her, screaming for the truth, only to be leveled by a speeding truck. 1 The echo of her words made my skin crawl. I looked up, staring at the two people across from me. Am I actually back? Brett, my boyfriend, was midway through explaining his family’s real estate empire, just like he had before. In the first version of this day, Carly had cut him off after the first sentence, claiming the vintage Porsche he’d driven to lunch was a rental and that his “empire” was built on sand. Back then, I’d turned cold immediately. I’d ignored his pleas and demanded to see his registration. When he fumbled for an answer, I took his hesitation as guilt. I ended it right there. I remember the look on his face. “Nicole, you’re really going to throw away three years because of one sentence from her?” I hadn’t blinked. I’d kicked him out of my life. It wasn’t until the moments before my “death” that I learned the truth: Brett was exactly who he said he was—the youngest son of the city’s most influential developer. Carly had systematically dismantled my life to pave her own way. But this time? I wasn’t playing her game. I was lost in the fog of memory until Brett squeezed my hand, looking concerned. “Nicole? You okay? Look, I know I’m not great with paperwork—I don’t keep receipts for cars—but I promise, I’m being straight with you.” Carly scoffed, her mouth opening to deliver the killing blow. I beat her to it. I smiled, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and placed a piece of sea bass on Brett’s plate. “Don’t worry about it, honey. I believe you.” In that flash of memory before the truck hit me, I remembered seeing Brett’s face on a Forbes “30 Under 30” billboard. He wasn’t just rich; he was the rising star of the Chicago business world. Carly’s brow furrowed. She looked genuinely baffled. The cousin who always listened, the girl who followed her lead like a shadow, had just ignored her “gift.” “Nicole,” Carly said, her voice dropping an octave, thick with faux-urgency. “He’s a trafficker. Why aren’t you listening? He’s going to take you somewhere dark and you’ll never come back.” I looked at her, and for the first time, I saw the cracks in the performance. If I hadn’t seen her smug grin in the moments before my death, I would have fallen for this worried-sister routine again. I let my expression harden. “Carly, stop it. I know exactly who Brett is. If you say one more word against him, we’re going to have a serious problem.” It was the first time I’d ever pushed back. She looked stunned, then insulted. “Fine,” she snapped, grabbing her clutch. “I’ve warned you. When you’re rotting in a basement, don’t say I didn’t try to save you.” She stormed out. I felt a surge of relief, focusing all my attention on Brett, piling his plate with food, determined to hold onto this version of my life. Brett looked moved, his eyes shining. “Thank you for trusting me, Nico. Really. Look, I want you to meet my parents tomorrow. My dad’s been asking about you.” I agreed instantly. Meeting the “King of Chicago Real Estate” was a dream I’d let Carly destroy once. Not again. After lunch, Brett stepped away to the restroom. I went to the bar to settle the tab, but as I turned the corner toward the back hallway, I heard his voice. Low. Cold. “The bait’s taken. I’m bringing her in tomorrow. Tell the buyer to have the cash ready; this one’s a beauty. He’s going to love her.” 2 I pressed my back against the cold tile of the wall, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. What the hell did he just say? Moments ago, he was talking about Sunday dinner with his parents. Now he was talking about “bait” and “buyers.” Was Carly actually… right? I took several jagged breaths, my mind racing. I needed a second opinion. I slipped out of the restaurant, snapped a covert photo of Brett through the window, and sent it to a contact I’d made through my volunteer work—a man who knew the underbelly of the city. Within minutes, my phone vibrated. “Where is he? Are you with him? Send me your location now.” The text was followed by a call. “Nicole, get away from him. We’ve been hunting this guy’s parents for years. He’s not just a bystander; he’s the scout for one of the most sophisticated human trafficking rings in the Midwest.” My hand shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. I was seconds away from being “brought in.” But how? In my memory—that “past life”—Brett was a billionaire’s son. A philanthropist. Why was he a monster in this reality? My head felt like it was splitting in two, the “memories” and the “now” clashing with violent intensity. A notification popped up in the family group chat. My parents had just received a formal offer letter for me from a top-tier consulting firm. Before I could even process it, Carly called. Her voice was stiff, still nursing her bruised ego. “Nicole, look. Whether you’re mad at me or not, I have to tell you—that job offer? It’s a scam. I called a contact. The minute you walk into that office, you’re sign-off on legal liabilities you’ll never get out of. It’s a boiler room operation. If you take that job, your career is dead.” It was the exact same warning from my “previous life.” Last time, I believed her and stayed unemployed for a year while she took the job and became a millionaire. This time, I should have ignored her. But after the Brett situation, I was paralyzed. I didn’t want to lose a dream job, but I couldn’t risk walking into a trap. “Carly,” I said, my voice trembling. “Come with me tomorrow. To the office. Help me check it out.” I figured if she was lying to keep the job for herself, she’d make an excuse. But she agreed immediately. She even suggested we call the police to do a sweep. She sounded… righteous. Excited, even. The next morning, we arrived at the corporate plaza. In my memory, this company had been a titan of industry, featured on the news for its innovation. I’d seen Carly on TV as their Managing Director, looking like a queen. But when we walked through the glass doors, the reality was a nightmare. The sprawling “open-plan office” was a mess of stained carpets and flickering lights. Dozens of people sat at cramped desks, looking malnourished and terrified, headsets practically glued to their ears. It was a literal digital sweatshop. I stood there, frozen. How? Why was everything Carly “detected” as a lie suddenly coming true? If she had lied to me in the “past,” then why was the billionaire now a predator, and the Fortune 500 company now a scam? 3 Carly shoved me toward the door as the police moved in to raid the place. Her face was full of genuine concern, but for a split second, it flickered—merging with the memory of the smug, triumphant woman who had watched me die. I forced myself to breathe. A detective I recognized from the Brett investigation—Officer Rossi—walked up to us. He nodded at me before turning to Carly. “We got the confirmation on the photo you sent, Carly. Good catch. If you hadn’t flagged his face against the interstate trafficking database yesterday, we wouldn’t have linked him to the ring so fast.” He looked at me. “You’re lucky to have her. Carly’s intuition has closed more cases for us than a dozen veteran detectives. You shouldn’t have doubted her.” Carly crossed her arms, huffing. “She didn’t believe me about the boyfriend. Said she’d cut me off.” Rossi shook his head. “Well, you know better now. Trust the gift.” My mind was a kaleidoscope of confusion. In this timeline, Carly was a hero. But the memories of her betrayal were so visceral I could still feel the phantom pain of the truck hitting my ribs. I decided then: I wouldn’t trust her. I wouldn’t trust anyone. I would only trust the patterns. Three days later, my parents left for their annual retreat in the Berkshires. In my “memory,” this was when the nightmare truly began. I’d lost contact with them for forty-eight hours. Then, the call came. The phone on the coffee table began to ring. It was a number I knew by heart. My breath hitched. “We have your parents,” a distorted voice growled. “Five million dollars by tomorrow morning. Central Park, the boathouse. If you call the cops, they’re dead.” The line went dead. My hands were so cold they felt numb. I had cancelled their trip. I had checked their flight cancellations. How were they still missing? How was the script still playing out exactly like the “memory,” even when I changed the inputs? I didn’t have time to think. I didn’t know if I was in a nightmare or a reality. I only knew I couldn’t lose them again. 4 Even with my parents’ successful business, five million was a staggering amount of liquid cash to find in twenty-four hours. In the “memory,” I’d started the process of liquidating our family’s holdings and selling our house immediately. Carly was there, just like before. She grabbed my wrists, her eyes wide. “Nicole, stop! Don’t do this.” “I heard the call, Nico. My gut is screaming at me—this is a hoax. They aren’t kidnapped. It’s a sophisticated phishing scam. They probably just jammed their signals. Don’t throw away the family legacy for a lie!” I stared at her. The “memory” and the “now” were screaming at each other in my brain. Why did she lie last time? Why was she so insistent this time? Was it possible my parents weren’t kidnapped? “I’m calling the police,” I whispered. “No!” Carly’s voice was too sharp, too high. She caught herself, softening her tone. “Nicole, if you call the cops over a prank, the embarrassment alone will ruin your dad’s reputation. Just wait. They’ll call from the hotel soon.” I frowned. Her reaction was wrong. It was too desperate. Was she trying to stop me from saving them, just like before, so she could swoop in and play the grieving “adopted” daughter? “I’m reporting it,” I said, reaching for my phone. Before I could dial, a text came through. I opened it and felt the world tilt. It was a photo. My parents, bound and gagged in a dark, concrete room, their faces pale and bruised. The message underneath was simple: One word to the cops and we send them back in pieces. I lost it. The “gifted” cousin was wrong. They were in danger. “You said they weren’t kidnapped!” I screamed, shoving the phone in her face. Carly’s breath hitched. She looked at the photo, her voice wavering. “Nico… that’s… that’s a deepfake. It has to be. Don’t believe it.” I looked at her, and all I felt was ice. “I am done listening to you.” I spent the next twelve hours in a fever dream of wire transfers, predatory bridge loans, and signing away the title to our lake house. I scraped together every cent. The next morning, I ignored Carly’s protests and dropped the bag at the designated spot. I went home and sat in the dark, waiting. As the sun began to set, I heard the front door open. My parents walked in, laughing, carrying bags from a boutique in Lennox. They weren’t traumatized. They weren’t bruised. They looked like they’d just had the best vacation of their lives. The realization hit me like a physical blow. They were never kidnapped. Carly was right. But as my father looked at me—realizing I had liquidated his entire life’s work for a “hoax”—his face turned a shade of purple I’d never seen. He didn’t hug me. He slapped me so hard I fell against the wall. The fog in my brain finally began to clear. I saw the truth through the stinging pain. I knew exactly what was happening.

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