Just past midnight, the muffled cry of a baby echoed outside my thirtieth-floor apartment door. My heart dropped to my stomach. Cold sweat prickled my spine. Then I remembered the two undercover cops crashing in my guest rooms. I pressed the intercom button, faking absolute panic. The screen flickered to life, showing a woman with tear-streaked cheeks begging me to let her hide. I smiled soundlessly and unlocked the reinforced steel door. She would never know she was stepping into a perfectly baited trap. And nobody told her that the bedroom down the hall held a lot more than just two cops. 1 My name is Tessa. I live in a bizarrely zoned luxury high-rise on the outskirts of the city. It is considered luxury because the property values are sky-high, completely sold out before the foundation was even poured. It is bizarre because most of the tech bros and investors who bought the units never actually moved in. The massive complex looks like a ghost town by day and sounds like a graveyard by night. I chose the penthouse on the rear building. Thirtieth floor. Three thousand square feet, four bedrooms, panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows. The view is so clear you can see the sprawling agricultural fields and greenhouses miles away, watching the seasons change right from the living room. When I bought this place, my mother nearly disowned me. She could not understand why I would pass up a fully furnished condo downtown to live like a hermit in the middle of nowhere. But I loved it. Standing on the balcony, feeling the night breeze, staring out at the dark fields. It was pure peace. My best friend joked that I paid a premium for an overpriced birdhouse, hinting that I might be a little crazy. She was probably right. But having a slice of total isolation so close to the city was a luxury not many people understood. On Friday morning, just as I stepped out of the lobby to head to work, two women in plainclothes blocked my path. One had sharp, short hair. The other wore her hair long. Both had eyes that felt like they were scanning my soul. The short-haired woman flashed a gold badge. Her voice was crisp and strictly professional. She introduced herself as Detective Sarah from the city narcotics and vice division. The long-haired detective gave a tight nod. She added that they needed to commandeer my two south-facing bedrooms to set up a temporary observation post. I blinked. Observation post? I looked them up and down, verified their badges, and finally let out a breath. Sarah pointed toward a distant cluster of industrial buildings billowing dark smoke. She explained that a massive counterfeit syndicate was operating out of a warehouse out there. They had been tracking them for weeks. The factory was churning out dangerous, unregulated narcotics disguised as prescription pills. My penthouse had the absolute best vantage point to monitor the loading docks. I am a simple woman. If it means catching bad guys and keeping the streets safe, I am all in. I agreed immediately. I told them they could have the two master suites, gave them the passcode to my digital lock, and told them to make themselves at home. Sarah was polite, telling me to go about my normal life. They would stay out of my way, making zero noise. I waved it off. Being a single woman living alone, having two seasoned detectives sleeping down the hall was the ultimate security system. I was thrilled. When I got home from work that evening, the doors to the south bedrooms were shut tight. Not a single sound leaked out. As I kicked off my heels, Sarah poked her head out of one door and gave me a tired smile. She thanked me for the hospitality. I beamed back, pointing toward the kitchen. I told her the pantry was fully stocked with snacks and energy drinks, free for the taking. She nodded, pulled her head back in, and shut the door without making a single click. I hummed a tune and headed straight for the living room. It was Friday night. I had zero plans other than binge-watching a trashy reality dating show on my massive projector screen. I had a family-sized bag of chips and an ice-cold cola. Life was perfect. Since the south rooms were occupied, I took the smaller north bedroom. It was cozy, quiet, and overlooked the glittering highway lights. I curled up on the velvet sofa, munching on chips, occasionally shouting at the TV whenever a contestant did something stupid. Time slipped away. Before I knew it, the clock hit one in the morning. My eyes burned. My stomach gave a little rumble. I stretched my arms, thinking about boiling some pasta before taking a hot shower and crashing. Right at that moment, the sound hit me. A faint, trembling cry of a baby drifted through the thick front door. 2 The crying was not loud. It was a thin, reedy sound, dripping with misery. In the dead silence of the night, it made my skin crawl. I froze. The potato chip slipped from my fingers and hit the rug. Goosebumps erupted from my ankles all the way to the base of my neck. Every true crime podcast I had ever listened to suddenly flooded my brain. Stories about traffickers using recordings of crying babies to lure women into opening their doors. Home invasion crews using women with infants as bait. Worse yet, local urban legends about things that lurked in the dark. I swallowed hard. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Normally, if I were alone, I would not even breathe. I would have army-crawled into my bed, muted my phone, and prayed whatever was out there would just go away. But tonight was different. I had cops in my house. Two of them. My spine straightened. Confidence surged through my veins. I marched right up to the entryway and hit the button for the video intercom. The screen flared bright. Standing in the hallway was a woman in her twenties. She wore a faded, oversized jacket. Clutched tightly against her chest was a baby wrapped in a thick blanket. Her hair was a greasy mess. She looked pale, her eyes red and puffy, like someone who had just been through hell. I leaned toward the microphone. I demanded to know who she was. The woman’s voice cracked. She sobbed, pressing her face near the camera. She told me her boyfriend’s mother had thrown her out into the cold. She had nowhere to go. She saw my lights on and begged me to just let her sit in my hallway for a few minutes to warm the baby. I narrowed my eyes. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The security in this building was notoriously strict. You needed an encrypted fob to even get the elevator to move. Guests had to be escorted by security guards from the front desk. How did a homeless, crying woman get past the lobby? Did she climb thirty flights of stairs? Even a marathon runner would be gasping for air, but her breathing was perfectly steady. The lie was painfully obvious. I was just about to call her out on the intercom when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Sarah. Let her in. I understood instantly. This woman was either connected to the cartel they were watching, or she was a completely different predator walking right into a trap. The cops needed her inside. I pressed the unlock button and yanked the heavy oak door open. The woman stumbled inside, bowing so deeply her head nearly touched her knees. She kept crying, thanking me, calling me a saint. I stepped aside, keeping my face perfectly blank. As she walked past me, her puffy red eyes darted around the apartment. She scanned the expensive furniture, the wide hallway, and finally locked onto the two closed doors facing south. There was a brief, greedy flash in her pupils. She was assessing the target. I laughed internally. This woman deserved an Oscar for that performance. 3 The woman stopped in the middle of the living room, shifting the baby in her arms. She rubbed her hands together and put on a pathetic, embarrassed smile. She asked if she could use the restroom, claiming the baby needed a change. I nodded and pointed toward the north wing. I told her the guest bathroom was right down that hall. But she completely ignored my gesture. She took three fast strides toward the south bedrooms and reached for the brass handle of the first door. I raised my voice, telling her to stop. Her hand froze inches from the knob. She snapped her head toward me, a flash of genuine panic crossing her face before she buried it under a fake smile. I kept my tone casual. I told her those rooms were rented out, the doors were deadbolted, and the bathroom she needed was in the opposite direction. The panic faded. She forced a laugh, showing off a row of yellowed teeth, and thanked me again. I escorted her to the north bathroom, pointed to the fresh towels, and told her to let me know if she needed anything. She slipped inside and clicked the lock. I leaned against the hallway wall, listening to the rustling sounds and the soft whimpers of the baby. It sounded incredibly real. I pulled out my phone, pretending to scroll through social media, but my mind was racing. Was the baby real? Or was it one of those creepy, ultra-realistic reborn dolls? If I accidentally poked a doll, she might flip the script, accuse me of assault, and start a shakedown. I had read about scams like that online. A few minutes later, the door swung open. She walked out, apologizing profusely for the trouble. I waved it off and forced a warm, naive smile. I asked about the baby. I told her the little one looked adorable and asked how old it was. She hesitated. It was just a fraction of a second, but it was there. She muttered that he was just a month old, growing fast, heavy for his age. I peered into the blanket. The baby had a wrinkled little face, eyes squeezed shut, tiny lips smacking together. It definitely looked real. I offered to hold him for a minute so she could rest her arms. I was not doing it out of kindness. I needed to know if it was breathing. Her eyes darted nervously. She clearly did not want to hand over her prop, but refusing would blow her cover. Slowly, she transferred the bundle into my arms. Warmth seeped through the blanket. The baby squirmed slightly, letting out a soft breath. It was alive. I exhaled quietly. I held the infant awkwardly, terrified of squeezing too hard. The last thing I needed was to drop a kidnapped baby in front of a trafficker. She watched me struggle. A dark, mocking smirk briefly touched her lips before vanishing. She introduced herself as Brenda. She launched into a tragic backstory about living in a trailer park nearby, a deadbeat boyfriend who vanished for months, and an abusive mother-in-law who finally snapped and kicked her to the curb. She squeezed out a few fresh tears for dramatic effect. If I had not already known she was playing me, I might have felt sorry for her. I gave her a sympathetic nod, carefully handing the baby back. I asked if she was hungry, offering to boil some pasta since it was freezing outside. Honestly, my cooking skills were practically nonexistent. I survived on takeout and microwave meals. Boiling spaghetti was the absolute limit of my culinary talents. Brenda’s eyes lit up. She nodded eagerly, playing the part of the starving victim perfectly.

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It was April Fools’ Day. I jokingly joined a live video call with a famous antique appraiser online. I really just wanted to show off the priceless collection my husband had spent years building. But the appraiser took one single look at the screen and frowned. He suddenly looked up and asked what my husband did for a living. I told him he was an entrepreneur and asked if there was a problem. The appraiser paused for three solid seconds. Then he looked right into the camera and told me that every single antique in my house was a cheap fake. 1 I laughed out loud, telling him that was impossible. I brought my phone closer to the display cabinet. I pointed out the delicate glaze and the intricate patterns. I told him my husband had paid a fortune for this seventeenth-century Meissen porcelain vase, assuring me it belonged in a museum. Arthur, the appraiser, adjusted his glasses. He leaned into his screen for a few seconds, scrutinizing the footage. Then he slowly leaned back in his leather chair. He asked me where my husband bought these items. He wanted to know if they came from an elite auction house or a private dealer. I hesitated, thinking back. I told him it was mostly private sales through wealthy friends. Arthur asked if I had the certificates of authenticity or the original receipts. I racked my brain. I remembered seeing a leather-bound folder once. He had practically shoved it in my face a year ago. I stammered, saying we definitely had them, but my husband kept them locked away. Arthur took off his glasses. He looked at me with genuine pity. He told me that if I truly believed my husband had purchased authentic antiques, then there was only one logical explanation. Someone had broken into my house and meticulously swapped every priceless artifact with a cheap replica. I gasped, my voice pitching up in pure shock. I asked him if he was joking. We had over a dozen massive pieces. The bronze Renaissance statues alone weighed forty pounds each. Nobody could have swapped them out right under our noses. Furthermore, the passcode to the climate-controlled basement vault was something only my husband and I knew. The moment the words left my mouth, the live chat on the right side of the screen exploded. Comments rolled in relentlessly, calling me a clueless trophy wife. People told me to stop analyzing the pottery and start checking my joint bank accounts. One user pointed out the obvious. If only the two of us knew the passcode, then my husband was the one who swapped them. They mocked me for being so blind. Others told me to keep living in denial, saying it was not Arthur’s money going down the drain anyway. Reading those sarcastic, biting comments made my blood boil. I glared at the camera and asked Arthur if he was paying these people to troll me. I accused him of calling my collection fake just so he could offer to buy it off me for pennies. I had seen those exact scams all over the internet. Arthur shook his head, a tired sigh escaping his lips. He told me he had twenty thousand people watching his stream. He appraised hundreds of items a day and had never been wrong. He certainly did not need to run cheap scams. Then he gave me one final piece of advice. He told me to log off, walk out my front door, and find the most ruthless divorce lawyer in the city. And he told me to do it fast. The chat went wild. People were laughing at Arthur losing his patience. Users warned me that if I kept defending my husband, he would take the money and vanish. One comment caught my eye. They bet real money that my next video would be me crying about my missing husband, a house full of useless junk, and a bank account drained to zero. I stared at the glowing screen. The entire situation felt utterly absurd. Fake? How could they be fake? Simon was obsessed with antiques. He treated these objects like royalty. Every time he entered the basement vault, he wore shoe covers and white cotton gloves. He would practically hold his breath before turning on the display lights. So when Arthur called them fakes, my immediate instinct was to defend my family. I grabbed my phone, dialed Simon’s number, and waited for him to pick up. I kept my voice light and breezy. I asked what time he was coming home. I told him the funniest thing just happened and I had to tell him about it. He sounded distracted, mentioning a business dinner, and asked what was so urgent. I giggled. I told him about the live stream I finally managed to join. I told him I showed the appraiser his precious Meissen porcelain and the Renaissance bronzes. I laughed, saying the guy was totally full of it, calling our entire collection a bunch of worthless replicas. Dead silence echoed through the receiver. Then he asked me what I just said. I repeated myself, naming the popular appraisal channel. I reiterated that the guy called the porcelain, the bronzes, and the vintage oil paintings completely fake. His voice suddenly erupted, vibrating with a rage I had never heard before. He demanded to know what was wrong with me. He screamed, asking what qualifications a random internet streamer had to judge his multi-million dollar investments. The barrage of questions left me dizzy. I stuttered, trying to explain that it was just for fun. He cut me off brutally. He asked if I was trying to prove he was an idiot. He asked if I wanted the whole world to think he spent millions on garbage. His voice grew louder, echoing in my ear. He accused me of sitting around the house all day with nothing better to do than humiliate him. I shrank back, confused and hurt. I asked him why he was getting so defensive over a joke. He told me to shut up. He ordered me to lock the doors and wait right there. He was bringing an expert home immediately. 2 The line went dead. I stood frozen in the middle of the living room. Simon had never raised his voice at me like that. Not once in twenty years. His reaction was entirely disproportionate. It was terrifyingly abnormal. Two hours later, the front door flew open. Simon stormed in, followed by a middle-aged man wearing thick glasses and a tailored suit. Simon’s face was pale and tight. He shoved past me without a word. He gestured to the vault, respectfully asking Mr. Sterling to evaluate the pieces. The expert pulled out a jeweler’s loupe and a high-powered UV flashlight. He spent ten agonizing minutes examining the sixteenth-century bronze statuette. Finally, he stood up. His expression was grim. He looked at Simon and delivered the verdict. The bronze was a modern reproduction. The artificial patina and casting marks were dead giveaways. Simon’s face drained of all color. He lunged forward, snatching the bronze statuette, inspecting it under the light before slamming it down. He grabbed the porcelain vase and shoved it toward the expert. The man moved down the line. With every piece he touched, he shook his head. Fake. Reproduction. Modern tourist garbage. Simon stood rooted to the spot. He looked like a man who had just been struck by lightning. Slowly, he turned his head and locked eyes with me. He asked me when I found out. I trembled, whispering that it just happened today. He took a step closer. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. He asked why I felt the need to broadcast our assets on a live stream. I flinched. I explained that I just happened to be scrolling and sent a request on a whim. I never expected to get picked. His eyes turned ice-cold. He asked if I realized what I had just done. He told me that by exposing the collection to a massive audience, I had ruined the resale value entirely. Even if some pieces were authentic, the entire network of high-end buyers now considered our collection tainted. No one would ever touch them. I whispered back, pointing out that they were already fake to begin with. He exploded. He screamed that fakes could still be sold to naive buyers. But now, thanks to my sheer stupidity, the entire investment was completely destroyed. A cold shiver violently shook my body. Something felt profoundly wrong, but I could not quite put my finger on it. Over the next few days, Simon dragged me across the city, marching into upscale galleries and private dealers, demanding our money back. At the first gallery, the owner barely looked up from his cigar. He told us all sales were final. He sneered, saying that if we claimed the fake came from his shop, he would counter-sue for defamation. He ordered his security to throw us out. The second dealer was even more aggressive. She yelled at Simon, asking where he had been for the past year. She claimed her gallery had a flawless reputation for two decades. She accused us of swapping the real items ourselves to extort her for cash. The third private broker slammed the door in our faces. He threatened to call the cops. He told us we bought the items as is, and if we lacked the eye for fine art, that was our own problem. Every single place gave us the exact same routine. All sales final. Buyer beware. Where is your proof? You swapped them yourself. As the days dragged on, our collective anger morphed into heavy silence. Eventually, it settled into a crushing, suffocating numbness. Late one night, Simon’s phone rang. He shot me a dark look and stepped out onto the balcony. He left the glass door slightly ajar. I could hear his voice dripping with desperation. He begged the person on the other end for more time. He swore he was trying to liquidate his assets, but the market was dead. He pleaded for just one more week to find the cash. The call ended. He stood alone in the cold night air, smoking cigarette after cigarette for half an hour. When he finally walked back inside, he stared at me with hollow eyes. He asked if I heard everything. I nodded slowly. He let out a ragged breath. He explained that his business loans were defaulting. He had planned to quietly sell off a couple of the most expensive antiques to inject cash back into his company. His voice grew bitter and resentful. He told me that if I had not played the fool on that live stream, he could have found a gullible buyer. Now, the entire dealer network knew our inventory was toxic. We were stuck with millions of dollars in worthless junk. I looked him dead in the eye. I asked him what we were supposed to do now. He threw his cigarette butt onto the pristine hardwood floor and crushed it beneath his heel. He gritted his teeth, his voice filled with venom. He told me he never should have given me the passcode. He never should have let me see the collection. He blamed my boredom for destroying his company. I opened my mouth, but the words caught in my throat. Then he dropped the bomb. He wanted a divorce. I stared at him, my mind blanking entirely. He laid out the terms. He would leave the marriage with nothing. I could keep the penthouse, the SUV, and the two hundred thousand dollars in my personal savings account. He would shoulder the massive corporate debt alone. 3 My mind drifted back to three years ago. That was when Simon first became obsessed with collecting. At first, he only brought home a few small pieces using his year-end bonuses. I was anxious about it. Spending tens of thousands of dollars on a dusty vase felt incredibly reckless. He used to laugh, kissing my forehead, telling me I just did not understand the luxury asset market. Then, he flipped a vintage painting. He bought it for forty thousand and sold it for eighty thousand to a private collector. Seeing that kind of cold, hard cash hit our bank account made me drop my guard. After that, his obsession spiraled. He bought bigger, more expensive items. He even tried to convince me to take out a second mortgage on our penthouse to fund a massive acquisition. But I kept delaying the paperwork, insisting we needed to keep the house secure for our son’s college fund. I never signed the documents. So now, all we had between us was this paid-off house, my modest savings, and a basement full of garbage. Simon did not come home that night. I stood at the entrance of the vault, staring blankly at the rows of high-end fakes. Where exactly did everything go wrong? Suddenly, a comment from the live stream flashed in my memory. If you keep defending him, he will take the money and vanish. Next video: Husband missing, antiques fake, wife left with nothing. A violent shiver ran down my spine. I sprinted into the master bedroom and tore open our wall safe. I stood frozen. The appraisal certificates were gone. The original purchase receipts were gone. Every single piece of paper linking him to the purchases had vanished. Panic seized my chest. I dialed his number. It rang endlessly before he finally picked up. His voice was cold. He asked if I was ready to sign the papers, mentioning he had a courier waiting to deliver the documents. I demanded to know where the certificates were. I told him we needed to hire a lawyer and fight the dealers. He laughed mockingly. He told me to go ahead and hire a lawyer. He warned me that the creditors would just sue me too, freezing the house and leaving me homeless. I gripped the phone tightly, my knuckles turning white. I begged him to think of another way, reminding him that the vault represented millions of dollars. He hung up before I could finish. True terror finally set in. My legs shook as I walked down the street, stepping into the first law office I could find. I sat across from a sharp-suited attorney. I told him I thought my husband was setting me up. I explained the fake antiques, the sudden massive debt, and his rush to divorce me. The lawyer adjusted his glasses. He asked if I had any proof of the original purchases. I shook my head. I explained that Simon took everything. I told him how Simon personally marched me into the dealer shops, making sure I heard them all deny liability. The lawyer let out a heavy sigh and shook his head with grim finality. He told me I was going to lose this war. I asked him why. He explained that Simon’s frantic behavior over the past few days was nothing but a theatrical performance designed specifically for me. Buying art and antiques was the absolute ultimate, untraceable method for a spouse to hide assets. The execution was simple. The husband buys a few real pieces, convincing the wife they are worth a fortune. She believes it. When he is ready to file for divorce, he quietly moves the real pieces to a secure location and replaces them with identical fakes. Then, he plays the martyr. He generously lets the wife keep the house, leaving her with a vault full of worthless metal and clay, while he walks away with millions in hidden, untraceable assets. The lawyer looked at me with deep sympathy. In his profession, using high-end collectibles to launder marital assets was known as the invisible murder. My eyes widened in absolute horror. I asked if I could sue him for fraud. The lawyer said it was nearly impossible. Without a single receipt, Simon could simply claim he had a bad eye and bought fakes by mistake. The art world operates on individual expertise. Making a bad investment is not a crime. I sat there, completely paralyzed. The lawyer leaned forward. He told me that no one can ever anticipate an ambush from the person sleeping next to them. A man who spends three years meticulously laying a trap is not someone who leaves loose ends. It was going to be a brutal, uphill battle. He asked me what assets I still controlled. I told him I had the house and two hundred thousand in cash. He gave me my options. I could spend years bleeding my savings to gather evidence, or I could take the settlement and walk away. He warned me that fighting a ghost required endless money, time, and emotional devastation. I needed to decide how much I was willing to bleed for the truth. The wind outside the law firm felt like ice against my face. The entire situation felt like a waking nightmare. We had been together for twenty years. We met when we were eighteen. We built this life from nothing. Did he really spend three years laundering our entire net worth through fake vases and statues? Refusing to accept it, I dialed his number again. He ignored the first call. He ignored the second. He ignored the third. On the twenty-fifth attempt, the line finally clicked open. I called his name. An automated voice cheerfully informed me that the subscriber was busy. He had declined the call. I stumbled aimlessly along the edge of the sidewalk, my vision blurred with tears. I never even saw the heavy e-bike speeding toward me. The impact was brutal. I was thrown hard against the concrete. 4 The delivery rider cursed loudly, struggling to pull his heavy bike off the pavement. He yelled at me to watch where I was walking. My phone had flown out of my hand. A passing sedan ran directly over it. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of glass. The back panel snapped off, exposing the battery. I pointed at the ruined device, my voice trembling. The young rider sneered. He warned me not to try and extort him, claiming the phone breaking had nothing to do with him hitting me. A small crowd began to gather. A kind woman asked if I needed an ambulance. She suggested I call my family. Family. The word echoed in my mind. I stared blankly at the asphalt, slowly pushing myself up to my feet. I whispered that I was fine. I dragged my bruised body over to the gutter and picked up the crushed phone. The screen was completely dead. The power button did nothing. I limped away, heading slowly toward my neighborhood. Footsteps hurried up behind me. It was the delivery boy. He shoved a crumpled piece of paper into my hand. He looked guilty, telling me it was his number. If I needed to go to the hospital later, I could call him. He hopped back on his bike and sped off. I turned the corner and walked into a small, brightly lit phone repair shop. The technician took one look at my device, clicked his tongue, and tossed it on the mat. He told me it was completely destroyed. The motherboard was cracked. I needed a new one. Before I could even process his words, he expertly popped out my SIM card. He reached under the glass counter and pulled out a sleek, refurbished phone. Same brand, same model. He popped my SIM card in and powered it up. He told me it was essentially brand new. He offered it to me for eight hundred bucks. I watched the screen illuminate. Zero missed calls. Simon had not checked on me once. Which meant… Wait. I stared at the glowing home screen. My heart began to hammer violently against my ribs. I looked at the technician and told him I would take it. I walked out of the shop gripping the new phone. My hands were shaking uncontrollably. It was not from the cold. It was because I finally knew exactly how to destroy him. The lawyer was right about one thing. No one can anticipate an ambush from the person sleeping next to them. Simon thought his performance was over. But mine was just about to begin. 5 I sat alone on a park bench, downloading my apps one by one. When the banking app finished installing, I hesitated for exactly three seconds. I transferred five thousand dollars directly into Simon’s account. Then, I stared unblinking at the screen. If he accepted the transfer, it meant his fake company was genuinely strapped for cash, and he would not disappear just yet. If he rejected it, it meant he had already fenced the real antiques and had millions sitting in an offshore account. A notification popped up a second later. He asked what the money was for. I typed rapidly, crafting the perfect lie. I told him I got hit by a car and the driver gave me a cash settlement. I told him to use it for his debts. I typed that we were a team. I would never abandon him when things got tough. I reminded him that I still had the house and my savings. I promised that if he needed it, I would sign it all over to him without hesitation. I added one final, devastatingly manipulative line. Because years ago, you took care of me the exact same way. I hit send. A single tear tracked down my bruised cheek. I remembered fifteen years ago. We lived in a cramped, illegal basement apartment. The rent was a hundred dollars a month. The only window was the size of a shoebox, and the walls were coated in black mold. Winters were brutal. We shared one thin blanket. He used to take my freezing feet and press them against his stomach to warm them up. He used to kiss my forehead and swear that one day, he would give me the life I deserved. Back then, I believed every single word he said. In the sweltering summers, we could not afford a fan. He would take me to the park under the highway overpass just to catch a breeze. We would split a cheap popsicle, and he always let me take the first bite. I spent my entire adult life believing that as long as we were together, I had everything I needed. That was why I fought those strangers in the live chat. They didn’t know the man who dropped to his knees and wept in the hospital corridor when I gave birth to our son. They didn’t know the man who would come home at three in the morning and sleep on the living room rug just so he wouldn’t wake me. My phone lit up. Simon replied, thanking me. He said he was on his way home. I stared at the text. I did not reply. The harsh glare of the screen illuminated the wet tear tracks on my face. Tonight was my one and only chance to turn the tables. 6 The electronic chime of the front door lock echoed through the hallway. Simon was back. As he walked into the dining room, our teenage son, Noah, looked up with wide, hopeful eyes. Noah asked why he was home. He mentioned that I had pulled him out of evening tutoring because there was a big family announcement. Simon froze. He walked over to the dining table and sat down heavily. He pulled two thick manila folders from his briefcase and slid them across the marble surface. He looked at me with a pained expression. He said one was the mortgage application for the house, and the other was a divorce settlement. He told me that if I was scared, I only needed to sign the divorce papers. He promised he still wanted Noah to inherit the house one day. Noah stood up, his chair scraping loudly. He looked panicked, asking why we were getting a divorce. I reached out and ruffled Noah’s hair, keeping my voice incredibly calm. I told him not to panic and asked his father to explain. I shifted my gaze to Simon. I asked him exactly how much money he owed his creditors. Simon rubbed his temples, looking exhausted. He claimed the debt was around six million dollars. His supply chain collapsed, and the cash flow was dead. He sighed heavily. He pointed out that we bought the penthouse for nearly seven million, but in this market, it would appraise for barely four. Even if we mortgaged it to the absolute limit, it wouldn’t cover half the debt. He pushed the divorce papers closer to me, insisting it was the only way to protect me and our son. I looked at him with unwavering devotion. I told him it was fine. I promised to go to my parents tomorrow and beg for a loan. I told him Noah had a college fund with eight hundred thousand dollars in it, and we would drain it completely to save his company. Simon’s eye twitched. He hesitated, warring with his own greed, but ultimately gave a slow, tragic nod. He whispered that I was sacrificing too much. He picked up his fork, took three bites of cold dinner, and stood up, reaching for his wool coat. I shot Noah a look. Noah immediately jumped up, blocking his path. He asked his dad where he was going, pleading with him to stay since he hadn’t seen him in over a month. Simon froze mid-motion. A heavy silence stretched across the room. Slowly, he let the coat slip from his fingers and hung it back on the hook. He didn’t leave that night. I made him a glass of warm milk. I dissolved a heavy dose of prescription sleeping pills into it. He drank it all. He wasn’t waking up anytime soon. Once his breathing leveled out into a deep snore, I slipped into Noah’s room. I took Simon’s phone from where he had left it charging on the desk. It was locked with an encrypted passcode and tied to his FaceID. His security was flawless. Unlocking the physical device was impossible. But it didn’t matter. I didn’t need to unlock his phone. I took a paperclip, pushed it into the tiny hole on the side, and popped the SIM tray out. I took his SIM card, slid it into my brand new phone, and began downloading every major app he used. Banking apps and secure messaging apps would immediately log him out of his original device. I couldn’t risk those. But food delivery apps allowed multiple active sessions. Navigation apps didn’t log out. Hotel booking apps stayed active. For the government tax portal, all I needed was an SMS verification code to reset the password. I went through the list methodically. Every time a verification code texted his number, it popped up on my screen. I logged in, copied the data, and permanently deleted the text message from the carrier network. When I was done, I popped his SIM card out and slid it perfectly back into his locked phone. I had spent twenty years respecting his privacy. I had never once snooped through his messages. He thought my trust made me weak. He didn’t realize that the moment I decided to cross that line, I would scorch the earth to find the truth.

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There were eight of us in the department. Only seven spots remained. The voting results were in. Seven votes, all pointing directly at me. Valerie held the tally sheet up for the entire room to see. She took a red marker, circled my name twice, and pinned the paper to the whiteboard. A relieved, triumphant smile spread across her face. She looked right at me, asking if I had any objections to being the one eliminated. I glanced around the conference table. Brittany was staring intently at her phone, pretending to be busy. Phillip was looking up at the ceiling tiles. The rest of my colleagues shifted in their seats, their eyes darting anywhere but my face. Not a single person was willing to meet my gaze. I thought about the last three years. I thought about the clients I had personally secured for this team. My accounts brought in twenty-four million dollars a year. Sixty percent of the entire department’s revenue was built on my blood, sweat, and overtime. The absolute irony of it all was staggering. They were voting out the only person in the entire agency who actually had the private cell phone numbers of our biggest clients. I quietly unclipped my corporate ID badge. I placed it gently on the polished oak table. “I have no objections,” I replied, my voice dead calm. 1 The conference room door clicked shut behind me. The hallway light had been flickering for half a month, buzzing faintly overhead. I barely took three steps before a burst of laughter drifted through the glass walls. Through the frosted privacy film, I watched Brittany raise her iced caramel macchiato. She tapped her plastic cup against Valerie’s coffee mug. She congratulated Valerie loudly, celebrating the fact that the dead weight was finally gone. Valerie tried to lower her voice, but the hallway was far too quiet. She complained that I should have been fired ages ago. She whined about how embarrassing it was every time a client praised me instead of her. I pulled my gaze away and walked back to my desk. A new email popped up on my monitor. The sender was Sarah from HR. The subject line was blunt. I was instructed to complete my offboarding and handover process by five o’clock this afternoon. The email ended with a brightly colored smiley face emoji. My desk was right by the window. The potted ivy on the windowsill was the first thing I bought when I got hired three years ago. It cost me ten bucks online. Now, the green vines cascaded all the way down to my keyboard. Phillip walked out of the conference room. He paused as he passed my desk, shifting his weight nervously. He whispered my name. I kept my eyes on my monitor, sorting through my digital files. I told him to just spit it out. He dropped his voice to a bare whisper. He explained that Valerie promised the vote was anonymous. But she stood right behind the ballot box, watching exactly what everyone wrote. I nodded slowly, saying I already knew. He stammered, asking why I didn’t say anything. I finally looked up at him. I asked him who exactly I was supposed to report it to. The manager who rigged the vote? Or the seven colleagues who blindly followed her orders? Phillip’s face flushed deep red. He stood there in agonizing silence for a few seconds before hurrying away. I opened my bottom drawer and pulled out three thick notebooks. The covers were labeled Category A, Category B, and Category C. The Category A notebook was completely battered. It held the meticulous, unspoken habits of every single major client I managed. Richard Henderson does not drink coffee. He only accepts an exclusive, single-estate Darjeeling tea, and he absolutely refuses to drink anything past the third steep. Manager Davis has a son applying to Ivy League schools. The first ten minutes of any meeting must be spent asking about SAT prep, and the word “rejection” is strictly banned from the conversation. Director Smith has a clinical obsession with presentation aesthetics. Any font smaller than size 24 gets the entire deck thrown out, and using harsh red or green colors is an automatic failure. None of this information existed in the company’s official CRM software. It only existed in my brain and within the pages of these three notebooks. The sharp clack of high heels approached my desk. Brittany stopped right beside me. She was holding Valerie’s half-finished latte. She demanded that I compile every single file regarding the Apex Holdings account and hand it over to her immediately. I asked her what exactly she needed. She rolled her eyes. She wanted everything. Contact details, communication logs, price quotes, and contract addendums. She insisted I leave nothing out. She admired her freshly manicured nails. They were painted a pale pink, each one embedded with a tiny rhinestone. Just last month, Apex Holdings asked her for a standard quarterly billing spreadsheet. She dragged her feet for three days because she couldn’t figure out the formatting macros. Finally, at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night, she texted me begging for help. I stayed up all night finishing it for her. The very next morning, Valerie sent out a department-wide email praising the team for their collaborative effort. She cc’d upper management. I gave Brittany a slow nod. I told her I would get it organized. She turned on her heel and strutted away, looking entirely pleased with herself. The sickly sweet smell of caramel syrup lingered in the air around my desk. I opened a hidden folder on my hard drive labeled “Daily Backups.” Three years of emails. Three years of text message screenshots. Three years of original pitch decks, all marked with irrefutable digital timestamps. Every single document bore one name. Mine. I didn’t rush to export them. Instead, I picked up my watering can and tended to my ivy. I wasn’t going to let a few minutes change anything today. 2 When I joined the agency three years ago, Valerie was not here. Our manager at the time was an older guy named Arthur. He was coasting through his final year before retirement and managed absolutely nothing. On my first week, I was tossed directly into the Apex Holdings bloodbath. It was a twenty-four-million-dollar annual contract. There were eight agencies fighting tooth and nail to get on their vendor list. We were ranked dead last at number six. Nobody wanted to touch the account. It wasn’t because the workload was impossible. It was because their CEO, Richard Henderson, was notoriously brutal. The account manager before me spent six months trying to win him over. Richard looked at him during a pitch meeting and asked if our agency always sent bottom-tier talent to waste his time. The guy was dismissed on the spot. On my very first day managing the account, I walked into Richard’s office carrying a small, elegant tin of that rare Darjeeling tea. It cost me a hundred and twenty dollars. My monthly salary was four thousand. I was living in a cramped, windowless basement flat that ate up two thousand of my paycheck every month. Richard glanced at the tin. His face was entirely devoid of emotion. He ordered me to speak. I opened the pitch deck I had spent an entire week agonizing over. He listened for exactly ten minutes. Then he pointed at the cost breakdown on slide three, stating the data modeling was completely flawed. He kicked me out. I went back to the office and worked for three days straight, fueled by nothing but adrenaline and cheap takeout. The second time I visited his office, I brought another tin of tea. This time, he listened for forty minutes. When he finally rejected the proposal again, he gave me a sharp look. He said it was getting interesting and told me to come back next week. On my fifth visit, he signed the letter of intent. After his signature dried, he opened the tin of tea, brewed two cups, and slid one across his massive oak desk toward me. That was the year we went from being the sixth-ranked backup to Apex Holdings’ exclusive annual agency. Valerie parachuted into the company the following year. Rumor had it she was college friends with our upper management, specifically Director Wallace. Her resume boasted eight years of elite client relationship management. During her first week, she ordered me to consolidate every single piece of data on the Apex project into a comprehensive transition manual. She used a sickeningly sweet tone. She told me it was company policy to ensure client relationships weren’t tied to a single employee. She asked what would happen if I got sick and needed a week off. I spent two grueling days drafting a detailed, thirty-two-page operational manual. On the third day, she took that exact document into a closed-door meeting with Director Wallace. The title slide of the presentation read: “Client Relationship Optimization Strategy by Valerie.” She hadn’t changed a single word of my thirty-two pages. She simply swapped the color palette and adjusted the fonts. During the quarterly review, Director Wallace asked who was responsible for boosting the Apex contract renewal rate from sixty-eight to ninety-seven percent. Valerie smiled warmly. She credited the entire team for their hard work, adding that she personally spearheaded the strategy and high-level negotiations. When the holiday bonuses rolled around, Valerie received an elite A-tier rating. Her bonus was eighty thousand dollars. I was given a C-tier rating. I received four thousand. I pulled out my phone and opened the calculator app. I typed in some numbers. Since my first day, I had revised forty-seven different pitch decks for Apex Holdings. I had shared thirty-two pots of tea with Richard. I had defused eleven major operational crises. The worst crisis happened at two in the morning on Christmas Eve. Richard sent an emergency email stating our server integration was failing. Valerie’s phone was turned off. I crawled out of my warm bed, hailed a cab in a blizzard, and spent six hours sitting on the freezing floor of our IT department fixing the corrupted code. The cab fare that night cost me a hundred and fifty dollars out of pocket. Nobody ever reimbursed me. Richard found out about it the next day. He personally called me to say thank you. That was the exact moment he saved my personal cell phone number. Valerie knew absolutely nothing about that night. All she knew was that Richard renewed the annual contract. She eagerly forwarded his confirmation email to Director Wallace. She added her own little note at the top, thanking Wallace for his brilliant leadership in securing the renewal. 3 The offboarding process officially began at ten in the morning. Sarah from HR sent over a massive checklist containing fourteen mandatory tasks. Task number one required me to log all client contact information into the company’s master directory. I read the checklist carefully, then locked my three personal notebooks inside my desk drawer. I paid for those notebooks with my own money. The details inside were personal observations about human behavior, not proprietary corporate data. Every standard metric the company required was already uploaded to their official CRM system. Brittany dragged an ergonomic chair over to my desk to supervise my exit. She crossed her legs, scrolling lazily through her social media feed. She asked me what Richard usually liked to talk about. I told her he liked to talk about work. She sighed, asking what he discussed outside of work. I told her there was no outside of work. She huffed in annoyance, dropping her phone into her lap. She crossed her arms. She told me Valerie ordered a complete brain dump. She said dumping files into a shared drive wasn’t enough. I needed to teach her exactly how to manipulate the client. I kept my eyes on my screen. I told her the CRM system held incredibly detailed communication logs. She scoffed, asking who actually had time to read all that garbage. She demanded I just give her the bullet points. I dragged my final compressed folder into the company’s secure cloud drive. I looked her in the eye. I told her every single piece of project data was officially uploaded. If she didn’t understand something, she was welcome to read the logs. She glared at me, her voice rising. She started to complain about my attitude. Valerie suddenly appeared behind us holding a steaming mug of pour-over coffee. She cut Brittany off smoothly. She asked me to do one final favor before I packed my boxes. She placed her sleek smartphone directly on my keyboard. The screen displayed her messaging app, specifically a drafted text addressed to Richard Henderson. She wanted me to use my personal phone to send him a very specific message. I was supposed to tell him that my health was failing, that I was stepping away from the industry, and that Brittany would be taking over my accounts moving forward. I was supposed to explicitly endorse her. I stared at the drafted text. I read every single manipulative word. I asked her if she seriously wanted me to lie to the CEO of a major corporation, claim I was medically unfit to work, and beg him to trust someone else. Valerie’s voice was sickeningly gentle. She sounded like a preschool teacher explaining a basic concept to a slow child. She told me it wasn’t about me failing. It was just a corporate restructuring. She suggested I play along so we didn’t end things on bad terms. Brittany giggled loudly from her chair. I stared at Valerie’s screen. Richard’s profile picture was a high-resolution shot of a massive pine tree. It was the same tree outside his corner office window. Last winter, he pointed it out to me. He said he had been building his company in that building for eighteen years, and that tree had weathered every storm right alongside him. Valerie tapped the desk impatiently, demanding to know if I was going to send it. I pushed her phone back across the desk. I told her absolutely not. The gentle, maternal mask on Valerie’s face instantly cracked. Her voice dropped, growing harsh and sharp. She reminded me that I was a terminated employee. I had no leverage and no right to act superior. I calmly stated that Richard had my personal number. I refused to send him a fabricated script. She snapped back, pointing out that his number was logged in the company system. I smiled faintly. I suggested she use the official company system to contact him herself, rather than desperately trying to hijack my personal phone. The air around my desk froze. Valerie took a deep, trembling breath. She forced her voice back to a level volume. She told me to finish my checklist and walked away. Brittany shot me a dirty look and hurried after her. I could hear their hushed voices drifting from the breakroom. Brittany sounded panicked. She asked what they were going to do if I refused to cooperate. Valerie laughed dismissively. She said that once I was out the door, she would simply have Director Wallace call Richard directly. She sneered, asking if Brittany genuinely believed a multi-million dollar client would follow a low-level grunt out the door. I turned back to my desk and began packing my pens. A twenty-four-million-dollar contract. Richard was a lot of things, but he was certainly not an idiot. My phone vibrated violently against the wood. A text message lit up the screen. It was from Richard. He asked if the renewal pricing for next month was finalized. He casually reminded me not to forget his Darjeeling tea for our upcoming meeting. I placed my phone face down on the desk. I didn’t reply. 4 At noon, Valerie sent a cheerful message to the department group chat. She announced she was treating everyone to an expensive sushi lunch to celebrate the successful optimization of the team. She added a bunch of party emojis, wishing everyone a strong start to the new quarter. The chat instantly exploded with praise. People sent fireworks, calling her the best boss ever, hyping up the free food. The sole reason for the celebration was my termination. Nobody felt an ounce of guilt. Or if they did, they were far too terrified to speak up. Brittany walked over to my desk, her eyes practically gleaming with malice. She asked if I wanted to join them, adopting a pitying look that suggested I should be begging for a seat at the table. I told her I was passing. She shrugged dramatically, telling me it was my loss. She grabbed her designer purse and strutted out. The click of her heels echoed loudly down the corridor. By a quarter past twelve, the entire floor was dead quiet. I was the only person left. The low hum of the air conditioning was the only sound in the massive room. I unzipped my bag and pulled out a cheap tuna sandwich I bought from the corner deli that morning. I took a bite. The bread was slightly stale. The afternoon sun spilled through the window, catching the bright green leaves of my ivy plant. A sudden memory hit me. Last Christmas, the company distributed boxes of artisanal chocolate truffles to every department. There were exactly eight truffles in a box. Valerie was the one handing them out. She walked down the row, placing one perfectly wrapped truffle on every desk. When she finally reached me, the box was empty. She put a hand to her chest, acting completely shocked. She laughed loudly, saying she totally forgot I was on a strict diet, adding that skipping the chocolate was a favor to my waistline. The entire team laughed with her. Only Phillip had the decency to quietly slip his truffle into my desk drawer later that afternoon. It was dark chocolate raspberry. I absolutely hated raspberry. But it was the only piece I received. I finished my sandwich, wiped my hands clean, and opened the photo gallery on my phone. The oldest photo in my work album was taken the day I secured the letter of intent from Apex Holdings. I was standing in front of the office’s broken printer, wearing a cheap white blouse, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. The most recent photo was taken last month when Richard visited our headquarters. I was standing by the entrance doors, guiding his team inside. Valerie was standing dead center in the frame, shaking Richard’s hand for the cameras. That specific photo was blown up into a massive promotional poster and hung in the main third-floor corridor. The poster featured Valerie’s name in bold letters. It featured Director Wallace’s name right below hers. My name was nowhere to be found. At one-thirty, the elevator doors chimed. The team returned from lunch, smelling faintly of expensive soy sauce and grilled wagyu beef. Valerie marched straight over to me. Her face was slightly flushed from the midday sake. She told me there was one last item on the agenda. She shoved her phone directly into my face. The screen displayed a video recording app with a teleprompter script running across the top. She ordered me to record a thirty-second video. I was to formally announce my departure to the Apex team and enthusiastically introduce Brittany as my highly capable replacement. She told me to sound genuine, warning me not to make the agency look unprofessional. Brittany was already standing beside me, holding her own phone up, the camera lens pointed squarely at my face. She complained about the lighting, telling me to brush my hair out of my eyes so I didn’t look like a mess. I stared into the dark, unblinking lens of the camera. Three years. I arrived at this office at seven-thirty every single morning. I rarely left before nine at night. If Richard sent a message on a Sunday, I replied within twenty minutes. I dragged myself out of bed in the freezing cold on a holiday weekend to fix their servers. I wrote every single successful pitch deck, only to watch other people claim the credit. I built an ironclad client relationship from nothing, only for it to be categorized as a transferable team asset. And now, they wanted me to smile for a camera and beg my client to love them instead. I stood up slowly. I told them I wasn’t recording anything. The corners of Valerie’s mouth tightened. She told me it was a mandatory part of the exit procedure. I fired back, stating I had read the HR checklist thoroughly. A hostage video was not on the list. Her voice pitched higher. She ordered me to hit record immediately. I checked my watch. I told her my official termination took effect at five o’clock. It was currently one forty-three. Until five o’clock, I would comply with actual corporate policy. But I was absolutely not recording a video. Brittany kept her phone raised, recording the entire exchange. Valerie stared me down for three agonizing seconds. She sneered, asking if I thought my little rebellion would actually change anything. She stated that the second I walked out the door, the client would naturally transition to the account managers who actually had power. I told her we would just have to wait and see. I sat back down and pulled my noise-canceling headphones over my ears. Valerie didn’t leave. She leaned down, her face inches from mine. Her voice was barely a whisper, dripping with absolute malice. She told me I was nothing but an expendable errand girl. She swore Richard didn’t care about me at all, and that the agency had a dozen better people ready to take my place. I reached down to my keyboard and turned the volume on my music all the way up. I ignored her completely. 5 At two forty-seven in the afternoon, my phone rang. The caller ID flashed bright on the screen. Richard Henderson. Brittany was sitting directly across from me. She was the first person to see the name illuminate the glass. She leaped out of her chair like it was on fire. She screamed across the open-plan office, yelling for Valerie, announcing that Richard was calling me. Valerie popped her head out of her glass-walled cubicle instantly. I had already pressed the answer button. I greeted him calmly. Richard’s deep, gravelly voice echoed through the speaker. He asked why I hadn’t replied to his message from that morning. I apologized smoothly, explaining that things were a bit chaotic at the office today. He didn’t like vague answers. He demanded to know what was going on. Valerie sprinted across the floor. She stopped directly in front of my desk, frantically waving her hands, mouthing the words “speakerphone.” I refused to look at her. I told Richard that I was officially being terminated from the agency today. Dead silence fell over the line for two solid seconds. He asked exactly when this decision was made. I told him I was notified this morning. Valerie was pacing wildly in front of me now. She silently screamed at me to hand over the phone, practically clawing at the air. I turned my chair around, putting my back to her. Richard asked whose brilliant idea it was to fire me. I answered honestly. I told him it was the result of a department-wide vote. A dark, dangerous tone entered Richard’s voice. He noted that we were sitting on a twenty-four-million-dollar contract that was scheduled for renewal next month. He asked if my agency seriously decided to vote me out right before the ink dried. I confirmed it. The silence stretched again. Then, Richard delivered a sentence that practically detonated in the middle of the office. “Tell your management team that Apex Holdings only works with Nora. If you walk out that door, we are pulling our account and finding a new agency.”

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The System wiped every trace of me from my fiancé Declan’s memory, all to ensure he would effortlessly fall for the predestined female lead. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. What the System completely failed to realize was that I had manipulated my way into his bed. Declan actually loathed the very ground I walked on. Once he and the female lead made their relationship official, I packed my bags, left the city behind, and flew across the globe to Europe. I never expected to bump into him on a cobblestone street in Florence. His eyes locked onto mine. A furious blush crept up his neck, and he clutched his chest, breathless. “Who are you? Can we get to know each other?” What an absolute idiot. He was probably having heart palpitations from the sheer rage of seeing me, and his broken brain actually mistook it for love at first sight. 1 My family survived entirely on the Sinclair family’s charity. From the time I could walk, I was groomed to be their perfect daughter-in-law. When the eldest son, Arthur, passed away, the second son, Declan, became my only target. But Declan despised me. Whenever I tried to get close to Arthur when we were kids, Declan would tremble with anger. I honestly thought he was just jealous. So, I threw myself at Declan with reckless abandon, trying to win him over. The boy rolled his eyes so hard he nearly passed out on the spot. Once, the Sinclair family’s puppy and I both tumbled into a muddy ditch. Declan marched right over, scooped up the shivering puppy, and left me sitting in the muck. In the end, it was the dog who led the estate staff back to rescue me. That was the exact moment I knew Declan hated my guts. After all, he was severely allergic to dog hair. He was willing to risk a severe allergic reaction for a dog, but wouldn’t lift a finger for me. When the System finally manifested in my head, I was busy snapping covert photos of Declan in his mahogany study. I was reporting his every after-hours move to his grandfather, the patriarch of the Sinclair empire. I texted the old man. Grandfather Sinclair, he just finished dinner and went straight to the study. He is likely handling the Silver Coast port project. He is on a video call with the European valuation team right now. I reported everything with robotic precision. Right then, Declan’s sharp gaze shifted from his glowing monitors directly to me. He flinched slightly, then let out a long, heavy exhale. His dark eyes bored into mine, brimming with severe impatience. He always knew I was his grandfather’s little spy, which explained the constant scowl. I offered him an apologetic smile and turned to leave. That was when the static buzzed in my skull, followed by the System’s voice. “Apologies, supporting character. The female lead arrived far too late to capture the male lead’s heart. I never calculated that you would actually be on the verge of marrying him.” A sharp crackle of electricity echoed in my mind. “To ensure this world functions correctly, the core programming demands that the female lead successfully romances Declan Sinclair. I am required to purge every single memory he has of you. As compensation, your family’s assets will remain untouched. Grandfather Sinclair will not retaliate against you. Feel free to state any other demands.” 2 I nodded vigorously, like my life depended on it. The System was stunned into silence, clearly not expecting me to agree so eagerly. “Do you not feel any regret? You are literally about to get married.” Regret? Absolutely not. It had no idea that Declan would never have agreed to this arranged marriage in his right mind. I had followed Grandfather Sinclair’s ruthless instructions, slipped sleeping pills into Declan’s drink, and staged a series of highly compromising, half-naked photos of us tangled in the sheets. It was pure blackmail. He was forced to marry me. He hated me with a burning, venomous passion. The System’s intervention meant Declan got his freedom, and I finally got to breathe. What was there to regret? It was a miraculous pardon for two miserable enemies. Right after finalizing the deal with the System, my phone buzzed. It was the wedding planner, brightly asking if I preferred a garden ceremony or a private island getaway. “Either is fine,” I brushed her off. Soon, Declan would forget my face. Grandfather Sinclair would let me off the hook. I would fade into the background, a ghost of a supporting character in this sprawling world. Nobody would remember me. Nobody would speak my name. The planner sounded slightly awkward. “Mr. Sinclair explicitly said to follow your preference. The aesthetics for those two options are drastically different.” She was highly tactful. Declan would never utter those words. She clearly couldn’t reach him and was forced to consult me instead. I sighed. “The island, then.” Hanging up, I stepped out of the guest room and nearly collided with Declan in the hallway. He had just stepped out of the shower. A single white towel hung low on his hips. His damp hair was pushed back, revealing sharp, handsome features and an aura of cold detachment. He radiated the oppressive authority of a man born to rule. I gripped my phone and shrank back against the wall, trying to make myself invisible. Declan let out a dark chuckle. He raised a brow. “What? Do you need to report my shower schedule to the old man too?” He took a step closer, towering over me, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Want to take a picture right now?” His sculpted chest and abs were right in my line of sight. A pale, jagged scar rested just above his hip, moving as he breathed. The owner of that scar was glaring down at me with pure hostility. Financial magazines always painted the Sinclair heir as a paragon of gentle, refined elegance. The city’s most eligible bachelor. Why was he such a menace around me? Right. Because he hated me. “No,” I muttered softly. “I don’t report this.” Declan shot me a lethal glare. “You better not.” He walked away with a slow, measured predatory grace. The shifting muscles in his back looked like a masterclass in Renaissance sculpting. “I’m sorry,” I blurted out. He stopped dead in his tracks. He turned his head slowly. “What did you just say?” Then realization dawned on him, followed by a scoff. “Camellia, don’t you think it’s a little too late for apologies?” It really was. I had missed countless chances to apologize. I could have apologized for invading his childhood, for intentionally falling into that mud puddle, for the drugged photos, for the constant surveillance. So now, I just looked at him. “I’m sorry, Declan. And you are going to be free.” My voice was barely a whisper. I wasn’t even sure if he caught it. His jaw clenched. He stared intensely at my face, lips parting as if he wanted to argue. But then his eyes flicked to a hidden security camera tucked in the crown molding. He snapped his mouth shut and walked away without another word. 3 The very next morning, I stopped waking up early to force him into having breakfast with me. I stopped sending daily briefs to Grandfather Sinclair. Declan obviously did not care about my sudden absence. Surprisingly, Grandfather Sinclair did not call to reprimand me either. I spent my days lounging around the sprawling estate, snacking, and binge-watching television. I was just biding my time, waiting for the System’s final cue to vanish. An entertainment news segment flashed across the screen, detailing Declan’s latest romantic exploits. He always had a revolving door of tabloid rumors, mostly smoke and mirrors. But not a single article ever linked him to me. Even when we visited the ancestral estate and paparazzi caught us in the same frame, Declan would either physically block me from the lens or spend exorbitant sums to kill the photos. He treated any association with me like a plague. Ever since our engagement was forced upon him, he had kept his name out of the gossip rags. But this time was different. The woman in the headlines was the actual female lead. She was Olivia, a stunning, highly capable prodigy who had just returned from overseas and was immediately parachuted into an executive role at the Sinclair conglomerate. The wedding planner called again to confirm dress fittings and casually asked me to nail down the groom’s tuxedo style. Sure, why not. Declan had met his destined soulmate; he had zero time for this charade. The wedding was doomed anyway, so I just played along to keep up appearances. While I secretly arranged my international visa, Declan started leaving before dawn and returning long after midnight. We rarely crossed paths. Until one random Tuesday afternoon. He burst through the front doors, looking frantic. He practically tore through the mansion, hunting for something. He flung open a second-story window, spotted me walking the dog in the courtyard, and froze. He was sweating, his chest heaving as he stared down at me with wild desperation. I jumped. Did he find out I had been secretly skimming cash from his black card? I only took five thousand at a time. Would a billionaire CEO really lose his mind over a few grand? “Do you need something?” I called up, suddenly feeling very guilty. He let out a shaky breath. The frantic energy drained from his face, replaced by a deep frown. He stayed silent for a long time before speaking. “Have you seen my black onyx tie clip? Never mind. Asking you is worse than asking this fat dog.” The dog, Tank, tilted his head in confusion. I stood there utterly bewildered. I wasn’t even sure which one of us he was insulting. But at least I was safe. I really thought he was coming after me for the twenty grand missing from his account. 4 We ended up eating a painfully awkward lunch together. Maybe I was imagining things, but I could feel his gaze constantly sticking to my face. The System chimed in to reassure me. This was a normal side effect. As his memories of me dissolved, his brain was trying to fill in the blanks, causing mild confusion. As the memories vanished, the hatred vanished with them. He no longer looked at me with sheer disgust or cold distance. Instead, his eyes held a complex, murky blend of bewilderment and hesitation. Slowly but surely, he was forgetting I even existed. We went two full weeks without seeing each other. When we accidentally bumped into each other in the kitchen, he would just stare at me, his brows knitted together in deep concentration, looking like he wanted to ask a question but didn’t know the words. It was almost comical. He probably thought it was strange to have a random woman living in his house. Everything was going perfectly. The media was buzzing with news of him and Olivia. I was just waiting for the perfect moment to slip away. Then, I woke up in the dead of night to find a tall silhouette standing right beside my bed. I let out a muffled scream. It was Declan. He was standing perfectly still in the dark. He stared down at me for an eternity before finally speaking. “Oh. It is just Camellia.” Then he turned and walked out, leaving me stunned. I actually found this non-toxic, confused version of Declan slightly endearing. He wasn’t biting my head off anymore. I suppose taking away the memory really does take away the venom. I immediately contacted the System. “If you keep dragging this out, your precious male lead is going to develop schizophrenia. Change my flight to tomorrow morning.” At the crack of dawn, armed with the twenty grand I had siphoned from his accounts and a single suitcase, I headed for the airport. Tank circled my ankles whining before I walked out the door for good. Right before takeoff, the wedding planner called one last time. “Ms. Sinclair, apologies for the intrusion. The custom rings you ordered have arrived, but yesterday you also selected a ready-made pair from our showroom. Which set would you prefer for the ceremony?” She texted me two photos. The first set was clearly a bespoke masterpiece, far more exquisite than the showroom rings. I frowned at the screen. I never ordered custom rings. Declan certainly wouldn’t order them either. They must have mixed up their billionaire clients. The intercom announced that all electronic devices needed to be switched off. I didn’t have time to argue. “Just go with the second picture.” I felt terrible making this poor woman work on a wedding that would never happen. I quickly added, “If he hasn’t paid the final balance, just hold off on everything. The wedding might not even happen.” Dead silence on the other end of the line. Finally, the planner spoke. “Rest assured, we offer premium service. Mr. Sinclair already paid the entire balance in full.” I let out a dry laugh. “You definitely have the wrong file. We didn’t order custom rings.” She made a confused sound, but before she could reply, a flight attendant tapped my shoulder, gesturing to my phone. I gave an apologetic smile and ended the call. I wasn’t sure if the System orchestrated the weather, but outside the tiny window, the rain was coming down in sheets, looking determined to wash away every trace of my existence in this city. Thankfully, the flight wasn’t delayed. Goodbye, male lead. 5 Halfway across the world, Declan stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Sinclair corporate headquarters. He had just wrapped up a grueling international conference call, finally securing the elusive Silver Coast project. His perpetually tense jaw relaxed. A faint, triumphant smile touched his lips. His dark eyes caught the reflection of the city lights. He stared out at the ink-black sky with a lazy arrogance. A single drop hit the reinforced glass. Then, an overwhelming deluge. Declan’s smile froze. His expression went dangerously blank. Why did he fight so viciously for this project? Was it to prove a point to the old man? To prove he could break free from those suffocating chains and become the absolute ruler of the Sinclair empire? And then what? He becomes the patriarch. Then what? A man known for his ruthless corporate slaughter suddenly looked completely lost. Yes, it was about power, but it wasn’t just about power. Panic flared in his chest. He literally could not remember why he had spent the last three years locked in a brutal power struggle against his grandfather. His hands twitched. He started looking frantically around his pristine office. He paced the thick carpet for twenty minutes until his newly appointed assistant knocked, asking if he needed a driver to take him home. He stopped. Right. Home. There was something at home he needed to find. The assistant asked if she should accompany him. Declan shot her a cold look and declined. The tabloids were having a field day with the two of them. Even sharing an elevator resulted in leaked photos. The media loved the narrative of the playboy billionaire and his gorgeous, starlet-level assistant, but he had zero intention of touching her. He hired her for her brutal efficiency, not for a fabricated romance. He walked out alone. The storm was violent but brief. By the time his car pulled into the estate, the rain had stopped. Martha, the housekeeper, brought out his dinner. Declan chewed the Michelin-star food mechanically. Tank sat nearby, loudly crunching his kibble. The massive house felt suffocatingly quiet. Halfway through his steak, Declan looked up at Martha. “Do I normally eat alone?” 6 Martha blinked, thoroughly confused. She thought he was offering to share the meal. “I have already eaten, Mr. Sinclair.” Declan didn’t say another word. He had no idea what was missing from his brain. He just knew there was a massive, gaping hole in his reality. He stared out the dining room window at the beautiful camellia tree in the courtyard, its delicate red petals battered and scattered across the wet stones by the storm. Suddenly, he felt a hot drop of liquid slide down his cheek. Absurd. Why the hell was he crying over a rainstorm? He wiped his face. He told himself he was just burning out from the endless negotiations. But why wasn’t he celebrating the Silver Coast victory? Why did his chest feel like it was trapped in a vise? He pushed his chair back and walked over to Tank. Just as he reached out to pet the golden fur, Martha gasped. “Sir, please! Your allergies!” Declan’s hand froze mid-air. He distinctly remembered telling people he was highly allergic to dog hair. But a quiet voice in his head called him a liar. He was faking it. He faked the allergy so people would praise his boundless empathy for keeping a dog he was allergic to. No, that wasn’t right. Why go through all that trouble? Oh. It was because he wanted someone specific to worry about him. He wanted someone to pay attention to him instead of spending all their time rolling in the grass with a fat dog. Did he really fake an allergy just to compete with an animal for affection? Did he stoop that low just to make someone choose him over the dog? Declan’s head began to throb violently. He pulled his hand back. Who was that someone? Who dared to treat him like an afterthought? The pain in his skull flared hot and sharp. He decided to medicate and sleep it off. He would figure out the missing pieces tomorrow. But a blurry, indistinct silhouette kept flashing behind his eyelids. He couldn’t stay in bed. He got up to grab melatonin from the downstairs bathroom. But instead of turning toward the stairs, his body moved on autopilot. He walked down the silent corridor and pushed open the door to the guest suite. It was completely empty. Not a single personal item remained. Declan had no idea why he was standing in a room nobody used. But he walked over to the neatly made bed and stood there in the dark for a very, very long time. He was not a sentimental man. Even surviving years of Grandfather Sinclair’s psychological warfare hadn’t broken him. He never threw pity parties. But standing next to that empty bed, Declan felt his soul hollow out. He collapsed onto the stark white sheets. Out of nowhere, all the loneliness, agony, and bitter resentment in the universe crashed down on him, burying him alive.

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The arranged marriage came out of nowhere, but I nodded and agreed without a single second of hesitation. The engagement party was an intimate affair, strictly reserved for immediate family. No outsiders. No unwanted noise. Just as I picked up my champagne glass to toast my future in-laws, my older brother’s phone rang, loudly interrupting the quiet elegance of the room. He answered it, his tone dripping with casual amusement. “Hey man, it is Sherry’s engagement party today. Where the hell are you? She used to follow you around calling you her favorite big brother back in the day.” Dead silence echoed from the receiver. It took a painfully long time before I heard Rowan’s voice bleeding through the speaker. It was hoarse, fractured, and completely unrecognizable. “Who is getting engaged?” Nobody knew our secret. For five years, I had been completely devoted to him, the absolute best friend of my older brother. We had been dating in the shadows for three of those years. It was a toxic, hidden relationship, and I only found the courage to finally kill it when his adopted sister returned from overseas. 1 “So, you finally cut the cord with that mysterious boyfriend of yours?” my brother, Cole, asked over the phone. He was clearly enjoying the drama. I couldn’t really blame him. For three years, I had stubbornly refused to tell him who I was dating. He had warned me plenty of times. “A guy who refuses to walk through our front door and shake my hand is a coward. He is not going to step up for you. It is going to crash and burn, Sherry.” I was completely deaf to his advice back then. I was foolish enough to believe that raw, unwavering devotion could fix a broken man. Reality ended up slapping me right across the face. “Yeah,” I replied, keeping my voice flat. “We are done.” My blunt answer caught him off guard. The line went quiet for a moment. “Did he hurt you?” I thought I was completely numb to the situation, but that single protective question made my throat tight. I took a shaky breath and shook my head at the empty room. “No. It was just time to walk away.” “Alright. Because if he laid a finger on you, I would bury him.” Cole sighed. “Sherry, most guys out there are trash. If you are actually ready to settle down, let me find someone on our level. Someone who will actually treat you right.” “Okay,” I whispered. “Set it up. I am flying back to New York the day after tomorrow.” I had barely ended the call when the bedroom door clicked open. Rowan walked in. “Who were you talking to?” I kept my back to him, terrified he would see my red eyes. “Just a friend from college.” “Right.” He walked right past me without a second glance and headed straight for his study. We had been officially together for three years, and he had always been this freezing cold. I used to justify it. I told myself it was just his personality, that he was guarded and emotionally unavailable to everyone. Until last night. I had finished a business trip early and rushed back to our Los Angeles penthouse, hoping to surprise him. His study door was usually locked tight, but last night, it was left slightly ajar. A sliver of warm, golden light spilled onto the hardwood floor. I crept closer, raising my hand to knock, but the sight inside paralyzed me. Rowan was sitting at his heavy mahogany desk, his face twisted in a look of desperate, painful pleasure. His eyes were glued to his phone screen, his breathing ragged, his hand moving rhythmically beneath his waistband. I stood frozen in the hallway. The picture on his screen was not some random model. It was Tina. The sweet, innocent girl his family had adopted. He was so consumed by his twisted fantasy that he never even heard me stumble backward and walk out the front door. I spent the entire night sitting in a cheap hotel room, staring at the wall, putting the puzzle pieces together. I finally understood everything. His coldness over the last three years had nothing to do with his personality. His refusal to go public with our relationship had nothing to do with being afraid of Cole finding out. It was all a smokescreen. He never loved me. He just needed a convenient, disposable girlfriend to hide his repulsive obsession with his adopted sister. I chased him, and he used me as a human shield. Later that evening, Tina posted a photo on her social media. “Flying back home tomorrow! Someone better come pick me up!” 2 After hanging up with Cole, I ordered a cab back to the massive, sterile mansion I shared with Rowan. I needed to pack the last of my things. He was sitting at the marble kitchen island, eating breakfast. He glanced up as I walked in and calmly instructed the housekeeper to prepare another plate. “I didn’t know you were coming back this morning,” he muttered, not looking away from his tablet. “I didn’t tell them to make enough for two.” “It’s fine,” I nodded. He didn’t know because he never bothered to ask. He never cared where I was. Rowan’s hand froze over his coffee cup. He finally looked up from his screen, a flicker of confusion crossing his dark eyes. Normally, I would have squeezed onto the stool next to him, snatched the toast right off his plate, and joked about how he was starving his poor girlfriend. Or I would have wrapped my arms around his shoulders from behind, kissing his cheek and asking if he missed me. Rowan was a brilliant, highly observant CEO. He instantly registered the dead, empty space between us. But he didn’t push. He just nodded. “I am heading to the office. Take your time.” The housekeeper handed him his tailored suit jacket. He paused. For a split second, I thought he was waiting for me to jump up and help him put it on, just like I always did. But he just slid his arms into the sleeves himself. The heavy front door clicked shut. His footsteps faded away. “Ms. Davis, what would you like to eat?” the housekeeper asked gently. I shook my head. “Nothing, thank you. Could you bring some cardboard boxes to the bedroom? I have a lot of packing to do.” I dragged my suitcase into the master suite and started dumping my clothes and toiletries inside. Once my personal items were cleared, I walked into his sprawling walk-in closet. Over the years, I had bought him countless gifts. Silk ties, custom platinum cufflinks, designer watches, tailored shirts. He barely touched any of them. The only time they ever saw the light of day was when I practically forced him to wear them. Just like his girlfriend, my gifts were kept hidden in the dark. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and started tossing every single thing I had ever bought him into a box. It took hours. By the time I was done, I was exhausted. I sat on the edge of the mattress, catching my breath. My phone buzzed. A text from Rowan. “Sent the driver to get you. He will be there in thirty.” Short, demanding, lacking any context. He just expected me to show up wherever he wanted. He was so incredibly used to me dropping everything to please him. I let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. Perfect timing. It was a great opportunity to look him in the eye and say it was over. 3 The VIP lounge was drenched in pulsing neon lights and heavy bass. This used to be my playground. I was born into old money, spoiled rotten, and completely fearless. Back in New York, my friends called me the life of the party. Then I met Rowan at Cole’s university alumni gala. I was completely captivated by his icy, untouchable aura. I practically interrogated Cole, trying to find out if Rowan was single. Cole rolled his eyes. “With that freezing personality? Women are terrified of him.” I was thrilled. He was ice, I was fire. We were a perfect match. I started hunting him down behind my brother’s back. I even changed my college applications at the last minute, ditching New York for Los Angeles just to be near him. Cole lost his mind when he found out. He yelled at me for hours, but he loved me too much to stay mad. He eventually called Rowan and asked him to keep an eye on his little sister in the new city. I thought I was an absolute genius. I thought I had manipulated both Cole and Rowan perfectly. Looking back now, I was just a tragic, delusional clown. A waiter opened the heavy velvet door to the private room. It was packed and loud. Rowan rarely brought me around his inner circle. But the few times he did, he treated me with a distant sort of respect. I remember the very first time he introduced me. One of his friends smirked and said, “Damn, except for Tina, Rowan never brings girls around. You must be special.” Back then, I just thought of Tina as his little sister. I was stupid enough to think his cold exterior was just a shell, and that deep down, I was actually melting his heart. Now I realized he brought me around purely to maintain the facade. A zero-effort tactic to keep me insanely loyal while deflecting rumors. I froze just outside the door. Inside, someone whistled loudly. “Rowan, you keep your girl locked up tight. We never see her. But now Tina is back. Your absolute favorite little sister. We gotta know man, who is more important? The girlfriend or the sister?” I held my breath. My nails dug into my palms. Rowan took a slow sip of his bourbon. He didn’t say a word. Tina stomped her designer heel, pouting her glossed lips. “Rowan!” Rowan finally cracked a smile. He set the crystal glass down on the marble table with a sharp clink. His cold, velvet voice cut through the room. “A girlfriend is replaceable. I only have one sister. What do you think?” “Oh, damn! That is cold!” the room erupted in laughter and jeers. Tina beamed with triumph. She stood up, pointing a manicured finger at the guys around the table. “You, you, and you. Pay up. You lost the bet.” Rowan frowned slightly. “What bet?” “They bet me twenty grand each that you cared about your girlfriend more than me,” Tina smirked. Amidst a chorus of groans, the guys pulled out their phones to wire her the cash. Rowan watched them complain and let out a soft, genuine laugh. “You idiots deserve to lose.” I raised my knuckles and knocked on the door. 4 The raucous laughter died instantly. Rowan looked toward the entrance. There was an empty seat waiting right beside him. I ignored it entirely. I walked past him and took a seat in the darkest, furthest corner of the room. Rowan’s jaw clenched. “Sherry?” I offered a polite, empty smile and said nothing. Tina grabbed a shot glass and strutted over to my corner. “You must be Sherry. I am Tina. Rowan’s…” She paused dramatically, faking a moment of hesitation. “Sister,” Rowan supplied smoothly. Tina’s smile tightened with sheer annoyance. She shoved the glass toward me, her tone dripping with petty defiance. “Right. Sister. I just flew in today. Drink with me.” I didn’t need to be a genius to feel the toxic waves of hostility rolling off her. That was absolutely not how a sister looked at her brother’s girlfriend. It was the look of a territorial rival. She was in love with him too. The image of Rowan touching himself to her photo flashed in my mind. The whole situation was utterly repulsive. I kept my smile perfectly pleasant. “Welcome back. But I am not feeling well today. I will pass on the drink.” Tina’s face fell into an exaggerated pout. She looked back at Rowan. “Wow. That is incredibly disrespectful. I fly all the way across the world, this is my welcome home party, and she refuses to drink with me? Do you hate me or something?” “I said I am not feeling well.” Tina’s eyes watered instantly. “Rowan, she really doesn’t like me.” Rowan fixed me with a freezing, oppressive glare. “Sherry. Stop acting like a child. Drink it.” A bitter laugh almost escaped my lips. “Did you drag me all the way out here just to force me to take a shot?” He leaned back, his expression completely detached. “Tina wanted to meet you.” Right. Because his precious Tina wanted to look her competition in the eye. They were both using me as a prop in their sick, unspoken game of jealousy. I stood up. “Cool. She met me. Can I leave now?” My total lack of obedience was clearly pushing him over the edge. The temperature in the room plummeted. “What exactly is your problem today?” Rowan’s voice was dangerously low. I looked dead into his eyes, a mocking smile curving my lips. I know exactly what you two are doing. And I am entirely done playing your game. I turned on my heel to walk out. Tina lunged forward and grabbed my wrist, her nails digging into my skin. “I am the guest of honor tonight. I did not give you permission to leave.” I ripped my arm out of her grip and slapped her hard across the face. The sharp crack echoed through the dead silent room. “Who taught you manners?” I asked coldly. “Because clearly, your parents failed.” 5 I stormed down the dim, neon-lit hallway, completely ignoring the drunken shouts spilling from the other rooms. My chest was tight. I needed air. I shoved open the heavy club doors and took a massive, shuddering breath of the cool night air. I didn’t want to wait for an Uber, so I started walking down the quiet sidewalk to clear my head. I hadn’t gone more than two blocks when a black van slammed on its brakes right beside me. Instinct took over. I froze, my hand diving into my purse for my phone. I hit the emergency contact button. Rowan. Before the call even connected, the side door ripped open. Three men in black ski masks poured out. A rough burlap sack was shoved violently over my head. A sharp, stinging blow connected with the back of my neck, and the world went completely black. When I finally regained consciousness, the stench of rust and mold filled my lungs. My wrists and ankles were bound tight with heavy rope. I was dangling suspended in the air. “Lower her a bit,” a gruff voice echoed through the massive, empty space. The rope jerked, and I dropped a few feet. A filthy rag was crammed deep into my mouth, making it impossible to scream. I tried to stay calm. Once they took the gag out, I could negotiate. I had money. I could buy my way out of this. But before I could even formulate a plan, a massive hand cracked across my cheek. The force of the slap made my ears ring. Blood instantly flooded my mouth. The man wearing a cheap plastic mask grabbed my hair, yanking my head back. “Sorry, Ms. Davis. Strictly business. You pissed off the wrong person today.” He leaned in close. “Our boss has a message. Take these hundred slaps like a good girl, and you get to walk away breathing.” “If you fight back, or if you go to the cops, he guarantees you will spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder.” Tears of pure, agonizing terror burned my eyes. The masked man looked up at a small security camera mounted on the concrete pillar. “Sir, are we clear to begin?” A beat of static. Then a voice came through the speaker. “Yes.” My entire body went rigid. It felt like a bolt of lightning struck my spine. One syllable. Just one word, but I would recognize that deep, gravelly voice anywhere in the world. It was Rowan. The reality hit me like a freight train. He hired thugs to kidnap me. He ordered them to slap me a hundred times. He was avenging Tina. I bit down hard on the filthy gag, violent, muffled sobs tearing from my throat as I stared wildly at the camera lens. He loved her. He loved her so deeply, so psychotically, that he couldn’t stand the thought of her suffering a single moment of humiliation. But how could he do this to me? Even if he never loved me, I had given him five years of my life. I worshipped the ground he walked on. I was his best friend’s little sister! How could he be this deeply, inherently evil? I thrashed wildly against the ropes, screaming through the rag, praying he had a single shred of humanity left in his rotting soul. The speaker remained dead silent. The slaps rained down. One after another. The sharp, burning agony slowly faded into a dull, terrifying numbness. Hot blood dripped steadily from my chin onto the cold concrete floor. 6 When I opened my eyes again, the harsh fluorescent lights of the Pierce family’s private hospital blinded me. Rowan was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back perfectly straight, hands in his pockets. Hearing the rustle of the sheets, he turned around. “You’re awake,” he said, his voice completely devoid of emotion. I forced my cracked lips into a grotesque smile. “Are you disappointed I didn’t die?” Rowan’s expression didn’t even twitch. “You crossed a massive line yesterday.” “Tina just moved back. You humiliated her in front of our entire circle. How is she supposed to show her face in this city after you slapped her?” “So you decided a hundred slaps was fair compensation?!” I screamed, grabbing the glass water cup from the nightstand and hurling it at his chest. It shattered on the floor. “You care about her reputation, but what about me?!” “If you are so desperately in love with her, then go be with her! Why use this sick ‘brother-sister’ excuse to torture everyone else?!” “Sherry Davis!” He barked my name, his entire body going rigid. The calm facade cracked, replaced by a storm of dark, terrifying fury. He glared at me, his chest heaving. “Tina will only ever be my sister. Do not ever say that again.” “Calm down and stop being so dramatic.” He turned on his heel and walked toward the door. Just as his hand hit the doorknob, he stopped. Without turning back, he lowered his voice. “I will make this up to you.” “You have been begging me to go public with our relationship, haven’t you? Next month, I will fly to New York and officially meet your parents.” I stared at his back, a bitter, hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. How many times had I begged him to meet my brother? He always had a million excuses. But now that Tina was back, he was suddenly volunteering to lock us down. He was terrified. He was terrified of his own sickening desires, so he desperately needed a public commitment to me to build a cage around himself. Did he honestly think I would stay and play the warden for his incestuous little fantasy? I pulled out my phone and texted Cole. I am flying home tomorrow. 7 The ride back to the penthouse was suffocating. Rowan sat in the back of the Maybach, radiating a lethal, freezing silence. His assistant, who was driving, checked the rearview mirror a dozen times before finally working up the nerve to speak. “Mr. Pierce, if you keep blindly protecting Tina and hurting Ms. Davis like this… you are going to lose her for good.” Rowan stared out the tinted window, ignoring him. The assistant took a nervous breath and pushed harder. “Ms. Davis gave you everything. When she was in college, she was the absolute IT girl. Guys were lining up around the block just to talk to her, but she never looked at anyone but you.” “She was so wild and free back then. But she completely erased her own personality to fit into your world. You hated bright colors and tight dresses, so she threw out her entire wardrobe and only wore white for you.” “When you were working yourself to death and neglecting your health, she spent weeks tracking down holistic recipes. She stood in the kitchen for hours learning to make your favorite soups. She burned her hands so badly she had blisters for weeks.” “When you drank yourself into a bleeding ulcer trying to close that tech merger, she sat on the hospital floor and cried the entire night. But the second you woke up, she wiped her face and smiled at you like nothing happened.” The assistant choked up. Even he felt the crushing injustice of it all. He had gone to the same university. He remembered the blazing, radiant girl Sherry used to be. Seeing her crushed into a submissive, battered shadow just to appease a man who clearly preferred his adopted sister was sickening. “Shut up,” Rowan snapped, his voice dangerously low. But the assistant couldn’t stop. He looked at Rowan through the mirror with a look of genuine pity. “Boss, people have limits. Once a heart goes completely cold, you can’t warm it back up.” Rowan’s chest tightened violently. The memory of waking up in the hospital hit him like a physical blow. Sherry sitting in the chair, her eyes bloodshot and swollen, forcing a radiant, exhausted smile just for him. Another memory flashed. The first time she brought him soup in a thermos. He had caught a glimpse of the angry red burns blistered across her knuckles. He had only taken one sip before pushing it away. “Don’t cook anymore.” He said it because he didn’t want her getting hurt again. But he remembered the flash of crushing disappointment in her eyes before she plastered on a bright smile. “Guess you hate the chicken soup. It’s okay, I will learn to make chowder next time.” Then, the final image slammed into his brain. The security feed from the warehouse. Sherry suspended in the air, covered in dirt and blood, staring directly into the camera with tears streaming down her bruised face. Suddenly, Rowan couldn’t breathe. “Turn the car around,” he ordered sharply. “Back to the hospital.” The assistant’s face lit up with massive relief. He whipped the steering wheel hard, tearing back down the avenue. Just as the Maybach pulled up to the hospital entrance, Rowan’s phone lit up. It was Tina. Her voice was trembling with fake, high-pitched sobs. “Rowan, I slipped in the shower. It hurts so much, please come home.” Rowan gripped the phone, his knuckles turning white. He looked up through the windshield. He could see the warm light glowing from Sherry’s hospital room window. “Please, Rowan,” Tina whined through the speaker. Rowan closed his eyes. He took a slow, deep breath, then looked at the rearview mirror. “Drive to the family estate.” The assistant opened his mouth in shock. “But sir—” “I said drive!” Rowan roared. The assistant flinched, shifting the car into drive and pulling away from the hospital. 8 I stood by the hospital window, staring down at the street. I had been trying to figure out the logistics of my flight when I saw the sleek black Maybach pull up to the curb. My heart did a strange, painful stutter. I didn’t know why he came back. Was he here to threaten me again? To make sure I knew my place regarding Tina? Or did a miraculous shred of guilt actually bring him back to apologize? But a minute later, the Maybach abruptly pulled away from the curb and vanished into the city traffic. Whatever his reason was, it didn’t matter anymore. I let out a quiet breath and smiled. I was genuinely free. I stayed awake the entire night. I went through my phone and deleted his contact, his messages, and his email. I opened my photo gallery and permanently erased three years’ worth of pictures and videos. By the time the sun began to rise over the skyline, I walked out of the hospital doors. The weather was beautiful. The highway to LAX was completely empty. Walking away from him was infinitely easier than fighting to stay beside him. I remembered a quote I had read online once: Fate will force you to repeat the same painful lesson until you finally learn how to handle it. Walking away from the wrong person is the only way to let the right things happen. Even the universe was telling me to cut my losses. The flight was smooth. When I landed at JFK, Cole was leaning against a concrete pillar in the arrivals terminal, wearing dark aviators and waving lazily. “Finally decided to come home?” Seeing my family, breathing in the chaotic, familiar air of New York… a massive wave of emotion crashed over me. I swallowed the lump in my throat and shot him a cocky smirk. “Yeah, I came back to make sure you haven’t bankrupted the family empire yet.” Cole barked out a laugh. “Still got a razor-sharp tongue, I see.” He stepped forward and pulled me into a crushing, fiercely protective hug. “Alright, alright, I will let you have the empire. Having my little sister back is all that matters.” The tears I had been fighting back finally spilled over. I reached up and quickly wiped them against the shoulder of his jacket. “Come on,” Cole patted my back and released me. “I actually prepared a surprise for you.” “A surprise?” Cole smirked and pointed a finger over my shoulder. My stomach dropped. A terrible sense of dread washed over me. I turned around. Standing a few yards away, looking effortlessly handsome in a tailored coat, was a man who easily stood out from the rushing airport crowd. Cole slipped his hands into his pockets. “Let’s go say hi to your future husband.”

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On our third wedding anniversary, Gina stumbled in drunk. In her haze, she grabbed my wrist, mistaking me for someone else. “Dave, you finally divorced. I’ve waited so long,” she mumbled, her voice trembling with suppressed excitement. I stayed frozen, letting her hold on. “For three years, I went to your office instead of your wife. I bought you flowers. Every second was agony.” Her words slurred lower until she collapsed on the bed. I sat by her side until dawn. When she woke and saw me, relief washed over her face. “So you know. Good. I don’t have to pretend anymore.” She confessed she and Dave were now together—official as of yesterday, our anniversary. “I chased him for three years, and he finally said yes. I’m sorry, but what we have is real.” I nodded silently, opened the nightstand, and pulled out two divorce agreements. The date was blank, but the signature line was already filled in Gina’s own handwriting, dated the same day we got our marriage certificate, three years ago. 1 She snatched the papers from my hands, flipping through them twice in disbelief. “What is the meaning of this?” “Exactly what it looks like,” I replied. “When you signed this three years ago, I told you. Whenever you figured your shit out, just fill in the date.” She slammed the documents down on the nightstand. The sharp smack of paper echoed in the room. “Dave had no idea I was chasing him these past three years,” she argued. “He only agreed to be with me yesterday. I did not cheat. I never betrayed you.” I stood up to grab a glass of water. “I know,” I said. “You came home on time every night. You spent weekends here. You never missed a holiday gift. You didn’t physically cheat.” She followed me into the hall. “Then what is this? Three years? You had divorce papers waiting for me this whole time?” I set the glass down. “You were wasted last night. When I carried you to bed, you called out his name twenty-three times.” That shut her up. I walked right past her back into the bedroom, picked up the two copies of the agreement, set them neatly on the nightstand, and placed a pen right next to them. “Fill in the date yourself. I am going to work.” As I was changing my shoes by the door, she chased after me, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood. Her voice was thick and sticky. “You are just going to walk out?” I straightened up and looked back at her. “What else am I supposed to do? You confessed to him yesterday. Did you make things clear with him today? Is he waiting for you? Did you guys pick a time for your first real date?” Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. “I figured it out for you,” I said. “Today is Thursday. You guys can grab dinner on Friday, maybe catch a movie over the weekend. I will come back on Monday to pack the rest of my stuff.” When the front door clicked shut behind me, she didn’t follow. The elevator arrived quickly. I stood inside, watching the glowing red numbers tick down one by one. Lobby. The doors slid open. A delivery guy was standing right there, holding a massive bouquet of red roses, squinting at the shipping label. “Dave?” he looked up and asked me. I told him no. He stepped aside, and I walked out. The morning sun was blindingly harsh. 2 A white BMW was parked right outside the apartment gates. As I walked closer, the driver’s side window rolled down, revealing Dave’s face. He offered me a faint smile. It looked fragile, like it slipped out by accident, or maybe it was entirely calculated. “Charlie,” he called out. “Is Gina around?” I kept walking, looping around the front of his car. He called out from behind me, “She drank too much last night. I was worried about her, so I came to check.” I stopped dead in my tracks. When I turned around, he was already out of the car. He wore a crisp white button down shirt, his hair styled perfectly, his face clean and totally bare of makeup. I had seen this exact look a million times. In the photos on Gina’s phone. Standing outside her office building. “She did drink too much,” I said. “She drank at my house.” He flinched. “Charlie, please do not misunderstand…” “I am not misunderstanding anything,” I cut him off. “She got trashed last night, gripped my wrist, and screamed your name twenty-three times. She woke up this morning and told me she finally wore you down. You two are officially a couple.” A deep flush crept up his neck and face. “Charlie, I am so, so sorry. I really didn’t do it on purpose. I honestly had no idea she was married. She never told me.” I stared at him. His eyes were already red, a faint shimmer of tears caught on his eyelashes. He bit his bottom lip, looking like he had suffered the greatest injustice in the world, trying desperately to hold back his crying. I was way too familiar with this routine. “Well, now you know,” I said. “She is upstairs. Apartment 301. Go on up.” He stood frozen in place. Footsteps hurried up from behind me. Gina’s voice cut through the air. “Dave?” I glanced over my shoulder. She had run outside in her slippers. Her hair was a mess, her shirt wrinkled. When she saw Dave standing there, she hesitated for a split second before marching straight over. She stepped right in front of him, physically blocking him from me. “What are you trying to do?” she glared at me, her voice dropping to a low, threatening register. I let out a dry laugh. “What did I do?” She shielded him with her body, tucking him behind her back like she was terrified I was going to throw a punch. “He does not know anything,” she declared. “I was the one who went after him. I lied and told him I was single. If you are pissed, take it out on me. Do not mess with him.” Dave peeked out from behind her shoulder, his voice tiny. “Gina, please don’t be like this. Charlie didn’t even say anything…” I actually laughed out loud. “I haven’t even said anything yet,” I said. “But you guys are already putting on an Oscar winning performance.” Gina furrowed her brows. “Stop being so passive aggressive.” “Me? Passive aggressive?” I looked at her, then at the half of Dave’s face visible behind her. “Dave, didn’t you just apologize to me? You just claimed you had no idea she was married, and now she is saying she lied to you. So which one of you is full of shit?” A single tear slipped down Dave’s cheek. Gina glanced back at him, and when she turned to face me again, her expression was pure ice. “Enough,” she snapped. “I will sign the papers. Whatever you want, you can have it. Just do not touch him.” I stared at her. Three years. She had never looked at me like that in three years. She had never stepped in front of me to protect me from anything. “Whatever I want?” I echoed. “I don’t want a damn thing. The agreement is already blank. Fill it out yourself. Your parents put the down payment on the house, and I paid the mortgage for the last three years. Do the math and wire the equity to my account. The car is yours, keep it. I will pack my own shit and leave.” She was stunned into silence. Dave stepped out from behind her and gently tugged at her sleeve. “Gina, stop fighting. I am fine…” Gina reached back and grabbed his hand, interlacing their fingers tightly. I looked at their locked hands and suddenly felt incredibly bored by the whole spectacle. “Alright,” I said. “I will be back on Monday for my boxes. You two kids have fun.” I turned and walked toward the street. About a dozen steps later, I heard footsteps rushing up behind me. It was Dave. He jogged over, panting slightly, and grabbed my arm. “Charlie,” he whispered. “I swear to God I didn’t know she had a husband. If I knew, I never would have said yes to her. You have to believe me.” I looked down at his fingers wrapping around my forearm. “Let go.” He didn’t. “Charlie, please don’t blame her. This is all my fault.” I ripped my arm out of his grip. “Dave,” I said. “Do you know what I hate the most about you?” He stared at me, wide eyed. “It is not the fact that you like her,” I continued. “It is that every single time you show up, you pull this exact routine. You know absolutely everything, yet you act like the most innocent victim on the planet. She chased you for three years. You didn’t say yes early on, you didn’t say yes later. You specifically chose to say yes yesterday. Do you know what yesterday was?” His eyes darted away for a fraction of a second. “Our wedding anniversary.” He stayed completely silent. “All the flowers she sent you over the last three years, all the dinner dates she booked, all the bullshit excuses she made to see you. You happily took all of it. You expect me to believe you didn’t know she had a husband? You didn’t know she came straight from your place every time she went home?” More tears spilled down his cheeks. “Charlie, I really…” “Do not say my name like we are friends,” I cut him off. “I do not have a buddy like you.” I turned and walked away. This time, he didn’t follow. When I reached the bus stop, my phone buzzed. A text from Gina. “I signed the papers. They are on the shoe cabinet by the door. Let me know before you come pick up your things. I will take him out so you do not have to see him.” I stared at that sentence for a very long time. The bus rolled up. I got on and found a seat by the window. My phone buzzed again. Her again. “He suffered a lot these past three years. I will not let that happen anymore.” 3 Dave stood at the bottom of the steps outside City Hall. He had changed his outfit today, but his face still carried that pristine, untouchable innocence. When he saw me get out of the cab, he took a step back and kept his mouth shut. Gina was waiting at the top of the stairs, clutching a folder with her ID and documents. As I walked up, she gave me a blank look and didn’t move. “Let’s go inside,” I said. She turned and walked through the double doors, and I followed. Dave didn’t come in. He just stood outside like a loyal guard dog. The divorce window was separated from the marriage window by a single row of plastic chairs. We sat down across from the clerk. She was a middle aged woman wearing thick glasses. She kept her head down, flipping through our paperwork without even looking at us. “Reason for divorce?” “Irreconcilable differences,” I said. Gina turned her head to look at me. The clerk skimmed the agreement and pointed a pen at the blank sections. “Make sure the division of assets is clearly written. Leave child support blank if you don’t have kids.” I wrote down my bank routing number and handed over copies of the mortgage payment history. The clerk reviewed it and stamped the pages. The heavy metal stamp made a dull, final thud against the desk. “Alright,” she slid two dark green divorce certificates across the counter. “One for each of you. Keep them safe.” Gina didn’t move a muscle. I reached out, grabbed both booklets, flipped mine open for a quick glance, and then slid hers over to her side of the desk. “Take it.” She stared at me, her hands in her lap. I left it sitting on the counter, stood up, and walked toward the exit. Right as I reached the glass doors, she called out from behind me. “Wait.” I stopped. She hurried over and stood in front of me, her knuckles white around her divorce certificate. All the color had drained from her face. “You are just going to walk away?” “What else do you want?” I asked. “Do you want me to buy you guys a celebration dinner?” A sudden, weird smile cracked across her face. It was not the relaxed, liberated smile from yesterday morning. It was twisted. The corners of her mouth pulled up, but her eyes were completely dead. “I really regret it,” she spat. “I regret marrying you.” I studied her face. Three years. I woke up next to this face every single morning for a thousand days. When she slept, her brow would furrow. Sometimes she would roll over and reach out blindly in the dark. Whenever her hand brushed against me, she would flinch, pull back, and roll to the other side of the bed. “What did you say?” “I said I regret it.” She locked eyes with me, enunciating every single syllable. “I regretted it from day one. I spent every single day of the last three years regretting it. My biggest regret is…” I slapped her. The crack echoed loud through the lobby. The clerk at the counter snapped her head up. The people in line all turned to stare. She covered her cheek with her hand, completely paralyzed in shock. I shook out my hand. My palm was stinging. “That was for me. For wasting three years of my life.” Before she could even form a word, rapid footsteps slapped against the tile. Dave sprinted through the doors and threw himself in front of her, spreading his arms wide like a mother hen protecting her chick. “What the hell are you doing!” he yelled, his eyes welling up with tears. “How could you hit her!” I looked at him. Tears pooled in his eyes, his bottom lip quivering. He looked absolutely pathetic and utterly heroic all at once. I let out a scoff. “Why are you acting so dramatic?” He shrank back an inch, then forced himself to stand taller. “She just told you the truth, and you hit her? Do you have any idea what she went through? Every single night for the last three years, she sat in my living room for hours before going home. She told me she felt like she was suffocating in that house. She said just breathing the same air as you made her skin crawl.” “Dave,” Gina warned from behind him. “Stop talking.” He ignored her completely. “She bought you gifts, and I was the one who helped her pick them out because she didn’t know what you liked. She brought you flowers, and I was the one who had to approve them before she felt safe bringing them home to you.” “Dave!” He spun around to look at her, the tears finally falling. “My heart breaks for you,” he cried. “I cannot stand watching him bully you anymore.” Gina grabbed his arm and pulled him into her chest, wrapping her arms around him protectively. She shot me a look I had never seen on her face before. It was a chaotic mix of pure hatred, fury, heartbreak for him, and guilt. It all condensed into three simple words. “Just leave.” I stood my ground. “I was already leaving,” I said. “You were the one who told me to wait.” She flinched. Dave lifted his head from her chest. His face was still wet with tears. He looked at me, his voice dropping to a soft, pleading whisper. “Charlie, please do not be mad at her. She is just in a bad mood today.” I looked at the two of them. She was shielding him. He was leaning into her. Standing there in the lobby of City Hall, they looked like a pair of star crossed lovers who had finally conquered the world. The sunlight spilled through the glass doors, painting them in a warm, golden glow. I shoved my green booklet into my bag, turned around, and walked down the concrete steps. After a few strides, I heard her voice calling out from behind me. “I am having the locks changed tomorrow. Get your stuff out by tonight.” I didn’t look back. “I saved your routing number. The money will be wired by next week.” I still didn’t look back. Just as I reached the sidewalk, Dave yelled out. “Charlie!” I stopped and glanced over my shoulder. He jogged down the stairs, stopping a few feet away, catching his breath. “Charlie,” he said softly. “I am sorry.” I examined his face. Tears still stained his cheeks, his eyelashes were wet, the tip of his nose was red. He pressed his lips together, looking like the picture of genuine remorse. “Sorry for what?” He paused, caught off guard. “Sorry for… sorry for saying all those things inside. I didn’t mean to explode. I just felt so bad for her.” “Felt bad for what?” He froze again. “Felt bad for… her suffering these past three years…” “What exactly happened these past three years?” I asked flatly. “Did she cheat on me? No. Did she physically abuse me? No. Did she starve me? No. She simply did not love me. What is so heartbreaking about that?” His mouth opened, but no sound came out. “Dave,” I said. “If your heart really broke for her, where the hell were you for the last three years? She chased you for a thousand days. You dangled her on a hook for a thousand days, stringing her along until the exact day of her wedding anniversary to finally say yes. Tell me, are you really heartbroken for her, or do you just love the drama of being the victim?” He had absolutely nothing to say. I turned and walked away. This time, he stayed put. While I was waiting at the bus stop, my phone vibrated. A text from Gina. “The money will be wired this afternoon. I left the house keys with the property manager. Go get your stuff. Do not contact us again.” I stared at that message for a long time. The bus pulled up. I climbed aboard and took a seat by the window. My phone buzzed again. Her again. “He is not the kind of person you think he is. You misunderstood him.” I shoved the phone into my pocket. A genuine smile finally tugged at the corners of my mouth. Free. I was finally free. 4 Four cardboard boxes were stacked in the middle of my cramped new apartment. I ripped the tape off the last box and started shoving my clothes into the rickety wooden wardrobe. The landlord had provided it, but the doors wouldn’t shut properly. If I stuffed too many shirts inside, the door would just pop right back open. My phone sat on the mattress, the screen glowing. The movers had just left, leaving the small room completely silent. I sat on the cheap laminate floor, leaning against the edge of the bed. I pulled the green divorce certificate out of my bag, stared at it for a few seconds, and tossed it back inside. I grabbed my phone. The red notification dot on my Instagram app was incredibly annoying. I tapped it and scrolled past a few updates until I saw a post from Dave. It was a photo of him and Gina. They were standing in a dim, expensive looking restaurant. A cake sat on the table between them, a single candle burning brightly. Dave had his hands clasped together, smiling sweetly at the camera. The caption read: A belated anniversary. I tossed my phone face down on the bed. A few seconds later, I picked it back up. I snapped a photo of my own. The peeling white walls of the cheap apartment. The cardboard boxes stacked in the corner. My clothes scattered across the floor. I typed a short caption: Waking up from the nightmare. Post.

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1 My husband, a Drill Instructor, had just returned from a long trip. He greeted me with the same rigid discipline that defined his reputation. Now, I lay sprawled on the bed, exhausted, mindlessly scrolling through my phone. A trending post on the local community forum caught my eye. The headline felt like a physical blow: “My Boyfriend is Cheating. Going to Catch Him in the Act RIGHT NOW!” The original poster was calling for backup. “Any local girls willing to come with me and corner this trashy couple?” The comments exploded. Someone offered to bring a baseball bat to “knock some sense into him,” while another joked about bringing pruning shears for “some garden-variety justice.” A strange thrill ran through me. If I weren’t so sore, I might have gone to watch the drama unfold. Then, the poster dropped the address. Curiosity piqued, I clicked. And my world froze. The address was Windsor Heights, Building C, Apartment 1203. That was my home. … It felt like all the blood in my body went into reverse. At that exact moment, the bathroom door clicked open. Marcus stepped out, a towel slung low on his hips. The muscles of his stomach were still marked with faint red scratches from my nails, a memento from our passionate reunion. He was holding a glass of warm water, which he leaned down to offer me. “Here, sweetheart. Drink some water. Your throat must be sore.” I stared into his deep eyes, the same eyes I had been lost in for five years. Three years ago, to support his career as an instructor, I had willingly quit my job as an editor at a publishing house to become the woman behind the man—caring for his parents, managing our home, handling everything. We’d been married for five years, but his job meant we spent more time apart than together. He always said that our reunions were all the more passionate for it, like fire and lightning every time he came home. I’d always believed we were the most devoted couple in the world, despite the distance. But now, looking at the lingering tenderness in his eyes and then back at the forum post on my phone—the one with a comment saying, “I’ll help you gut the mistress”—a wave of nausea churned in my stomach. “Marcus…” I fought to keep my fingertips from trembling, my throat dry as I tested the waters. “This last training cycle… did you meet any… special female students?” His hand, which had been wiping a drop of water from my lip, paused. A flicker, almost imperceptible, crossed his eyes. “A bunch of wide-eyed freshmen? None of them compare to my wife.” He was lying. I knew it instantly. I have zero tolerance for emotional infidelity. If he had really cheated, I would rather feed our five years of marriage to the dogs. I wouldn’t stay in this marriage for one second longer. Before I could even process the thought, a violent, percussive banging erupted at our front door. BANG! BANG! BANG! It was followed by the sharp, grief-stricken cry of a young woman. “Marcus, get out here! I know that old hag is in there with you! Girls, the mistress is in here!” The color drained from Marcus’s face, leaving him white as a sheet. His reaction was instinctual. He pressed down on my shoulders as I tried to get up. “Becca, go hide in the bedroom. Lock the door and don’t come out, no matter what!” I didn’t move. I just stared at him, my eyes cold. He froze, clearly not expecting my defiance. For five years, he had grown accustomed to controlling every aspect of my life with his domineering tone. And for five years, I had never once disobeyed. “Open the door,” I said. He was stunned. “Rebecca, just listen to me!” When I still didn’t move, his voice grew heavier as he tried to persuade me again. “You won’t open it? Fine. I will.” I pushed his hand away and moved to get out of bed. But Marcus grabbed me, his grip like iron, and tried to physically shove me into the bathroom. I fought back, but the difference in our strength was too great. Just as he was about to force me inside… CRASH! The front door was kicked open from the outside. A young woman in a white dress stormed in, flanked by several people holding up their phones, live-streaming. They looked like a hunting party. The woman was the original poster, a junior from the medical program named Paige. Her eyes immediately locked onto me, struggling in Marcus’s arms. Tears streamed down her face as she pointed a trembling finger at me, her voice a piercing shriek. “There she is, everyone! That’s the old hag who seduced my boyfriend! Marcus told me he doesn’t love her at all! She’s the one who’s been clinging to him, refusing to sign the divorce papers!” The people behind her surged forward, ready to shove me. But it was Marcus’s next move that sent me plunging into the abyss. He shoved me away from him and turned, pulling the sobbing Paige into a protective embrace. Then he spun his head back to me and snarled, “Rebecca, get in the other room! You’re scaring her!” A dozen phone cameras were instantly shoved in my face. The live-stream chat was a waterfall of text, a torrent of vicious words calling me a “shameless,” “old mistress.” Looking at the absurd, nightmarish scene before me, I suddenly let out a laugh. As Marcus stared in shock, I didn’t hide as he’d wanted. Instead, I raised my hand. Two sharp, cracking sounds echoed through the apartment as I slapped both Marcus and Paige across the face. “You want me to hide? Marcus, did you forget whose name is on the deed to this house?” 2 The two slaps stunned everyone into silence. Marcus clutched his cheek, his eyes wide with disbelief. After all, in five years, I had never said a single cross word to him. He was used to me waking up at 3 a.m. to make him soup, used to me keeping every inch of our home spotless, used to me being completely obedient, a doormat. He never, ever imagined I would slap him in front of so many people. Before he could speak, Paige let out a shriek and buried her face in his chest, her sobs hysterical. “Marcus! She hit me! She’s the mistress, and she dared to hit the real girlfriend! How can anyone be so shameless?!” Her posse of friends and the live-stream viewers erupted. “You all see that? This homewrecker isn’t just clinging to Instructor Thorne; she’s gone crazy!” Another girl with curly hair stepped forward, sneering at me. “Do you have any idea how good Instructor Thorne is to our Paige? Last month, Paige cut her finger during a lab experiment, and he drove all the way from the base in the middle of the night just to be with her! And you? Do you think you even compare?” Last month? A tremor went through my body. The fifteenth of last month. I had a fever of 102.5, so high I was barely coherent. I called him seventeen times. Every single time, the line was busy. Finally, he sent a single text: [In lockdown training. Stop making a scene.] I had to hold onto the wall to make my way downstairs by myself. I spent the entire night in the emergency room with an IV in my arm. So, he wasn’t in lockdown training that night. He was comforting another woman over a paper cut. The curly-haired girl wasn’t finished twisting the knife. “And the month before that, Instructor Thorne spent his entire bonus for the last quarter to buy Paige a limited-edition handbag! That’s what you call true love! You’re just the mistress, so get the hell out!” His bonus. A metallic, coppery taste filled my throat. Those months, he had told me his pay was cut and that I needed to be more frugal with the household budget. When his father was hospitalized, I was the one who paid for the expensive nutritional supplements with the last of my own savings. And all that time, his money was being spent on this woman. The live-stream chat scrolled by in a blur. [This mistress looks pretty old. No wonder she has to seduce a younger instructor.] [How dare this parasite hit someone? Get out of their house!] [I feel so bad for Paige. You deserve so much better, sweetie!] Every comment was a blade carving into me. But Marcus didn’t react to them. Instead, he leaned close to my ear, his voice a low, urgent hiss. “Rebecca, I’m begging you. Just tell the cameras you were obsessed with me. Don’t call Paige a mistress. Once this blows over, I’ll buy you that bag you always wanted, okay? Just don’t ruin my career.” I laughed. He actually wanted me, his legal wife, to admit to being a homewrecker in front of the entire internet to protect his and that woman’s reputation? Divorce. The thought became a decision in a single, cold second. I looked down and let out another laugh, a sound so desolate it startled even me. But to the online mob, my laugh was just more fuel for their righteous fire. Suddenly, a dozen cameras were right in my face, the flashes of their phones nearly blinding me. The chat was a tidal wave of calls to “dox the mistress” and “cyberbully this parasite.” Without another glance at Marcus, I picked up my phone and dialed my lawyer. Seeing this, Paige just smirked, crossing her arms. “Calling for backup? Go ahead! Marcus is a senior instructor. He knows all the top brass at the university. What can you do? You’re just a jobless housewife with no connections.” My finger paused. She was right. A housewife with no connections. What could I do? I closed the lawyer’s number, scrolled to the very bottom of my contact list, and dialed a number I hadn’t called in five years. When the call connected, I spoke a single word that felt utterly foreign on my tongue. “Dad…” 3 The call went through. But the moment I said “Dad,” Marcus lunged, snatched the phone from my hand, and slammed it onto the floor. “Rebecca, are you insane? What dad? You don’t have a dad!” Marcus didn’t know. My father was Victor, a name that carried heavy weight in the city’s underworld. When my mother was alive, she forbade me from contacting him, saying he was a dangerous man who lived by the knife. The only time I ever saw him was at my mother’s funeral. He stood outside the hall all night, a man in a black overcoat, smoking cigarette after cigarette. As dawn broke, he pressed a business card into my hand. He only said one thing: “Kid, if you’re ever in trouble, call this number.” I’d kept that card for five years and never once used it. Back then, I thought having Marcus was enough. I never dreamed the first time I’d call my father would be because my husband was cheating on me. I looked at the shattered phone on the floor, the screen dark. I had no idea how much he had heard. “Whether I have a father or not is none of your business! Marcus, take your mistress and get the hell out of my house, now!” “Mistress!” Paige was the first to react. “Who are you calling a mistress!” She shrieked and lunged at me, her nails aimed for my face. “You bitch! You’re the damn mistress!” The crowd of students behind her swarmed forward like a pack of wolves. Someone grabbed my hair; someone else shoved my shoulders. In an instant, I was thrown against the coffee table. The back of my head slammed against the sharp corner, and my vision went black for a second. Warm blood trickled down from my temple, a shocking crimson streak against my pale skin. My phone was completely crushed underfoot, the screen dead. The live-stream chat, however, was ecstatic. [Yeah, beat her! That’s what a homewrecker deserves!] [Go get her, girls! Don’t let the parasite escape!] Only Marcus stood frozen, unmoving. His expression was one of annoyance, as if to say, if you had just behaved, this wouldn’t have happened. As I lay on the floor, my face smeared with blood, listening to the crowd viciously call me a mistress and staring into the lenses of eight different phones, I started to laugh. Everyone paused for a second. They heard me say, “I’m the mistress? Fine. Fine.” I used the coffee table to pull myself up, wiping the blood from the corner of my mouth. “Then let me show you who the real mistress is.” With that, I stumbled towards the bedroom. In front of the safe, the electronic lock clicked open. Inside, five years’ worth of bank books were stacked neatly. I hadn’t touched a cent. My fingers bypassed everything, reaching to the very bottom to pull out two crimson marriage certificates. The day we registered our marriage, five years ago, Marcus had smiled and said, “Becca, it’s you and me for life.” For life. I closed my eyes for a moment, then walked out of the bedroom. In the living room, Paige was still playing the victim for the cameras. Marcus frowned when he saw me come out empty-handed, his voice a low, impatient growl. “Rebecca, have you made enough of a scene? Apologize to my girlfriend right now and get these people out of here. Don’t make me lose my temper!” Perfect. Even now, he still thought I was the one being unreasonable. He was so certain I wouldn’t dare escalate things, so certain I couldn’t live without him. So certain that this woman—with no family, no job, and no way out—would always be his obedient little wife. I walked step by step until I was right in front of Paige. She lifted her chin in a defiant challenge, waiting for my apology. But I didn’t give her one. Instead, I took the two marriage certificates and slapped them hard across her innocent, porcelain face. SMACK! The crimson books fell open on the coffee table. “Take a good, long look! And see who the real mistress is.” The marriage certificates lay open for all the cameras, all the flashing lights, all the live-stream viewers to see. For a moment, the entire world went silent. The official embossed seal, our smiling faces in the photo, the registration date from five years ago—it was all there, crystal clear. The cameras automatically focused, blowing up every word to fill the screen. The world was quiet for three seconds. And then it exploded. [HOLY… A MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE?!] [Registered five years ago? Then who’s the real mistress???] [Wait, am I seeing this right? Marcus Thorne is married?! He told everyone he was single!] The color drained from Paige’s face, her expression shifting from red to white to a sickly green. She stumbled backward, knocking over a chair. “Impossible… This is fake! You forged it!” “Go check with the city records office,” I said, wiping the blood from my forehead. My voice was eerily calm, as if I were telling someone else’s story. “Go and check who was clinging to whom. Go and check who the shameless, pathetic homewrecker really is.” Marcus completely lost it. His reputation, his career, his halo as a senior instructor—it was all gone. He lunged wildly at the phones, trying to snatch them, but was shoved back by the stunned onlookers. He spun to face me, his eyes burning with a rabid hatred, and raised his hand high… “Rebecca! You just had to ruin me, didn’t you!” The slap came whistling down. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even close my eyes. I just stared right back at him.

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The System, dormant for years, suddenly flickered to life. In the depths of my despair, it was my only chance. It told me that, given my circumstances, it had secured a new identity for me. It also said that this broken body of mine would be handed over to an AI to manage. I had three days to complete the handover. I thought back to a short time ago, to the man I’d poured my heart and soul into for seven years—the story’s second male lead. For the sake of the so-called heroine, he had done this to me. First, he’d snapped my arms. Then, he’d driven steel nails through the soles of my feet, leaving me permanently crippled. Seven years of devotion, shattered by his own hands, reduced to nothing. 1 I’d always considered myself a person with backbone. So, when Corbin was tormenting me, I never once begged for mercy. At my most defiant, I’d even spit curses back at him. “Corbin! You’re blind and heartless! You’re nothing but Lila’s lapdog!” Before the System reappeared, I had completely given up. I figured since there was no going back, we might as well spend the rest of our lives making each other miserable. Our lives had become a twisted cycle. I would provoke him, and he would torture me. But now, the System, gone for two years, was back. It told me it had secured one last chance for me, a new mission with a new target. To avoid alerting anyone, I would be given a new identity. This battered body would be left in the care of an AI, programmed to mimic my behavior and mannerisms, ensuring the story continued uninterrupted. A laugh escaped my lips. My throat, raw from constant dehydration, produced a hoarse, muffled sound. But it was a laugh of pure joy. Right now, the most important thing was getting out of this basement. After taking five minutes to compose myself, I dragged my mutilated legs across the floor, crawling toward the door. Biting my chapped lips, I forced the words out. “Corbin, let’s make up. I swear, I… I won’t act out anymore… I’m willing to apologize to Lila, too…” Silence from the other side of the surveillance camera. The silence stretched on for so long I thought his men had given up on me, not even bothering to pass on the message. Then, a soft creak. The door swung open. 2 Corbin came home the next day. I was lying in the guest room bed, discussing my new target with the System. He entered wearing a dark overcoat, bringing the winter chill in with him. In his hand, he clutched a small, exquisite box. When he caught my eye, he instinctively tucked it into his coat pocket. I scoffed internally. What’s the point in hiding it? The internet was buzzing with news of Lila’s upcoming birthday and how the CEO of Blackwood Corporation had commissioned a priceless piece of custom jewelry. He’d been abroad for two weeks, no doubt personally overseeing the creation of this gift. It was laughable, really. I’d pulled him out of the gutter, stood by his side as he fought his way from having enemies on every corner to standing at the top of the world. And I had never once received a gift he’d made with his own hands. But Lila just had to show up at the right time, whisper a few words about their childhood connection, and all of his principles would crumble. If I had known, I never would have chosen him as my target in the first place. At least without my help, it would have taken him a few more years to succeed. For the past two years, the rift between us had grown into a chasm. His first suspicion was that this was another one of my tricks. He stood by the bed for a while, studying my face, searching for any hint of deceit. Once he was convinced I had let go of my animosity, he approached and lifted me from the bed. “Go sleep in our room.” His voice was cool but tinged with a softness, as if the cruelty of the past had never happened. The thought of that master bedroom, the one he had redecorated, made my stomach turn. I flinched involuntarily but forced myself to endure it for the sake of the plan. I even managed to snuggle my head into his chest. Corbin paused for a fraction of a second, then let out a soft sigh. “It’s good that you see your mistake. You’re not the spoiled heiress you used to be. Stop being so proud. Lila has a soft heart. If you apologize sincerely, she’ll forgive you. If you have to, kneel for her at the party. In front of all those people, she’ll have to accept.” 3 Two years ago, just as Corbin and I were preparing to get married, the heroine, Lila, appeared. It was the year she finally resolved to escape her abusive adoptive parents and change her fate. It was also the beginning of my nightmare. Because she had once snuck him a bowl of porridge when they were children in the same orphanage, Corbin welcomed her with open arms. But as someone with the System, I knew this wasn’t about repaying a kindness. It was the joy of recovering a long-lost first love, of finally having the chance to cherish her. At first, I didn’t mind. I believed the Corbin I knew was no longer the same character from the book. He had me now. He wouldn’t get dragged into the heroine’s dramatic love life, fighting the male lead and ending up in ruins. I even helped him take care of Lila. I brought her to events and parties, setting the stage for her to meet the story’s main male lead. But I had underestimated the power of the first love. Especially after the male lead appeared, Corbin became possessive and volatile in a way I had never seen before. He went to insane lengths to show Lila how much he cared. The most extreme example: someone said a few harsh words to Lila, and Corbin, right in front of me, had the person’s tongue cut out. Blood splattered everywhere. For weeks after, I was plagued by nightmares. I’d dream of a figure with a lolling tongue, laughing a high, sharp laugh. During those times, Corbin would hold me tight, whispering soothingly, telling me not to be afraid. He said he wouldn’t do it again. He promised. He wouldn’t hurt anyone for Lila’s sake again. Instead, he just started hurting me. 4 Life was peaceful for a while after that. I took up the piano, using music to soothe my frayed nerves. When I was feeling particularly good, I’d even enter amateur competitions. Lila expressed an interest, so I taught her and we signed up for a competition together. I made it to the finals. Lila, lacking practice, didn’t make it past the preliminary round. I comforted her, told her not to be sad, that we could try again next year. I took her shopping to cheer her up. I didn’t realize that when I tried on a pair of high heels and casually mentioned to the sales clerk that I planned to wear them for the piano finals, Lila would burst into tears. Everyone rushed to her side, but she just clammed up and cried harder. It wasn’t until Corbin arrived that she finally spoke. “The shoes look so beautiful on Aria. I’m not worthy. I’m not worthy of beautiful clothes or shoes, or of playing in piano competitions. Everyone was right, my being here is just a joke. I never should have come looking for you, Corbin!” Corbin’s eyes went cold. “What did you say to her?” My explanations were drowned out by Lila’s sobs. Corbin wouldn’t listen. I begged Lila to explain, to tell him the whole story, to tell him who this “everyone” was, to explain that we had all been nothing but kind to her. But she just bit her lip, a look of profound humiliation on her face, and cried in silence. That night, Corbin ordered his men to torture me. He had my finger bones broken. He drove steel nails through the soles of my feet. He made it so I could never play the piano again. So I could never wear beautiful high heels again. All to soothe Lila’s “wounded” heart. “It was just a small punishment,” he told me later. “But Lila was so upset she cried!” 5 “You were so lucky to have me. Why did you have to bully her?” That was the day the System abandoned me. For a long time, I couldn’t walk. My hands couldn’t even hold chopsticks. I had to drink through a straw, completely dependent on the staff for my daily needs. Being crippled and failing my mission made me even more volatile than Corbin. He would have fleeting moments of regret and pity, but they were always followed by the same stern question: “Have you learned your lesson?” What lesson was there to learn? I couldn’t figure it out, so I just spit in his face. Lila visited me once, asking how I’d ended up like this, wondering if it was her fault. I didn’t say anything, which only made her start crying again, promising she’d try to talk to her “dear Corbin.” Of course, when Corbin walked in, she didn’t say a word. That was the first time I began to question the heroine’s supposed innocence. And my own role in all this. Had my presence somehow corrupted her? Had my interference prevented the pure, innocent girl who had suffered so much from blooming? I gave up. I let Corbin punish me as he pleased. When the heroine cried, the whole world lost. His goal was to make everyone else miserable to compensate for the injustices she had suffered, to make them a dark backdrop for her bright future. I couldn’t stop it. But I could still provoke him. “This is boring, Corbin. So boring. If you love her, just go after her. Make it official before someone else snatches her up and you come crying back to me. Don’t worry, I can be the other woman. Wouldn’t that be fun?” His face would turn to stone. “What nonsense are you talking about? I only see Lila as a sister!” After that, whenever I provoked him, he would lock me in the basement to “reflect.” At first, it was for a few hours. Then a few days. Then for weeks at a time. The place, once a wine cellar, became a filthy, stinking pit. Six months later, Lila suddenly agreed to a contract marriage with the male lead, Rex. Corbin, acting as her “big brother,” threw her a lavish wedding. But secretly, he had our master bedroom remodeled to look exactly like their bridal suite. Oh, and his phone’s wallpaper? It’s a picture of the happy couple on their wedding day. The whole thing was so absurd I wanted to burst into song. 6 The handover was set for the third day, Lila’s birthday. The night before, not wanting to speak to him, I turned my back to Corbin and pretended to be asleep. For some reason, he came to bed early too, pulling me into his arms. His breath was warm on my ear, his voice so soft it was almost a hallucination. “Aria, after tomorrow, we’ll be together forever. We just have to get through tomorrow…” I nodded vehemently in my mind. Sure. You and the AI are both inhuman in your own way. You’ll probably get along great. Lila’s birthday party was held at the most luxurious hotel in the city. It was crowded and chaotic, the perfect cover for the handover. I entered the ballroom in my wheelchair. Through the gaps in the crowd, I could see Lila, dressed like a princess, standing before a towering six-tiered cake, surrounded by admirers, her smile radiant. Of course. The heroine’s halo, always allowing her to rise above it all. By now, her dark past with her adoptive parents had been taken care of by Rex and Corbin. Her new in-laws, aware of her powerful “brother,” treated her with the utmost respect. Once the absentee male lead finished his groveling win-her-back storyline, her life would be perfect. And me? I was just a joke from beginning to end. 7 According to the plan, while Corbin was helping Lila cut the cake, I pretended to ask about the food and completed the handover with the AI, who was disguised as a waiter. I thought the process would be long, painful. It wasn’t. A brief moment of vertigo, and then I was in a new body. The pain was less than a thousandth of what Corbin had inflicted on me. The highly-trained AI had already mastered my expressions and was now looking towards Corbin. I, holding a tray of food, carefully took my first steps away from the ballroom, my legs unsteady but blessedly whole. The walk to the exit felt like a journey through another lifetime. At the door, I couldn’t resist one last look back. Just then, the crowd parted. And I saw Corbin leading “Aria” to Lila and forcing her to her knees. Because of the injuries to her limbs, it looked less like kneeling and more like a humiliating prostration. Corbin pressed the back of her head down, forcing it to touch the floor again and again. He was smiling, a hollow, performative smile. I couldn’t hear his words, but I could make out Lila’s feigned surprise and the shocked gasps of the crowd. A hand squeezed my heart, stealing my breath for a moment. The “Aria” AI was incredibly advanced. The face I had worn for seven years twisted into an expression of groveling submission, identical to the one I had worn in the basement three days ago. It was pathetic enough to fool everyone. But only I knew the difference. Her submission was seamless, absolute. Mine had always been a mask for my struggle, my defiance. I had considered it before, a life of submission. If I just gave in, if I just played the part, would things have been easier? But every time I wavered, a voice screamed from inside me—It’s useless! You’ll just become his toy! He didn’t love me. But I couldn’t give up on myself. Corbin’s expression was solemn, earnest, even relieved. I wanted to laugh. He knew exactly what this would mean to me, and he did it anyway. Or rather, he did it because he knew. It was disgusting. 8 When I first found Corbin, he had just left his life as a street tough. He was broke, desperate, and being hunted by old enemies. At the time, my own wealthy family had cast me out. I had no choice but to take him with me, moving from one hiding place to another. One night, they broke in. In the chaos, Corbin threw himself in front of me, taking a knife to the gut. Through gritted teeth, he whispered a reassurance, then half-carried me as we fled. The car broke down, and he finally collapsed from blood loss. I watched his blood mix with the rain, washing over the asphalt of that deserted road. As his body grew cold, my heart sank with it. I held him and cried. “Corbin, hold on! You’re going to be okay, we’re both going to be okay! What will I do without you?” Before, my concern for him was only about the mission. I had been careless with him, treating him with a certain detachment. He was the second male lead; he was supposed to love the heroine. I just had to play my part, earn some affection points, and never, ever give him my real heart. But that night, the image of him shielding me without a second thought replayed in my mind. My perspective shifted completely. He was a man of few words, but he had always been good to me. I had, without realizing it, come to depend on him. And he depended on me, right? He wouldn’t have risked his life for me if he didn’t feel something. That was the most terrified I had ever been. It was also the first time I truly understood my own feelings. I knelt in the middle of the road, bowing my head to the pavement, begging for a kind driver to stop. I was sideswiped by cars, cursed at, shoved, soaked in muddy water. Somehow, against all odds, we were saved. To pay for his medical bills, I had to go to my stepsister, the one who had always tormented me. She made me kneel, then used the tip of her shoe to force my chin up. “Well, well, Aria. You’re not so tough now, are you?” She threw a piece of cake on the floor and ground it into the carpet with her heel, just as she was grinding my dignity into the dirt. “Lick it clean, and I’ll give you the money.” When Corbin woke up and found out, he was heartbroken. He kissed the scars on my knees and my forehead. The man who hadn’t made a sound when he was stabbed had tears in his eyes for the first time. “Never again,” he swore. “I will never let anyone bully you again.” That was the moment I started to fall for him. Now, a new path lies before me. When I look back, the road I came from has vanished. 9 For some reason, as if sensing something, Corbin suddenly looked in my direction. Across the crowded room, his eyes locked on me for a fraction of a second. My heart seized. I tore my gaze away and ran. I never expected that as I stumbled down the stairs, I would run right into my new target. He was running toward me, catching me just as I was about to fall. Under the warm glow of the streetlights, his eyes shimmered like distant stars. Even his fingertips were trembling. I looked up. The starlight in his eyes spilled over, tracing a silver path down his cheeks. His voice was deep and hoarse, shaking slightly. “Where did you run off to?” 10 My new target’s name was Noah. He said he was here to take me home. But once we were in the car, he couldn’t hold back his emotions any longer. He covered his face with one hand, holding mine with the other, and began to sob quietly. His grip wasn’t tight, but I couldn’t pull away. I sat in the passenger seat, completely bewildered. I racked my brain, desperately trying to find any memory of a connection between this body and Noah. They were childhood friends, reunited after a long separation. But they had only seen each other a few days ago, after seven long years. Yesterday, I asked the System what his initial affection level was. It was vague. “Don’t worry,” it said, “he’s easy to win over.” Was he? That’s what it had said about Corbin, too. And I’d spent seven years stuck at ninety-nine percent. 11 Noah eventually composed himself and drove me home. At the door, he suddenly stopped me. “Wait here a second.” I stood in the hallway and watched him rush inside. He went from room to room, turning on every single light—the living room, the bedroom, even the bathroom. Only then did he come back to me, smiling. “It’s not dark anymore. Don’t be afraid.” I looked down at his outstretched hand. It was pale and slender, but covered in calluses and fine lines that didn’t match his age. A still pool deep inside me rippled. My nose stung with an unfamiliar sorrow. In a blur, his image overlapped with that of a young boy from a memory that wasn’t mine. On a rain-soaked street, a boy stood in knee-deep water, his pants rolled up. He held out his hand, just like this, and said, “Don’t be afraid, Zoe. I’ll carry you.” Zoe? Who was Zoe? I tapped my head. I didn’t know. I couldn’t remember. After I was brought to this world, the dimensional interference had wiped many of my memories. I had begged the System to help me recover them, but they were just fragments, impossible to piece together. “That’s because your life was always in fragments,” the System had told me, its tone laced with pity. Abandoned by my parents, alone in the world, dead before my time. My only way out was to complete the missions and be reborn. So, how could someone born in darkness be afraid of the dark? Besides, for years, I was either on the run with Corbin in the dead of night or locked away in his pitch-black basement. Even if I had been afraid, I had long since gotten used to it. Noah stood a step away, his eyes fixed on mine. He saw the confusion on my face, and a flicker of pain crossed his. It felt like he was always looking through me, searching for someone else. In this unfamiliar body, I felt like an impostor. I thought about changing the subject, but then I remembered my mission. I couldn’t be timid. I couldn’t spend another seven years waiting for a dead end. I looked back at him. Unlike Corbin’s naturally aloof, world-weary face, Noah’s was gentle and kind. His soulful, melancholic eyes were so expressive that for a moment, I wanted to cry with him. A few strands of silver in his dark hair caught the light. I frowned. Almost unconsciously, the words slipped out. “Noah, why do you look so much older?” In his eyes, a light flared brightly, only to be extinguished in the next instant. I froze. Those weren’t my words… They couldn’t have been. I had never met him before. How could I know how much he had changed? I didn’t understand. I tried to call the System, but there was no response. It had been silent ever since Noah appeared. A knot of anxiety tightened in my chest. Had I just escaped one trap only to fall into another? Noah’s lips curved into a smile, but his eyes drooped at the corners. For a second, I thought he was going to cry again. He looked at me, a deep, searching gaze. He placed his large, warm hand on my head and said something I didn’t understand. “They said you have to remember on your own. I’ll wait for you…” “Remember what?” “Remember—” He stopped abruptly, pressing his lips together and shaking his head. His smile withered like an autumn flower under the harsh light.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “406264”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When Detective Morgan Gallagher knocked on my door for the second time, his face wore an expression I could not quite read. He asked me if my cat had said anything else. Three days ago, his squad had hauled a body out of the apartment right across the hall. And the catalyst for this entire nightmare began when the stray cat I took in suddenly started talking. At first, I thought I was losing my mind. That was until he told me the man across the hall smelled like blood. I called 911 immediately, and Morgan was the one who showed up. The way he looked at me back then was the exact same way you would look at a psychiatric patient. “You’re telling me your cat gave you a tip?” he asked, his brow furrowed so deep it cast a shadow over his eyes. I nodded vigorously. He did not say another word. He just turned on his heel and walked away. 1 I found the cat three months ago. He was a scruffy orange tabby, crouching by the dumpsters behind my apartment building. He was so starved you could count every single rib pressing against his matted fur. I crouched down, and he instantly shoved his little head into the palm of my hand. It was pouring rain that afternoon. I zipped him inside my winter coat and brought him home. I named him Biscuit. Once I scrubbed the street grime off him, his fur fluffed up into this warm, golden toasted color. Biscuit was a good roommate. He did not scratch the furniture, he rarely meowed, and once his belly was full, he would just sprawl out on the windowsill and soak up the sun. He only had one weird quirk. He was obsessed with staring at the apartment across the hall. Room 6B. A guy in his early thirties lived there. His last name was Finch. He had moved in less than two months ago and practically never left his place. I brushed it off. Cats stare at walls half the time anyway, so watching the hallway did not seem like a red flag. Until that night. At two in the morning, Biscuit launched himself onto my bed and started howling. It was not a normal meow. It was this low, guttural wail scraping out of his throat, like a siren warning of imminent danger. I blinked the sleep out of my eyes and reached out to pet him. The absolute second my fingertips brushed the fur on his head, a voice exploded directly inside my brain. “The man across the hall. He reeks of blood.” I shot up in bed. The room was empty. Just me and Biscuit. That voice did not come through my ears. It bypassed my eardrums entirely and planted itself right into my consciousness. Like someone had downloaded a sentence straight into my skull. Biscuit sat squarely on my pillow, his round amber eyes locked onto mine. I stared back at him. He opened his mouth and let out another meow. The voice echoed in my head again. “He dragged something heavy inside. I can smell it. It is blood.” A cold sweat broke out across my spine, pasting my pajama shirt to my skin. I was definitely dreaming. I had to be asleep. I rolled over and yanked the comforter over my head. Biscuit dug his claws into the blanket, pulling at it while continuing to yowl. “Do you not believe me? The copper smell is real. It is thick.” The voice was stubborn. Unyielding. I threw the blanket off, took three deep breaths, and grabbed my phone. I stared at the screen for ten agonizing minutes. Then I dialed 911. The dispatcher asked the nature of my emergency. “I think there is something wrong at my neighbor’s apartment,” I whispered. “There might be… there might be blood.” “How did you come by this information, ma’am?” I opened my mouth, struggling to form the words. “My cat told me.” Dead silence on the line for three solid seconds. “Ma’am, tying up emergency lines with prank calls is a federal offense.” “I am not pranking you! I swear it is the truth.” The dispatcher’s tone flattened into pure bureaucratic apathy. “Understood. We will make a note of it and send a patrol car to check the vicinity.” The moment she hung up, I knew nobody was coming. Biscuit curled up on my lap, his tail flicking back and forth in agitated thumps. “You called them? Are they not coming?” I looked down at the orange furball, absolutely convinced my grip on reality was gone. I was having a conversation with a feline. The next morning, I left for work. I stepped into the elevator and froze. Finch was already inside. He wore a dark gray hoodie pulled up over a baseball cap, a black surgical mask covering the lower half of his face, and he was gripping two heavy-duty black trash bags. I instinctively took a half-step back. He hit the button for the basement parking garage. Right as the metal doors slid shut, a sharp, chemical scent hit the back of my throat. Industrial bleach. I sat at my desk all morning, my stomach tied in a knot. During my lunch break, I scoured the local news portals. No missing persons. No grisly discoveries. Maybe I really was just losing my mind. When I got home, Biscuit was perched on his usual spot on the windowsill. I dropped my tote bag and walked over. He turned his head to look at me. “He took out the trash twice today. Both times in the dead of night.” My heart skipped a beat. At eleven o’clock that night, some morbid curiosity pulled me out onto my balcony. The windows of 6B were covered by heavy blackout curtains, but a tiny sliver of sickly yellow light bled through the edge. Then I heard Finch’s front door click open. He stepped out, dragging a massive black contractor bag, his head swiveling left and right before he ducked into the stairwell. He avoided the elevator. He took the stairs. Biscuit hopped onto the balcony railing, his ears pinned straight up. “Do you see it? It is that bag again. The stench is awful.” I pulled out my phone and dialed the police again. This time, they actually showed up. Two uniformed patrolmen arrived, flanked by a plainclothes detective. The detective looked about twenty-eight. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp, rigid features and a permanent scowl, like the world was a massive inconvenience to him. He swept his gaze over my living room before locking eyes with Biscuit on the windowsill. “You the one who called it in?” “Yes.” “Walk me through it.” I scrambled to find words that would not get me committed to a ward. “I noticed my neighbor acting highly suspicious. He takes out massive bags of trash at odd hours, and the hallway constantly smells like chemical cleaners.” He nodded slowly, jotting something down in a battered leather notebook. “What else?” “And…” I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper. “My cat is having a severe reaction to that apartment. He will not stop yowling at the door.” The detective stopped writing. He looked up, his expression a masterpiece of judgment. “So the foundation of your police report is a meowing cat?” One of the patrol officers behind him coughed, desperately trying to hide a smirk. My face burned hot enough to fry an egg. “No, I just mean if you look at the whole picture…” “Alright, that is enough.” He snapped the notebook shut. “We will go knock on the door.” Twenty minutes later, he was back in my doorway. “We knocked. No answer. The super says the guy is a recluse, rarely leaves the building. Nothing inherently illegal about being anti-social.” He stared down at me, his voice strictly business. “Unless you have concrete evidence, I highly suggest you stop dialing emergency services.” He turned to leave. “Wait,” I called out. “What is your name?” “Major Crimes Unit. Morgan Gallagher.” He did not even look back as he walked toward the elevator. Biscuit jumped down from the sill and wove around my ankles. “He thinks you are lying.” “I know.” “But I am not lying to you. The smell on that man is getting worse.” 2 I did not call the cops for the next two days. But Biscuit’s behavior spiraled. He abandoned the windowsill completely. Instead, he spent his days flattened underneath the living room sofa, only occasionally poking his head out to stare unblinking at the front door. On the third night, I was in the kitchen heating up a mug of milk. Biscuit suddenly shot out from under the couch and slammed headfirst into my shin. “He is moving something! A huge case! Taking it to his car!” I slammed the mug onto the counter and sprinted to the balcony. Down in the dimly lit parking lot, Finch was shoving a massive, hard-shell suitcase into the back of a dark-colored cargo van. The suitcase looked incredibly heavy. He had to brace his boots against the bumper to muscle it inside. I yanked out my phone and snapped a rapid-fire burst of photos. The zoom was terrible. It was six floors down in the dark, and the pixels were a blurry mess. Finch slammed the doors shut, started the engine, and peeled out of the complex. It was 1:40 AM. I saved the photos to a secure folder and looked down at Biscuit. He was sitting on the balcony threshold, every single hair on his body puffed up like a bottle brush. “There is something inside that case. Something bad.” “What is it?” Biscuit went dead silent for a long moment. “Something that smells exactly like the blood.” I did not call the precinct this time. The next morning was Saturday. I called out sick from work. By ten o’clock, I was sitting in the waiting room of the local veterinary clinic with Biscuit in a carrier. I was not there for a checkup. I needed to test a theory. A hyperactive Poodle was barking its head off in the seat next to me. I casually reached over and rested my hand on the dog’s curly head. Nothing. No voice. No downloaded thoughts. Just a dog barking. It was only Biscuit. He was the only one I could hear. The vet called our name, and I carried Biscuit into the exam room. The doctor did a routine check and declared him perfectly healthy. I hesitated before asking, “Can cats really smell things from incredibly far away?” The vet pushed his glasses up his nose. “A feline’s olfactory senses are roughly fourteen times stronger than a human’s. They pick up on microscopic scent variations. Theoretically, anything a K-9 unit can track, a cat could too. They just absolutely refuse to take orders.” I thanked him, paid the bill, and carried Biscuit home. Right at the entrance of my building, I bumped into Brenda, the property manager. “Hey, Sophie!” Brenda jogged over, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You notice anything weird going on with that Finch guy across from you?” My stomach dropped. “Like what?” “Some guy came looking for him yesterday. Did not look like a friend, if you catch my drift. Real shady. Kept asking me if the hallway security cameras were broken.” “Are they?” Brenda sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “The camera on the sixth floor fried two months ago. Put in a work order, but corporate is dragging their feet.” Two months ago. Exactly when Finch moved in. I rushed upstairs, booted up my laptop, and compiled everything. The late-night trash runs, the blurry photos of the van, the “broken” cameras. I typed it all into an anonymous tip and fired it off to the city police department’s cyber portal. I did not mention the cat. I stuck to the hard facts. When I hit send, I leaned back in my chair, staring blankly at the screen. Biscuit hopped onto the desk and tilted his head. “You did the right thing.” “But what if they just ignore it again?” Biscuit started grooming his paw. “Then we figure out another way.” Sometimes I forgot this street cat had a better head on his shoulders than most people I knew. At three in the afternoon, heavy knocks rattled my front door. I checked the peephole and opened it. Morgan was standing there. He was not in his suit today. He wore a lightweight black tactical jacket over a dark henley. He looked less like a cop on duty and more like a guy who had just rolled out of bed to deal with a problem. “You again?” I leaned against the doorframe. His expression was a complicated mix of irritation and awkwardness. “You sent an anonymous tip to the city portal?” “I did.” “It got routed straight back to my desk.” I let out a dry laugh. “Full circle, huh?” He ignored the jab and pulled out his phone. “You mentioned photos.” I unlocked my phone and handed it to him. The blurry parking lot. The dark van. The heavy suitcase. He zoomed in, his eyes narrowing, tracing the pixels for a long time. The irritation bled out of his face, replaced by a razor-sharp focus. “These plates…” he muttered under his breath, then snapped his gaze to me. “When exactly did you take this?” “Yesterday. Around 1:40 AM.” He whipped out his own phone, stepped back into the hallway, and dialed a number. He spoke in rapid, hushed tones, barking out codes I could not understand. When he hung up and stepped back inside, the air around him had shifted. It was heavy. “Do not engage with the man across the hall. No eye contact, no casual chatting. Nothing.” “Why?” “Because that van’s license plate just flagged a match in an active missing persons case.” My lungs forgot how to pull in air. Biscuit poked his head around my ankles and let out a soft meow at Morgan. Morgan looked down at the orange tabby. Biscuit’s voice echoed in my head. “The look in his eyes changed. He believes you now.” 3 The day after Morgan’s visit, Room 6B was raided. Bright and early, three unmarked cruisers boxed in the front entrance. Through the peephole, I watched a team of uniformed officers swarm the stairwell, heavy boots echoing off the concrete. Biscuit sat on the shoe rack by the door, his ears swiveling like radar dishes. “They are breaking the lock. The man is not inside.” Thirty minutes later, someone knocked on my door. It was a female detective in plainclothes. She introduced herself as Sarah. She asked if I had heard any muffled noises, any fighting, or seen anyone else entering the apartment. I gave her everything I had. She took down my statement, and right before leaving, she offered a tight smile. “That anonymous email you sent gave us a massive head start. Good work.” “Did you find something?” She gave the standard cop answer. “Just keep your doors locked,” and walked away. By the afternoon, the complex was buzzing. The HOA group chat was absolute chaos. Brenda was dropping voice notes every five minutes. “Oh my god, you guys, the cops pulled evidence bags out of 6B! That Finch guy is in deep trouble.” I put my phone on silent. At eight o’clock that night, Morgan returned. This time he brought a partner. A younger guy with a friendly, round face who introduced himself as Toby. Toby seemed infinitely more approachable than his boss. The second Toby stepped into the apartment, he zeroed in on Biscuit. “Woah, look at this absolute unit of an orange boy!” Biscuit whipped his tail in blatant disgust. His voice popped into my head. “His hands reek of sour cream and onion chips. Do not let him touch my fur.” I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Morgan took a seat on the sofa, flipping open a manila folder. “Sophie, we need a formalized, on-the-record statement.” “What actually happened over there?” He hesitated, his jaw tight. “We recovered material evidence. Finch is now the prime suspect in an open disappearance.” A disappearance. The tips of my fingers went ice cold. Biscuit jumped onto the coffee table, got right up in Morgan’s personal space, and stared unblinking into his eyes. “His heart is beating very fast,” Biscuit noted in my mind. “He is anxious.” I studied Morgan. His face was a mask of professional stone, but the knuckles gripping his pen were bone-white. The interview took nearly an hour. I walked them through the timeline: the bleach smell, the trash bags, the suitcase, the photos. The only thing I buried was the telepathic cat. Toby finished typing up the notes, then pulled Morgan toward the entryway, whispering furiously. I caught fragments. “Timeline matches… highway cameras… still missing the smoking gun.” Morgan walked toward the front door, grabbed the handle, and then stopped. He turned back to face me. “You live alone?” “Yes.” “The suspect is still at large. We are hunting him down as we speak.” His voice was flat, but there was a crack in his armor—a flash of genuine concern in his dark eyes. “Double-check your deadbolt tonight. Anything feels off, you call my cell directly.” He pulled a matte black business card from his pocket and pressed it into my hand. Toby shot Morgan a highly suggestive side-eye, which Morgan immediately shut down with a lethal glare. Once the door clicked shut, Biscuit sat on the mat, his tail swishing in slow, lazy arcs. “He is worried about you.” “He is worried about his case going sideways.” “Not the same thing.” Biscuit tilted his head. “Cops who only care about the case do not give out their personal cell numbers.” I shoved the card into the junk drawer and refused to entertain the cat’s romantic delusions. After a hot shower, I lay in bed scrolling through social media. The news had not broken it yet. But on a hyper-local neighborhood forum, someone had posted a thread: Police Raid at Pinecrest Apartments Linked to Six-Month-Old Cold Case? The comment section was already a dumpster fire of theories. Murder. Cartels. Cults. Someone even tagged Brenda asking for details. I closed the app and tossed the phone onto the nightstand. Biscuit crawled up the mattress and squeezed under my duvet, leaving only his little orange face exposed. “Are you scared?” he asked. “A little.” “I am here.” I reached out and rubbed the soft spot between his ears. Having a fourteen-pound rescue cat promise to protect you from a suspected killer was not exactly a tactical advantage. But hearing him say it made the knot in my chest loosen just a fraction. At 3:00 AM, Biscuit bolted upright. His ears swiveled, locking directly onto the bedroom door that led out to the living room, toward the front entrance. “Someone is outside.” My blood froze. I stopped breathing, straining my ears into the dead silence of the apartment. A faint, muffled scuffing sound echoed from the hallway. Footsteps. And they had stopped right outside my front door. Biscuit’s fur stood on end, his body arching into a rigid curve of pure hostility. “It is him.” “Who?” “The man. Finch. He came back.” Pure ice injected straight into my veins. Finch was on the run. And he was standing inches away from where I slept. I fumbled blindly for my phone in the dark, my hands shaking so violently I dropped it twice before bypassing the lock screen. I pulled up the contacts, found the number from the black card, and hit call. It rang twice. “Sophie?” Morgan’s voice was gravelly, thick with sleep, but it shifted instantly into high-alert clarity. “There is someone outside my door.” I breathed the words out, my voice barely a wisp of sound. “I hear footsteps. Right outside.” A fraction of a second of silence on the line. “Do not turn on the lights. Do not make a sound. I am on my way.” The line went dead. The scuffing outside continued. It was not the sound of someone walking away. It was the subtle shifting of weight, the squeak of rubber soles grinding against the hallway tile as someone leaned against the doorframe. Biscuit hopped silently off the bed and crept into the living room, pressing his wet nose directly against the crack under the front door. “He is smelling the air,” Biscuit reported. “He is looking under the doorframe to see if your lights are on.” The apartment was pitch black. The only light was the faint glow of my phone screen, which I immediately smothered under my pillow. Then, a metallic scratch. It was agonizingly quiet. The sound of hardened steel sliding into the brass cylinder of my lock. He was testing it. Slow. Methodical. Trying not to wake the neighbors. My heart battered against my ribs so hard I thought it would crack them. Biscuit shot a glance back at the bedroom. “He is feeling out the pins. Your deadbolt is cheap. It will not hold.” I knew that. It was a standard contractor-grade lock. Anyone with a YouTube tutorial and a tension wrench could bypass it in minutes. I gripped the bedsheets, my mind totally blanking out in raw panic. Time warped. Every agonizing second stretched into an eternity. The metallic scraping continued for another two, maybe three minutes. And then, it stopped. The heavy shift of boots moved away from the door, heading toward the stairwell. Biscuit’s ears tracked the sound through the walls. “He is leaving. Going downstairs.” Before I could even let out the breath I was holding, my phone vibrated against the mattress. A text from Morgan. En route. 8 mins out. Are you safe? I typed back with shaking thumbs: He left. The reply was instantaneous: Do not open that door. Wait for me. Eight minutes. I sat on the floor in the corner of my bedroom, clutching Biscuit to my chest, and flicked on a small bedside lamp. We just waited. Biscuit was eerily calm, resting his chin on my forearm, purring softly to keep my heart rate down. “It is over. He is far away now. The smell is gone.” Six minutes later, a heavy, chaotic pounding echoed from the stairwell. Unapologetic, rapid-fire boots slamming against concrete. Then, a fist hammering on my door. “Sophie, it’s Morgan.” I scrambled up, ran to the door, and threw the deadbolt open. Morgan stood there, chest heaving. He had thrown a black t-shirt on over sweatpants, his hair an absolute mess. He must have literally sprinted from his bed to his car. Two uniformed cops were right behind him with their hands resting on their holsters. Morgan’s eyes raked over me from head to toe. Once he saw there was no blood and I was standing upright, the terrifying tension in his jaw cracked just a fraction. “Which way did he go?” “The stairs. Heading down.” He snapped his fingers at the uniforms. They instantly unholstered their flashlights and cleared the stairwell. Morgan stepped inside and immediately knelt by the door. He ran his thumb over the brass cylinder. Fresh, silver scratches scored the metal. His face darkened into a stormy, terrifying mask. He stared at the lock for a long time before standing up and turning to me. “He tried to pick it.” “I know.” “Why didn’t you call 911 first?” “I called you. Isn’t that the same thing?” He blinked, caught completely off guard. He looked at me like he just realized I had bypassed emergency dispatch entirely just to wake him up. The air in the hallway suddenly felt very thick. He looked away, clearing his throat. “Next time, dial 911. Standard protocol.” “911 wouldn’t have gotten here in six minutes.” He didn’t have a comeback for that. Biscuit poked his head out from behind my calves and let out a trilling meow. “His ears are burning,” Biscuit said inside my mind. I shot the cat a warning look to shut up. Morgan walked into the living room and pulled out his notepad. I told him everything I heard, minus the telepathic feline commentary. I told him my gut instinct said it was Finch. He finished writing and looked up at me. “You are a massive liability sitting in this apartment. Finch has been dodging our dragnet for three days. He is desperate. And the moment he saw the crime scene tape on his door, he knew exactly who tipped us off. You are the only neighbor on this floor.” I swallowed hard. “Do you have family in the city? Friends you can crash with?” “No,” I shook my head. “My parents live out of state. My friends all have roommates. There is no space.” “Then…” Before he could finish, the radio clipped to his belt hissed to life. “Detective Gallagher. Traffic cams caught the suspect entering through the north gate. We have visual on a burner vehicle fleeing the perimeter. Setting up blockades now.” “Copy that.” Morgan clicked the radio off. “I am posting a plainclothes unit in your lobby tonight. First thing tomorrow, I am sending a guy to replace this garbage lock.” He walked to the door, stopped, and looked back over his shoulder. “Do you want me to… have Officer Sarah come sit with you?” “I’ll be fine.” I leaned against the wall. “I have Biscuit.” Morgan looked down at the fat orange tabby judging him from the rug. The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. He walked out into the night. Biscuit watched the door close. “He desperately wanted to stay.” “Stop analyzing human psychology.” “I am a cat. My instincts are flawless.” I locked the door, slid the chain into place, and wedged a heavy dining chair under the doorknob. Then I dragged the hallway console table in front of it for good measure. Only when the barricade was built did the adrenaline crash, leaving me shaking violently on the floor. Biscuit padded over and draped his warm, fourteen-pound body directly across my lap. He didn’t say another word. He just laid there, vibrating with a deep, rhythmic purr. Rain started lashing against the windows. I sat on the floor, my arms wrapped tightly around the cat, and waited for the sun to come up.

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When the CEO laid eyes on my resignation letter, he summoned me into his office. His face was etched with confusion as he asked me why I was still dissatisfied, pointing out that I had just received a year-end bonus of six hundred thousand dollars. I stared back at him expressionlessly, telling him there was actually only six hundred dollars left in my account. A scowl creased the CEO’s brow as he immediately called the Director of Finance on speakerphone right in front of me. A sycophantic voice came through the line, explaining that five hundred ninety-nine thousand, four hundred dollars had been transferred to the CEO’s wife’s account, and that he had covered his tracks perfectly. The CEO’s face turned a sickly shade of green in an instant. 1 When Dominic called me into his office, my resignation letter was already sitting on his massive mahogany desk. He tapped his index finger against the heavy paper. His eyes shifted from the document to my face, clouded with genuine confusion. “Scarlett, didn’t the year-end bonuses just go out? Six hundred thousand dollars. You got the highest payout in the entire company.” “What exactly are you dissatisfied with?” I stood perfectly straight, keeping my eyes locked on his. “Six hundred thousand?” “There are exactly six hundred dollars in my account.” The confusion on Dominic’s face instantly warped into a deep, aggressive scowl. He snatched his phone off the desk and dialed the Director of Finance. The moment the call connected, Dominic hit the speaker button. Richard’s signature sycophantic voice immediately echoed through the quiet office. “Mr. Reed, rest assured. It is all handled.” “That five hundred ninety-nine thousand, four hundred dollars has been transferred directly into your wife’s private account, down to the exact cent.” “I made sure the books are squeaky clean. Completely untraceable.” The air in the office turned to solid concrete. I watched Dominic’s face transition from bewildered, to horrified, and finally to a sickly, ashen green. On the other end of the line, Richard kept talking, completely oblivious. “Honestly, sir, your wife had a great point.” “She said a young girl like Scarlett might get reckless with that kind of cash. Having the company ‘safeguard’ the bulk of it is really for her own good.” “It was a brilliant move, don’t you think?” “Shut up.” Dominic forced the two words through his teeth. His voice dripped with absolute zero temperatures. He slammed his finger onto the end-call button. The office plunged back into a suffocating silence. I remained standing there, my expression completely blank, as if I were watching a movie that had nothing to do with me. The truth was, I was waiting. Waiting for Dominic to give me an explanation. Or rather, waiting for him to justify this absolute trainwreck to himself. His chest heaved. He was practically vibrating with rage. It took him a full thirty seconds to look up at me. The usually sharp, composed eyes of the CEO were currently caught in a violent storm. He wasn’t just looking at me. He was looking right through me, realizing something incredibly ugly about his own life. “When did you find out?” he asked. His voice sounded like cracked glass. “When the bank notification popped up on my lock screen,” I replied. My tone was flat. “Six hundred bucks.” “At first, I thought payroll had a glitch in the software.” “So, I pulled up my official pay stub.” “It clearly stated my year-end bonus was six hundred thousand dollars.” Dominic squeezed his eyes shut, fighting a losing battle to keep his composure. “And your first instinct was to just quit?” “Yes.” “Without even asking me about it?” A hint of accusation bled into his tone. “Mr. Reed.” I finally used his formal title. “I have bled for Apex Tech for five years.” “I climbed from an intern to the Director of Operations. I know for a fact that I have earned every single penny this company has ever paid me.” “I trusted the corporate structure here. I trusted you.” “But I do not trust a financial department that can magically turn a six-hundred-grand bonus into six hundred dollars.” “That is not a glitch.” “That is an insult.” I spoke calmly. No tears. No screaming. Just cold, hard facts. Dominic fell silent. He knew damn well it wasn’t a glitch. Richard had spelled it out perfectly on the speakerphone. Transferred to your wife’s account. He just didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t fathom that the elegant, highly educated, picture-perfect woman he married would go behind his back to pull off something so incredibly cheap. Stealing an employee’s bonus? A massive six-figure sum? That wasn’t just simple greed. That was actively taking a sledgehammer to the foundation of his company. He took a deep breath and picked up his phone again. This time, his thumb hovered over the screen. He hesitated. I knew exactly who he was about to call. Victoria. His wife. I watched him quietly. I didn’t rush him. I didn’t interrupt. He had to rip this band-aid off himself. Finally, his jaw tightened, and he pressed the call button. Speakerphone again. The phone rang twice before connecting. A voice sweet enough to cause cavities drifted out of the speaker. “Hey honey. You’re calling early today. Miss me already?” It was Victoria. I lowered my gaze, hiding the ice in my eyes. This was the exact same voice that had called me just a few days ago, hissing: “Scarlett, don’t push your luck. Dominic pays you to be a worker bee, not to bleed him dry. That six hundred dollars is your phone stipend for the month. Learn your place.” Dominic swallowed hard. “Vic,” he started, his vocal cords tight. “I need to ask you something.” “Ask away, babe. What’s going on?” She sounded genuinely cheerful. “What happened to Scarlett’s year-end bonus?” He articulated every single syllable. There was a microsecond of dead silence on the other end of the line. It was incredibly brief. Almost imperceptible. But both Dominic and I caught it. 2 “Scarlett?” Victoria’s voice chimed back in. She had dialed up the innocent confusion to an award-winning level. “Her bonus? How would I know anything about that? Honey, you know I never interfere with your corporate stuff.” Her voice was soft, but it wrapped around Dominic’s nerves like a venomous snake. I noticed Dominic’s knuckles turning bone-white as he gripped his phone. “Richard just told me he wired a massive sum of money into your private account.” Dominic’s voice was dropping an octave, desperately trying to hold onto his dignity. “Money? Oh…” Victoria dragged out the vowel, pretending to search her memory. “Right, I remember now! Richard did wire me some funds. He mentioned the company had some tricky off-the-books accounting to deal with, and he just needed to park the cash in my account temporarily for liquidity.” “Don’t worry, honey. I’ve got it tucked away safe and sound.” “Does the company need it back right now? I can wire it over immediately.” It was a flawless performance. Bulletproof. She painted herself as the ultimate supportive wife, quietly handling her husband’s dirty corporate laundry behind the scenes. If Dominic hadn’t just heard Richard groveling on speakerphone five minutes ago, he probably would have bought the lie. But right now, her sweet words sounded like nails on a chalkboard. “Tricky off-the-books accounting?” Dominic repeated her words, the sarcasm practically dripping onto the desk. “Victoria, do you honestly think I am an idiot?” The venom in his tone clearly shocked her. “Honey? What is wrong with you? Why are you talking to me like this?” She expertly pivoted to playing the victim. “Is… is Scarlett in the room with you?” She suddenly switched targets, aiming straight for my throat. “Babe, do not listen to a word that manipulative bitch says! You know exactly what she’s trying to do!” “She is just a pretty young subordinate who constantly flaunts herself in your office. She’s desperate to sleep her way to the top!” “Did she come crying to you? Saying I bullied her?” “I swear to God, Dominic! I know how hard it is for a young girl to make it in the city. I’ve always gone out of my way to look out for her. How could she invent such disgusting lies about me?” Victoria’s voice escalated into a hysterical, tearful pitch. Her ability to completely rewrite reality made the air in the office feel toxic. Dominic looked physically ill. He stared at me, his eyes swirling with a chaotic mess of emotions. Anger. Doubt. The sheer agony of being betrayed by his own family. I knew exactly what was happening in his head. He was caught in a psychological meat grinder. On one side: his top executive, the woman who had single-handedly secured millions in revenue for his firm. On the other side: the woman who shared his bed. Human nature dictates that people want to believe the ones they sleep next to. Subconsciously, he was trying to find a way to make Victoria the victim and me the homewrecker. It was the oldest, cheapest trick in the corporate playbook. The “jealous wife claiming the female employee is a homewrecker” card. It was practically unblockable. “Put Scarlett on the phone. Now.” Victoria snapped an order through the speaker. The sweet wife routine was gone; she was now demanding obedience like royalty. Dominic shot me a look, silently asking what I wanted to do. I didn’t move a muscle. I just looked back at him. Then, I slowly shook my head. Argue with her? Not a chance. It would just devolve into a screaming match, and I refused to drag myself down to her level of the gutter. “Mr. Reed,” I said. My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the noise perfectly. “It seems this is a domestic dispute.” “Since that is the case, please process my resignation.” “As for my stolen compensation, my lawyers will be in touch with your legal department by tomorrow morning.” I turned on my heel and headed for the door. My goal was already accomplished. The grenade had been dropped right in Dominic’s lap. How he dealt with his wife was his problem. All I cared about was getting my cash and getting out. “Stop right there!” Dominic barked from behind his desk. I stopped walking but didn’t bother turning around. “Nobody leaves this room until we get to the bottom of this!” His voice was a desperate, commanding bark. I slowly turned around, meeting his gaze with absolute ice. “What else is there to discuss, Mr. Reed?” “Do you seriously think she is lying about you?” He pointed at the phone, his chest heaving. “You already know what the truth is,” I replied. “I need proof!” Dominic’s eyes were bloodshot. “Scarlett, I know how you operate. You are surgical. You wouldn’t walk in here and drop a resignation letter on my desk with nothing but a bank screenshot!” “Give me the smoking gun. Give me something that forces me to believe you!” He was practically begging. He was cornering me, but more importantly, he was cornering himself. He needed me to hand him the sledgehammer that would finally shatter his delusions about his marriage. Watching a powerful man break down like this didn’t make me feel an ounce of pity. I reached into my designer tote bag and pulled out a secondary device. It was a cheap, prepaid burner phone I strictly used for two-factor authentication codes. I hit a single button on the keypad. A crystal-clear audio recording blasted through the phone’s tiny speaker. It was Victoria. But the sweet, innocent tone was completely absent. She sounded vicious, arrogant, and cruel. “Let’s get one thing straight, Scarlett.” “My husband’s company is my company. I decide who gets paid and who gets starved.” “Six hundred thousand dollars? For you? Don’t make me laugh.” “You are nothing but a dog on Dominic’s leash. I am tossing you a six-hundred-dollar bone. You should be wagging your tail and thanking me.” The recording bounced off the glass walls of the office. The desperate hope on Dominic’s face died instantly. He looked like a corpse. On the speakerphone, Victoria’s fake crying abruptly stopped. She had heard it too. 3 “Scarlett! You little bitch! You recorded me?!” Victoria’s shrill, panicked scream exploded from the desk phone. Her mask had completely melted off, exposing the ugly, raving lunatic underneath. Dominic looked like someone had just severed his spine. He swayed on his feet and braced both hands against the edge of his desk just to stay upright. He stared blankly at the burner phone in my hand. His lips trembled, but no sound came out. The audio file kept playing. My own voice, calm and detached, echoed in the room. “Victoria, that bonus is legally contracted compensation for my labor. You have zero legal authority to withhold it.” Then came Victoria’s mocking laughter. “Legal? In this building, I am the law! One word from me, and not only do you lose your money, but you get blacklisted from the entire tech sector!” “Don’t flatter yourself just because you closed a few deals for my husband. To him, you are just a replaceable cog in a machine.” “Take your six hundred bucks and get out. If you try to make a scene, I will personally ruin you.” “I will make sure the entire industry thinks you are a gold-digging slut who tried to sleep her way into the C-suite and got fired for it.” The recording clicked off. The office fell into a graveyard silence. The only sound was the heavy, frantic static of Victoria’s breathing coming through the speakerphone. I slipped the burner phone back into my bag without breaking eye contact with Dominic. All the color had drained from his face. Pain, humiliation, rage, and the devastating realization of ultimate betrayal violently clashed in his eyes. In the end, it all settled into a bottomless, hollow exhaustion. He aged a decade in sixty seconds. His own wife had used the most vile, venomous language imaginable to degrade his most valuable executive. She hadn’t just stolen the money. She had weaponized his name, acting like a tyrant, treating the very foundation of his company like dirt beneath her designer heels. Replaceable cogs. A dog on a leash. Hearing those words spoken in his wife’s voice was the ultimate slap in the face. “Dominic… babe… please let me explain… it’s not what you think…” Victoria finally found her voice again. She was stammering, desperate. “She… she provoked me! She insulted me first! That audio is edited! It’s a deepfake!” Her lies were so pathetic they were almost insulting. Dominic slowly reached out. He picked up the desk phone and pressed it to his ear. His movements were sluggish, like he was moving underwater. “Victoria.” His voice was wrecked. It sounded like he had swallowed broken glass. “When we got married, I handed you an unlimited black card. I told you to buy whatever you wanted. No limits.” “I told you the wife of the CEO of Apex Tech should never have to look at a price tag.” “I give you an eight-figure allowance every single year.” “So tell me. Why the hell did you need to steal six hundred grand from Scarlett?” Every word struck like a hammer blow. It hit Victoria. And it hit me. She wasn’t hurting for cash. She didn’t need the money. She did this for the power. She did it for the twisted, sociopathic thrill of holding someone’s livelihood hostage. She wanted to prove that my entire career, my entire existence, meant absolutely nothing compared to her status. Victoria was completely speechless. “I… I just wanted to put her in her place…” she whispered, resorting to her final, desperate defense. “People were talking, Dominic. They said she was getting too much credit. That she didn’t respect you anymore. I just wanted to break her ego a little bit, so she wouldn’t become a threat to you…” “Heh.” A short, brutal laugh escaped Dominic’s throat. “Break her ego?” “You target my core Director of Operations, you cut off the right arm of my company, and you expect me to believe you did it for my benefit?” “Victoria. You absolutely disgust me.” He didn’t give her another second to speak. He slammed the phone down onto the receiver. He slowly lifted his head. His eyes were completely bloodshot. “I am sorry.” He forced the words out. “This is my failure.” “I failed to manage my own house, and you suffered for it.” I didn’t respond. I just looked at him. An apology? What was the point? The damage was done. The second trust shatters in the corporate world, you can never glue it back together. “I will wire you the missing funds immediately.” Dominic swallowed hard. “I am also adding another six hundred thousand as an inconvenience bonus.” “Richard is fired. I am turning him over to the feds by the end of the day.” “As for Victoria…” He paused. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I will make sure you get justice there, too.” “Scarlett. Please. For the sake of the last five years…” “Don’t leave.” He finally laid his cards on the table. The apologies, the double bonus, the firing of the CFO. It was all a desperate bid to keep me in the building. The massive enterprise software contract I had just secured was entering its critical execution phase next month. I built that deal from the ground up. I knew where all the bodies were buried. If I walked out that door, a multi-billion-dollar project would crash and burn. That was what he actually cared about. I looked at the desperate plea in his eyes and slowly shook my head. “It’s too late, Dominic.” My heart was ice cold. Staying in this building for even one more second made my skin crawl. “The resignation stands.” “I won’t be logging on tomorrow.” My tone was absolute. Zero room for negotiation. The last remaining drops of color vanished from Dominic’s face. He knew he had lost me. His wife had personally taken his sharpest weapon and snapped it over her knee. I turned around, opened the heavy glass door, and walked out. Behind me, Dominic slumped heavily into his leather chair, surrounded by the wreckage of his pride. I didn’t look back. The moment I stepped out of the Apex Tech high-rise, the California sun hit my face. I took a deep breath. I felt incredibly light. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A banking notification. Incoming wire transfer to account ending in 3945: $1,200,000.00. Available Balance: $1,200,600.00. The money was there. My original bonus, plus the penalty fee. Dominic moved fast. But I knew exactly what this was. It wasn’t just compensation. It was hush money. He was terrified I would leak the audio to the press, tank the company’s stock, and turn his marriage into a tabloid circus. I smirked and swiped the notification away. He thought cash could fix everything. But he was about to learn that there are some things a wire transfer cannot buy. Like loyalty. Or what I was about to do next. 4 I didn’t go home. I hailed a black car and gave the driver an address in the financial district. We pulled up to a massive, imposing limestone building. It didn’t have the sleek, modern glass aesthetic of Apex Tech. It screamed old money and ruthless power. A heavy brass plaque by the entrance read: Reed Holdings. Reed Holdings was the parent conglomerate of Apex Tech. It was the absolute core of the Reed family empire. Dominic’s father, Tony Reed, the legendary tycoon who built the empire from scratch, had technically retired. But his private office was still on the top floor. I walked into the grand lobby. The concierge immediately stood up. “Ms. Scarlett. Mr. Reed is expecting you.” I nodded and bypassed security, heading straight for the private executive elevator. Half an hour ago, while riding away from Apex Tech, I had called Tony’s chief of staff. I told him I had a catastrophic operational risk to report regarding Apex Tech, and I needed five minutes with the Chairman. I got my confirmation in less than three minutes. The elevator doors slid open to a dark wood-paneled executive suite. Tony Reed sat behind a massive desk, nursing a glass of neat bourbon. He was in his late sixties, with silver hair and eyes like a hawk evaluating its prey. “Have a seat, Scarlett.” He gestured to the leather chair across from him. His tone was perfectly level. I sat down and rested my bag on my lap. “Tony,” I started. “You mentioned a catastrophic risk,” he said, taking a slow sip. “Let me guess. My son screwed up again?” He used the word again. Clearly, Dominic’s management style was not a secret to his father. I didn’t answer with words. I opened my bag and placed three items on the pristine desk. First, my bank statement, with the $600 deposit circled in red ink. Second, the cheap burner phone. Third, a freshly printed screenshot of the $1.2 million wire transfer I had received twenty minutes ago. I slid them across the polished wood. “Tony. This is a fatal flaw in Apex Tech’s financial security.” “This is a total breakdown of executive management.” “And this,” I tapped the printout of the $1.2 million transfer, “is your son attempting to use corporate funds as a golden parachute to bury his wife’s crimes.” I didn’t sugarcoat a single syllable. I didn’t mention Victoria by name. I didn’t frame it as a domestic issue. I stripped all emotion out of it. I framed it purely as a corporate liability. A financial disaster. Because when you are talking to a titan like Tony Reed, the only language that matters is leverage and risk. Tony’s hawk-like eyes scanned the three items. He picked up the bank statement first, his brow furrowing slightly. Then, he picked up the burner phone. I leaned forward and pressed play. Victoria’s vicious rant echoed in the quiet, opulent office. “…You are nothing but a dog on Dominic’s leash…” When the recording hit that specific line, the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Tony wasn’t angry that Victoria was a bitch. He was furious that someone had the audacity to refer to the core intellectual capital of his empire as a dog. That kind of arrogance destroys empires. When the audio finished, he remained silent. Finally, he picked up the screenshot of the wire transfer. “One point two million,” Tony murmured. “He paid what he owed, and he doubled it as an apology. Dominic isn’t entirely cheap.” “Tony, this isn’t about him being generous.” I corrected him without hesitation. “It is about him being compromised.” “He thinks throwing cash at a problem makes it disappear. But the money isn’t the root issue.” “The issue is that your Chief Financial Officer is willing to launder a million dollars to appease the CEO’s wife.” “The issue is that an executive’s spouse holds enough unchecked power to fire, starve, and blacklist your most vital personnel.” “Today, this happened to me. Tomorrow, it happens to the lead developers. Next week, it happens to the VP of Sales.” “When a corporate hierarchy can be hijacked by a spouse’s temper tantrum, that company is dead in the water.” My words were heavy artillery. Tony went dead silent. He looked at me, really looked at me. The predatory gleam in his eyes softened into something resembling genuine respect. He set his bourbon glass down. “You are a very smart girl.” His voice was a low rumble. “Much sharper than my son, who currently has his head shoved entirely up his own ass.” “I understand the situation.” He gave me his word. “I built Apex with my own bare hands. I will not watch it be cannibalized from the inside.” “I don’t care whose name is on the marriage certificate.” His words were spoken softly, but they carried the weight of an executioner’s axe. I knew I had won. I stood up, smoothing out my skirt. “Tony, my resignation is already filed. As of noon today, I no longer work for Apex Tech.” “Thank you for your time.” I gave him a crisp nod and turned toward the elevator. “Hold on a second.” Tony’s voice stopped me. “What’s your next move?” he asked. “Take some time off. See what the market looks like,” I replied honestly. “Right,” he nodded slowly. “You’ve earned a break. It’s been a hell of a run these last five years.” “Save my direct line in your contacts. When you get bored of sitting on a beach, call me.” “There will always be a seat for you at Reed Holdings.” That was a massive, unexpected victory. But I kept my face totally neutral. “Thank you, Tony.” I walked onto the elevator. The moment the doors slid shut and I was back on the street, I finally let out a long, heavy exhale. The fuse was lit. The explosion was now strictly Reed family business. And I was safely outside the blast radius. 5 When Dominic walked through the front door of his sprawling estate, the house was dead quiet. Victoria was sitting on the velvet sofa in the main living room, wearing a silk robe. A half-empty glass of red wine sat on the coffee table. She was clearly waiting for him. The second he walked in, she sprang up. Her face was a mask of panic and victimhood. “Dom, baby, you’re home… Please, you have to let me explain. It’s really not what it sounded like…” Dominic completely ignored her. He walked over to the adjacent armchair, slowly slipped off his tailored suit jacket, and tossed it aside. He undid his tie with slow, mechanical precision. Every movement was heavy, deliberate, and suffocating. Victoria felt the panic rising in her throat. “Say something, please… you’re scaring me…” She reached out to grab his forearm. Dominic took a sharp step back, dodging her touch like she was contagious. His eyes were completely hollow as he stared at her. “What is left to explain?” His voice was terrifyingly calm. “Explain how you conspired with Richard to siphon company payroll into your private accounts?” “Or maybe explain how you weaponized my name to threaten and humiliate my best executive?” “Victoria, I had no idea you were such a brilliant criminal.” The words sliced into her like a scalpel. All the color drained from Victoria’s face. “I… I wasn’t trying to steal! I just made a stupid mistake!” She burst into tears, large drops rolling perfectly down her cheeks. “I was jealous! Okay? I was so incredibly jealous! She gets to spend all day with you. She solves your problems. Everyone in your inner circle talks about how you can’t run the business without her!” “I was terrified! I thought she was going to steal my husband!” “I just wanted to teach her a lesson. I wanted to remind her who the wife is! I swear to God, I wasn’t thinking!” She sobbed, playing the tragic role of a woman driven mad by love. A few years ago, that performance would have earned her a tight hug and a diamond necklace. Tonight, Dominic just watched her perform with absolute disgust. “Jealous?” He scoffed. “So your jealousy is worth exactly five hundred ninety-nine thousand, four hundred dollars?” “You wanted to prove you were the lady of the house, so you treated her like a stray dog?” “Drop the act, Victoria. It’s pathetic.” “I didn’t come home to listen to your excuses.” Dominic reached into his briefcase. He pulled out a thick stack of legal documents and dropped them onto the glass coffee table with a heavy thud. The bold, black letters across the top page were impossible to miss. PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE. Victoria’s fake sobbing stopped instantly. She stared at the divorce papers, then looked up at Dominic in sheer horror. “A divorce? You want a divorce?” Her voice pitched up into a hysterical screech. “Over that bitch? Are you out of your mind?!” “We have been married for seven years! Seven years, Dominic! And you’re throwing me out over an employee?” “I am not crazy,” Dominic said, his expression completely dead. “You are.” “You can play your pathetic high-society games with anyone you want. But you touched the core of my business.” “You alienated every single person who bleeds for my company.” “You turned me into a joke who can’t even protect his own staff!” “This isn’t about another woman.” “This is about Apex. And it is about me.” Victoria’s facade totally crumbled. She stared at the cold, ruthless man in front of her and finally realized that tears weren’t going to save her. Her face twisted into something feral. “Fine! You want to play hardball, Dominic? Let’s play!” “You think dumping me is going to be cheap? Half of Apex Tech belongs to me! It is marital property!” “You want to kick me to the curb? I will drag you through court for years! I will take half your empire! I’ll leak this to the press and tank your stock overnight! I will leave you bankrupt!” She was screaming now, completely unhinged, revealing the sheer greed that had always lived beneath her skin. Dominic just watched her throw her tantrum. “Half the stock?” He let out a dark, mocking laugh, like he had just heard a joke. “Victoria, did you suffer a head injury? Have you forgotten the prenuptial agreement we signed?” “Every single share of Apex Tech is classified as a pre-marital asset. You don’t get a single penny of equity.” “As for the mansions, the sports cars, the jewelry… I’ve bought you tens of millions of dollars’ worth of toys over the last seven years.” “The contract states you get to keep all of that.” “I will also cut you a final severance check. You’ll never have to work a day in your life.” “Sign the papers. It is the last shred of dignity you’re going to get.” Victoria froze. The prenup. Of course she remembered it. When they signed it, Dominic had kissed her forehead and told her it was just standard legal red tape to keep his father’s lawyers happy. He told her not to worry about it. She had been so blinded by the glamorous wedding that she signed it without letting her own lawyer read it. She thought it was just a meaningless stack of paper. Tonight, that paper was a death warrant. He had been protecting his assets from her since day one. The unconditional love was a myth. “Dominic!” Victoria’s eyes were practically glowing with venom. “You set me up!” “I will never sign this! I would rather die! I will go to the tabloids! I will tell them everything! I will ruin your reputation!” Dominic looked at her with ultimate exhaustion. “Do whatever you want.” He turned around and headed for the front door, not looking back once. “But let me give you one final piece of advice.” He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Richard is already in federal custody.” “He rolled over immediately. He handed the feds a mountain of evidence proving you manipulated him into cooking the books and committing wire fraud.” “He also mentioned he kept meticulous ledgers on all the other little ‘investments’ you’ve been making behind my back using company leverage.” “Victoria. Unless you want to spend the next fifteen years wearing an orange jumpsuit in a federal penitentiary…” “You will sign those papers by tomorrow morning.” He opened the door and walked out into the night. The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him. Victoria collapsed onto the marble floor. She stared at the divorce papers, the absolute silence of the massive house crushing the last remaining breath out of her lungs.

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