Lily, my husband Ethan’s secretary, sent me a photo. In the photo, my husband was sound asleep, covered with my coat. The caption read: “Emma, Ethan had too much to drink. He’s staying at my place tonight.” I stared at the photo for three seconds, then smiled. With a light tap of my finger, I screenshotted the photo and chat record, then sent them both to the company’s group chat of nearly a thousand employees. “Congratulations to Lily on her successful promotion to CEO’s wife.” Send. Power off. All in one smooth motion. Two days later when I turned my phone back on, hundreds of missed calls nearly crashed it. In the photo, my husband Ethan was sleeping peacefully, his profile pressed against the pure white hotel pillow. I stared at that coat. That morning before leaving, I’d personally helped Ethan put it on. I smiled. I didn’t reply, just took a screenshot. Then sent it to the company’s thousand-person work group. “Congratulations to Lily on her successful promotion to CEO’s wife.” Then I turned off my phone. The world went quiet. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room, the city lights merged into a silent ocean. I walked to the wine cabinet and poured myself a glass of whiskey. Today was our fifth wedding anniversary. On the table sat the custom cake I’d picked up that afternoon. Ethan had called in the afternoon, saying he had an important business dinner he couldn’t skip. He said he’d make it up to me when he got back later. So this was his idea of “important business.” This was how he planned to “make it up to me.” I carried my glass and walked over to the cake. The black swan held its head high, graceful and proud. I reached out a finger and gave it a gentle push. The swan toppled over, falling into the soft cream, its neck broken. What a shame. I drained my glass in one gulp, the burning liquid searing my throat. Perfect. This relationship that had lasted eight years, from campus to wedding dress, from nothing to company IPO. It was time to end it. I walked into the dressing room and pulled out the largest suitcase. Started packing. Mine, I’d take everything. His, I’d leave nothing. Including those matching couple outfits we’d bought together, the expensive jewelry he’d given me, all those mementos symbolizing every bit of our past. One by one, I took them out and threw them into the trash bags beside me. Like I was doing a complete decluttering. Throughout this process, my heart remained completely calm. No tears, no angry screaming. Like a surgeon performing an incredibly composed operation on herself. Cutting away the necrotic tissue. Though it would hurt, it had to be done. Two hours later, the suitcase was full. Three large trash bags were piled beside it. The 24-hour moving company I’d booked arrived promptly at 3 AM. The workers silently and efficiently loaded my things onto the truck. I took one last look at this home I’d personally decorated. On the wall hung our wedding photo. In it, I was smiling blissfully. In it, Ethan’s eyes were so tender they could drip water. I walked over and took the photo down. Then, I let go. Crash. The glass frame shattered across the floor. I said to the movers: “Let’s go.” The vehicle pulled out of the complex and merged into the city traffic. I didn’t look back. My new place was an apartment I’d bought several months ago, keeping it empty all this time. I’d told myself a woman always needs to leave herself an exit. Now it seemed that decision was incredibly correct. By the time I’d settled my luggage, dawn was breaking. I took a hot shower, changed into clean pajamas, and lay down on the unfamiliar bed. Not the slightest bit sleepy. My mind began replaying the entire incident. Lily. Ethan’s secretary, hired a year and a half ago. Young, beautiful, elite university graduate, outstanding abilities. That was how everyone in the company described her. When I’d come to the office to bring Ethan lunch, she’d eagerly approach me, sweetly calling me “Emma.” She’d thoughtfully remember my preferences, brewing my favorite tea before I arrived. She’d subtly display her work chemistry with Ethan in front of me. For instance, Ethan would give her a look and she’d know which document to hand him. Before Ethan finished a sentence, she could immediately complete it. She’d tell me in a joking tone: “Emma, sometimes I feel like I understand Ethan even better than you do.” Back then, I’d just smile it off. I figured a man’s capable work assistant and his life’s soulmate were two different tracks. They didn’t conflict. Now it seemed I’d been naive. Or rather, I’d been too confident. So confident I’d overlooked all those telltale signs. Like how Ethan kept coming home later and later. Like the occasional unfamiliar perfume scent on him. Like how he started reflexively countering some of my decisions using Lily’s phrasing. “Emma, your idea is too idealistic. Lily’s proposal would be more practical.” “Lily said this project is too risky, we should wait and see.” Lily, Lily, Lily. Her name appeared with increasing frequency. And I’d actually kept treating it as normal “work communication.” Until that photo, like a sharp knife, punctured all the fake peace. I closed my eyes, that photo surfacing in my mind again. Ethan’s sleeping face, my coat, and Lily’s provocative caption. Why did she dare do this? She was certain I wouldn’t make a scene. She was certain I’d choose to swallow my grievances for the sake of Ethan’s career, for the company’s stability. She was certain I’d find her privately, or find Ethan, cry, make a fuss, then accept an explanation of “just a mistake all men make.” Then she could continue lurking by Ethan’s side as the victor, until she completely replaced me. Unfortunately, she miscalculated. I, Emma, never make losing deals. Since you want war, I’ll give you the grandest spectacle. Let nearly a thousand people in the entire company witness your love. I don’t know when I finally fell asleep. I only know this sleep was exceptionally deep. No dreams.

Two days later. I slept until I woke naturally. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting dappled patterns on the wooden floor. An unfamiliar room, but the air carried my familiar perfume. I sat up and picked up my phone from the nightstand. After two days off, it was time to see how far this storm had blown. Deep breath. I pressed the power button. The phone vibrated once, the screen lit up. After the familiar startup animation, the signal bars instantly filled. Then, my phone went crazy. “Bzz—bzz—bzz—” Violent vibrations, like it would break free from my hand any second. On the screen, missed calls, texts, SnapChat, notifications from various apps flooded in like a burst dam. Hundreds of missed call alerts. Dozens of unread texts. I looked at the call list. At the very top was Ethan. 99 missed calls. Below were company executives, my friends, and some unknown numbers. I put the phone on silent and tossed it aside. Got up and went to the kitchen to make myself a simple breakfast. Fried egg, toast, a glass of hot milk. I ate slowly and methodically. As if the storm that had already turned everything upside down had nothing to do with me. After breakfast, I washed the dishes. Only then did I pick up that burning hot phone again. I ignored all of Ethan’s messages. Instead, I opened the company group chat on SnapChat. Two days was enough time for many things to ferment. The group messages had exploded. The “congratulations” message I’d sent was like a depth charge. Below it was several minutes of dead silence. Then, the first to jump out was the company’s HR director. He sent a shocked emoji, then quickly deleted it. Immediately after, various whispers began appearing. “Holy shit? What’s going on?” “Did Emma’s account get hacked?” “That’s Mr. Brooks in the photo, right?” “My god, this is too much information.” “Did Lily mess up?” After the initial shock, public opinion quickly divided. Some were watching. Some were secretly enjoying the drama. Others began taking sides. A female colleague who was usually close to Lily jumped out saying: “Everyone stop speculating. I believe Lily isn’t that kind of person. There must be some misunderstanding.” Someone immediately echoed: “Exactly. Mr. Brooks and Emma have such a good relationship, how could this happen?” “Maybe Emma was just joking.” These weak defenses were quickly drowned by more details. “Joking? About something like this?” “Are you blind? Didn’t you see Lily’s own text? ‘Staying at my place tonight.’ How could that be fake?” “I always thought something was off about Lily. Always dressing up, her mind clearly not on work.” “Right. At the last project celebration, she kept blocking drinks for Mr. Brooks, got herself wasted, and Mr. Brooks ended up taking her home.” When someone falls from grace, everyone loves to pile on Lily’s carefully cultivated “perfect secretary” image was torn to shreds in this moment. As for the other protagonist of the incident, Lily herself finally appeared about half an hour after I sent my message. She posted a long text in the group. That text was written tearfully, pitifully. “Everyone, I’m sorry for using public resources for my personal matter.” “Last night, Mr. Brooks drank a lot at a business dinner to close an important deal. He could barely stand.” “As Mr. Brooks’s secretary, I have the responsibility and obligation to ensure his safety, so I took him to a nearby hotel to rest.” “Because he’d drunk so much and gotten his clothes a bit dirty, I took off his suit jacket and covered him with a spare coat from my car—one Emma had left at the office before—so he wouldn’t catch cold.” “After I settled him in, I left. I called his home but no one answered.” “In my panic, I remembered Emma’s SnapChat and wanted to let her know.” “That message might have been ambiguous and caused a misunderstanding. I really didn’t mean it that way.” “I don’t know why Emma would send such a message. I’m really scared.” “Mr. Brooks and I are completely innocent, just a normal superior-subordinate relationship. Please don’t misunderstand.” “Emma, if you see this message, please, can you come out and explain?” “I’m a young woman and my reputation is ruined. How can I face people anymore?” At the end, she even @-ed me. What a delicate little hypocrite. This PR piece was written flawlessly. Portraying herself as a diligent, dutiful, yet innocently wronged victim. Throwing all the blame onto me. Saying I “misunderstood,” that I was “making a mountain out of a molehill,” ruining her reputation as a “young woman.” Once this statement came out, the group’s sentiment shifted subtly again. Some clueless “saints” came out to uphold justice. “Oh, so that’s what happened. I knew there must be a misunderstanding.” “Emma was a bit impulsive this time. Posting to the group without asking clearly really hurt Lily.” “Yeah, how can a young woman continue working at the company after this?” “Feel so bad for Lily. Hugs.” Watching these messages, the cold smile on my lips grew wider. Playing the public opinion game? Lily, you’re still too green. Just then, a call came in. The name flashing on the screen made my expression turn cold. Not Ethan. My mother-in-law. I let it ring for a long time, only pressing accept in the last second before it would auto-disconnect. “Hello.” My voice betrayed no emotion. On the other end, my mother-in-law’s shrill, furious roar immediately came through. “Emma! You finally answer! Have you lost your mind! What do you think you’re doing!”

“Are you trying to destroy Ethan!” My mother-in-law’s voice, from extreme anger, carried a hoarse crack. In the background, I could hear the sound of things being smashed. I held the phone away a bit, my tone flat. “Mrs. Brooks, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” “Still playing dumb with me!” My mother-in-law’s volume shot up another octave. “Look what you’ve done! Now the whole company knows!” “Where can Ethan show his face! What about the company’s stock price! You vicious woman!” I listened silently without interrupting. When she tired herself out from cursing and was gasping for breath, I spoke unhurriedly. “Mrs. Brooks, you should ask your precious son what he did.” “What could he have done! A man having too much to drink at business dinners, isn’t that normal?” “That girl Lily was kind enough to take care of him, and instead of being grateful, you turn around and bite her! Where are your manners!” “My manners don’t allow my husband to spend our wedding anniversary night at another woman’s place.” I enunciated each word clearly. “And I certainly don’t allow that woman to cover him with a coat I bought, then take a photo and send it to me to show off.” There were a few seconds of silence on the other end. Then my mother-in-law’s tone shifted from anger to a kind of righteous favoritism. “So what! Men, they just play along sometimes! Did you have to make such a huge scene that everyone knows? Can’t you just endure it for Ethan’s future, for this family?” “Endure?” I sounded like I’d heard the biggest joke. “Mrs. Brooks, that’s not how the world works anymore.” “You! What kind of attitude is that!” My mother-in-law was clearly choked by my words. “Emma, let me tell you, the Brooks family will never accept an unclear woman into our family!” “You need to go to the company right now, explain to everyone in the group that it was just a joke! Then apologize to Lily, and this matter is over!” “Apologize?” The curve of my lips turned colder. “Is she worthy?” “You ungrateful woman! Don’t think Ethan can’t do without you! Let me tell you, there are plenty of women who want to marry our Ethan! Younger than you, prettier than you, more sensible!” “That’s wonderful.” I replied lightly. “Please have him switch to someone else quickly. I won’t hold him up.” “You just wait! I’ll have Ethan divorce you right now! A woman like you should leave with nothing!” “Great.” I said. “I’ll be waiting for the court summons.” With that, I hung up directly. Then blocked her. All in one smooth motion. Making peace, twisting the truth, always only protecting her son. That was my wonderful mother-in-law. I’d already experienced it before. The phone vibrated again. This time, it was a familiar friend’s profile picture. I answered. “Emma! You’re finally back online! Are you okay?” On the other end came Madison’s anxious voice. Madison was my college classmate, my best friend, now a senior executive at a headhunting company. “I’m fine.” Hearing her voice, my taut nerves relaxed slightly. “Thank god. You scared me to death! That move was brutal, detonating it directly in the group. The whole circle is talking about it now.” “Ethan’s company must be as lively as a marketplace today.” Madison’s tone carried gleeful excitement. “That’s exactly what I wanted.” “Well done!” Madison didn’t hide her support. “Dealing with scumbags and homewreckers, you can’t go easy!” “But what are you planning to do next? I heard that secretary Lily is no pushover.” “She’s apparently crying all over the office now, telling everyone she’s innocent, that you misunderstood her, making it seem like you’re some evil crazy woman.” “I know. I saw her ‘essay’ in the group.” “So what are you thinking? Just let her twist the truth like that?” Madison sounded worried. I picked up the milk from the table and took a sip. The warm liquid slid into my stomach, very comfortable. “Don’t worry.” I said. “Let her fly for a while.” “The bullet’s already been fired. It needs time to fly and ferment.” In a public opinion war, the worst thing is being led by the nose. If Lily wanted to play the victim and gain sympathy, I’d let her act. The harder she performed, the more pitifully she cried, the more fierce the backlash would be when the truth came out. What I wanted wasn’t a war of words. I wanted to nail her to the pillar of shame, never to rise again. “What about you? What are your plans today? Just staying home?” Madison asked. I looked at the bright sunshine outside the window and spoke slowly. “No.” “I’m going to the office.” “There are some things I need to take back myself.” “And it’s time to meet those two protagonists.” “Yes!” Madison’s tone was excited. “Do you need me to come with you? To back you up! I happen to be free today, can come anytime.” “No need.” I declined her kindness. “This is my battlefield. I’ll handle it myself.” After hanging up, I walked into the bedroom and opened the closet. Inside were clothes I’d newly bought, tags still attached. I picked out a bright red dress. V-neck, cinched waist, slit to the thigh. Paired with ten-centimeter black heels. Then I sat at the vanity and gave myself an exquisite yet sharp makeup look. The focus was bright red lipstick. Full, sharp, with strong aggression. Looking at the radiant woman with cold eyes in the mirror, I smiled with satisfaction. Emma, welcome back. This show had just begun. I grabbed my car keys and headed out. Destination: the office. I wanted to see just how far they’d taken this performance without me, the “evil crazy woman,” present. My car was a white Porsche. A gift from Ethan on the day the company went public. He said it was to thank me for my companionship and contributions along the way. Now it seemed truly ironic. The car drove smoothly toward the CBD in the city center. There stood the business empire he and I had built together. And there waited for me a showdown.

The Porsche pulled into the company garage’s reserved parking spot. I turned off the engine but didn’t immediately get out. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror—red lips like blood, eyes like ice. Perfect. This was the armor and weaponry I needed. I pushed open the door and got out. My heels struck the polished epoxy floor, making crisp “click, click, click” sounds. The sound echoed through the empty underground garage, amplified and clear, like war drums. I entered the elevator and pressed the top floor directly—the CEO’s office level. The elevator doors opened. The familiar reception desk, the familiar logo wall. But today’s atmosphere was completely different. The normally quiet and orderly office area now permeated with an eerie silence. Everyone sat at their workstations, pretending to work diligently. But their wandering eyes, perked ears, and the subtle movements of secretly communicating through office software betrayed them all. The air floated with the scent of gossip and speculation. When I appeared in their view wearing a strikingly red dress. The entire office area seemed to hit pause. All eyes, in an instant, focused on me in unison. Shock, curiosity, sympathy, schadenfreude… Various complex emotions wove into an invisible net, covering me. I ignored it all. I straightened my back, chin slightly raised, eyes looking straight ahead. My target was the office at the end of the corridor, the one belonging to Ethan. The sound of my heels became the only sound in this dead silence. Each step seemed to land on everyone’s hearts. They watched me like watching the lead actress of the year’s biggest drama personally take the stage. I walked past expressionlessly. The closer I got to the CEO’s office, the clearer the whispers became. “Oh my god, Emma really came!” “Dressed like that… is she here to declare war?” “There’s going to be a good show. Quick, quick, open the meeting software, let’s livestream this.” “Lily’s still in Mr. Brooks’s office. Saw her crying when she went in this morning, hasn’t come out.” I listened to these voices, the cold smile on my lips flashing briefly. Perfect. The audience was all in position. I walked to that closed, heavy solid wood door. The door’s soundproofing was excellent, but I could still faintly hear from inside the suppressed, intermittent sound of crying. Lily’s voice. I didn’t knock. Under everyone’s gaze, I raised my hand, directly turned the handle, and forcefully pushed open the door. The moment the door opened, the scene inside clearly entered my view, and also entered the countless pairs of eyes peeking from the corridor. Inside the office, Ethan stood by his desk. And Lily sat on the guest sofa, crying piteously, shoulders shaking. Ethan held a tissue in his hand, his body leaning slightly forward, about to hand it to her. His face was full of irritation and sympathy. Hearing the door open, both looked toward the entrance simultaneously. Seeing me, Lily’s crying stopped abruptly, like a duck with its neck grabbed. Panic flashed quickly through her eyes, then was covered by thicker grievance and tears. And Ethan, the moment he saw me, froze completely. The tissue in his hand just awkwardly stopped in mid-air. The entire office was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking at this “touching” scene before me. I smiled, breaking the silence. “Mr. Brooks, busy? I’m not interrupting, am I?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “399211”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

The day Liam Sterling’s underground romance blew up and trended at number one on Twitter, our shipping fandom was an absolute wasteland of tears. Because the girlfriend exposed in the photos… wasn’t me. 1 When the paparazzi video of Liam’s secret relationship hit the internet, my manager Dave was practically glowing with joy. For no other reason than this being the perfect opportunity to “convert” the fandom. The ship name for Liam and me was “Starbrook,” and right now, that tag was a chaotic mess of grief. Some people were cursing Liam for being a jerk, others were crying about how they had wasted their emotional investment, vowing never to ship actors again. And then there were the people who pitied me. They declared they were unstanning Liam and would only support me from now on. A few big fan accounts were still desperately trying to hold the line, arguing that since Liam hadn’t released an official statement, things could still turn around. Some fans were even analyzing the grainy, leaked video frame by frame, desperately trying to match the mystery girl’s outfit and silhouette to me. But unfortunately, it wasn’t me. I clicked on the video and watched it. It was short, only about a dozen seconds. A girl heavily bundled up in a jacket and wearing a face mask wrapped her arms around Liam’s waist as they got into a car parked by the curb. Then, they drove straight back to the Sterling family’s private estate. I watched it over and over again, until Dave explicitly warned me: “I’ve already heard from industry insiders. Liam’s team is planning to confirm the relationship, but to protect the girl, they aren’t going to reveal her identity.” Dave couldn’t control the smirk on his face. “We’re just going to sit back and reap the benefits. You don’t have to do a single thing, and an army of fans will shower you with sympathy. Later, I’ll leak a few PR articles about how heartbroken and haggard you look. Say nothing. We’ll weaponize the angst to turn those shippers into your hardcore solo fans, plus grab a wave of general public sympathy. It’s a massive win.” He looked at me with burning ambition, fully intending to mold me into the perfect victim. I didn’t say a word. 2 Eight hours after the paparazzi video went viral, I refreshed my feed and saw Liam’s official statement. He apologized to his fans with genuine sincerity. He admitted that he was indeed in a relationship, but because his partner wasn’t in the entertainment industry, he wanted to protect her privacy and keep her identity hidden. He asked for the fans’ understanding. The top comment under his post was from a fan asking: So you never loved Riley Brooks? All that protection and sweetness, all the care and affection you showed her… was it all fake? He replied directly to that comment with a single sentence: It was just editing. Please don’t take it seriously. Liam and I had been the number-one trending ship for ages. Our fans dedicated their lives to analyzing every variety show, behind-the-scenes clip, and drama episode for “crumbs,” editing together diabetes-inducing videos to prove our love was real. They always said, “If there is only one real couple in Hollywood, it has to be Starbrook.” I completely understood why the shippers were having a meltdown. They had invested real feelings into this for so long, only to suddenly realize that the leading man in this fairytale never intended to give the rose to the leading lady. I sat under the massive chandelier of the makeup room, staring at the words It was just editing. Please don’t take it seriously, and felt a wave of dizziness wash over me. Because I had to admit the truth—the fans weren’t the only ones who got too deep into the role. I did, too. But he had a girlfriend all along. All the protection, the care, the affection he showed on set and during press tours… it was all written off as “editing.” The fans weren’t the only ones suffering from unrequited delusions. I was, too. 3 I met Liam on the set of a massive epic fantasy series. Liam had been famous since he was a teenager. He came from an incredibly powerful, wealthy family and only acted because he genuinely loved the craft. He was low-key and humble. After starring in a high school coming-of-age movie at sixteen, he skyrocketed to fame, and the media spent a decade trying—and failing—to dig up dirt on his background. He had almost zero scandals and was famous for his professionalism. I had idolized him since I was sixteen, looking up to him the way a fan looks up to a superstar. That was until I was 23, fresh out of NYU Tisch, and walked onto the same set as him. It was a big-budget fantasy show. He was the male lead, and I was, at best, the fourth female lead. I had very little screen time. I played his young apprentice mage, quietly harboring a secret crush on him, following him everywhere. My shining moment in the script was sacrificing myself to take a fatal blow meant for him. The day I finally met Liam was my first day on set. He was tall, lean, and somehow even more handsome in person than on screen. He practically glowed in the crowd. Everyone had that jittery excitement of meeting an idol. The extras and crew were whispering on the sidelines, but no one dared to approach him. The first time I spoke to him was at the cast and crew kickoff dinner. Dave dragged me over to toast the director and producers. Liam was sitting next to the director, holding a cup of tea, looking down and listening quietly to the director speak. It’s hard to describe the feeling of that moment. We were in a loud, glamorous room full of networking and chatter, yet he was as calm as the tea in his hands, wrapped in his own invisible barrier that kept the noise at bay. I was so nervous during the toast that I stuttered through my introduction. The director laughed and pointed me out to Liam. “This is your little apprentice. The one who dies for you later. You two have scenes together next week.” He looked up, gave me a soft smile, and politely nodded. “Nice to meet you.” My palms were sweating the entire time. 4 Our first time talking alone was right before our first scene together. It was a simple scene, but this was Liam Sterling—the man I had looked up to since I was sixteen. I hid in a corner with my script, pacing and muttering my few lines over and over again until I heard a laugh behind me. It was a warm, forgiving laugh. I turned around and saw Liam standing there, watching me. He was very tall, and I was sitting on an apple box, so he was looking down at me, but it didn’t feel intimidating at all. Maybe it was the effortless, deep-rooted good manners he possessed that made people feel comfortable. His tone was incredibly gentle. “Don’t be nervous. It’s a very simple scene. Just relax.” My heart pounded like a drum. It was the overwhelming thrill of seeing your longtime idol standing right in front of you. I looked at him nervously and asked, “When we’re done shooting this, could I… get your autograph?” We gradually got to know each other. He was someone who naturally kept his distance, but everything about him screamed “good upbringing.” When interacting with the cast and crew, he was politely detached but incredibly considerate, never once making life hard for the staff. Yet, no matter how aloof his natural aura was, the moment the director yelled “Action,” he instantly slipped into character—becoming the bold, charismatic mentor. No matter how viral our “Starbrook” ship became later on, the truth was, during the six months I spent on that set until I wrapped, there was no secret romance. No hidden sparks. Our ship only blew up because of an accident. 5 It happened while the fantasy series was airing, a full year after we finished shooting. The female lead of the show, Vanessa Thorne, got caught having an affair with a married studio executive. The executive’s wife found out, and suddenly, hit pieces and leaked dirt on Vanessa were everywhere. Among the widely circulated leaks was a behind-the-scenes video of Vanessa and me. It was a scene where she was supposed to push me into a freezing river. She seemed to be in a terrible mood that day, and I was shoved into the icy water over and over again. Filming a summer scene in the dead of winter is pure agony, especially when you have to repeatedly plunge into a freezing river. She curled her lips into a smile. She had the face of an innocent heroine, but her smile made my skin crawl. Without a shred of apology, she looked down at me and said, “Sorry, I’m just not feeling it yet. Let’s do another take, okay?” We belonged to the same talent agency, but she was the reigning queen of the company. I couldn’t afford to cross her. I stayed silent, shivering uncontrollably as I dragged myself out of the freezing water. Just as we were setting up for the next take, Liam happened to walk by. He had incredible self-control. He was the kind of person who could get angry without ever raising his voice. He looked at my face, which was bruised and blue from the cold, and then turned to Vanessa with a polite, icy detachment. “How about you get in the water yourself to ‘find the feeling’? It might actually help improve your acting.” Vanessa’s face flushed crimson from humiliation, but she didn’t dare offend Liam. She had to swallow her pride. The video ended with Liam reaching a hand out to me, saying, “Get up. Go change your clothes. I’ll talk to the director. We’re cutting this scene for today.” I looked up at him from the muddy ground, looking exactly like a stray dog staring at its rescuer. At first, the comments under that leaked video were normal. People were mocking Vanessa’s fake nice-girl persona crumbling. But gradually, someone left a comment that started it all: Does anyone else think these two have insane chemistry? Maybe it was because the massive status gap between Liam and me perfectly fit the Prince and Cinderella trope. He was too perfect, and I checked every box of the underdog. Everyone loves a story about being saved. At first, it was just harmless jokes. None of us intentionally tried to push a fake romance. Liam didn’t need to, and my team didn’t dare try to leech off his fame—especially since I was a total nobody in Hollywood. People were mostly just having fun playing matchmaker. That was until someone made a deadly serious fan-edit of our characters: the timid apprentice who quietly loved her mentor, following him faithfully until she died in his arms. The video was gut-wrenchingly sad, paired with a hauntingly tragic song, and it completely broke the internet. And so, the internet started digging through our interviews and press tours. The moment that pulled thousands of fans down the rabbit hole was during a press junket for a streaming platform. The host handed out cute plushies to the main cast. I was the lowest on the call sheet, so I was seated at the very edge of the stage. But at the end of the interview, before the cameras cut, Liam held up his plushie, leaned past the female lead, the second lead, and the third lead, and handed it directly to me. “You younger girls usually like these things, right?” he asked. Then there was the reality show. Because I wasn’t famous, I barely got any screen time. But eagle-eyed fans noticed something in the background of another guest’s shot: Liam, ignoring the burning heat, using his bare hands to peel a roasted sweet potato for me, before dropping the softest, sweetest part of the core right into my bowl. The aloof, untouchable A-lister, and the D-list actress he spoiled rotten. That was how the fandom was born. But it turned out… it was all just a giant misunderstanding. 6 The next time I saw Liam was a week after his relationship was exposed. It was a pre-scheduled cast interview. Normally, only the big stars attend these promo events. The only reason I was invited was, undeniably, because our ship was so incredibly popular. But with his secret relationship now out in the open, my presence was deeply awkward. I saw him backstage before we went on. He had a private dressing room. I only caught a glimpse of him through the cracked door as I walked by. He was in profile, talking to his publicist, looking calm and at peace. He didn’t seem affected by the media circus at all. He had been in this industry long enough. Fan culture and internet traffic didn’t dictate his life anymore. His talent was his armor. I looked away. I played the role of a beautiful, decorative vase on stage. The producers had scrapped all the ship-baiting questions, and I tried my best to stay silent and invisible. But Liam, acting as if nothing had changed, continued to look out for me. He tossed conversational cues my way and made sure the camera caught me. The hosts exchanged knowing looks, and finally, chasing the inevitable clickbait, they asked about his love life. His expression shifted almost instantly. The sharp, cool lines of his face softened into something incredibly tender. Just thinking about her seemed to pull a smile to his lips. “I never intended to hide it,” he said. “She just didn’t want the public exposure.” “We’re childhood sweethearts. We’ve been together for ten years.” “When I was sixteen and defied my family to become an actor, she was the one who supported me. Through every low point and every highlight of my life, she’s been there. She is my light.” The camera panned to my face. I held my smile perfectly, cheering and clapping along with everyone else, showing absolutely no cracks in my armor. That is, until the very end of the interview, when the show decided to give Liam a “surprise” for the sake of ratings. It was a pre-recorded segment. A video tour of my college dorm room at NYU. The walls were plastered with Liam Sterling. Posters of his first movie, tickets to his fan events, cutouts from magazines. And then came an interview with my old college roommate—someone I barely spoke to—acting like my best friend. “Oh, Riley? She’s been obsessed with Liam since she was sixteen! She used to say Liam was her light. The only reason she became an actress was to follow that light.” Liam looked over at me in surprise. The host smiled politely, but her words were laced with venom. She asked Liam, “Did you know your little apprentice was your biggest fan?” Liam shook his head. “I had no idea.” He paused, then added, “She never mentioned it.” The host laughed, digging the trap deeper. “We all assumed you took such good care of her on set because you knew she was a super-fan! You’re usually known for being pretty distant, so we’re all very curious… why were you so protective of her?” The entire studio seemed to hold its breath. He smiled—open, handsome, and completely devoid of any romantic undertones. He answered simply, “She has a certain spark to her. It reminded me of myself when I was younger.” He paused, smiled again, and added, “Plus, she’s the exact same age as my little sister. We just clicked.” He was so painfully honest that the room went dead silent. Eventually, everyone forced a laugh, and the interview wrapped up awkwardly. I sat in the corner like a prop, trembling uncontrollably. I knew exactly what was going to happen. Those two quotes of his were going to be spliced together in a thousand different videos. Liam’s fans were going to use them to repeatedly slap the “Starbrook” shippers in the face. I knew the massive gap between us. I never dared to demand anything. I just wanted to quietly guard my tiny, insignificant, embarrassingly out-of-reach fantasy. Before he started treating me differently, I never had any delusions. He was the one who handed me that pathetic sliver of hope. But the light I had chased since I was sixteen had a light of his own. And my closely guarded, decade-long secret had just been ripped open, gutted, and put on display under the blazing studio lights for everyone to see. This pathetic, one-sided crush of mine was going to be dragged through the internet, dissected like a dead fish, making me look like an absolute clown for everyone to judge. But in front of the cameras, I had to keep smiling. A polite, flawless, impenetrable smile, no matter how many times I was scrutinized or asked about Liam Sterling. 7 The first time I saw Liam on a screen when I was 16, it wasn’t a movie or a TV show. It was an interview. At the time, my mother had just jumped off a building and killed herself after finding out my dad was having an affair. I was suffering from severe clinical depression. I slit my wrists and submerged myself in the bathtub. The small TV across from the bathroom was playing Liam’s interview. He was 20 years old. He had experienced the rollercoaster of Hollywood—skyrocketing to fame with his first movie, followed by a brutal dry spell, before finally winning Best Actor with a gritty indie drama. It was a very raw, deep interview. He looked striking, his eyes intense and mature. He carried an aura of quiet stability, the kind of calm that only comes after surviving massive highs and lows. I don’t remember what the host asked, but I will never forget what he said next. He smiled and said, “I get lost sometimes, too. I’ve wanted to quit a million times. But then I realized, no matter how hard things get, if you just grit your teeth and survive it, you’ll look back one day and realize it was just a bump in the road.” “There is nothing in this world to be afraid of. We only get to do this once. As long as you stay alive, you have infinite possibilities.” I don’t know where the courage came from, but suddenly, I wanted to stay alive long enough to see karma destroy my father and his mistress. So, soaking wet and bleeding, I dragged myself out of the tub, found some gauze, wrapped my wrist, and dialed 911. For a very long time after that, Liam Sterling was the light that saved me. He was my psychological anchor. Until the day I finally stood in front of him. How could my heart not race? How could I not have delusions? When you cross mountains and oceans to finally stand in front of the person who saved your life… When you discover that the real him is somehow even better than the version in your head… When he looks at you differently on set, on reality shows, in crowds, and specifically takes care of you… Even if the moon doesn’t belong to you, for a brief second, it feels like the moonlight is shining down just for you. With so many people editing romance videos of us, writing fanfiction, praying for us to get together, you slip into the illusion. It feels like if you just reach out your hand, you could touch the moon. It felt that close. But it was time to wake up from this one-woman play. After the show wrapped, Liam actually connected me with a few casting directors. He even gave me his private phone number, telling me to reach out if I ever needed anything. The director happened to be there when he gave it to me, and he looked shocked. “Liam, you really do adore your little apprentice.” The director turned to me with a grin. “Not many people get Liam’s private number. He seems friendly, but his standards are sky-high. Kid, you better hold on tight to your mentor.” See? All those mixed signals gave me false hope. But to him, he truly just saw me as a little sister, an established veteran looking out for a rookie he respected. He said I reminded him of his sixteen-year-old self—obsessed with acting, pure in his dedication. So he wanted to help me. But he didn’t know that the thing I was obsessed with, the thing I was dedicating myself to… was never acting. It was him. I stared blankly at our text thread. Honestly, I could have pretended nothing was wrong. I could have kept playing the innocent apprentice, utilizing his admiration to stay close to him. Maybe one day, I could have used his complete lack of defenses to climb my way to the top. But a long, long time later, I finally replied to his last text. I was direct and entirely honest. “Liam, you don’t need to look out for me anymore. I feel guilty.” I once read a book where a character is told to just have a clear conscience, to ignore what people say, and let the rumors bounce off her. And she replies, “But what if my conscience isn’t clear?” You are just a generous senior actor helping a rookie. But Liam, what if my conscience isn’t clear? What if I want more? I think Liam understood. He never texted back. And after that, he never looked out for me again. The moon is supposed to hang high in the sky, meant only to be looked at from afar.

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1 It was a perfectly ordinary day. Out of sheer boredom, I was searching Richard Sterling’s name on Instagram. Most of the results were just official business articles and press releases, but after scrolling for a long time, I accidentally stumbled upon his ex-wife’s account. How was I so sure she was Richard’s ex-wife? Because her profile picture was a photo of the two of them. It had to be a very old photo, though, because both of them looked so young and green. The post that popped up on the Explore page was incredibly mundane: she had shared a food blogger’s restaurant recommendation, tagged an account, and demanded in a spoiled, playful tone, “@richard_s, I want to eat here. Take me.” Except, it was posted eight years ago. That tagged account must have been Richard’s private one. I clicked on it first, but it was blank—probably deleted a long time ago. Then, I clicked into his ex-wife’s profile. Why did I click it? Because I was Richard’s girlfriend, and we were currently planning to get married. I had tried to indirectly ask Richard about his past with his ex-wife before. But every time I brought it up, he always looked like he didn’t want to dive into it. Eventually, I took the hint and stopped asking. When Richard and I got together, they had already been divorced for nearly three years. I had debated it for a long time before finally agreeing to date him. Lately, he would occasionally drop hints about marriage plans. Barring any surprises, we were highly likely to tie the knot within the next two years. I believe any woman is naturally curious about her current partner’s ex, regardless of whether they just broke up or got divorced. What women excel at most is filling in the blanks, using tiny details to mentally reconstruct every little moment of their past relationship. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I was harboring a secret thrill, eager to satisfy my inner gossip, as I began to snoop through this woman’s Instagram. Her most recent post was from two years ago—just a simple “liked” dynamic. Her update frequency in recent years was very low. Going further back, it was just normal, everyday life. I kept scrolling and scrolling; I wanted to start from her very first post. I don’t know how long I scrolled, but I finally hit the bottom. Her first post was from May 2011. I stopped, then slowly started scrolling back up. It was her daily life from eleven years ago. Reading between the lines, you could tell she was someone who loved life—positive, optimistic, with a harmonious family. She was obsessed with astrology, loved good food, and had two dogs. It was obvious she came from a wealthy background. But none of that was what I wanted to see. After swiping for a while longer, I finally found what I was looking for. That was the first time Richard appeared on her feed. It was Richard from eleven years ago. The photo quality was terribly blurry, but you could still trace the outlines of his current face—handsome, tall, and straight-backed, just a bit more youthful. They were at a café. He was looking toward the camera, smiling, and his joy seemed to pierce right through the low-resolution image. On the table sat a coffee and a milkshake. Her caption read: Iced Americano and Banana Milkshake. His iced Americano. Her banana milkshake. My heart skipped a beat. Honestly, I never expected they had once shared such ordinary, simple happiness. I knew from my own social circles that their families were of equal status. People had told me their marriage was just a union of two wealthy families, so I had always assumed it was strictly an arranged marriage of convenience. I never imagined they had shared the daily life of a normal, loving couple. After scrolling for a while longer, a dull ache started to form in my chest. Almost every single one of her posts bore the traces of their sweet, passionate romance. When he took her out to try a new food truck, she’d take a cute photo, tag him, and playfully complain about what tasted bad and what she liked. When he was out of town on business, she would tag him from across the country to tell him she missed him… Sharing every single meticulous detail like this pulled me right back to eleven years ago, dragging me directly into the era when they were deeply in love. The imagery was so vivid and concrete that it made my chest feel tight and suffocated. This was the Richard from eleven years ago—a Richard I didn’t know. A Richard who belonged to someone else. 2 There was a significant age gap between Richard and me. He was eleven years older. I was a dance instructor, and we first met at an industry gala where I was performing as a guest dancer during the intermission. Later, at the evening banquet, he politely came over and asked me for a dance. Since he was the only one there without a female companion, I gracefully accepted and danced with him. That was our first encounter. To be honest, men around Richard’s age are the most captivating. They possess a wealth of life experience—they are mature, grounded, intelligent, yet maintaining a polite distance. They know exactly how to perfectly cater to their partner’s emotions, their every movement exuding impeccable manners. Not to mention, he was incredibly handsome. With deep-set eyes, whenever he looked at you intently, it was like a whirlpool sucking you in. He was so captivating… and so dangerous. Not long after that, he showed up to invite me to dinner, claiming it was to thank me for my help that night. I was on high alert at first. Because of the nature of my profession, I frequently ran into scumbags—especially married men who liked to package themselves as deeply affectionate, romantic gentlemen. I mercilessly rejected Richard. He just smiled faintly and didn’t pester me. Later, he had someone deliver a bottle of perfume to me. It wasn’t obscenely luxurious—just a nice brand I could actually afford myself. I didn’t want to be overly dramatic, so I accepted it. Just like that, we were even. But it didn’t take long for me to owe him another favor. The circle we operated in was only so big. I frequently did commercial gigs with my friends from the dance studio, and it wasn’t uncommon to run into wandering hands. However, the men at these events, whether they were actual thugs or just newly rich developers, usually cared about their public image. If rejected, they wouldn’t normally cause a scene or throw a tantrum in public. But there are exceptions to every rule. When Richard walked over, a sleazy real estate developer, Mr. Dawson, was gripping my wrist, desperately trying to drag me into his chest. His mouth was foul: “I had my eye on you the second you got on stage. Look at this tiny waist, you really know how to move it. How much money do you even make dancing? Just get with me. I’ll give you ten grand a month, and I’ll even buy you a condo…” I looked around frantically for help, but everyone just stood by, smiling silently, watching the show. That is, until Richard walked over. He firmly grabbed Mr. Dawson’s wrist, smiled politely but with absolute, unquestionable authority, and said, “Mr. Dawson, didn’t you see she was saying no?” It was such a cliché hero-saves-the-beauty trope. But that was the beginning of everything, and like anyone else would, I inevitably fell for him. I was completely certain that the reason he and his ex-wife divorced had nothing to do with any flaws in his character. By the time we met, I knew he had been divorced for over two years. While dating him, it became obvious he wasn’t a player who just liked to fool around. Before me, he was the only man who attended every business gala without a date. He was always a solitary figure. Sometimes, in a massive ballroom filled with roaring music and deafening chatter, he would just stand there quietly, looking like a lonely outsider who didn’t belong in the scene at all. I didn’t know what he was so lonely for. His business empire was massive, his family background incredibly prominent yet understated. Wherever he appeared, people flocked to him, treating him like the center of the universe. Later, when I finally gave in and agreed to be with him, he gave me a profound sense of security. He never crossed my boundaries, though he had normal desires for intimacy, like holding hands and kissing. But he always, always asked for my consent first. Because it was my first real relationship, he controlled the pace and rhythm of everything. He even told me, “If you ever feel like we’re moving too fast or you’re uncomfortable, you have to tell me.” He would be the first to tell me good morning, and he’d wait for me to go to bed just to say goodnight. He reported his itinerary to me without fail. I picked out all the profile pictures for his social media accounts. We used matching wallpapers and matching cover photos. And I was absolutely certain I was the only woman in his life. He gave me every little detail, all the security in the world, and spent all his free time outside of work on me. Once, he was out of the country for a conference. During that time, I booked a massive New Year’s Eve performance for a major television network, but I was completely stuck trying to choose the right background music for my choreography. Despite the brutal time difference, he stayed on the phone with me at 1:00 AM his time, sharing a Spotify playlist with me. As I stood in front of the massive floor-to-ceiling mirror trying to find the right feeling, he manually skipped tracks for me, one by one. Every time I asked hesitantly, “Richard, are you still there?” He would always reply promptly, telling me he was. I had read a quote once: If you want to know if a man loves you, see if he’s willing to spend money on you when he’s broke, and see if he’s willing to spend time on you when he’s rich. After dragging himself through a brutal, mentally exhausting day of conferences in a different time zone, he stayed up deep into the night, keeping me company and skipping songs for me until I found the perfect one. I honestly didn’t know what could possibly express his sincerity more than that. He loved me. He truly loved me. He wasn’t just playing around, and he wasn’t just trying to sleep with me. I was absolutely certain of it. But now, I wasn’t so sure. Did he love me? Or rather… did he really like me? 3 The Richard on his ex-wife’s Instagram was a Richard I didn’t recognize at all. In December 2011, he was on a business trip to Chicago. His ex-wife posted a pathetic-sounding update, tagging him: Someone’s out of town, and now my breakfast, lunch, and dinner are completely compromised. Just two days later, she posted again at 3:00 AM. The photo was a bowl of noodles topped with a poached egg and some greens. The caption read: Someone rushed back overnight! I whined that I was starving, so he didn’t even take off his suit before heading into the kitchen. We didn’t have many ingredients left tonight, so we just had to make do! For the next consecutive week, her feed was filled with different, lavish meals. There was even a photo of Richard in the kitchen, simmering soup. In the spacious, brightly lit kitchen, he was wearing comfortable loungewear, standing tall and handsome by the counter. He held a ceramic ladle in his hand, his side profile entirely focused as he watched the soup in the pot. The comments were flooded with their mutual friends teasing him, all calling Mr. Sterling the “perfect 24/7 boyfriend.” It was such a noisy, vibrant, warm glimpse into their life. How happy they must have been. The happiness was so overwhelming that, even eleven years later, it still bled through the screen, making my eyes turn red and allowing jealousy to completely blind my heart. I had no idea Richard knew how to cook. We always went out to various high-end restaurants. He employed three private chefs at home, each specializing in a different cuisine. Once, while we were waiting for our food to arrive at a restaurant, I casually asked him, “Do you know how to cook?” He had just smiled, looked at me, and said, “A little.” I had looked at him with eyes full of expectation. I really wanted to ask, Then can you cook something for me? A man as smart as him definitely knew what I was hoping for. But he didn’t follow up on the topic, so I didn’t push it. I wondered, if I had just bluntly asked him to make a dish for me right then, what would he have said? He might have agreed, or he might have refused. I wasn’t sure. By early 2012, they were preparing for their wedding. The wedding logistics, the dresses, the honeymoon destination, how to handle the receptions in their respective hometowns. Naturally, there were occasional arguments. For instance, over the color palette for the floral arrangements. She wanted blue, but Richard wanted red. She wrote on Instagram: He said blue is a cold color, but red is romantic and passionate. It’s fearless. He said he wants me to be passionately happy forever. Such a romantic, fiercely direct Richard. He never discussed anything with me. Perhaps it was his sheer breadth of experience and vision, but every decision he made for me was always the right one. I rarely argued with him. I was already used to obediently accepting all of his perfectly arranged plans. He would just go ahead and handle everything that was good for me; I never had to worry or ask about a single detail. I used to think this was his way of spoiling me. But now, looking at this, I was so incredibly envious. I was envious of the woman who had that version of Richard. She complained online about his Virgo perfectionism because, for the wedding balloons, he bought ten different types and personally compared their thickness and texture until he found the one he was most satisfied with. I could never reach this grounded, everyday version of Richard. Nowadays, there were very few things he ever needed to do with his own hands. All he had to do was blink, and countless people would scramble to anticipate his needs. He probably no longer had the energy or the patience to meticulously handle every tiny detail like that anymore. Then, I saw their wedding photos. Various locations, various color grades. Without exception, every single photo radiated pure bliss. That was the first time I had ever seen Richard smile with his guard completely down. His eyes were crinkled deep at the corners. He was unbelievably handsome and charming, radiating an overwhelming, spirited energy. Of course, he smiled at me often, too. But that was the composed, measured smile of a mature man who had been weathered by time. The corners of his lips would turn up slightly, but no matter the occasion, his eyes were always calm and collected. Plus, he didn’t like taking pictures. On my birthday, he spent the whole day with me. I pulled out a Polaroid camera to take a photo of him, but he instinctively reached out and covered most of the lens. With a gentle but unquestionable smile, he rejected the idea, telling me, “Baby, be good. I don’t like taking pictures.” I put the camera away, and I never tried to take another photo of him again. Yet, his figure appeared in countless photos on her feed. He had never compromised with me. The principles and boundaries of a fully grown man aren’t something you can shake just by acting cute and whining. They had a set of wedding photos taken at Richard’s alma mater. They were alumni. His ex-wife wrote in the caption: I want to go back to my freshman year, walk into the finance department, grab the hand of the guy who didn’t even know me yet, and ask him: If I told you we were going to get married in seven years, would you believe me? Piecing the clues together, I could map out the entire storyline. Such a classic romance. Families of equal standing, attending the same Ivy League college, studying abroad together. In a foreign country, they looked out for each other. Richard’s impressive cooking skills were probably honed while they were living abroad. Just so he could cook for her. She could re-post random recipes on Instagram, tag Richard, and righteously demand: Make this for me. These were their memories. I felt like a rat in a dark sewer, a cockroach scuttling out only at night, the evil stepmother in Snow White, secretly spying on their entire sweet past. It was such a disgusting thing to do. But I couldn’t stop myself. 4 Richard said he wanted to marry me. It happened late one night. I woke up in the middle of the night and found him smoking on the balcony. I walked over barefoot and silently leaned against him. In that moment, the loneliness radiating from this man was so palpable. I just wanted to keep him company. He put out his cigarette and raised his hand to stroke my hair, over and over. Neither of us spoke. We just quietly looked at the night-blooming cereus flowering on the balcony in the dead of night. A fleeting beauty, but breathtaking. It bloomed silently under the moonlight. I was a bit sleepy, so I laid my head down on his lap. I don’t know how much time passed, but just as I was dozing off, he suddenly asked me, “Once I’m done with this busy period, let’s get married.” I snapped awake instantly, looking up at him in utter shock. He looked down at me, perfectly calm. It didn’t seem like a joke or a spur-of-the-moment impulse. But looking deep into his eyes, I couldn’t read his emotions or figure out what he was actually thinking at all. He gave me a promise and a future. I had actually daydreamed about our wedding scene, but he didn’t like it. He didn’t want a high-profile, lavish spectacle. Because of his status, throwing a wedding required considering entirely too many variables. Beyond the wedding details, there were the complex political and corporate relationships to manage. His second marriage would inevitably be heavily scrutinized by the media, which brought in a whole other layer of social politics. He just didn’t want to waste his energy on it. His idea was that we should just go to City Hall and sign the papers. Of course, when he brought it up, he used a very consultative tone. He acted like a gentleman, willing to listen—if I didn’t like the idea, we could do it my way. But I loved him. I loved him so much, and I was terrified of causing him frustrating trouble. So, despite being incredibly disappointed, I agreed. I figured, as long as he loves me and genuinely wants to marry me, what else could possibly be more important? Sometimes, the saying is really true: Ignorance is bliss. For example, knowing the sheer amount of time and energy he had poured into his other wedding. Or the romantic, wildly sweet honeymoon they went on afterward. After they got married, they traveled to countless cities and countries. Maui, Aspen, Miami, Sedona, Yellowstone, New Orleans… They traveled to Italy, Australia, Denmark, the UK, France, and Japan together. They went skydiving, swimming, rock climbing, scuba diving. They did so many things together… After finishing one stop, she would immediately tag Richard online, playfully ordering him to plan the itinerary for the next destination. And under her command, he would meticulously arrange everything. That kind of love—answering every call, granting every request. It had been eleven years. I knew I shouldn’t be jealous of an eleven-year-old ghost. What was I to him back then? Even now, what did I truly amount to? Richard would never have that kind of time for me. What I mean is, he would never carve out the time to purely and entirely accompany another person to re-do all those locations and activities. Our dates consisted of operas, dance recitals, art exhibits, and VIP restaurants. Everywhere we went, we were surrounded by people who had already arranged everything perfectly. He didn’t have to lift a finger or spend a single minute planning. Our dates were standard, by-the-book routines. After the wedding, their love and daily life were filled with trivial, ordinary moments. He did so many childish things with her. They signed a “Marriage Contract” promising never to divorce, even though it had absolutely no legal weight. She knew the PINs to all of Richard’s bank accounts, knew the passwords to all his social media. He remembered every anniversary, every holiday, and every single gift managed to surprise and thrill her. Perhaps because their family backgrounds were so similar, their social circles completely overlapped. Their mutual friends were the absolute elites in their respective fields. Richard had taken me to his social gatherings before, but they only ever spoke about investment strategies I couldn’t understand. I had absolutely no interest in it. I loved the art of dance; I loved Isadora Duncan. We had nothing in common to talk about. I was visibly bored, and after that, he stopped taking me to those events I disliked. I didn’t think much of it back then, but now, it felt like a fishbone lodged in my throat. For the first time, I clearly realized that his world was a world I could never truly enter. Richard would let her look through his phone. He would hold her hand constantly. He went shopping with her, walking block after block. When her feet hurt from her heels, they traded shoes. She shuffled along in his oversized dress shoes, and he walked behind her, carrying her high heels. They worked out together, walked the dogs together, went for night runs together. They debated home renovation designs and went furniture shopping together… We had a shared property, too. I had contributed a small portion of the down payment. Even though it was a drop in the bucket, I continued to deceive myself into believing it was “our” shared home. The renovation was entirely outsourced. The design firm’s proposal was so detailed it included five different tile patterns for the master bathroom alone. During the process, neither of us asked a single question or participated in any of the design details. Three months later, the bare concrete shell was transformed into a sophisticated, luxurious turnkey mansion. This was not the Richard I knew—the man who handled everything with effortless ease, who was always breezy, distant, and unbothered. He had dated, married, and spoiled his partner just like a regular, ordinary man. He devoted his entire heart and soul. He spent massive amounts of time and energy maintaining the relationship. He paid attention to makeup brands and categories. He personally simmered herbal, restorative soups for her. He took beautiful photos of her. He stayed awake all night by her bedside when she was sick. He scoured every street and alley to take her to eat foods he thought she might like… When it came to her, he handled everything personally, leaving no stone unturned. These tiny details were deeply rooted in the long river of time. This was his youth. These were the vanished years that I could never touch, no matter how hard I tried. As much as I hated to admit it, I had to accept the truth: in my relationship with Richard, I was the subordinate one. I depended on him, constantly terrified of losing him, forever anxious and insecure. I only accepted what he gave me, but I never dared to open my mouth and ask for anything. Because I was afraid he would find me annoying. I never dared to rightfully demand he do anything for me. I never touched his personal belongings. I certainly never threw tantrums or demanded he coddle me. Perhaps out of psychological pride, I never swiped his credit card either, even though Richard had explicitly told me I was allowed to be demanding and that he would always catch me. But I still didn’t dare. Because I was terrified that if I acted out even a little bit, this man would abandon me. God knows how much I envied that woman. I was so, so incredibly jealous of her. Because in a relationship, a woman will only make reckless demands when she is absolutely certain the man loves her, when she knows he will never leave her.

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I spent five years training Oliver into a docile, obedient boyfriend. Yet, on his twenty-third birthday, he still leaped into action to save a beautiful girl in a wheelchair. I finally believed it: no matter what I did, I couldn’t stop him from meeting the true “female lead” and falling in love with her. So, I broke up with him. I even told our mutual friends: “Oliver? He’s just an ungrateful stray dog. Whoever pets him, he follows.” Rumor had it. When Oliver heard those words, he bought a plane ticket out of the country that very day and completely dropped off the grid. Three years later, on a random night. I was pinned against my front door by a violent, unhinged man. He handed me a switchblade, grabbed my right hand, and guided it toward the leather choker around his neck. “Hazel, I am your dog. Yours alone.” “If you don’t want me, then kill me.” 1 I had a crush on Oliver for exactly ten years. But just yesterday, I had an awakening. I realized I was just cannon fodder in a romance novel. And Oliver’s destined soulmate wasn’t me. Just as I was agonizing over whether to bury this decade-long love deep in my heart forever… Oliver used our college graduation party as an excuse to publicly confess his feelings to me. I was ecstatic, but I didn’t dare say yes right away. Because I knew the truth. By the end of the novel, the male lead would only end up with the female lead. Even if I accepted his confession now. I would inevitably be dumped later. I was terrified of heartbreak, and even more terrified of ending up like my character in the original book—abandoned by Oliver in the pouring rain. So. I didn’t reach out to take the roses he offered. “Oliver, I don’t think we’re a good match.” “My tastes are a bit unconventional. You probably wouldn’t be able to handle it.” Oliver immediately insisted: “I can handle anything.” I took a deep breath, curling my lips into a wicked, playful smile: “I’m extremely dominant. I want a future boyfriend who is gentle, unconditionally obedient, and willing to be my dog.” “Bark for me.” Amidst the roaring crowd, Oliver dropped to one knee in front of me and gently hooked his finger around mine. “Master, take me home.” “Please?” 2 The scene from that day spread through our entire social circle like wildfire. Oliver’s iconic “willing to be a dog for love” moment was recorded by a classmate, posted on TikTok, and blew up. It hit a million likes overnight. It drew in countless people who actually knew Oliver. [Holy crap, I know Oliver. He’s our varsity basketball captain. Handsome, straight-A student, 6’2″, and old money. How the hell did he end up barking like a dog?!] [Bro, who’s more pathetic than me? Oliver was my crush. I simped for him forever and got rejected. Now I know: simps don’t like other simps.] [Manifesting this exact kind of boyfriend. Just once before I die, please.] [Can you guys drop the details on what exactly he does as a ‘dog’ behind closed doors?] … Everyone cheered for our relationship. But I was the only one with a lingering sense of dread. I was counting down the days every single second. According to the original plotline… How many days were left until Zoe made her appearance? Over the course of five years, I trained Oliver into an incredibly obedient and attentive boyfriend. Oliver even created a couple’s account for us to vlog our ridiculously sweet daily lives. In just a few short years, it grew into an empire with tens of millions of followers. Even the internet unanimously approved: [OP, you know the internet usually tells everyone to break up, right? But your boyfriend is too perfect. If you ever dump him, pass him to me.] [I have sensitive skin, can I also get this exact brand of boyfriend?] [Girl, how did you manage to bag the best guy in the world? Drop the link, I’m ordering ten.] [After doom-scrolling through so many toxic relationship videos, seeing OP and her boyfriend literally cured my depression.] I finally breathed a sigh of relief. I figured… Even if Zoe showed up eventually, it shouldn’t cause any real damage. But on Oliver’s twenty-third birthday, the inevitable accident happened anyway. 3 Oliver had just closed his eyes to make a wish over his birthday candles. Suddenly, he bolted out the door like a madman, sprinting straight toward the steep incline across from the cafe. On the hill, a girl’s wheelchair had lost control and was rolling backward at terrifying speed. Just as the wheelchair was about to tip over, in the absolute nick of time… Oliver threw himself forward, using his own body to catch Zoe. Zoe fell into his arms, completely unharmed. But Oliver’s forehead hit a stone in the planter, and blood started streaming down his face. Watching the entire scene unfold, I literally forgot how to breathe. Oliver is a cold person by nature. He doesn’t toss spare change to the homeless, he doesn’t help girls open water bottles, he doesn’t help the elderly cross the street, and he certainly doesn’t give up his seat on the subway. For such a selfish, indifferent guy to suddenly turn into a hero… My heart, which had been hanging by a thread for five years, finally died. I ran out the side door of the cafe like I was fleeing for my life. I wandered aimlessly down the busy city streets. The pale sky suddenly dropped a few scattered raindrops. In that moment. I finally believed that no matter what I did, I couldn’t stop the universe from forcing Oliver and the female lead to meet and fall in love. So what were these past five years? Just a long, pathetic joke in Oliver’s life. Oliver finally realized I was gone and sent a text: [Hazel, where did you go?] I typed out a massive paragraph, deleted it, typed more, and eventually whittled it down to a single sentence: [Let’s break up. I’ve wanted to for a long time.] I felt that even if I told him the truth about the novel, it wouldn’t matter. Maybe at first, he would swear up and down that he would never change his mind. But as time went on… The scales in his heart were fated to tip toward Zoe. Just like in the original book. Today, Zoe was supposed to be in a run-down neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, miles away from here. And Oliver was supposed to meet her there. See? Even though I kept Oliver far away from that neighborhood… Zoe still appeared. They were the destined pair. I was just an insignificant glitch in the matrix. The next day, when I saw Zoe getting added to a group chat that Oliver and I were both in by one of our mutual friends… I wasn’t even surprised. She was the female lead, after all. She was meant to slowly infiltrate his life. My friends would probably all become her friends in the end. 4 Oliver, completely blindsided by the sudden breakup, was frantic. He texted me: [Hazel, listen to me. I swear to God I have no idea why I suddenly ran out there to save that girl today.] [I didn’t even see her at first, do you believe me?] […Hazel, please reply. I’m begging you.] I sat by the bay window, leaving my phone on the cushion, letting the screen light up and go dark over and over again. The phone was on silent, vibrations off. No calls would make a sound. Just like that. I sat there and watched the pouring rain all night. The next morning, I put on flawless, sharp makeup and went to work like usual. My coworker Becca was a mutual friend of Oliver and me. She had somehow heard through the grapevine that Oliver and I were fighting, and she tried to play peacemaker: “Hazel, what’s going on with you and Oliver? Is it really over that wheelchair girl?” “She’s just a random stranger. Oliver was probably just acting on instinct.” “If you break up with him over this, you’re punishing him for the rest of his life just for doing one good deed.” I smiled faintly: “You don’t understand him.” “Oliver? He’s just an ungrateful stray dog. Whoever pets him, he follows.” “I set my terms. I said I wanted a boyfriend who was obedient and submissive. If he can’t follow my rules, he’s out.” Honestly, when I said those harsh words… My heart was breaking more than anyone else’s. But I had already tried my best. It didn’t work. So be it. I might as well clean up the mess and salvage what was left of my pride. That way, years from now, when he and Zoe were lying in bed talking about me, my memory would at least be cold, aloof, and untouchable. 5 I got home from work. And saw a new string of texts from Oliver. He was confronting me about what I had said to Becca: [So, Hazel, in your eyes, I’m just a dog you throw away the second you get bored, and then you have the nerve to call me an ungrateful stray?] [How did I never know you were this kind of person!] I replied instantly: [Well, now you know.] [I really am that despicable.] Oliver shot back: [I want to fucking bite you to death, Hazel.] [I refuse to break up. Get back together with me. Right now.] I responded with a swift, merciless ‘Block’. Starting the very next day, Oliver completely vanished from my world. It wasn’t until two weeks later that I found out the truth. Rumor had it, the night I blocked Oliver, he bought the earliest flight out of the country the next morning. Becca said Oliver had asked her to pass on a message. “What did he say?” I asked, flipping through some files, feigning total indifference without even looking up. “He said he hates you to death.” “He left the TikTok account to you. You can rebrand it and monetize it however you want, and you can delete all the old videos. He said he doesn’t care anymore…” After finishing, Becca tried to comfort me: “Hazel, how did things blow up this badly between you two?” “I really feel like he just said all that out of anger. Don’t take it to heart. Once you calm down, just snap your fingers and he’ll be crawling back to apologize…” “No.” I shook my head, cutting her off: “We are really, truly over.” On the outside, I was a picture of perfect calm. But those words echoed violently in my head. From the moment I got to work until the second I went to sleep, they haunted me. I sat paralyzed on my sofa, staring blankly into space for hours. It wasn’t until the washing machine finished its cycle and beeped that the trance broke. And two streams of scalding tears finally rolled down my cheeks. Goodbye forever, Oliver. Just hate me. Never forgive me. 6 One night, three years later. I dragged my exhausted body, on the verge of fainting, and finally made it to my front door. My boss was a tyrant. He knew my period cramps were making me want to die, but he absolutely refused to let me take a half-day off. To make it worse, he intentionally scheduled a “last-minute meeting” right at clock-out, torturing me for two extra hours. Maybe I was already delirious. I dug through my purse for an eternity but couldn’t find my keys. I also completely failed to notice the long, dark shadow looming over my head. Before I knew it, I was violently slammed against my own front door. I jumped out of my skin, stammering in terror: “M-Mr. Mugger, let’s talk this out.” “I have an infectious disease, so assaulting me is a bad idea. How about you just rob me? I have 67 bucks in my Venmo, I can send it to you right now. Do you have a QR code? If it’s not enough, I can try to scrape some more together.” “Heh.” The violent, brooding man let out a dark, mocking scoff. He lowered his gaze and pulled down his face mask. I hadn’t seen him in three years. I don’t know what country Oliver had been living in. But he looked incredibly dark, melancholic, and dangerously unhinged. I strained to look up at him. He was so tall. He towered over me by more than a full head. “Oliver, could you duck down a bit? My neck hurts.” Oliver froze for a second, but obediently lowered his head. I pushed my luck and asked: “What do you want from me?” “I just need you to do me a favor.” Oliver pulled a folding pocketknife from his jacket and handed it to me. Then, he wrapped his large hand tightly around my right hand, slowly guiding the blade toward the leather choker around his neck. “I spent three years figuring it out.” “Hazel, I am your dog. Yours alone.” “If you don’t want me, then kill me.”

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I was the quintessential bad girl. I spent five years chasing Carter Sterling, the flawless golden boy everyone admired. He was aloof, arrogant, and constantly looked down on me. “You smell like smoke. It’s disgusting.” I would just shamelessly wrap my arms around his neck, bite his lip, and pass the nicotine lozenge from my mouth into his. After dating for a year, I hand-crafted a pair of custom rings. I ran off to find him, ecstatic, only to overhear someone asking what he thought of the Dupont heiress. His eyes were indifferent: “Not bad. Pretty obedient.” My breath caught in my throat. Then, I heard them ask what he thought of me. “Too wild. She’s not marriage material. I like good girls.” I was wild. She was good. I figured, since the answer was out, it was time to let go. 1 When Carter got home, he saw me chewing on a mint. He frowned. “Smoking again?” Usually, when I saw that look on his face, I would’ve already thrown myself at him, hanging off his shoulders and kissing him over and over, forcing the man who seemed as cold as the winter moon to flush with desire. Then, I’d smile and ask, “Can you taste the smoke?” His eyes would darken, his thumb subconsciously rubbing my waist, but his face would remain stern. “It’s the middle of the day. Stop messing around!” “Can’t you have a little decency as a woman?” When facing the guy I’d loved for seven years, what did I know about decency? I would just loop my finger around his tie and give it a gentle tug. “Baby, why don’t we go to the bedroom so you can teach me?” A faint blush would quietly creep up the tips of Carter’s ears, brighter than the lipstick smudged on the corner of his mouth. His voice would grow husky, though he’d still try to sound proper. “Teach you what?” I would give a wicked smile, my red lips curving as I pulled him step by step into the bedroom. But this time, I didn’t have the energy. I swallowed the crushed mint and walked right past him. His Adam’s apple bobbed. His gaze was dark and unreadable, as if he was expecting something. I chased him for five years and we had been together for one. I had seen disappointment, disgust, and impatience in his eyes. When it came to me, the only things missing were love and anticipation. He only agreed to be my boyfriend because, when his startup company was first getting off the ground and he was cornered by debt collectors, I called up my guys from the bar to bail him out. Using a mix of threats and cash, I threw down a hundred grand to settle his debts. At the time, he looked at me with distant, detached eyes. “What do you want?” I rested my chin on my hand, my eyes carefully tracing his features. He had lost some of the boyish charm from seven years ago. I smiled, looking as captivating as I could. “I like you. Be my boyfriend.” It was my twentieth confession. He was silent for a long time. Just when I thought he was going to reject me again, a soft “Yeah” broke the silence. I was instantly overjoyed, practically jumping up to kiss him on the cheek. My friends from the bar all cheered, hyping us up and chanting for a real kiss on the lips. My face felt hot. I looked at Carter. But his icy, frostbitten expression was like a bucket of cold water. He didn’t like me. He looked down on me. But I thought it didn’t matter. Time would change everything. I was so stupid. I suddenly laughed. Carter tugged at his collar with his long, articulate fingers, looking impatient. “What are you acting crazy for now?” “I don’t have any contact with Chloe Dupont anymore. If you keep throwing these baseless tantrums, then let’s just break up.” Over the past year, he had threatened to break up with me countless times. If you smoke again, we break up. If you drink, we break up. If you dye your hair, we break up. To keep him, I willingly shut down my bar, kicked the habits he deemed trashy, and tried my best to learn how to act like a refined, high-society lady. After all, my wildness was originally born because of him anyway. But this time, I was just tired. “Okay, Carter. Let’s break up.” 2 A flicker of turbulence flashed through Carter’s indifferent eyes. Then, he lazily pulled out his phone and tossed it on the table. “Spit it out. Who do you want me to delete this time? Who do you want me to fire?” Once, I made him fire an assistant who “accidentally” spilled coffee on him just to touch his chest, and I made him delete the Dupont heiress who was constantly making eyes at him. Back then, he looked at me with pure exhaustion. “It’s like explaining color to a blind person.” I panicked. Carter wasn’t born into extreme wealth, but he became a rising star in the business world through his sheer intellect and Ivy League degrees. And me? I dropped out of a garbage community college. We were worlds apart. People around us constantly dropped hints, telling me to let Carter go so he could step into a broader world. And that “broader world” was Chloe, the Dupont heiress. Carter and I hadn’t been together that long, and I didn’t want to break up. So, when I caught them on a date. Sitting in the high-end, exclusive restaurant I had wanted to go to for ages but could never get a reservation for. I didn’t even dare to go up and expose them. I didn’t dare question him. Late that night, Carter came home. I kept my tone casual. “What were you up to? You’re home so late.” Carter took off his jacket, answering carelessly. “Had dinner with an important client.” My heart trembled. My eyes instantly welled up with tears, and I turned my back to him, refusing to speak. He quietly walked up behind me and suddenly wrapped his arms around me. “It’s just that the liaison I was meeting with happened to be a woman, the Dupont heiress. Just out of basic courtesy, I drove her home, so it got a little late.” His tone was deep and gentle. Carter rested his chin in the crook of my neck, his hot breath hitting my skin. Even though it wasn’t an overtly romantic gesture. I still couldn’t stop myself from blushing. “Oh? So who’s prettier? The Dupont heiress or me?” It was just meant to be a flirty question, but it made Carter think for a long time before he finally answered. “You guys have different styles. You can’t just objectively say who is prettier.” His attitude snapped back to his usual serious demeanor, his tone turning cold. “You shouldn’t ask questions like that. Saying anyone is unattractive is just demeaning.” I was stunned by the lecture and pulled myself out of his embrace. “But saying I’m pretty doesn’t mean you’re saying Miss Dupont is ugly. Why would it be demeaning? It’s not like Miss Dupont is going to hear our private conversation, right?” He pressed his lips together and stared at me, his eyes dark. I felt incredibly wronged. From the day we got together until now, he had never once complimented me, nor had he shown any real affection. I just wanted a little bit of favoritism. A tiny bit of proof. But he just stood up in silence and walked upstairs without a moment’s hesitation. I got mad too. I wrapped myself in a blanket and slept on the living room couch all night. For the entire night, I didn’t sleep a wink, and Carter never came downstairs. He just left me down there, completely alone. 3 The only reason I stopped being mad at Carter was that he bought an SUV. He knew I loved driving heavy-duty trucks, but after getting together with him, I stopped going off-roading in the countryside and sold my old rig. My anger vanished into thin air. I made a pot of soup, walked into his office, and said excitedly: “Baby, I made chicken soup. Let’s eat together.” Carter rejected it immediately. “I can’t. I have a lunch meeting.” I frowned. “Alright, then have some when you get home tonight.” “Carter, that Thai place on West Street is actually pretty good,” a woman said as she suddenly pushed the door open. She looked a little surprised to see me. “And who is this?” “My girlfriend,” Carter stood up, then turned to me. “This is Miss Dupont.” Chloe Dupont stepped forward, incredibly poised and natural, and shook my hand. “I always wondered what kind of amazing woman could tie Carter down. I finally get to meet you today.” I just smiled and stayed quiet. Carter put his hands in his pockets. “Tara, head back first. Miss Dupont and I have business this afternoon.” But Chloe took the initiative to invite me. “Oh, don’t be like that! It’s nothing serious, just grabbing lunch. Let Miss Evans come with us.” “Alright then,” Carter agreed. Turns out, the “lunch meeting” was just a meal between the two of them. The way Carter agreed made me acutely aware of the difference in his attitude. He was never that accommodating with me. On the way to the restaurant, they walked side by side, chatting animatedly. Every time I tried to interject. Chloe would miraculously find a topic Carter was deeply interested in and talk right over me. Gradually, I fell behind, putting distance between us. At the restaurant, Carter pulled out Chloe’s chair for her first, paused, and then pulled out mine. I could see it clearly. I was only enjoying Carter’s gentlemanly behavior by riding on Chloe’s coattails. The waiter handed the menu to Carter. Carter raised a hand to stop him. “Give it to the ladies.” The waiter looked enlightened and handed it to Chloe. “My apologies. The girlfriend should order first.” As soon as those words hung in the air, everyone froze for a second. Anyone with eyes could see that they looked like the perfect match. And neither of them bothered to explain the misunderstanding to the waiter. We finished the meal in suffocating silence. As we were leaving, Chloe grabbed my hand. “Miss Evans, please don’t mind what happened. You’re Carter’s real girlfriend.” I pulled my hand away. “I know.” Carter frowned. Chloe playfully stuck her tongue out, turning to look at Carter. “Carter, I hope your girl doesn’t put you in the doghouse tonight!” Carter’s brow relaxed. “Don’t joke like that. Tara isn’t that petty.” I finally got a compliment from him, so why didn’t I feel happy? Watching the picture-perfect harmony between the two of them. I felt like a complete third wheel. 4 After that meeting with Chloe. The Chloe that he described as “obedient” and “proper” started appearing between us with increasing frequency. Consequently, my alone time with Carter dwindled to almost nothing. We started fighting all the time. After another nasty argument over me demanding he fire an assistant, we barely saw each other for almost a month. Carter finally took the initiative and offered to take me on a vacation. I wanted to make up too, so I naturally agreed. But it was ruined by a single phone call. Under the dim light, Carter’s profile looked exceptionally handsome. After hanging up, he kissed my lips, sweeping away the peppermint lozenge I had gotten addicted to. Just as I was about to kiss back, he pushed me away. “Chloe says she’s coming to Miami too. We’ll hang out together when we get there.” When did “Miss Dupont” turn into “Chloe”? My face fell. “Again? You’re running a business, not selling your soul to her.” Carter withdrew his arms from around me, his tone hardening. “Don’t speak so crassly.” “If something was actually going on between me and her, do you think I’d be contacting her right in front of your face?” They seemed entirely transparent. Carter reported to me every single time he was alone with Chloe. But can the things you see—and the things you don’t—really be explained away so easily? I rolled over and turned my back to him. Carter sighed, turned off the lamp, and hugged me from behind. “The Dupont Group is currently assessing whether our company is worth investing in. Chloe just moved back from abroad and doesn’t have any friends here. She just sees me as an older brother.” “I merely treat her like an investor. I’m just being respectful. I don’t have any other intentions.” “I don’t want to fight anymore. Can we just have a good trip?” His body temperature was naturally high. Leaning against him felt warm and comforting, just like the heat radiating from his palm when he saved me seven years ago. I understood how hard it was for him to build his startup, so it made sense that he treated Chloe differently. After all, having the backing of the Dupont family was a massive temptation for any ordinary company. I temporarily choked down my anger, but by the very next day, it flared right back up. Chloe basically took my place for the entire trip. One minute it was Carter, I need water, the next she couldn’t open a bottle cap, and then she was cold and needed a towel. I couldn’t lay on my beach chair anymore. I bluntly said I was getting in the water. Carter said he’d come with me. Chloe, who had been lounging perfectly fine, immediately jumped up and said she wanted to join. I ignored her and headed straight to the cabana to change into my swimsuit. Chloe and I finished changing and walked out at the same time. Carter’s eyes landed on me first, then quickly shifted to her. She excitedly twirled in her sundress. “Carter, does it look good?” But before she could spin even a few times, Carter stepped in and stopped her. Chloe instantly put on a pitiful, pouting face. Carter sighed helplessly, his explanation laced with comfort. “It’s dangerous to spin like that. You need to be careful.” His tone was gentle and totally doting. Standing under the blazing sun, I suddenly felt freezing cold. I turned to leave. Chloe obediently said “Oh,” straightened her knee-length skirt, and then casually glanced over at me. “Ah, is Tara wearing that…? Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” I stopped in my tracks, just about to snap back at her. But Carter beat me to it, his tone lazy and detached. “That’s just how she is.” “She’s not like you.” I froze. I didn’t understand what he meant by that. By the time I snapped out of it, their two silhouettes had already dove into the ocean. The blinding sun hung high in the sky. Every ray of light felt like a red-hot steel needle, piercing my eyes until they ached. I trudged gloomily toward the shoreline. I saw Carter abruptly let go of the arm he was using to support Chloe. He turned and waved at me: “Tara, come teach Chloe how to play in the water.” It felt like he was desperately trying to overcompensate and explain something. But why be so nervous in the first place? I watched them for a few seconds, calmed my breathing, and slowly waded over. Seeing me approach, Carter visibly put more distance between himself and Chloe. “It’s much better if Tara teaches me! Carter is too clumsy.” Chloe smiled sweetly, grabbing my arm with fake affection. My face was completely blank. I just started giving her instructions on how to float, telling her to relax her body. She tried lifting her feet off the ground a few times but kept failing. Carter looked like he wanted to say something, but ultimately walked out of the water and headed back to the beach. Miraculously, the second Carter was gone, Chloe successfully floated. Her expression instantly went cold, and she yanked her arm back without warning. “Thanks, Tara.” My hands hovered awkwardly over the water. “You’re not used to it yet. Let me hold onto you.” Chloe gave me a sideways glance, a sneer curling her lips. “Cut the act. A street rat who’s been hustling since she was a teenager definitely knows what she’s doing.” “Clinging to a guy who’s completely out of your league… isn’t it exhausting?” “Tara, you really have a high tolerance for humiliation.” My brow furrowed tightly. My hands, hidden beneath the water, clenched into fists so hard they hurt. Suddenly, a massive wave crashed into us without warning. Caught off guard, Chloe and I both tumbled under the water. I quickly stabilized myself and started treading water. “Chloe!” A roar echoed from the shore. I whipped my head around and saw Chloe being dragged out by the receding wave. It scared the hell out of me. I immediately adjusted my angle and started swimming toward her. But I was violently yanked back by a brutal force. “Don’t you go near her!” Carter’s eyes were bloodshot and bulging. It was a pure, hostile warning. Because of his sudden, violent pull, I was caught entirely off guard and swallowed huge mouthfuls of seawater. The bitter, stinging saltwater felt like tiny, jagged knives. It left my throat burning in agony. But compared to the physical pain, it was the freezing chill spreading from the very bottom of my heart that made me grit my teeth. This time, I saw it with absolute clarity. From the very beginning, Carter’s concern for Chloe was on an entirely different level.

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I loved him for exactly ten years. When I saw yet another girl walk into his bedroom, I took a hard drag of my cigarette, dropped it on the floor, crushed it out, and barged right in. They were pressed tightly together, kissing like there was no tomorrow. The girl was visibly startled, shrinking into his chest like a frightened little bird. I grabbed her clothes, threw them at her, and lunged for her hair. “Get out!” “Get out!” I said it to the girl. He said it to me. With bloodshot eyes, I started unbuttoning my own shirt. Whatever she had, I had too. Why was I the only one who wasn’t good enough? He grabbed my hands, pinning them down. “Stop throwing a tantrum.” “Who’s throwing a tantrum?! How many times have you even met her!” The girl’s face went completely pale. His handsome brows furrowed tightly together. “Chloe, I see you as a sister.” It was always the same sentence. Ethan, can’t you come up with something new? I was shaking with anger. I even let out a bitter laugh. “Sister? Do you want to go get a DNA test? We have no blood relation! What the hell do you mean, sister? Who the fuck wants to be your sister!” Ethan’s face turned as dark as thunder. “What exactly are you trying to do?” I stared dead into his eyes, enunciating every single word. “What am I trying to do? Don’t you already know?” He didn’t say a word. Like picking up a stray kitten, he grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and literally tossed me out of the room. The second the door slammed shut, the tears started falling. I screamed at the top of my lungs, “Ethan! I’m never going to bother you again! Don’t you fucking regret this!” Of course he wouldn’t regret it. Because every time we fought, I would say the exact same thing, and then I would eventually crawl right back to him. It was like the boy who cried wolf. He wasn’t scared at all. He wasn’t afraid that I would actually leave him. I had nowhere else to go. No family, no home. I only had Ethan. He was all I had. How could I possibly leave? Damn it. I’m so pathetic. My hand moved on its own, opening our text thread. I scrolled all the way up, re-reading our message history. Honestly… He treated me really well. He protected me, cared for me, and was always giving me money. Sigh. If I have to be a sister, then fine, I’ll be a sister. I should just go back. At least I’d get to see him every day. My finger slipped, accidentally tapping on his profile picture. … His Instagram story had updated. It was a selfie of that girl. With only two words as the caption: My girlfriend. Fuck. They were Instagram official. Go back? Go back my ass. I checked my bank app. Okay, I still had a little over three thousand dollars. Steeling my resolve, I blocked Ethan’s number and all his socials. This time, I was dead serious. It wasn’t as hard as I thought. I found a job pretty quickly. It was at a local diner—free meals and a small room out back included. Except the manager’s greasy eyes were always wandering over my body. Except the guys buying coffee were always “accidentally” brushing my hands. Except the other waitresses were always subtly calling me a slut behind my back. Except… I missed him. Just a tiny, tiny bit. Everything else was fine. See? I had plenty of charm. Lots of people liked me. Why wouldn’t he? But he just didn’t. Sigh. I missed him again. I frustratedly yanked at my own hair, feeling like I was going crazy. “Hey, newbie!” Someone smacked my shoulder. It was one of the other waitresses, Ashley. “Table four needs you.” I raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you go?” She scoffed. “I just painted my nails. They aren’t dry yet.” She shoved her hands in my face. Ten pastel-pink, glittery acrylics. Tsk. Pretty. I grabbed a coarse paper towel, ignored her screeching, pinched her hand, and swiped hard across her wet nails. “There. Now they’re dry.” I turned and walked to the restroom. When I came out, the manager was blocking my way. Pushing out his pig-like belly, he pointed a stubby finger at my nose and yelled, “Ever since I hired you, you’ve been nothing but trouble! Bullying your coworkers!” “Excuse me?” “Don’t think I didn’t see you ruin Ashley’s nails. We have security cameras. If you don’t confess, I’ll fire you right now with no pay!” I raised an eyebrow and leaned against the wall. “So, what do you want?” “Ahem. Ashley is taking the rest of the day off for emotional distress. Your wages for the week will go to her.” I immediately burst out laughing. “And if I say no?” His face flushed a bright, angry red. He stuttered, “Of course, if you’re willing to… be with me, you have nothing to worry about. From now on, in this diner, I’m the boss, and you’ll be my number two. Nobody will dare say a word to you.” He reached out to put his arm around my shoulder. I smacked his hand away, speaking lightly. “Is the water in your brain used to water the giant tree of audacity growing in your heart?” “What?” I rolled my eyes hard. “I feel like insulting someone today, but I really don’t want to waste it on you.” “What the hell does that mean?” Watching the fat jiggle on his face made my stomach churn. I untied my apron and threw it right at his head. “It means you’re fired.” Yeah, his height was just about perfect for that. “You… you… you’re insulting me!!!” “I just told you, I wanted to insult someone, but I didn’t want it to be you. Do you not speak English?” I pulled out my phone and pulled up my Venmo QR code. “Pay me what you owe me.” He ripped the apron off his head, completely losing his temper, and cursed, “You little bitch, you still want your paycheck? Keep dreaming!” I rolled up my sleeves, fully prepared to beat him to a pulp. Suddenly, a very pleasant male voice interrupted: “According to federal and state labor laws, wages must be paid regularly to the employee. You cannot unlawfully withhold or refuse to issue a final paycheck… What you just did is a labor violation.” I looked up. It was a tall, handsome guy, though a bit on the skinny side. “Oh, I see! You brought backup!” The fat manager lunged forward and shoved the guy, almost knocking him to the floor. … Wow, he is weak. Are you sure you’re here to help? I grabbed the manager by the collar, practically hoisted his entire body up, slammed him against the wall, spat on the floor, and looked at him with a deadpan expression. “I said, pay me.” Then I kneed him hard in the stomach. He gasped in pain and started screaming bloody murder. I snorted, tossed him to the floor, and kicked him a couple more times for good measure. “Relax, I’m not going to murder you. Just roughing you up a bit.” In the end, of course, he paid me. Just as I was about to walk out, someone tugged at my sleeve. Thinking it was the manager again, I spun around ready to throw hands. But when I saw the face, I stopped. It was the guy who had just recited the labor laws. “Chloe…” Damn. He was just as handsome as Ethan. Wait. Did he know my name??? The man sitting across from me lowered his gaze, took a sip of his tea, and looked perfectly calm. But his flushed ears completely betrayed his inner emotions, proving he wasn’t nearly as composed as he looked. I mimicked him, looking down and taking a sip of my tea. Ugh. “Chloe, what do you think?” “Huh? Oh, the tea tastes awful.” “…” His name was Liam. He was speaking to me in the gentlest, most soothing tone. He had clean, elegant features and incredibly kind eyes. “I just opened my own law firm. If you’re willing, you can come work for me.” “Earlier… I figured you might be in need of a job.” I nodded. I did need one, but… “A law firm? Do I have to read a lot of books?” He let out a soft laugh, his eyes crinkling into crescent moons. “No, you can just do what you’re good at.” I scratched my head, racking my brain for half a minute before blurting out: “Maybe… possibly… perhaps… I could… help you collect debts?” “…” “…” We just stared at each other in total confusion. “A-choo!” My sneeze broke the silence. It was freezing outside. He immediately took off his coat and draped it over my shoulders. I thanked him and didn’t refuse. Are you kidding me? I had no parents, and now I didn’t even have Ethan. If I got sick, who was going to take care of me? Ethan… I still had a lot of clothes at his place. It was time to go get them. Sigh. If only I was rich, I could just buy whatever I wanted. I lowered my head. “Um… I don’t really have a place to stay.” Liam looked at me, his gaze suddenly filled with something I couldn’t quite read. He made a quick phone call. Then he told me he had just rented an apartment for me, right above his firm. That fast??? Then he drove me to Target to buy bedsheets and blankets. Then to the grocery store for a mountain of daily essentials. Then pots, pans, and plates. Finally, he took me out for hot pot. I… Besides Ethan, no one in this world had ever been this good to me. I secretly wiped away a tear, making sure he didn’t see. On the ninth day after leaving, I finally went back. To get my clothes. Terrified of running into Ethan, I purposely chose 10:00 AM. Normally, he was out at the garage or getting breakfast at this time. Just as I was frantically shoving clothes into a duffel bag… Click. The front door unlocked. I dove straight into the walk-in closet and pulled the door shut. Ugh. I wanted to slap myself. Why the hell was I hiding? Walking out now would be a million times more awkward. “Chloe?” That painfully familiar voice. “Stop hiding. Come out.” Was he bluffing? Did I look that stupid? I held my breath until my face turned purple. Suddenly, a blinding light hit my eyes. I threw my hands up to block it. “Tsk.” Ethan had opened the closet door. He stood in front of me, wearing a black leather jacket. Looking at his sharp, chiseled face and the tiny scar near the corner of his eye, I felt a sudden wave of dizziness. It felt like I had gone back in time, to years ago. It felt like a lifetime away. “Where have you been these past few days?” He reached out and pulled me back to reality. “None of your business.” I slapped his hand away and used the closet shelf to pull myself up. He didn’t push it. He just sat on the edge of the bed, lit a cigarette, and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “When you’re done throwing your tantrum, come home.” Furious, I snatched the cigarette from his hand, threw it on the floor, and ground it into the hardwood with my boot. “I am an adult. I’m not throwing a tantrum.” Then I let out a cold laugh. “Besides, what home? I don’t have a home.” His face instantly turned completely livid. “Chloe!!” I turned my head away, grabbed my duffel bag, and marched toward the door. He grabbed me hard by the wrist. “Where do you think you’re going?” I thrashed wildly, trying to push him off. “I fucking told you, it’s none of your business!” He was furious. Every muscle in his body was trembling. He raised his arm, looking like he was about to hit me. My eyes went entirely red. I pointed aggressively at my own head and screamed. “Do it! Hit me! Hit me right here! You’re a coward if you don’t! Hit me! Do it right now!” His eyes were as red as a rabbit’s. Breathing heavily, he paced around the room like a caged animal. “Fine! You’re so grown up now! So independent! Your wings are so strong you won’t even listen to me anymore! Who the fuck taught you to be like this?!” I tilted my chin up and stared him down, stubbornly spitting out a single word: “You!!!” That shut him up completely. He pointed a shaking finger at my nose but couldn’t force a single word out. I glared at him and grabbed my bag again. He finally backed down, his gaze turning dark and heavy. “I’ve told you a million times, the feelings between us aren’t romantic.” “I know what you mean. You just don’t like me.” Damn it, my heart hurt so much. We had this exact same fight like clockwork, almost once a month. I really was cheap and stupid. Ethan’s voice went hoarse, trying to coax me. “You’re still young. You can’t tell the difference between—” I puffed my chest out defensively. “I’m not young!” “…” Sigh. Besides cheap and stupid, I was also shameless. I had tried every trick in the book. I had dragged my own pride through the mud, but it didn’t matter. He just refused to love me. Ethan reached out and patted my head. “You just don’t want someone else to take me away. But the truth is, you don’t actually have romantic feelings for me.” My hair practically stood on end. “Bullshit! Do you think I’m mentally handicapped?!” “Close enough.” “…” I really wanted to punch him. Without looking back, I dragged my bag to the front door. His voice came out cold behind me. “If you walk out that door, don’t ever come back.” My footsteps faltered, my throat tightening up. “You have a girlfriend now. It’s not appropriate for me to live here.” “She won’t mind. You’re my sister.” Like a lit stick of dynamite, I whipped around and exploded. “I’m not your fucking sister!!!” It was past 8:00 PM when I finally got back to my new apartment. I had just gotten out of the shower and was towel-drying my hair when I got a text from Liam. “Chloe, are you back? Do you want to come down and get something to eat?” I typed out “Yes” and hit send. But then he immediately unsent his previous message. Was he playing games with me? I just called him directly. His voice was incredibly gentle. “I was afraid of bothering you. It’s late, so it probably isn’t appropriate to ask you out right now.” I was confused.

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While cooking, my mother-in-law accidentally set the grease pan on fire. I frantically told her not to add water, but she had already thrown a large bowl of water into the blazing pan. With a massive boom, flames shot into the sky. I watched as a wall of fire rushed at me. In the blink of an eye, I lost my vision, feeling nothing but a lethal, agonizing heat engulfing my entire body! I dropped to the floor and rolled around frantically to put out the flames, screaming and crying for my mother-in-law to save me. But the fire had already caught the kitchen curtains. My mother-in-law was terrified out of her mind. Instead of helping me, she ran into her bedroom, grabbed her lockbox of cash and bank cards, and bolted out the front door, screaming, “Fire! Help!” as she ran. Because of her actions, the critical window to put out the fire was missed. I passed out from the excruciating pain of being burned alive. When I woke up, I was already being resuscitated in the hospital. Though I barely clung to life, I learned from the hospital staff that a neighbor had originally called an ambulance to take me to the major city hospital, which had a Level 1 Trauma and Burn Center. But while my life hung by a thread, my mother-in-law had literally physically blocked the ambulance from leaving. She claimed big hospitals were just scams that would drain an ordinary family’s life savings! She insisted on sending me to the small community hospital because my sister-in-law, Sarah, worked there as a nurse. She said sending me to a hospital where we had “connections” would prevent us from getting ripped off. She threw a massive, screaming tantrum until the paramedics, with no other choice, took me to the underfunded community hospital. The doctors told me I had suffered massive third-degree burns across my entire body. To treat me, they had to rip off my bandages and aggressively scrub my body with surgical steel wool. They had to scrape off the dead skin and necrotic flesh, brushing it away along with the blood, just so new skin could grow. The entire process was done without anesthesia. Lying in that hospital bed, tortured by the steel wool, the soul-tearing pain was something I simply could not bear. I shrieked in agony, howling like an animal headed for the slaughterhouse, but the doctor’s hands couldn’t stop. Stroke after stroke, the steel wool scraped my flesh off. And my husband, Mark, along with my mother-in-law, just stood outside watching it all. When it was finally over, I lay on the bed, barely breathing. Mark came in. He sat beside me and said he wanted to discuss something with me. Lowering his voice, he whispered, “Next time, could you try to scream a little quieter? Mom already feels incredibly guilty. Hearing you scream so miserably had her shaking outside. Don’t make the old lady depressed. She’s so ridden with guilt she can’t even eat.” I lay powerless on the bed, my eyes beneath the bandages staring dead at my husband. I was destroyed. I had suffered horrific, massive burns, yet his biggest concern was that his mommy didn’t have a good appetite. I muttered, “Did you even consider me?” He sighed and said, “I know she was in the wrong this time, but it already happened. What do you want her to do? She really feels guilty and remorseful.” Choking back tears, I said I needed to contact my parents. But Mark refused. He said we should wait until I was discharged to tell my side of the family, to save everyone the worry. They confiscated my phone. I had no way of asking the hospital staff to contact my parents because the nurse assigned to care for me was my sister-in-law, Sarah. Lying there, all I could do was cry. The tears seeped into my raw wounds, causing a stinging pain that made my whole body tremble. By the time I had recovered enough to sit up, the whole extended family came to visit. The kids were roughhousing in the hospital room. My mother-in-law yelled at them to stop, saying that if they broke hospital equipment, we couldn’t afford to pay for it. Not a single person was worried about whether I was permanently disfigured. When my bandages were finally removed, Mark’s nephew, Tommy, screamed dramatically, “Whoa! A monster!” The hospital room fell dead silent. A child’s simple words completely ripped my heart to shreds. I frantically snatched the hand mirror from Sarah’s grasp and looked at my own face. In that instant, my heart turned to ash. I was ruined. My entire face looked like a twisted monster. My niece, Lily, burst into terrified tears beside me, too scared to even look at me. Tommy, however, thought it was hilarious. He kept pushing Lily toward me. The closer she got to me, the more terrified she became, crying louder and louder. Every sob felt like a knife plunging straight into my heart! Tommy shoved her right up to my bedside and gleefully shouted, “The monster is gonna get you!” I completely broke. I raised the mirror and hurled it at him as hard as I could, screaming, “Get the hell out!” The mirror struck Tommy in the face. The glass shattered on impact, slicing a gash across his cheek. The moment he saw all the blood, he immediately started bawling. I roared at him, “Your face is ugly now too! Now you can be a monster!” My screaming only made him cry even harder. Sarah panicked. Seeing her precious son hurt, her heart ached. She lunged at me, grabbed me by the hair, and shrieked, “Why are you picking a fight with a child?! He doesn’t know any better!” The doctor quickly intervened, “It’s a minor cut! Everyone calm down. Take the boy to the ER to get the wound cleaned. Someone is on duty.” My mother-in-law hurriedly scooped Tommy into her arms, her heart breaking for him as she cooed, “Your aunt is evil! We won’t play with her anymore! Grandma will take you to the ER!” I was devastated. I was the one who had been horribly disfigured, yet not a single person in this room cared about me in the slightest. Mark looked at me with a newfound horror in his eyes. He asked the doctor, “Is there any way for her to recover from this?” The doctor answered honestly, “She will need multiple reconstructive and cosmetic surgeries. Our hospital isn’t equipped for that. I recommend transferring her to the city hospital; their dermatology and plastics department is top-notch, and they have an affiliated cosmetic surgery center.” My mother-in-law had been about to walk out with Tommy, but upon hearing this, she immediately whipped her head around and asked, “How much will that cost?” The doctor shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never performed those procedures, so I wouldn’t dare give an estimate.” My mother-in-law pressed, “Just give us a rough ballpark.” The doctor thought for a moment before finally saying, “It will easily cost hundreds of thousands of dollars.” My mother-in-law gasped in shock. Mark looked like he wanted to say something, but his mother shot him a fierce glare. She quickly set Tommy down, grabbed Mark’s arm, and yanked him out of the room. I didn’t even need to guess. I knew exactly what they were going to do—discuss how to avoid paying for my treatment. Seeing her son left unattended, Sarah picked up the wailing Tommy. She shot me a venomous glare and spat, “Being pitiful isn’t an excuse to throw a tantrum! Don’t take your anger out on my kid! If my son is left with a scar, I’ll kill you!” As she carried him out, she pulled out her phone to complain to my brother-in-law, David: “Honey! Get to the hospital right now! Forget about work! Your son’s face was just ruined by that crazy bitch!” I had no energy to care about Sarah. I didn’t dare look in the mirror again. I couldn’t believe that monster was me! I cried and asked the doctor, “If I was going to turn out like this, why did you even save me?! I’d be better off dead!” The doctor sighed and tried to comfort me. “There’s still a chance. Medical technology is incredibly advanced now. The sooner you start reconstructive treatment, the better the results. Delaying it will only make things complicated.” I lowered my head and buried my face in the blankets, sobbing. The doctor, at a loss for words, quietly stepped out of the room. Left on my bed was a smartphone. It was Mark’s. He had left it behind when his mother dragged him out. I picked it up and unlocked it. I knew his passcode. I opened the web browser, wanting to look up the approximate cost of burn reconstruction. But when I saw his recent search history, I froze. From bottom to top, the search history read… “Photos of fire disfigurement.” “How much does burn reconstructive surgery cost?” “What to do if wife becomes extremely ugly.” “Can a husband lose everything in a divorce if he cheats?” “How to ask for a divorce without making the other person hate you.” Looking at that search history, I just felt utterly pathetic. While I was lying in a hospital bed, enduring the agony of having my flesh scrubbed raw with steel wool, he had already decided to betray me. I immediately opened his messaging app and texted my parents, telling them I was in a massive emergency, to drop everything, gather as many people as they could, and get to the hospital immediately. I explicitly told them not to reply. A little while later, Mark finally stormed back into the room, fuming. Hearing his footsteps, I quickly deleted the message history and tossed the phone aside. He walked in, sat down beside me, and said coldly, “Do you have any idea what you did? Because of your impulsive tantrum, my nephew needs stitches! He’s only eight years old!” I looked up at him. “And?” I asked. He looked appalled. “You hurt a little kid, and this is your attitude? I know you’re having a hard time, but is it the kid’s fault you got burned?” I said, “Let’s get a divorce.” He froze. “What did you just say?” he asked. “I said, let’s get a divorce. I know you’re not going to pay for my treatment. We’ll divorce, split our assets fifty-fifty, and I’ll use my half to pay for my surgeries.” He stared at me blankly and swallowed hard. “Are you insane?” “Do I look insane to you?” I countered. My mother-in-law suddenly burst into the room, highly agitated. “Yes! You are completely insane! Look at the hideous monster you’ve become, and you actually think you’re getting half the assets in a divorce?! Let me tell you right now, no man will ever look twice at you! You want a divorce? Fine! But you won’t get a single red cent!” Her words made me clench my fists. I roared, “And whose fault is it that I look like this?! It’s yours!” She didn’t understand. If I was truly insane, I would have slaughtered every single one of them like livestock by now! I had already made up my mind. I was going to divorce him, take my rightful half of the assets, and then sue them into the ground for my medical bills! My life was not going to be ruined just because of them! My mother-in-law yelled, “I already apologized! What more do you want?! Do you have any idea how much money we’ve already spent on your hospital stay? And then you smashed a mirror into my grandson’s face! You ungrateful, heartless bitch!” I gritted my teeth and spat, “That’s not a child. That’s a little feral animal.” Furious, my mother-in-law screamed, “You dare call my grandson an animal?! I’ll rip your mouth right off your face!” She lunged right at me. She knew my burns hadn’t fully healed, and she deliberately aimed to claw at my face! In an instant, she had scratched my face into a bloody, mangled mess! I refused to back down. I wildly slapped her across the face, screaming, “I’m not just divorcing him, I’m suing you! I’m going to bankrupt you!” Hearing this made her even more unhinged. She shrieked, “Go ahead and sue me! You filthy bitch, even if you win, I won’t give you a single penny! I’m an old woman, I don’t care if I have to declare bankruptcy and they ruin my credit!” I was confined to a hospital bed, barely recovering from a near-death experience. There was no way I could overpower her in a physical fight! In a moment of desperation, I grabbed the glass vase from the bedside table and swung it squarely at her head! Suddenly, a hand clamped down on my wrist. I looked up to see David, my brother-in-law, who had just arrived. David looked at me with ice in his eyes. “You hit my son, and now you’re trying to hit my mother? You really have lost your mind.” He snatched the vase from my hand and shot a disgusted look at Mark. “Look at the kind of wife you married.” I glared at them with pure hatred. In that moment, I prayed with everything I had that my family would get here quickly. Seeing her eldest son step in to help, my mother-in-law spat maliciously, “This cheap slut says she’s going to sue me. Fine, let her try! I’ll transfer the deed of my house over to you today. I’ll have zero assets to my name, and we’ll see what the courts can do to me then!” Mark panicked. “Mom, why are you giving the house entirely to David? Don’t I get a share?” His mother snapped, “If I give it to you, this bitch will just take half of it in the divorce!” David said coldly, “Mom is giving the house to me. Do you have a problem with that?” Mark didn’t dare argue with his older brother. Instead, he shot me a venomous look and said bitterly, “Are you happy now? I just lost my inheritance. Is this what you wanted?” Right then, David grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me up. He growled, “Mom, honestly, I have no intention of letting this bitch make it to a courtroom. Whether she sues you or files for divorce, our family’s assets are going to take a massive hit.” “So what are you saying…?” my mother-in-law asked. David replied, “Let’s just kill her.” He pointed at the window and said casually, “There are no cameras in this room. We throw her out the window. We tell the cops she couldn’t handle being disfigured, so she threw herself out to commit suicide, and we couldn’t grab her in time. What can the police possibly do to us?” A violent chill ran down my spine. My body started shaking uncontrollably. I knew David wasn’t just trying to scare me. He was completely serious! Mark hesitated. “Will the cops really not find out?” David sneered. “As long as she’s dead, how could they? She realized she was a monster, got hysterical, attacked my kid, screamed and cried, and then jumped out the window. Open and shut case.” As he spoke, David walked over to the window and cranked it wide open. The cold air immediately rushed in, covering my skin in goosebumps. Terrified, I scrambled toward the door, instinctively opening my mouth to scream for help. But David was incredibly fast. In two strides, he was on me, driving a brutal punch right into my stomach! I grabbed my stomach in agony, curling up like a shrimp. The intense pain made me violently nauseous. For the first time in my life, I learned that when you’re hit hard enough, the pain is so absolute that you can’t even force a scream out of your throat. David didn’t waste a second. He grabbed my hospital gown and started dragging me toward the open window. I tried to scream again in sheer terror, but he delivered a vicious kick to my stomach. All the air was knocked out of my lungs. The pain made me dry heave, leaving me completely unable to make a sound. In that moment, I looked at my husband. He was just standing there like an idiot, too scared to join in. He seemed to be weighing his options, until David lost his patience and roared, “What the hell are you waiting for?!” Mark gritted his teeth and looked at me. “Don’t blame me. Blame yourself for being too greedy. You wanted half my assets and you wanted to sue us into bankruptcy!” He finally made up his mind, stepping in to help his brother by grabbing my ankles. I thrashed and kicked like a maniac, but the combined strength of two grown men was too much. In the blink of an eye, they hurled me bodily out the window! I finally managed to scream, but I was already airborne. The terrifying sensation of freefall consumed me. The wind roared in my ears. I looked down in sheer panic, watching the concrete pavement rush up to meet me. Flailing my arms and legs wildly in the air, I suddenly felt a violent, agonizing yank on my right leg. The bone-shattering pain was so severe I nearly blacked out! Clenching my teeth, I looked up. The hospital had installed heavy iron guardrails around the exterior AC units. Because of my frantic flailing, my right leg had slipped perfectly between the iron bars. The sheer force of my falling weight against the iron bars had instantly snapped my leg in half. My fractured bone had pierced through my flesh and was jutting out. Even though my leg was completely broken, the snapped lower half was wedged tightly between the bars, arresting my fall. It had saved my life! This was the seventh floor! If I had hit the ground, I would be dead on impact! But it hurt! Dear God, it hurt so much! Hanging upside down in mid-air, I unleashed a hysterical, agonizing scream! I had never felt pain like this in my entire life. I had to stare directly at my own splintered bone protruding from my skin! I don’t know how far my screams echoed, but multiple windows across the hospital facade popped open. When people saw me dangling there, they were utterly horrified. David and Mark, peering down from the window above, went pale. David gasped in horror, “Dammit, she’s not dead!” The two of them panicked and scrambled back into the room to hide. Meanwhile, the onlookers at the other windows frantically yelled down to the ground, trying to rally help. I could do nothing but hang there, crying in sheer agony. I desperately wanted to reach up and touch my leg to see if I still had any feeling in it, but the sight of my protruding bone filled me with paralyzing terror! I couldn’t believe this was my leg. I was already permanently disfigured, and now I had to endure this hell? What crime had I ever committed to deserve God punishing me like this?! Right then, the window directly next to me slid open. I thought it was a Good Samaritan trying to pull me in. But the moment the window opened, I was stunned. The person leaning out was my mother-in-law! She glared at me with murderous intent, hissing, “Why won’t you just die?! You’re going to ruin my sons’ lives!” Suddenly, she grabbed a long mop handle from inside the room. Gripping it tightly, she aggressively jabbed at my broken leg, trying to dislodge it from the iron bars so I would plummet to my death! She gritted her teeth and snarled, “I’m old and useless anyway! If I kill you, I’ll gladly go to prison. That way, my family won’t have to pay you all that money!” I was pushed to the absolute edge of sanity. I forced my body to crunch upward, reaching out my hands to block the mop handle. My leg was snapped in half—every tiny movement sent blinding, drill-like pain through my nervous system!

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Married for three years, Vance Sterling had never once touched me. Wearing a sheer lace nightgown, I faked hickeys on my skin and sent him a picture of my sleeping face, taken from a “third-party” perspective. “Bro, she smells incredible. Hurry up and divorce her so I can have her, alright?” I guessed that Vance, receiving this anonymous text, would be disgusted and furious, throwing me—his wife who was merely a stand-in for my sister—away like trash. I thought that, this time, I could finally divorce him. 1 My older sister was vacationing in Europe, celebrating her third wedding anniversary. When she asked what I wanted as a souvenir, I asked for an unregistered, prepaid foreign SIM card. Pinching the tiny SIM card between my fingers, I stood in the middle of the empty hotel room and let out an exhausted breath. Then, I slipped into the sheer, lace nightgown I had bought specifically for this plan. Standing in front of the mirror, I pinched the skin on my collarbone and neck, forging a trail of suggestive hickeys. The bruises were scattered and vivid, looking exactly as if a man, completely consumed by desire, had ruthlessly and forcefully claimed me. I even tore one of the delicate lace straps of the nightgown, making it look like it had been ripped by a “man’s” rough hands. Finally, I looked in the mirror and intentionally smudged my red lipstick. I sat on the bed and ruffled the other side of the sheets, creating the undeniable impression that someone else had been sleeping there. Then, I closed my eyes, feigning a deep slumber. I set the camera on a tripod, angled perfectly to mimic another person’s point of view, and set the timer. Three, two, one. In the photo, the woman looked as though she had just experienced an intense, passionate encounter, falling into an unguarded, exhausted sleep. I stared at the picture for a long time. My mind couldn’t help but drift to Vance Sterling’s infamous reputation in the corporate world. A smiling tiger. A ruthless capitalist who swallowed his enemies whole and spat out their bones. But the version of him I knew best was simply the man with the eternally cold, emotionless face. He was breathtakingly handsome, but all of his affection had been reserved solely for my sister. I was prepared for the worst. Even if Vance had absolutely no feelings for me, the male ego could rarely tolerate a wife’s betrayal. He would very likely retaliate against me. But ultimately, he would be overwhelmed by disgust and anger. He would discard me and sign the divorce papers. As long as I could get a divorce, that was all that mattered. I closed my eyes and hit send. On the screen, the text message carried a deliberately arrogant, taunting tone: “Bro, she smells incredible. Hurry up and divorce her so I can have her, alright?” Attached was the photo. Message Sent. 2 Less than two seconds later. I received a reply. Vance: “Who is this?” I took my time changing back into my regular clothes. With a somewhat malicious sense of satisfaction, I intentionally dragged out my response time. Was he exploding with rage right now? Was he dying to track down this anonymous guy and skin him alive? Vance Sterling, the golden boy, the man who had been utterly flawless and in complete control his entire life, was finally having his emotions hijacked by someone else. And by me, of all people—the girl he had always kept firmly under his thumb. Three years of suffocation and misery finally yielded a tiny sliver of vindication today. By the time I finished changing, Vance had sent two more messages. “Don’t try to use some cheap deepfake. State your purpose.” “I suggest you come clean on your own. If you do, I might leave you in one piece.” I let out a cold laugh and typed back. “Mr. Sterling, why don’t you just ask your wife if it’s a deepfake?” “The hickeys on my baby’s neck aren’t going to fade anytime soon (＾ｖ＾).” The reason I dared to be so brazen was that I knew Vance was currently overseas, negotiating a massive acquisition. He wouldn’t be back for at least half a month. Suddenly, my actual cell phone started ringing. I jumped in shock. The caller ID flashed aggressively on the screen. It was Vance. I pursed my lips, staring at the phone in dead silence until the call went to voicemail. But almost immediately, the screen lit up again. Vance was calling back, relentless. I realized then that this time, he was genuinely furious. My heart hammered against my ribs. I felt like I was walking on a tightrope, playing an incredibly dangerous game of Russian roulette. I switched back to the burner phone and sent: “Mr. Sterling, stop calling her. We went at it five times. Your wife is exhausted and sleeping.” The phone calls instantly stopped. My actual phone fell into a deathly silence. I sent one last message from the burner SIM: “I didn’t mean to break your marriage up, Mr. Sterling. But your wife and I are truly in love. Be the bigger man, finalize the divorce, and let me have her. Otherwise, word’s going to get out that your wife is making a cuck out of you, and your reputation will be dragged through the mud.” Vance never replied again. Feeling a lingering sense of dread, I threw the torn lace nightgown into the hotel trash can, checked out, and took a cab back to our mansion. The maids were casually vacuuming and dusting. Everything was perfectly normal. The house was so peaceful it was as if nothing had happened at all. I washed up and went to sleep. Early the next morning, as the sky was just beginning to turn a pale gray, I was jolted awake by the deafening roar of a car engine and the harsh screech of tires braking violently outside my window. Before I could even process the panic, three sharp knocks hammered against my bedroom door. “Harper, open the door.” The voice was dark and icy. The tone was restrained to the absolute limit, exposing only the faintest tremor of frantic anxiety beneath the surface. I was instantly, entirely awake. It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head, freezing me to the bone. It was Vance. 3 I was in total disarray. How could he be back?! To him, I was nothing more than an insignificant, disposable stand-in! The knocking sounded again. Exactly three taps. The epitome of forced self-control. He spoke a little faster this time: “Harper, I want to see you.” I sat up in bed. Don’t panic. Don’t give yourself away. I took a deep breath, rubbed my eyes, and feigned a groggy, sleep-heavy voice. “Vance, I… I need to use the restroom, and I’m going to take a shower. Give me a minute.” I sprinted into the master bathroom, turned on the showerhead, and stared in horror at the fake hickeys on my neck. I had made them by suctioning the mouth of a glass bottle against my skin yesterday. To make them look real, I had gone hard. Forget about them fading overnight—even heavy foundation wouldn’t be able to completely hide them! But I couldn’t just leave them totally exposed. Because someone who was actually cheating would instinctively try to lie and cover them up. Vance was sharp as a tack. If I was going to put on a show, I had to play the part perfectly. I wet my hair to make it look like I had just stepped out of the shower and threw on a black, long-sleeved turtleneck dress that covered me completely. For the half-hickey that peeked out above the collar, I carefully covered it with a bandage. I looked in the mirror and practiced my expression—a flawless mix of guilty panic and forced composure. This should be disgusting enough. Vance would undoubtedly be repulsed, demand a divorce without hesitation, and tell me to get out of his sight. I unlocked the bedroom door. Vance was sitting on the sofa in the adjoining sitting room, his brows furrowed deeply, his eyes closed. He looked pale. A faint shadow of stubble dusted his jawline. He had forgotten his watch, and his tailored suit jacket was missing its cufflinks. One hand was gripping his phone like a vice, while the other rested on the armrest. Across his knuckles were four deep, bloody cuts. It looked as if he had punched a wall. More than once. But he seemed completely oblivious to it. He hadn’t even bothered to bandage them. “Vance, why are you back so soon?” Vance opened his eyes and looked at me. His pupils were so dark they looked like endless abysses. He pushed himself off the sofa. The man who had been frantically knocking just moments ago now walked toward me with agonizing slowness. I instinctively took a step back, but Vance caught my arm and pulled me right back to him. He lowered his gaze to my neck, his pupils shrinking a fraction of an inch. I forced a stiff smile. “Did something happen with the acquisition?” He didn’t answer. He simply raised his cold hand, pressing his index and middle fingers lightly against the edge of the bandage on my neck. It felt like, at any second, he was going to rip it off brutally, tearing away all my lies, before exploding in humiliated fury and shredding our hypocritical marriage contract. I began to tremble, squeezing my eyes shut, waiting for the execution. But his fingers just rested gently against the bandage. Vance asked calmly, “How did you get this?” I intentionally averted my eyes. “I… I accidentally scraped it on the edge of a book.” “A book…” Vance blinked, moving in slow motion. “What were you doing last night?” His fingertips slipped just slightly past the collar of my dress. If he pulled down just a centimeter more, he would see the trail of bruises hidden beneath the fabric. I swallowed hard. “I went out to the salon to get a hair treatment last night.” Vance’s breathing grew heavy. He stared at me expressionlessly. In that split second, I had the terrifying illusion that he was going to devour me alive. His fingers hooked into my collar. Feeling the pull, I stumbled forward, almost falling against his chest. I hastily threw my hands up, bracing them against his torso to keep my distance. His large hand wrapped around my lower back, gripping me like an iron band. He tightened his hold millimeter by millimeter, as if using the physical pressure to vent his suppressed, boiling rage. I was no match for his strength. Even my arms, bracing against him, were beginning to give out. Vance leaned in, closing the distance inch by inch. “M-Mr. Sterling, don’t.” I stammered, my voice shaking. I didn’t know what he was planning to do, but my instincts were screaming that I was in danger. My mind went completely blank. My voice quivered as I blindly begged for mercy. Three seconds passed. Incredibly, he slowly withdrew his hand from my collar, clenching it into a tight fist. His face turned rigid, his jaw set in stone. Only then did I process the words that had just tumbled out of my mouth— “I’m scared. Don’t touch me. Please.” “I’m going to assign two bodyguards to you. Whenever you leave the house, they will follow you to ensure your safety,” Vance announced flatly. Then, without hesitation, he turned on his heel and walked out. It wasn’t until I heard the familiar roar of his engine fading down the driveway that I snapped out of my daze. He wasn’t going to investigate?! How was that even possible?! 4 I was put under strict surveillance. I barely had a window of opportunity to pull out the burner phone. Whatever Vance had been doing overseas, he had somehow managed to wrap up a multi-week business trip in just five days and rushed straight back. A few days after his return, the surveillance on me finally loosened slightly. I seized the chance, grabbed the burner phone, and sent a text. “Bro, you’re a sore loser. If she cheated, just divorce her. Why lock your wife up?” Vance replied almost instantly: “She didn’t cheat. I trust her. Harper is not the kind of person who would do something like that.” I stared blankly at the screen. What did that mean? It was true that I had resorted to this stupid fake-affair plan because I couldn’t actually bring myself to cheat on him. But how did Vance know what kind of person I was? He had always, always been incredibly cold and distant toward me. Throwing caution to the wind, I typed furiously, adding fuel to the fire: “Mr. Sterling, you don’t know your wife better than I do.” “She has three little moles. One on her ribs, one by her belly button, and another on… Every time I trace a line connecting them with my finger, it drives her crazy. She shivers uncontrollably.” “But you’re her husband. You’ve been married for three years, so you must have known that already, right?” That last sentence was weaponized irony, because in three years of marriage, Vance had never once touched me. Smash! Just as the message delivered, a deafening crash echoed from upstairs. The sound came from Vance’s home office. I flinched, my heart leaping into my throat, and frantically hid the burner phone under my mattress. The smashing sounds echoed a few more times. Then, I heard Vance’s heavy footsteps descending the stairs. Sounding utterly exhausted, he instructed the butler, “Have someone clean up the office. Order a replacement for the computer.” The footsteps drew closer to my door. I was shaking with terror, half-convinced that I was the next thing he was going to smash to pieces. Like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand, I dove under my duvet and pretended to be dead asleep. My bedroom door lock had mysteriously broken the day he returned. Vance turned the handle quietly. Seeing the room pitch-black, he didn’t say a word. In the dead silence, his ragged, heavy breathing and his erratic heartbeat were incredibly loud. It made me wonder if he could hear my heart pounding out of my chest, too. He walked closer. Closer. I squeezed my eyes shut. Vance didn’t shake me awake. He didn’t fly into a murderous rage and strangle me for an explanation. He just stood by my bed. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel an intense, piercing, burning gaze practically nailing itself to my stomach, as if he was agonizing over whether to pull the blankets back and check. Don’t shake. Keep your breathing steady. Keep acting! I remained perfectly still. Suddenly, the mattress dipped beside me. Vance slowly lay down next to me on top of the covers. That freezing yet scalding gaze remained glued to my body. I gritted my teeth. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I was going to light this powder keg once and for all! Acting as if I was lost in a sweet dream, I groggily rolled over and nuzzled my head right into his chest. Vance froze. That fierce, searing gaze suddenly softened. “Hubby…” I mumbled in my sleep. Vance went completely rigid. Refusing to back down, I wrapped both my arms around his waist and used the sweetest, most sickeningly affectionate voice I could muster. “Hubby, hold me.” I fully expected him to explode. I thought he might actually slap me awake. Because I had never called him “hubby” before. He would know, without a shadow of a doubt, that the person I was calling out to in my “dream” was someone else. But instead— He glared down at me in the dark, gripping my arm so tightly he was shaking with rage. Yet the second I let out a soft whimper of pain, he forced himself to loosen his grip. Vance cupped the back of my head and pulled me even tighter against his chest. He pressed a kiss into my hair. Then, he began stroking my back, from top to bottom, with a clumsy but gentle, soothing rhythm. In a low, gravelly voice, he whispered, “Yeah. Hubby’s got you.” I completely froze. This bizarre, eerie calmness of his was absolute madness. Vance Sterling was a brilliantly strategic, calculating man. The second he received that first text, he should have deduced I was having an affair. To prevent a public scandal, he should have had his lawyers draft divorce papers immediately and kicked me out with nothing. Yet, time and time again, he denied it. He aggressively, insanely, stubbornly refused to believe I had slept with another man. And now, he was literally brainwashing himself, stealing words of affection meant for another man and hoarding them for himself. What on earth was he doing? Thinking I had drifted into a deeper sleep after my murmuring stopped, Vance soundlessly lifted the duvet. He pressed his finger against my ribcage, right where the mole was, and slowly traced a line downward. Just a light, cool touch of his fingertip. It was so sudden, and so fast, that before I could even process what was happening, my body violently recoiled, shivering out of control. I had completely made that text up! I had no idea that someone actually tracing those moles would send a jolt of electricity straight through my spine! I trembled pathetically, completely unable to keep up the “deep sleep” act. I immediately tried to roll away and escape. Vance stopped tracing. Instead, he wrapped both his arms around me, pulling me flush against his body, forcing me to face him. His grip was ironclad, unyielding, locking us together so tightly I could feel the frantic, powerful thud of his heart against my own ribs. Chaotic. Frantic. Powerful. He whispered softly into the dark, “You are mine. I am yours.” He had completely lost his mind. He had abandoned all his cold logic, all his rational risk-benefit analysis, and turned into an absolute beast. Barbaric, direct, and uncompromisingly possessive. It was as if he had dragged me back to his den, and now, I belonged nowhere else. He objectified me, and he objectified himself. We were no longer humans with fragile skin and sensitive souls. We were two lifeless padlocks. Click. Locked together. And he could stubbornly believe it: I was his, and he was mine. He really had lost his mind. I opened my eyes in the darkness, trapped between his burning chest and his arms, staring complicatedly at Vance’s sleeping face. Eventually, my eyelids grew heavy, and I fell asleep. In my dreams, I was back three years ago, crying and begging Vance to let me go. He just watched me coldly. Until I screamed, “I don’t owe you anything! You have no right to lock me up!” He had stepped back, stayed silent for a full minute, and finally looked up. “You do owe me. Your sister eloped and broke our engagement. So you will pay me back with the rest of your life. I am never letting you go.” I had collapsed on the floor, touching my face—a face so similar to my sister’s—finally realizing the truth. He refused to let me go because he was using me as a substitute for her. That was how I spent the last three years. Suffocating and miserable. When I opened my eyes the next morning, Vance was already gone. The sheets beside me were smooth and cold, as if no one had ever been there.

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I’m a transfer student. I worked so hard for so long just to get into my childhood crush’s Honors class. But when I finally transferred over, I realized he already had a very pretty desk mate. She smiled at me gently and said, “Ethan still needs to tutor me. I can’t give up this seat for you, sweetie.” Ethan’s eyes landed on her, a look of unmistakable joy on his face. I froze in place, my face burning. I had no choice but to find an empty seat somewhere else, not daring to speak to him again. But later, Ethan cornered me, looking completely lost and panicked: “Tutoring? Why didn’t you come to me…?” 1 Everyone’s eyes in the classroom focused on me. Her tone was so soft and sweet. “Sweetie, cutting in line isn’t nice. Ethan still needs to tutor me.” In an instant, whispers erupted across the room. “She just transferred and already wants to steal someone’s seat? This new girl is so arrogant.” “Isn’t that Ethan’s childhood friend? I used to see her waiting for him at the door every day.” “That still doesn’t mean she can just barge in and demand a seat!” “She was top of the Regular class, so she thinks she owns the place now.” It wasn’t like that… I wanted to explain, but my throat felt completely blocked. I didn’t even know where to start telling them that Ethan and I had agreed on this a long time ago. I worked so hard to test into the Honors class just so we could sit together. He told me he had already arranged our seats. My palms began to sweat as I gripped my backpack straps. I looked at Ethan, pleading for help. Hoping he would speak up and explain that I wasn’t acting like this… But he turned his face away and looked at that girl. His eyes were smiling. “Yeah, I’m tutoring you.” The classroom fell silent for a split second. I don’t know who started it, but someone let out a scoff. Then, the entire room erupted into laughter and mocking giggles. I blushed, completely at a loss. My mind went entirely blank. I didn’t understand. Didn’t he say… once I tested into the Honors class, we would work hard together…? 2 The bell rang. All the students obediently took their seats. Ethan looked at me and casually pointed to the back. “Just find a spot back there for now.” I took a deep breath. Enduring the burning sensation on my face, I walked to the back. Behind me, I heard that girl’s lowered voice, “Ethan, your childhood friend looks a little upset.” “It’s fine. Class is starting, just focus on the lecture.” “Oh.” Her voice was tiny. I couldn’t see her. But I could imagine her adorably innocent expression. I don’t remember how I walked the rest of the way, just that I stiffly sat down in the only empty seat in the last row. There was someone next to me. He seemed to hear the noise. He lifted his eyelids, gave me a single glance, and then buried his head back into his arms. For the entire class period… I was in a daze. I couldn’t absorb a single word the Honors teacher was saying. Until class ended. Ethan stood up from his seat at the front and walked over, placing a notebook on my desk. “Honors class notes. “I didn’t expect you to actually pass the exam. Look over these first and try to teach yourself.” The cover of the notebook was pink. It was the same one I had given him at the start of the school year, filled with pages of meticulous writing. For some reason, a wave of grievance surged in my chest, and my eyes grew red. Ethan paused, startled. “What, are you that touched?” The girl sitting behind him suddenly stood up, clutching her forehead looking frustrated. “Ethan, I still didn’t catch what you were explaining earlier!” He looked back at her. The notebook I had just accepted was immediately snatched back from my hands. “Wait a bit. Let Chloe copy them first.” He took the notes and walked away. I couldn’t hold back my tears anymore; they fell on their own. The next moment. A pack of tissues was tossed onto my lap from out of nowhere. My new desk mate, who had been sleeping all class, suddenly looked up, his cold eyes laced with annoyance. “Don’t cry next to me.” He startled me. I frantically grabbed a tissue and wiped my tears away. But my eyes uncontrollably locked onto the boy and girl sitting in the front, heads bent together as they went over a math problem. My eyes stung fiercely. The unfamiliarity of a new environment. The crushing of my expectations and the coldness of my new classmates. All of it rushed into my brain at once, fighting for space. I tried to push it down. But the harder I pushed, the more I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My new desk mate looked visibly irritated. He simply pulled his hoodie off, draped it over his head, and went back to sleep on his desk. 3 The bell rang again. The teacher walked in with his lesson plans. Class began. I don’t know if the Honors class paced itself too fast, but I struggled to keep up this period, finding everything obscure and incredibly difficult. My desk mate woke up. He looked at me with an indifferent gaze. Then he suddenly spoke, “You copied that wrong.” My heart skipped a beat, and I looked at him blankly. He forcefully grabbed my pen and quickly jotted down the calculation steps for the major problem on the board. My eyes understood it. But my brain didn’t. I just stared, bewildered. He frowned. “Is the Honors class really this easy to get into?” He lowered his voice again, resting his head back down. “The standard is seriously dropping.” It wasn’t until I went to the restroom that I learned his name. Caleb Wright. The girls from the Honors class were whispering in the bathroom. “The transfer student ended up sitting with Caleb Wright.” “Isn’t that perfect? The one who bought his way in and the one who barely scraped by. They’re a match made in heaven.” Followed by snickering. I don’t know where my courage came from. I burst out of the bathroom stall. I couldn’t catch them; I only saw the backs of two girls turning the corner. 4 The academic pressure in the Honors class was intense. Every student was grinding to get into a top-tier college. When the evening study hall for the Honors class finally ended… My old class had already been dismissed for hours. I packed my backpack, intending to wait and walk out with Ethan. After a brief moment of hesitation, most of the class had already emptied out. Ethan stood up and finally walked toward me. But Chloe called out to him. Her pale cheeks were slightly flushed, looking almost embarrassed. “Ethan, I still don’t get how to apply the formula for this problem…” Ethan stopped in his tracks. He looked at her, then looked at me, torn. “It’s getting really late…” I couldn’t help but remind him. Chloe bit her lip. “Yeah, it’s so late. No one is coming to pick me up today…” Ethan immediately frowned. He shot me an apologetic look. “You should head back first. I’m going to help Chloe study.” He turned back to her. Chloe gave me a look—whether intentional or not, I couldn’t tell. Then, she asked tentatively, “Could you maybe walk me home after…?” In that moment. My heart felt like it leaped into my throat. Then I heard him say, “Sure.” My heart instantly went dead silent. My blank gaze met Chloe’s eyes. The corners of her lips curled up. And she gave me a small smile. 5 I had never left the school campus after nine o’clock. It was completely pitch black out. Only the lights from the Honors building were still on. But the further I walked, the further away the light source became. I quickened my pace. But in the shadows, I thought I saw a figure moving ahead. My heart hammered in my chest. I stopped, but the figure kept getting closer. Instinctively, I pulled out my phone and dialed my speed dial. The screen emitted a faint glow in the dark night. Ring… It connected! But the very next second, the call was hung up. I froze. Dumbfounded, I forgot my fear. Until the figure walked right up to me, and I let out a yelp. Before I could even scream. The person spoke. “With a coward’s guts like that, why even transfer to the Honors class?” I looked up, stunned, meeting Caleb’s eyes. He said he hated weaklings. He told me that if I couldn’t even handle the late hours of the Honors class, I should have quit while I was ahead. He said, in this world, nobody is born obligated to help you. With that, he turned and walked away. Leaving me behind in the dark. I don’t know how much time passed. Faintly, from the direction of the school building, I heard a girl’s silvery laughter. I heard Ethan’s promise. He said, “Chloe, I’ve got your studying covered from now on.” She sounded so delicate and fragile. “But what about your childhood friend? She worked so hard to get into the Honors class. Are you just going to ignore her?” Ethan’s voice paused. “I honestly didn’t expect her to actually pass the test…” The night breeze carried their conversation further and further away. Behind me, not a single trace of light remained. I gripped my phone tightly and sprinted forward. No one is going to help me. Then I’ll walk by myself! 6 I don’t remember how I ran home. I only remember bawling my eyes out once I got there. I couldn’t even articulate why I was crying. When I woke up, my eyes were swollen like peaches. When I went downstairs, I unexpectedly saw Ethan waiting there. He had his hands in his pockets. “What happened to your eyes? “Did transferring classes make you cry?” Just like always, he reached out to pat my head. “I was busy last night when you called. Did you need something?” I dodged his hand. “Nothing. Pocket dial.” Ethan froze. He looked at his hand, then studied me for a moment. “What’s wrong, Mia?” “Nothing.” He suddenly grabbed my arm, looking at me with a complex expression. “What is it? Are you mad?” I turned back, feigning confusion. “No? I just need to get to school.” Ethan followed me. He watched me the whole way, looking like he wanted to say something but swallowing it back. I knew why he was surprised. Ethan and I were the textbook definition of childhood best friends. His dad passed away when he was very young. Back in elementary school, when Mrs. Carter had to work overtime and couldn’t make it home, he was left alone, starving. He would just stare eagerly at my house across the hall. I noticed him and brought over a huge bowl of ribs my mom had cooked. He ate with such relish. He scarfed down two huge bowls. So I brought him two more. After he finished, his eyes sparkled as he looked at me. “Mia, you’re the best. “I want to stay with you forever!” In middle school, some pubescent boys bullied me. They snipped off the braids I had grown out for years. He went absolutely feral and fought the kid single-handedly. Even though he was losing the fight, he viciously yelled at the guy, “Mia is mine! If you bully her, I’ll kill you!” That’s why he loved patting my hair when greeting me. He was terrified someone would cut it again. And I… I had never once dodged his hand before.

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The year I was the hungriest, I worked for Carter Hayes. I copied his notes for a day in exchange for a single meal. Years later, after I graduated from college, Carter came looking for me. “Two million bucks. Come here and be my fiancée.” 1 Back in high school, my mom cut me off. She refused to give me a single cent. She said if I was so stubborn about staying in school instead of dropping out to work, then I shouldn’t be afraid of starving. But I went to school anyway, clutching the twenty-dollar bill I’d secretly saved up. Twenty dollars lasted me half a month of extreme penny-pinching. When the money ran out, I drank water from the bathroom sink. It was late autumn and freezing; the cold water sloshing in my empty stomach felt like solid ice. I could hear the water sloshing around every time I walked. I starved for three days straight like that. At fourteen years old, starving for three days makes you want to bite the next person you see. I was so hungry I seriously considered chewing on the grass outside the school. Just as I was about to pass out, Carter Hayes sat down next to me with his lunch. I stared at him. He turned his head and met my gaze. I didn’t move; I just stared dead at his food. Carter got thoroughly creeped out and quietly asked if I wanted to share his lunch. My eyes instantly lit up. “Can I?” He let out a breath of relief and nodded. “Yeah, eat. My mom packed way too much anyway…” Later, Carter told me that the look in my eyes didn’t say I want to eat your food; it said I want to eat YOU. He felt like giving me his lunch was the only way to save his own life. For a long time, I worked for Carter. In class, I copied his notes; between classes, I wiped his desk. The compensation wasn’t much: a meal or two. He started bringing an extra portion for me every day. I’d split it into breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but it still wasn’t enough to fill me up. So Carter would slip me whatever snacks he brought. “Here’s some beef jerky my mom brought back from a road trip. It’s probably still good.” I took it and chewed. Too tough. Kept chewing. “Here’s some fruitcake from last Christmas.” I took it. Crunch, crunch, chew. “Here are some fruit-flavored antacid Tums my mom bought.” I hesitated for a second, then swiftly ripped the package open and popped them in. Chew, chew, chew… Carter would sneak me these things during class, and I’d secretly eat them. Once the bell rang, he stared at me, eyes wide. “You ate two whole rolls of Tums?!” “Yeah…” He looked utterly defeated. “Sadie, I’m not going to accidentally kill you by feeding you this crap, am I?” I didn’t know if he would kill me, but I knew I was already starving to death. 2 For a long time, I survived on the food Carter brought. Until Fall Break. Initially, I wanted to go home. But the moment I got there, my mom grabbed me by the collar and dragged me out the door. She wouldn’t let me in. She said that for every day I stayed in school, she wouldn’t recognize me as her daughter. Other girls my age were already working full-time in out-of-state factories, but I was too delicate for that. Since I thought I was so capable and refused to listen, I shouldn’t rely on the family. Better yet, I shouldn’t come home at all. I sniffled, standing awkwardly on the porch clutching my backpack. The smell of roast chicken drifted from inside the open door. My mom brought the chicken out, and my younger siblings scrambled for it. My little sister Lily grabbed a piece and glanced at me, but my mom slapped her hand. “Eat your food! Don’t look at her!” Lily froze, sitting obediently. I lowered my head. The dim light from the house stretched my shadow, making it look as defeated as I felt. Eventually, my mom slammed the door shut. The light vanished. I hugged my backpack and walked away. That night, I slept at the Greyhound bus station. The next morning, I woke up and saw Carter. He was supposed to go on a trip with his parents. When he looked up near the ticketing gate and saw me, he jumped. “What are you doing here?” “My mom won’t let me stay at the house. It’s warm inside the bus station.” “Holy shit. Is she your biological mom?” “Yeah.” “…” Carter didn’t get on his bus that day. I don’t know what he told his parents, but he saw them off and stayed behind. He turned around, looked at me, and sighed. “Come on. Let’s go to my place.” He walked ahead, and I hurried to put on my backpack to follow him. Carter was two years older than me, tall with long legs. For every step he took, I had to take three. After a few steps, he turned back and snatched my heavy backpack. I looked up at him, and when he met my gaze, he laughed. “Sadie Harper, I’m just an unlucky bastard. How did I end up running into you? My parents were supposed to take me to the beach! And now here I am, carrying your backpack.” “I’m sorry.” “Whatever, forget it. Are you hungry?” “Starving…” “Alright then. While your boy’s still got some cash, let’s go get some real food.” 3 I stayed at Carter’s house for seven days. His house was nothing like mine. I had three siblings; the older ones cried, the younger ones threw tantrums. All four of us crammed into one room, always a chaotic mess. He was an only child. His entire house was spotless, organized, and beautiful. The neighborhood was landscaped, the building had an elevator, they had a guest room, the balcony was full of plants. The only downside was the lack of food. I woke up starving in the middle of the night but couldn’t find a single bite to eat—not even a roll of Tums. Eventually, my eyes locked onto a small, decorative potted orange tree on the balcony. I stared at the oranges for half an hour until Carter walked past the balcony, saw me, and let out a shriek. “!!! Holy shit, it’s a ghost!” I froze and looked back at him. That’s when he realized it was me. “Dude, Sadie, what are you doing squatting on the balcony? Oh… the oranges… if you want to eat them, just pick them!” Carter was so scared he actually shed a tear. I cried too, hugging my oranges, deeply moved. These oranges were delicious! So sweet. The next day, Carter took me out to buy groceries and snacks, warning me repeatedly, “Sadie, you are forbidden from squatting on the dark balcony in the middle of the night with your hair down looking like a creepy ghost girl.” I nodded vigorously, looking at him with immense gratitude. He paused when he met my eyes, and after a long moment, let out a laugh. “Come on. Let’s go home.” When we got back, I cooked. After cooking, I did my homework. After finishing my homework, I tutored Carter. He didn’t really care, casually flipping through his notebook, only half-listening. Later, he suddenly remembered something, holding my student ID. “Sadie, you’re in high school, why are you only 14?” I thought about it before explaining seriously. “I skipped grades in elementary school. I didn’t go to preschool, just started first grade at six, and then skipped straight to third grade. That’s why I’m two years younger than everyone else.” “Tsk, what was the rush?” “My parents always said I’d have to start working full-time when I turned 16. When I was little, I figured if I could test into college before turning 16, I wouldn’t have to go work in a factory. But high school requires tuition fees, so my parents still wanted me to drop out. They said labor laws are looser out of state, and if I went there, I could start earning money at 14.” “…” Carter was silent for a long time. Eventually, he was so mad he laughed. “Fourteen… your parents are real pieces of work.” I had originally planned to find a part-time job during Fall Break, but since I was under 16, no one would hire me. I finally found a gig taping up promotional flyers on telephone poles for 80 bucks a day. Carter had nothing better to do, so he found a gig too: getting paid to tear down illegally taped promotional flyers. I worked for half a day, got caught by Carter, and received a lengthy lecture from him. At the end of the shift, I made 80 dollars, and Carter made 120. I looked at my 80, then at his 120. He smirked and shoved the 120 into his pocket. I gripped my 80 bucks, hesitating for a moment before handing it to him. “Carter, let me buy you dinner.” He was stunned. After a long pause, he took the cash. We went to a greasy spoon diner near his neighborhood. Two bowls of chili, an order of fries, and some sliders—it cost 40 dollars. I don’t remember the rest, but I remember leaving completely stuffed that day. 4 Between the holiday and the weekend, I worked six days total. Minus the dinner, I had 440 dollars. The first day back to school was the happiest day of my life because my financial aid check finally cleared. I scraped together two thousand dollars, counting the cash over and over again. Then I went to borrow Carter’s phone. He asked what I needed it for. “I borrowed money from the older girl next door to pay for my high school fees. I need to pay her back.” He looked confused. “How much do you owe?” “Fifteen hundred.” After paying her back, I had five hundred left. That was enough to survive for a month, and I could find odd jobs on the weekends. I could finally breathe. I even bought myself a new backpack. My old one was practically shredded and tied together with knots. The new one was 20 bucks online—big and roomy. Carter sighed when he saw me that day. As my desk-mate, he continued to bring me food. He claimed his mom always cooked too much, so bringing a little extra was no big deal. Carter was a good person, and his mom was a wonderful person too. Because after that break, every portion of food Carter brought me had a perfectly fried egg on top. The kind sprinkled with freshly chopped scallions. One weekend, Carter asked, “Are you going home this week?” I shook my head. “My mom won’t let me.” “Perfect. Pack your stuff this afternoon, you’re coming to my place.” “…” Our prep school had a brutal schedule: classes from 7 AM to 8 PM, six days a week. Weekends didn’t officially start until Saturday evening. At 5 PM, I packed my bag and left with him. When I got there, I found out his older cousin was getting married, and they were prepping the house the night before the wedding. I helped Carter out all evening, ate the huge family-style dinner, and slept in the same room as his younger cousin. I woke up in the middle of the night and found Carter sitting in the living room playing video games. I walked over. He saw me, turned off his phone, and asked, “What’s up?” “Why aren’t you sleeping?” “Can’t sleep…” “Why?” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “My mom’s been trying to send me to a boarding school overseas. She says with my grades, I won’t amount to anything staying here.” He lowered his head and stared at his phone. I knew better than to press him, but when I went back to my room, I stared at the ceiling and couldn’t help but think: If Carter leaves, who will I find to eat with when I’m starving? The next morning started early with the wedding prep. I rode in the same car as his younger cousin. It was a beautiful, elegant wedding. The bride looked stunning in her white gown. I stared in awe until the bride’s mother handed me a tip envelope with a warm smile. In that moment, I understood why Carter wanted me to come. The girls helping the bridal party got a 200-dollar tip and plenty of amazing food. Carter was one of the groomsmen—tall, long-legged, sharp in a tailored suit, every hair perfectly in place. I chewed on some candy, watching him standing at the altar. Later, he stepped down and waved at me. I ran over, and he shoved a handful of expensive chocolates into my hands. “Come on, grab your backpack, I’ll take you to the back to grab some more snacks…” He trailed off, looking at me and grinning. “Who did your hair and makeup? That little puffy dress, the double buns… you look like a cosplay of Princess Peach.” “Who is Princess Peach?” “A video game character. Gotta admit, it’s a good look.” I didn’t understand, so I just opened a chocolate and chewed. Chew, chew, chew. 5 Carter had phases where he studied hard, but he always gave up eventually. He was just too lazy. I kept copying his notes for him. I took my own notes during class, and copied them for him during breaks. Whenever I had a spare moment, I’d gnaw on a plain bagel and read my textbooks. I had several bagels stuffed in my desk. I’d eat whenever I got hungry. In high school, I wasn’t the only one starving; teenagers are always hungry. We had breakfast at 7 AM, and lunch wasn’t until noon. Growing kids get hungry around 10 AM. The cafeteria didn’t make enough bagels. Sometimes when I pulled one out, Carter would ask for a piece. Then the guy in front of me wanted a piece. Then the girl behind me. Eventually, it became a routine. I’d tear off a piece, pass the rest forward, and it would circle the classroom. By the time it got back to me, it had magically transformed into a few bags of chips or half a pack of cookies. High school was a blur of endless assignments, test prep, and workbooks that never seemed to end. Time flew. Shortly after New Year’s, my first semester of freshman year ended. Even though Christmas break was approaching, I still couldn’t go home. I didn’t want to fight with my mom, but I still desperately wanted an education. I was young but stubborn; I genuinely believed that going to school meant my life wouldn’t be limited to factory work. I didn’t go home for the holidays. Instead, I found a warehouse packing job that desperately needed seasonal workers. Twelve-hour shifts, a hundred bucks a day. I worked for 20 days and made two grand. On Christmas Eve, the warehouse closed. Carter came to pick me up on his electric scooter. The little scooter wound its way across half the city. The river on the outskirts was frozen solid. People were ice skating and setting off fireworks. The daytime fireworks weren’t as bright, but they were still beautiful. We hung out for hours until the sky grew dark and all the shops closed. Carter took me to his family’s main estate for Christmas Eve. His extended family was massive—seventy or eighty people all celebrating together. The holiday dinner spanned six massive tables. I blended into the crowd; no one bothered me, and no one really noticed me. Later, when it was time for gifts, all the kids gathered around. Carter pulled me along to join them. The adults handed out Christmas cards stuffed with cash, and they gave me one too. In the dim lighting of the courtyard, someone hesitated when looking at me but handed over an envelope anyway. Later, I overheard someone asking, “I don’t recognize that girl. Whose kid is she?” “Oh! Carter brought her. Probably a cousin from his mom’s side!” I was no one’s cousin. My face flushed bright red. I clutched the stack of cash, ran over to Carter, and tried to shove it into his hands. He had been trying to figure out how to light a roman candle and jumped when I grabbed him. “Sadie, why are you giving me money?” “This is your family’s Christmas money. I can’t take it.” Carter shoved the cash right back into my coat pocket. “If they gave it to you, keep it. Now back up, I’m lighting this thing.” First came the loud pops of firecrackers, followed by a brilliant spray of colorful fireworks. All the kids gathered around to watch. Carter grabbed the collar of my jacket and pulled me back a step. “Sadie, make a wish. It’s the start of a new year.” “I want to be ranked number one in the school.” “Idiot, you can’t say the wish out loud.” “Oh, really? Let me make a new one.” For the new year, I want… I want to be as happy as I was last year… and I want Carter to stay.

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