My dad got me a stepmom. The very first day she moved in, she took me straight to the hospital. “Doctor, how do we treat a child’s bad stomach?” But I could hear her inner voice talking to a “System.” [Host, the female lead having cute little baby burps is part of her ‘delicate wifey’ setting. Isn’t it adorable?!] [I only know it’s a medical condition. It needs to be treated.] I didn’t understand what a “delicate wifey” meant. Until later. I met the destined male lead. He tossed a black card at me, arrogant and domineering. “Be my woman.” I scoffed. “Count the zeros on that card before you talk so big.” 1 “Minnie, from now on, she is your new mom. She’ll be taking care of you.” Dad squatted in front of me, pointing to the woman behind him. She was gentle and beautiful, just like a fairy from the TV shows. She smiled and waved at me. “Hi there, Minnie.” [System, is she the little female lead?] [Yes, Host. The female leads in ‘delicate wifey’ novels are always starved for affection. Please raise this delicate flower with lots of love until she gets together with the male lead.] I didn’t know why I could hear these strange voices. I timidly greeted my stepmom, uncontrollably letting out a burp. Dad affectionately tapped my nose. “Minnie’s got the little baby burps again. So cute.” I crossed my hands shyly. But I saw a complicated look cross my stepmom’s face. [This smell… it’s sour and gross. How on earth did her dad manage to compliment that?] I secretly took a sniff. It seemed she was right. It did smell a bit awful. 2 Dad had to go on a business trip. He left my stepmom a black credit card and left the house. My stepmom immediately took me to the best children’s hospital in the city. “Doctor, my daughter is six. Her burps smell foul, which probably means a bad digestive system. What’s the treatment plan?” System: [The female lead having baby burps is her delicate wifey setting! Combined with her fragile, petite body that’s easily dominated, it’s so cute!] My stepmom was furious: [Cute my ass!] [It’s a sickness, and it needs to be cured!] Dazed, I ended up with a massive pile of nasty prescription syrups. Before I could even get used to the daily routine of drinking bitter medicine, my stepmom enrolled me in Taekwondo. On the very first day, the coach trained me so hard I couldn’t even lift my legs, and I went home with several bruises. That night at home. I looked at my stepmom with grievances in my eyes, habitually keeping my mouth shut to let the other person guess what was wrong. She glanced at me sideways. “If you have something to say, say it. Don’t act like a mute.” I gathered my courage. “Mom, Taekwondo is so tiring and hard. Can I stop going?” “No, you may not.” “…” I shouldn’t have said anything at all. I ran into my bedroom angrily and called my dad to complain that my stepmom was bullying me. As a result, she walked in, snatched my kids’ phone right out of my hand, and reverted to the gentle woman I first met. “Don’t worry, honey. Minnie is having a wonderful time with me.” “However, today someone made fun of her name. They said her parents didn’t love her, which is why they gave her such a small, insignificant name.” “I plan to change her name. Let’s call her Aurora.” I heard that mechanical voice roaring in her head. [Host, why are you changing the female lead’s name?! Minnie sounds so sweet and obedient!] Stepmom: [Bullshit!] [Aurora represents the dawn, a brilliant, fierce beginning where she rises above everything. That is a proper name for a girl!] I didn’t understand the full meaning of that sentence. I only knew my biological mother passed away giving birth to me. My dad was always busy with work and had no time for me, so he just hired nannies. “Minnie” was just a random nickname he settled on. I silently mouthed “Aurora” in my head, covering my mouth as I giggled secretly. My new name sounded so beautiful! However, my stepmom hung up the phone and confiscated it. She curled her red lips at me, giving a sinister smile. “Aurora, from now on, without my permission, you are not allowed to contact your dad privately. Otherwise, I eat little kids.” I hid under the covers in terror. The TV shows didn’t lie to me. Stepmoms really were terrifying. 3 My stepmom fired most of the nannies in the house, leaving only one for cleaning and one for cooking. I completely lost my lifestyle of being spoon-fed and dressed by others. I was forced to learn how to dress myself and brush my own teeth. Every day, I bitterly drank my medicinal syrups and practiced Taekwondo… Gradually, I stopped having those stinky burps. My body grew strong enough that I could carry my own chairs. I also welcomed my first day of elementary school. My stepmom specifically bought me a new dress and dropped me off at school. “If you can study, study. If you can’t, just eat more at lunch. Mom will come pick you up tonight~” I nodded obediently and walked into the classroom with the other kids. Suddenly, a little boy bumped into me. Cola spilled all over my outfit. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it.” He was apologizing, but he had a mischievous grin on his face. I felt incredibly wronged. “It’s okay…” After wiping the cola off my new dress, I sat gloomily in my chair. The boy sat right behind me, occasionally kicking my chair with his foot. The constant thump-thump was incredibly annoying. Unable to take it anymore, I turned around to stop him, only to find my ponytail had gotten stuck in a wad of chewing gum. He made a cocky face at me. “The little princess got her hair dirty.” Furious, I went to the teacher to complain. The teacher didn’t care. “Mason Wright is just joking around with you. Don’t make a big deal out of nothing.” “Besides, why would he prank you and not anyone else? Did you do something to upset him?” I was left speechless by her logic. The teacher shooed me back to my seat. Mason kept kicking my chair. Not knowing who to talk to, I held back my tears and suffered until school ended. Afraid my stepmom would see my ruined dress and hair and scold me, I hugged my backpack against my chest to hide the stain. I clumsily twisted my hair up into a bun. As soon as I got in the car, I was met with my stepmom’s piercing stare. I felt incredibly uncomfortable under her gaze. Yet, she asked gently. “Tell Mom, how did your clothes and hair get like this?” I couldn’t help but speak up: “It was Mason Wright…” The System screamed: [It’s the third male lead! The female lead’s childhood-sweetheart-turned-rival! I totally ship them!] My stepmom was unexpectedly quiet. She took me home, changed my dirty dress first, and then meticulously cleaned the gum out of my hair. She looked at me and said, word by word: “Tomorrow at school, if he bullies you again, use the Taekwondo you learned to hit him back.” I twisted my fingers hesitantly. “But fighting is wrong.” “Then do you want your new dresses to keep getting ruined? Do you want gum in your hair again? Do you want your chair kicked all day long?” No, I didn’t want that at all. 4 Early the next morning, my stepmom dropped me off at school. As soon as I sat down in class, Mason started kicking my chair again, saying in a sleazy tone: “The little princess got a new dress.” I turned around and looked at him seriously, just like my stepmom had taught me. “My name is Aurora, not little princess.” “Please stop kicking my chair, or I won’t hold back.” He exaggeratedly grabbed his stomach, laughing out loud. “Hey everyone, look! The little princess is mad! She’s gonna hit me with her tiny little fists!” I stood straight up, grabbed him by the collar, and flipped him over my shoulder, slamming him to the ground. I ruthlessly pummeled that mouth that never knew when to shut up. I don’t know how much time passed before the teacher’s shrill scream echoed through the room. “Aurora! What do you think you are doing?!!!” 5 I was taken to the principal’s office, and they called our parents. Mason sat in a chair, bawling his eyes out. I stood in the corner, obediently looking down. Before long. My stepmom and Mason’s mom arrived at the same time. First, I heard the System’s absolute breakdown. [How did my fragile, delicate female lead knock out the third male lead’s teeth?!] [Host, look at what you’ve done! The delicate little vine has turned into a man-eating Venus flytrap!] [They’re both plants. What’s the difference?] After shutting down the System, my stepmom walked over and rubbed my head. “Good job.” I instantly lifted my chin with pride. The teacher said, displeased: “Aurora’s mom, you can’t teach your child like this. It will ruin her life.” “It’s normal for kids to roughhouse, but Aurora is too sensitive. Mason played a few jokes on her, and she beat him black and blue.” Mason nodded pitifully: “I just thought she was cute and wanted to play with her! How was I supposed to know she was so violent?” Mason’s mom angrily pointed a finger at us. “If your daughter can’t handle other kids playing with her, then don’t send her to school.” “My precious boy was beaten like this by your daughter. You must apologize and pay for his medical bills!” My stepmom sneered. “Why is your son allowed to bully my daughter, but my daughter isn’t allowed to fight back?” “There are security cameras in the classrooms. How about we call the police and let the officers decide who is at fault?” After saying that, she looked at the teacher. “My daughter told you she was being bullied yesterday, and as a teacher, not only did you refuse to solve the problem, you interrogated my daughter and showed blatant favoritism toward Mason.” “I require your school to give me a reasonable explanation.” 5 My stepmom didn’t even give Mason’s mom or the teacher a chance to speak. She called the police on the spot and contacted our family lawyer. The security footage proved Mason had been bullying me first. Citing emotional trauma, my stepmom demanded a massive, multi-zero settlement from Mason’s mom. After losing a fortune, Mason’s mom was so furious she beat Mason herself and transferred him to another school. And the teacher, deemed unfit for the profession, was fired. Perhaps afraid of becoming the next Mason, the other kids stopped playing with me. But my stepmom bought a bunch of gifts for them, and soon, I had more friends than I could count. I looked at my stepmom with absolute admiration. Only to hear her on the phone with my dad. “Honey, Aurora needs to pay her tuition for next semester. Please transfer me a million dollars.” My tuition was nowhere near that expensive. She was lying. A term popped into my head: “Gold digger.” But my stepmom never wore heavy gold or silver jewelry. The designer bags my dad brought her from his business trips were just left in the closet to gather dust. I didn’t understand what she needed all that money for. Regardless, my after-school extracurriculars multiplied. Equestrian, swimming, painting, piano… My stepmom claimed it was for my “comprehensive development.” Mason Wright completely vanished from my life. My days were incredibly fulfilling. My originally porcelain-white skin tanned into a healthy, athletic bronze. In a flash, I was in high school. I was in the AP class, where the academic competition was fierce. To ensure our class maintained a high average score on the next exam, our homeroom teacher paired us up. Good students mentoring the struggling ones. It was a fair random draw. I drew Ryder Brooks. He was dead last in the entire grade, the resident school delinquent who only knew how to get into fights. I immediately got a headache. Reluctantly, I walked over to his desk. He was still sleeping with his head on the desk. “Ryder Brooks, you got every single question wrong on this test. Get up. I’m going over the exam with you.” Ryder lazily lifted his head, revealing a strikingly handsome face. He looked me up and down, flashing a wicked grin. “Class Prez, you care about me this much? Do you have a crush on me?”

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01 It was pouring rain tonight. I stood on the curb, holding my soundly sleeping son in my arms, waiting for the Uber I had booked. Soon, a car pulled up right in front of me. I didn’t know why, but the car looked vaguely familiar. But… it was black, and the license plate ended in 88. This had to be it! I dashed through the heavy rain, opening the door and sliding into the backseat in one fluid motion. Except… the moment I got inside, something felt off. The interior was absurdly luxurious. You absolutely couldn’t get a car like this for anything less than a couple hundred grand! Could it be… some bored rich guy driving an Uber just to experience the struggles of the working class? As the thought crossed my mind, I said, “Alright, sir, we’re good to go.” The car didn’t move. Confused, I asked, “Sir? Why aren’t we moving?” That’s when a cold, clear voice drifted from the driver’s seat. “Long time no see, Harper.” That deep, magnetic voice. Who else could it be but my ex-boyfriend from five years ago—the biological father of the child currently sleeping in my arms? What was he doing here?! I must have opened the car door in a parallel universe. But my survival instincts quickly kicked in, and I figured out the crux of the problem. “I—I got in the wrong car. I’ll get out right now.” It wasn’t that I was a genius; it was just plain logic. Unless the earth exploded, there was zero chance Carter Sterling would ever be poor enough to drive an Uber! Just as I reached for the handle to escape this pirate ship—I mean, car—I heard a sharp click. The doors locked. My heart hammered in my chest, a wave of intense anxiety washing over me. “Where are you going? I’ll drop you off.” His tone was completely flat, and he didn’t even glance in the rearview mirror. But my gut screamed that this was a disaster. I clutched my son tighter, feeling incredibly guilty. I absolutely could not let him see my son’s face. After all, the two of them looked like they were printed from the exact same mold! “No need, really. I just got the wrong car. My husband drives this exact same model.” I was dead set on saving face, especially in front of my ex. “Do you usually call your husband ‘sir’?” “Y-yes! It’s a pet name. Got a problem with that?” “Hmm. It’s just that there are only two of these cars in the entire city. One is mine, and the other belongs to the CEO of Apex Real Estate. And as far as I know, he’s over fifty, balding, and has a massive beer belly.” Me: “……” “Your tastes have gotten a bit extreme, haven’t they?” I gritted my teeth. “I don’t know anything about cars. They all look the same to me. I guess I remembered wrong.” “Harper, didn’t I tell you? Whenever you lie and feel incredibly nervous, you touch your nose, and then the back of your neck.” I immediately dropped the hand I was currently using to rub the back of my neck. How was it that five years had passed, and Carter still had me completely figured out? 02 Before I could figure out a way to sneak out, my phone rang. It was my actual Uber driver. “Hello? Hey, miss, I’m so sorry, but my car broke down! Could you go ahead and cancel the ride on your end?” His booming voice echoed out of my phone’s earpiece, giving the entire luxury car a surround-sound experience. And me? I was so embarrassed I wanted to dig a hole through the floorboards. To make it worse, Carter let out a deliberate, soft chuckle. “Guess your husband isn’t coming?” I took a deep breath. “…Maplewood Heights, please. Thank you.” Even though we broke up five years ago, I still trusted his character. I don’t know if it was because the car was too quiet, or if he was just bored. He finally asked the question I had been dreading. “How old is your son?” “…Three.” I deliberately shaved a year off Leo’s actual age. “He doesn’t look three.” “He’s special. He’s been bigger than other kids since the day he was born.” I glanced down at my sleeping son, sweating bullets. The topic ended there, and a terrifying silence fell over the car once again. 03 The car pulled to a smooth stop at the entrance of my apartment complex. The heart that had been in my throat the entire ride finally settled. “I’m here. Thanks for the ride.” Just as I was about to make a run for it, he handed me a business card. I stared at his hand. Pale, long-fingered, strong. Exactly as I remembered. Right as my thoughts were starting to wander… “If you ever need any help in the future, you can contact me.” “Since when did you become so helpful?” I asked sarcastically. Carter? Helpful? Incredibly kind? Loves helping others? That was absolutely the funniest joke I had heard all year. I let out a cold laugh. “No thanks!” I snapped out of my brief wave of nostalgia. I wanted nothing more than to throw the business card right in his face! He raised an eyebrow. “What, Harper? You dumped me, but you still aren’t over me?” He was using reverse psychology! It was the tactic I hated most in the world. Because it worked on me every single time! My hand moved faster than my brain. I snatched the card, clutching it tight, and said my goodbyes to Carter. “Carter Sterling, I forgot about you a long, long time ago!” The card in my palm was crumpled into a ball and tossed into its ultimate resting place—the nearest trash can. As for what was written on it, I didn’t even look. Help from an ex? I didn’t care. The greatest help that jerk could ever give me was to stay far away from me and my child for the rest of his life! 04 Despite my best efforts to prevent it, my son caught a fever. It happened right in the middle of flu season, and the pediatric ward was absolutely packed. Holding my lethargic son, I waited from the crack of dawn until high noon. And of course, right at that moment, my editor’s calls started blowing up my phone. Yes, I’m a journalist. As a reporter, missing a trending story is basically chronic unemployment. And if I lost my job, my son and I would have to survive on air. With no other choice, I carried my son and went to find a friend who worked in orthopedics. “Liam, I’m so sorry to bother you with the baby again.” “Don’t be so polite with me. I’m a doctor. Even if a regular patient needed help, I’d step in.” He spoke with gentle consideration. I thanked him endlessly and carefully handed my son, who was still hooked up to an IV drip, over to Liam to look after. A few hours later, my interview wrapped up, and I rushed back, burning with anxiety. Thank God, my son’s fever had broken. After a quick goodbye to Liam, I gathered my son and prepared to leave the hospital. But just as I stepped out of Liam’s office with the baby in my arms… Someone walked right toward us. Very familiar. It was Carter, whom I had just seen yesterday. I wanted to pretend I didn’t know him, but he spoke first. “Your son has a fever?” My heart skipped a beat, and I immediately lowered my head. Thankfully, the way I was holding my son meant only his forehead—covered by a cooling patch—was visible. I knew Carter was just asking out of politeness, but after a second of thought, I couldn’t resist dropping a reminder. “Yes, my son has a fever.” I put a heavy emphasis on the word my. He just gave a simple “Hmm.” Terrified he might say something else, I quickly changed the subject. “You got hurt?” Hahaha, what kind soul did society a favor and put him in the orthopedics ward? I really wanted to send that person a bouquet of flowers. Before I could laugh out loud, I heard him say, “Noah got into a little fender bender.” Noah Brooks. I knew him too. He was an old college classmate, and Carter’s best friend. He was also the primary witness to the entire crash-and-burn of my relationship with Carter. I didn’t care much for Noah, mostly because after the breakup, he had made several sarcastic, passive-aggressive remarks to me. Just last night, he somehow got my number and called to yell at me. —”Carter told me you have a son now? Heh, Harper, you sure moved on right away, didn’t you?” —”Harper, stay the hell away from Carter. You’ve already caused him enough damage.” I had literally laughed out loud at that. Carter was the one who moved to my city, and I was supposed to stay away from him? Besides, during everything that happened back then, I was the one who got hurt. Why was everyone acting like Carter was the victim? I fired right back at him: “All I can say is, Carter has done a phenomenal job playing the heartbroken martyr.” And then I hung up. I didn’t expect to run into both of them today. What awful luck. Seeing Noah limping his way over, I turned around, fully intending to leave. “I’ll give you a ride back,” Carter suddenly offered. “He’s done with his appointment. We’re going the same way.” “No thanks. I can’t afford to play along with your ‘deeply devoted ex’ persona,” I replied without hesitation, looking back. I watched Carter frown, but before he could speak, a voice rang out from behind me. “Harper, let’s go home!” It was Liam. 05 Carter’s face darkened instantly. Liam walked straight toward me, his eyes filled with total warmth. “Harper, I swapped shifts with a coworker. I’ll drive you and Leo back.” “You don’t have to do that! Please, get back to your patients. Your work is important.” I felt incredibly guilty. I already bothered Liam enough as it was. I was racking up an impossible debt of favors. Liam smiled shyly. “My work isn’t nearly as important as you and the baby.” Hearing those words coming out of Liam’s mouth… I laughed awkwardly, not knowing how to respond. Just then, Carter’s voice cut through, freezing cold. “Are you Harper’s husband?” I don’t know why, but amidst the panic, I actually felt a tiny bit touched. I never thought I’d live to see the day Carter Sterling asked a question so politely. Because the old Carter would have definitely said: “What kind of stray dog are you? Get the hell out of my face!” It seemed five years really could change a playboy. “Hello, I’m Dr. Liam Hayes. Judging by your age, you must be Harper’s old classmates?” I was surprised. Liam didn’t deny it, but he didn’t confirm it either. I wanted to clarify, but looking at Carter and Noah—who had just hobbled over—I suddenly changed my mind. Why not… just let them keep misunderstanding? Since I didn’t say anything, Carter and Noah just stood there, staring dead at Liam. None of the four of us spoke… The tension was agonizingly awkward. I tugged on Liam’s sleeve, and he smoothly stepped in to rescue me. “Well, gentlemen, we’ll be going now.” Then he actively reached over and took Leo from my arms, looking every bit the perfect man, the perfect husband, and the perfect father. Carter: “Alright. Drive safe.” It was the most normal, polite farewell possible, yet it sent a chilling shiver straight down my spine. He was being way too polite. I comforted myself by thinking that as I got older, I was just overthinking things. But that very night, I woke up in a cold sweat from a nightmare. In the dream, Carter had his hands wrapped around my throat, demanding to know why I had done this to him. Thinking back to Carter’s polite, boundaried behavior at the hospital, I felt ridiculous. Everything was deep in the past, and everyone had moved on with their lives. I was the only idiot still obsessing over what happened back then. 06 My son needed IV drips for three consecutive days for his fever. And for three consecutive days, I bumped into Carter and Noah at the hospital. I couldn’t help but wonder—since when did a minor fracture require daily check-ups? Shouldn’t he just be resting in bed for a couple of months? The first day was an accident. The second day was a coincidence. By the third day, it was just bizarre. I asked sympathetically, “Noah, is your leg going to need to be amputated or something?” Noah muttered under his breath, “I’m just a massive third wheel.” “What was that?” “Nothing. It’s just a sprain. Carter is just worried about me, so he brings me in for check-ups every day.” My mouth twitched. What was wrong with these two? Were they having some sort of intense bromance? Just then, Liam appeared, walking past a group of nurses with a coffee in hand. The nurses all turned to look at him, then covered their mouths, giggling. They whispered admiringly, “Dr. Hayes really is the hospital’s most eligible bachelor. Look at those proportions! Look at that face! He’s too perfect.” My heart dropped. If the nurses were calling him a bachelor… didn’t that completely ruin the illusion I had been trying to maintain all week? But to my utter shock… Carter acted like he didn’t hear a single word. He just shot Noah a subtle glance. And then, right before my eyes, Noah began dramatically wailing. “Ohhh, Doctor! My leg is in agonizing pain!” I couldn’t stop my mouth from twitching. That acting deserved a Golden Raspberry Award for Worst Actor of the Decade. He put on the performance of a lifetime in the morning, and I lost my job in the afternoon. Well, not exactly. But Liam clearly thought Noah’s acting was absurdly fake and hesitated to intervene. But as a doctor, he couldn’t exactly ignore a patient in “pain.” Once Noah aggressively dragged Liam away, the atmosphere instantly dropped below freezing. “Your son is cute. Doesn’t look much like you, though.” Me: “…If you don’t have anything nice to say, you are allowed to shut up.” No kidding he doesn’t look like me! He looks like you! But I never expected this man to be partially blind. He noticed the kid didn’t look like me, but somehow failed to realize the kid looked exactly like him. Even though it was the truth, I still hated hearing it. Before I could lose my temper… Carter casually added, “I have freedom of speech.” Then he crouched down to greet my son. “Hey there, buddy. I’m your mom’s friend.” “I’m Leo! Hi, Uncle.” This was the first time Carter had interacted with a fully awake, energized Leo. Seeing the two of them side-by-side, their eyes and brows were strikingly identical. The longer I looked, the more panicked I felt. And… maybe it was the blood connection, but the two of them hit it off instantly, chatting away like old pals. I was paralyzed. Just as I was about to tactfully interrupt and stop the conversation… My phone started ringing off the hook. It was my editor again. It was that damn job again. So annoying! But when it came down to choosing between getting my pay docked or answering the phone, I knew what I had to do. “Leo, Mommy has to take a call. Let me carry you to the orthopedic office to wait for a bit, okay?” Before Leo could answer, Carter stepped in. “I’ll watch him for you.” Leave these two alone in the same room? No. Absolutely not. “No—” I started to refuse. “Your phone is about to go to voicemail,” Carter pointed out helpfully. Seeing the words “Chief Editor” flashing on the screen, I hesitated for a split second. “Just two minutes. Thank you.” Two minutes. What kind of disaster could happen in two minutes? 07 Never leave things to chance!!! Help me… When I finished the call and rushed back to the IV room, I overheard a conversation that nearly gave me a heart attack. “Dr. Hayes is just Mommy’s friend, not my daddy! You misunderstood, Uncle~” What a fantastic son I had. Using his sweet, innocent little voice to completely sell me out. Carter paused, then asked, “Then who is your daddy?” I wanted to sprint over and stop it, but my son’s mouth was too fast. He said, “Mommy said my dad is a super bad guy, so I’ve never met him.” I didn’t know why, but I actually wanted to laugh. Kid, did it ever cross your mind that the man standing right in front of you… is your biological father? Biting back a laugh, I quickly interrupted them before Carter could ask his next question. And then I saw the look Carter was giving me… It went from total confusion, to intense urgency, and finally, to a look of profound pity—clearly suspecting I had been knocked up and abandoned by an irresponsible deadbeat. I couldn’t be bothered to correct him. I just took my son home that night and gave him a very strict lecture about stranger danger. The next day, Carter probed again. My son looked deeply conflicted and said, “Mommy said I’m not allowed to talk too much to Uncle Carter.” I could physically feel Carter choking on the rejection. I couldn’t help it. My wonderful son was perfect in every way, except he was a little too honest. “Harper, you really do overthink things.” What was that supposed to mean? Was he calling me a narcissist? I doubled down. “You misunderstood. I just want my son to have a strong sense of stranger danger.” Carter looked at me meaningfully and replied, “I hope that’s all it is.” I coughed guiltily. “Of course that’s all it is.” “So, who is this irresponsible deadbeat who hurt you?” “No comment.” Carter’s brow furrowed, his face turning cold. “Are you still not over him?” “What does it matter if I tell you? Are you going to go get revenge on him for me?” Taking revenge on himself? That would be a fresh twist. Though, as the CEO of a publicly traded corporate empire, he certainly had the money, power, and capability to do it. “What makes you think I wouldn’t?” I shot back instantly: “I’m not worth Mr. Sterling’s trouble.” I was terrified of what else he might say, and even more terrified that if this kept going, I’d expose the truth. I grabbed my kid and practically ran, swearing to myself I would never step foot in this hospital again. But to my utter shock, even after going to such extreme lengths to hide… I still bumped into him again. 08 That evening, my balding Chief Editor dragged me out to a networking dinner. I knew the rules of the corporate dinner table. Whether you knew the people or not, you just drank. But this time, we hit a brick wall. The client had the alcohol tolerance of a blue whale. An hour in, I finally raised my white flag. “I can’t do it, Mr. Henderson. I seriously can’t drink another drop.” “Harper, come on, that won’t do! We haven’t even made it through the appetizers yet!” I had clearly expressed my refusal. But a glass filled to the brim with red wine was still forcefully shoved into my hand. I had been in this exact situation countless times, and the only way out was usually to just swallow it down. But this time, someone intervened. “She said she’s done drinking. Are you deaf?” I didn’t know where Carter materialized from, but he snatched the wine glass out of my hand and slammed it heavily onto the table. His face was so dark and menacing it sent a chill through the room. My head was spinning from the alcohol, but I wasn’t so drunk I couldn’t recognize the man standing in front of me. I stared blankly at him. God, that face really was gorgeous. Setting aside the fact that he cheated on me… Carter truly fulfilled every single fantasy I had about a man with a great voice, great hands, and an incredible face. My editor snapped out of his shock and quickly stood up to smooth things over. “Mr… Mr. Sterling! You’re here! Please, take a seat. You misunderstood, nobody is forcing Harper to drink! We’re just warming up the room!” Carter didn’t give him an ounce of grace. “Warming up the room by harassing a woman?” Seeing my editor’s pathetic, fawning behavior, it suddenly clicked. The “corporate titan” my editor said might make an appearance tonight… Was Carter? My editor had even warned me to be on my best behavior tonight so we could secure an exclusive interview with him tomorrow. I don’t know why, but I instantly relaxed. If the VIP was him, then there was absolutely no need for me to suffer through this miserable networking dinner. Carter was a jerk, but I knew him well enough to know he wasn’t despicable enough to sabotage my career over a personal grudge. “I’m not feeling well. I’m going to head out,” I forced myself to say. Perhaps sensing that my relationship with Carter was anything but ordinary, no one dared to stop me. I stood up unsteadily, my legs like jelly, looking quite pathetic as I swayed. With a sweep of his long arm, Carter pulled me firmly into his chest, holding me in a deeply intimate embrace.

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SOS! This is So Creepy! My Cat Keeps Bringing Home Men’s Underwear!Various colors, various fabrics, various styles… but they are all the exact same size. Even the scent of the laundry detergent is identical! I strongly suspect they all belong to the same guy. But what am I supposed to do with them? Please help! 1 My cat is a wanted fugitive. His mugshot is plastered right on our apartment complex’s community bulletin board. I was walking back from the corner store this afternoon when I accidentally caught a glimpse of this “Wanted Poster.” In the photo, my cat, Bruce, was being pinned to the floor by a very long, attractive masculine hand, forced to take a head-on mugshot. Above it was a line of small text: “Excuse me, which neighbor does this little kitty belong to? He keeps breaking into my apartment to steal things. I’d appreciate it if you could keep an eye on him and stop him from running around. Much obliged~” Wait, is there writing bleeding through from the back of the paper? I flipped it over. Sure enough, there was a warning with a completely different tone: “If this idiot cat comes back to steal my boxers again, I’m going to chop off his balls! Then I’ll throw him into a pack of feral alley cats! I’ll show him what living hell looks like!” So terrifying! So vicious! I shivered, and while no one was looking, I quickly ripped the wanted poster down, shoved it into my jacket, and sprinted home. 2 When I walked through the door, Bruce was lying on the couch grooming himself. Hearing me come in, he spared me a single glance before burying his face back into his fur. Looks like he just got back too. I picked up his latest loot for the day, spreading the tiny piece of fabric between my hands to inspect the front and back. This was the seventh pair. Today’s pair was as obnoxious as ever, covered in a banana print. The bright, neon yellow was incredibly blinding. Just thinking about that wanted poster made my face flush red. It’s not that I don’t try to keep an eye on him. My cat just isn’t something an ordinary person can handle. Actually, ever since he brought back the first pair of underwear half a month ago, I sealed all the doors and windows to stop him from going out. But Bruce used to be a stray. I’ve always let him roam a bit, and he’s insanely smart and resourceful. So I literally can’t keep him contained. The second I let my guard down, he slips out. But this time, I finally put my foot down. I locked him inside his heavy-duty pet crate. 3 I was extra careful this time, and Bruce never got the chance to go out and commit his crimes again. The next day, my 6:30 PM alarm went off right on time. I practically did a backflip out of bed, happily changing my clothes and blow-drying my hair. Right before leaving, I made sure to check on Bruce. He was lying listlessly in his crate, his tail giving an occasional, lazy flick. His little eyes even shot me a sneaky glare. I looked at the heavy-duty latch securely bolted on the cage, nodded in satisfaction, and shut the front door behind me. 4 At 6:30 PM on a weekday, people were getting off work or out of school. The early summer sun was softening, and the strip of shops outside the apartment complex was much livelier than during the day. With the familiar electronic “Ding-dong—Welcome!” chime, I stepped into the corner store right on schedule. The cashier girl and I were already on familiar terms. She smiled at me. “What’s on the menu today?” I always felt like she could see right through my little secret. I just gave her a sheepish smile and quickly made my way toward the microwavable meals section in the back. I dawdled, eventually picking out a three-cheese chicken mac and cheese. When I came out to the register, I immediately spotted that tall figure in the dark gray hoodie. My heart leaped into my throat and just stayed there. He hadn’t noticed me yet. The guy with him spotted me first, rested a hand on his shoulder, and nodded in my direction. And then, he turned his head and looked right at me. Oh, God, save me… How could a guy have such gorgeous eyes? The shape was perfect, they were naturally alluring, and his eyelashes were so thick and long! I ducked my head slightly, internally panicking. This was the seventh time I’d run into him. But my heart still felt so, so sweet! But the next second, I saw what he was putting on the counter, and I froze. Why is he buying underwear again? 5 He glanced at me, casually looked away, and pulled up Apple Pay on his phone. Suddenly, he let out a soft “Ah,” and said to the cashier, “Sorry, my phone’s not getting any service in here.” His friend, instead of helping him out, just patted him on the back and walked outside to wait for him. Was that a smirk on his face as he left? Perfect! My moment had arrived! I stepped up and said in a tiny voice, “Um… I can cover it for you.” Without waiting for an answer, I put my microwave dinner on the counter to ring up together and tapped my phone to the reader. He didn’t act overly polite or awkward; he just courteously thanked me. The cashier girl smiled, her eyes crinkling, and quickly bagged our stuff. 6 Walking out of the store, my face was still burning. We had crossed paths a few times before. But this time, we were standing so close! He was incredibly handsome. Not just his eyes—his skin was clear, almost poreless. His friend had actually ditched him. Since we lived in the same apartment complex, it was only natural that we walked back together. “I’ll Venmo you when I get up to my place,” he said. I reflexively waved my hands. “It’s okay, it wasn’t much. Don’t worry about it.” The moment the words left my mouth, I wanted to bite my tongue off. What a perfect excuse to get his number! Why did I have to say something so stupid? He paused for a second, then said, “What’s your number? Let me shoot you a text so I can add you and send the money.” “Oh! Yeah, sure!” I hurriedly dug my phone out of my purse. On the outside, I was cool as a cucumber. On the inside, fireworks were going off. I’d had a crush on him from afar for so long, and my patience was finally paying off. We were making progress. I was so happy I could cry. 7 I need to check my horoscope when I get home. My luck with romance is off the charts today! This is amazing. We kept talking the whole way! Him: “Which building are you in?” I pointed ahead. “Building 12.” Then I quickly asked: “What about you?” He smiled slightly. “Building 10.” Oh my God, there was only one building between us. But the harsh reality I should have picked up on was that our paths were about to split. I felt a little wave of disappointment. “Watch out!” I looked up at him blankly, not registering what was happening. Before I knew it, his palm was cupping the back of my head, his other hand gripping my shoulder, and he spun me around. At the exact same time, a baseball whizzed past us at top speed and crashed into the bushes. A thirteen-year-old kid ran over, apologizing profusely. I told the kid it was fine, then looked back at the guy beside me. My eyes involuntarily dropped to the neckline of his hoodie. Just a second ago, my eyes were less than an inch away from there. I hadn’t even paid attention to the near-miss with the baseball, because my entire focus had been hijacked by that sexy little red mole on his collarbone. I almost had a nosebleed. Incredible! How does every single thing about him hit all my weak spots? 8 After we parted ways, every step I took felt like I was walking on clouds. The second I stepped out of the elevator, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. I saved the contact instantly. His text considerately included his name: “Ethan Hayes.” I clutched my phone to my chest. Ethan Hayes. Ethan Hayes. Ethan Hayes. The more I said it, the better it sounded! Once I was done fangirling, I quickly texted my name back so he could save it: “Chloe Bennett.” Then, he Venmoed me the $28 for the boxers. Probably afraid I’d reject the payment, he even added a note: “Make sure you accept it.” So gentle. And so considerate. I’m doomed. I think I like him even more now. 9 I was completely lost in my own pink, bubbly fantasy when a black shadow suddenly flashed across the windowsill. Bruce, with a clump of socks in his mouth, had returned from the outside world. Caught red-handed, he froze on the windowsill, too scared to jump down. He looked absolutely ridiculous with socks dangling from his jaws. And the pet crate I had locked so securely before I left? The door was wide open. “Where have you been running wild now?!” I snatched the socks out of his mouth. He was a pro. He even knew to steal a matching pair. Wait, what’s this? White tube socks? I wrinkled my nose in disgust. Who even wears these basic white tube socks anymore? And that guy, he liked those flashy, obnoxious boxers. Wild animal prints, tropical jungles, Fruit Ninja vibes—you name it. He clearly wasn’t a serious guy. Right now, my heart was completely occupied by the name “Ethan Hayes.” Compared to him, every other guy on earth was literal garbage. 10 Since we just officially met, I didn’t want to come off too strong, or I might scare him off. Because of that, Ethan and I didn’t text much after that. Two days later, I went to the complex’s front gate to pick up a fruit delivery. Walking past the spot where he saved me from the baseball, I looked at the massive boxes of fruit in my arms and decided to use it as an excuse to bring him some. Okay, I admit it. I really just wanted to see him. I sent him a text testing the waters. He replied quickly: “I’m at home, but I’m in the middle of something and can’t step away.” I instantly deflated. But then he sent another text: “If you have time, could you come to my door? I’m on the 3rd floor, Apt 302.” Oh man, the emotional roller coaster! I literally jumped for joy on the spot! 11 As soon as I stepped out of the elevator, I saw a front door wide open, the apartment bustling with people. I checked the number above the door. Apt 302. Who were all these people inside? Some had microphones, others were carrying big camera rigs on their shoulders. Were they a TV crew? Curious, I peeked my head in. The moment I showed my face at the door, Ethan saw me. He was in the middle of being interviewed by a reporter. Seeing me, he paused, offered a subtle smile that only I would notice, and then went back to speaking seriously. I had terrible timing. Just as I was about to slip away, the guy who was with him at the convenience store that day walked out and said warmly, “Hey, just wait for him a sec, okay? They’re almost done.” I quickly nodded. “Oh, sure, sure.” Then I realized something was off and asked him, “Wait, how did you know I was looking for him?” The guy smiled meaningfully and dodged the question. “Hi, I’m Ethan’s roommate, Carter.”

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Everyone knew Caleb was the perfect boyfriend. But on our anniversary, he suddenly hard-launched his ex on Instagram. When I asked him why, he just laughed carelessly. “Because her waist… is thinner than yours, I guess.” 1 My boyfriend got a new girlfriend. Just one minute before he made it Instagram official, he sent me a breakup text. Before I could even process it, I saw his new post: “Three years. My feelings for you only grew.” The photo attached was of him and a girl. She was looking away from the camera, leaving only her side profile visible. He was looking at her, his lips pressed slightly together. That was his micro-expression when he was nervous. The top comment was pinned by him. It was incredibly cliché: “You’re always welcome to dock at my harbor.” Caleb’s post blew up with comments, but he didn’t reply to a single one. My chest felt tight. A wave of nausea hit me. I took a deep breath and called him. Honestly, I had always thought I didn’t care that much about this relationship. But… The moment the call went through, I realized my hands were shaking violently. The phone rang once before he quickly hung up. Soon after, Caleb’s text popped up. His tone was so cold it felt like a stranger: “Not a good time. Text me if you need something.” I typed out a massive paragraph, then deleted it word by word. Finally, I just sent one sentence: “We can break up, but you’re going to say it to my face.” Silence stretched on the other end. Then, as if bestowing a grand favor, he sent one word: “Fine.” After agreeing on a time and place, I felt a bit dazed. In this relationship, Caleb had always been the initiator. He chased me relentlessly, and his confession was so grand the entire campus knew about it. When I rejected him, he stood outside my dorm all night in the freezing winter, smoking a whole pack of cigarettes. Anyone’s heart would soften at that. Once, I casually mentioned missing a specific dish from my hometown. He drove through the night just to buy it for me. Even though the food was cold by the time it reached my hands. When someone was vaguely trashing me online, he scoured the internet, tracked the guy down, and put him in his place. Piece by piece, action by action, he chipped away at my walls until we finally got together. Whenever people on campus talked about us, they joked that Caleb was hopelessly whipped for me. But I never imagined our breakup would be so… effortless. 2 The coffee shop near the campus back gates. I sat by the window. I waited so long the coffee on the table went from hot to cold before Caleb finally showed up. He was dressed really strangely today. Usually, he loved a casual, preppy style. Always in light-colored crewnecks, always with classic black hair, always looking like the boy next door. But today… He was dressed entirely in black. A black hoodie, black cargo pants, and his hair was dyed. He even had a silver hoop earring in his left ear—this from a guy who was notoriously terrified of pain. I stared, stunned. We hadn’t seen each other for exactly two days, and he looked like a completely different person. Seeing my shock, he just smirked. “She likes it.” Three simple words, and I realized just how completely I had lost this past year. Caleb was a very egocentric person. While we dated, he treated me incredibly well, but he rarely listened to what I wanted. Once, I suggested he try a new haircut. He just smiled, ruffled my hair, and said, “Chloe, I don’t like it.” And that was the end of that. I sat frozen for a long time, then cut straight to the chase. “Give me a reason for the breakup.” My reflection was faintly visible in the window glass. The face looking back was calm and cold. But underneath, I was desperately trying to keep my emotions in check. I thought Caleb would make some excuses, or at least look a little guilty. He didn’t. He leaned back in his chair, a careless smile on his lips. “Because her waist… is thinner than yours, I guess.” I froze. Across the table, the corner of his mouth curled up. “Anything else? If not, I’m heading out. If I’m gone too long, she’ll get upset.” The moment those words left his mouth, I raised my hand and threw my coffee right in his face. In that split second, only one thought crossed my mind: What a shame. The coffee is completely cold. 3 Caleb left. After getting splashed with coffee, he only froze for two seconds. Then, he calmly wiped his face and dropped two words: “I’m out.” But after taking two steps, he looked back at me. “Chloe, I was really good to you this past year, wasn’t I? Let’s just part on good terms. We don’t even have to say hi if we bump into each other.” He didn’t give me time to react. He just walked out. I sat in silence for a few seconds. Then, I stood up, grabbed a steaming hot cup of coffee from the guy at the next table, muttered a quick “Sorry,” and chased after him. I dumped it right over Caleb’s head. It was hot, but not boiling enough to burn him. It did, however, make him look incredibly pathetic. But Caleb just stopped in his tracks. He kept his back perfectly straight and didn’t even turn around to look at me. I stared at his coffee-soaked clothes. “Caleb. Now we’re parted on good terms.” With that, I turned around, carrying the empty cup. I returned the cup to the couple inside and ordered them two fresh coffees to make up for it. The girl didn’t blame me at all. Instead, she gave me a thumbs-up. “Girl, that was badass.” I forced a smile, but didn’t say anything. Honestly, I’ve always been a really dull person. Introverted, sensitive, quiet, and boring. I happened to have a pretty face, so I had my fair share of guys pursuing me, but they were always the type casting a wide net. I’d reject a guy one second, and the next second he’d be whispering sweet nothings to someone else. Because of that, I never thought I’d be loved with such burning intensity. But then, a year ago, Caleb showed up. His loud, unapologetic affection, his dramatic pursuit, his meticulous care—it was so easy for me to fall into his gentle trap. In the year we were together, I never did a single thing to betray him. I was finally learning how to love someone, how to treat him right. But the second I finally figured it out, he turned around and became his ex’s safe harbor. I walked out of the coffee shop and headed toward campus. I told myself it was over, but I still felt like a zombie. So much so that the moment I reached the campus gates, I crashed right into someone. As I stumbled, a pair of hands grabbed my waist to steady me, then let go instantly like I was burning hot. I hit the ground. Hard. The person immediately crouched down to help me. “Chloe, are you… okay?” The voice sounded vaguely familiar. I let him help me up and looked at him. It was a senior. Ethan. He was in the same major as Caleb. “I’m fine.” I was going to thank him for helping me up, but considering how hard I just hit the pavement, I swallowed the words. He frowned. “Caleb’s Instagram post?” I laughed bitterly. “He made it official. With his ex from three years ago.” Since he brought it up, I couldn’t help but vent a little. “And the funny thing? As his current girlfriend, I only got the breakup text one minute before he posted it. Hilarious, right?” Ethan didn’t say a word. He just turned and walked away. I stood there, stunned, silently cursing myself for oversharing. Right. We were barely acquaintances. Why was I dumping my pathetic drama on him? He was probably just annoyed. I looked away and hurried back to my dorm. My silence only deepened on the walk back. Whenever I passed someone I knew, I’d deliberately look away and speed up. I was terrified they’d ask: “Chloe, when did you and Caleb break up? I just saw you guys grabbing lunch a few days ago. Why does he have a new girlfriend?” I wouldn’t know how to answer. Being publicly dumped for the whole world to see was humiliating. I practically sprinted back to my dorm, changed my clothes, crawled into bed, and wrapped myself in my blanket. I wanted to cry, but mostly, I just wanted to scream. I wanted to drag Caleb back here and beat the crap out of him. I kind of regretted not throwing a third cup of coffee. A little while later, my phone rang. It was my roommate, Becca. “Chlo, where are you?” I pulled down the blanket, my voice weak. “Dorm. Why?” “Caleb got beat up!” I sat bolt upright. The suffocating knot in my chest instantly loosened. It took me a second to find my voice. “Who did he piss off?” Becca sounded like she was right at the scene. It was noisy in the background, and it took a few seconds for her reply to come through. “It was Ethan.” “Omg, I’m dying. He looked SO hot doing it!” 4 Ethan? Why him… Becca’s voice was getting staticky, like she had bad reception, and the call dropped. I sat on my bed, staring blankly at the wall. I thought back to how Ethan had turned and walked away at the front gates. I thought he was just annoyed by my venting. I never imagined he was walking off to get justice for me. I debated whether I should go to the scene to see what was happening, but before I could decide, the dorm door swung open and Becca walked in. She was humming a little tune, clearly in a great mood. Before I could even ask, she dragged me out of bed and spilled the whole story. Ethan had tracked Caleb down and fought him. To be accurate, they beat the living hell out of each other. Both took some hits; neither had a clear advantage. Becca grabbed my hands, her eyes shining. “Chloe, you have no idea. Ethan demanded to know how he dared to two-time you, and the way he threw that first punch? Absolute cinematic perfection!” I felt my heart skip a beat. My fingers gripped the edge of my shirt, but I kept my face totally neutral. “What about… Caleb?” At the mention of Caleb, Becca went quiet. She looked up at me, hesitating. “He fought back. And…” “He told Ethan he knew Ethan had been eyeing you for a long time.” 5 I sat there in stunned silence for a long time before letting out a scoff. “That’s impossible. Ethan and I barely even talk.” Becca obviously didn’t buy it. “If you barely talk, why would he throw down with Caleb for you?” “He’s just a decent guy standing up for someone.” I gave a faint smile. “It wouldn’t be the first time he helped someone out.” Becca pursed her lips but didn’t argue. Ethan really was like the perfect golden boy straight out of a movie—smart, decent, kind. The school had even given him an award once for stepping in to stop a mugging. Honestly, I wanted to text Ethan and say thank you. We’d been connected on social media for over a year, but we rarely spoke. We just occasionally “liked” each other’s posts. I stared at his contact for a long time, totally unsure of what to say. Eventually, I gave up and locked my phone. … That afternoon. Out of habit, I headed to the dining hall alone for dinner, never expecting to run into— Caleb. And his ex-girlfriend. I have a quiet personality, and when I walk, I usually keep my eyes down or look straight ahead. I rarely look around. So, it wasn’t until I had gotten my food and sat down in my usual corner that I noticed Caleb and a girl sitting diagonally across from me. From my angle, I had a clear view of her side profile. It was the exact same girl from his Instagram photo. They were eating. I don’t know if he was trying to cater to her tastes, but Caleb had ordered a massive bowl of insanely spicy ramen—something he never ate. The broth was bright red. Even though he was sweating bullets, he kept looking up at her with a smile. The truth is, Caleb couldn’t handle spice. He had bad acid reflux. Eating spicy food always tore his stomach up. I stared blankly, my fingers subconsciously tapping the edge of my tray. And then… Caleb suddenly looked my way. Caught completely off guard, our eyes met. Honestly, I was a little nervous and instinctively wanted to look away out of guilt. But surprisingly, he beat me to it. Our eyes only locked for a fraction of a second before he casually turned his head away and placed a piece of meat into his girlfriend’s bowl. I sat frozen for a few seconds, then let out a quiet laugh. I guess it’s true what they say: the person who gets left behind has the hardest time moving on. He was the one who cheated. Why was I the one feeling guilty and nervous? I was just about to look away when the girl suddenly stood up, looking like she was going to buy a drink. And because of that, I finally saw her face clearly. In that instant, my mind went completely blank, leaving only one phrase echoing in my head: The understudy. Yes. Just like one of those cliché TV tropes. The guy can’t get over his ultimate “white moonlight”—his unattainable first love—so he finds a girl who looks just like her to keep by his side. And I… looked about eighty percent identical to his first love. 6 In that moment, everything finally made sense. That bullshit about her waist being thinner than mine? All a lie. The truth was, he never needed a reason to break up with me, because the only reason he ever dated me in the first place was that my face looked like his first love’s. How pathetic. I forced myself to look down and eat, mechanically shoving food into my mouth. But even my favorite pot roast tasted like ash. The food felt heavy in my throat today. I patted my chest, debating whether I should go buy a bottle of water, when a bottle suddenly appeared in my line of sight. Aquafina. I looked up and saw a smiling face. “Are you sitting alone? Mind if I join you?” It was Ethan. I smiled and waved my hand to say I didn’t mind, but the food was stuck in my throat, making me choke. Ethan was always observant. Without missing a beat, he unscrewed the cap and handed the water to me. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed it and took two massive gulps. The food went down, but then I choked on the water. As I buried my head and coughed violently, Ethan gently patted my back. “Take it easy.” His voice was so gentle. I coughed for a solid minute before finally catching my breath. I took the napkin Ethan handed me, wiped my mouth, and looked up—only to accidentally make eye contact with Caleb. He was staring right at me. His eyes were dark and unreadable. 7 I’ll be honest—in that split second, my imagination ran wild. Like the most classic cliché: the scumbag ex sees his former girlfriend with a new, better guy, gets consumed by jealousy, and suddenly realizes the error of his ways. But reality proved that stuff only happens in fiction. After that accidental eye contact, Caleb quickly looked away. We weren’t sitting that far apart. I could almost see the cold indifference in his eyes. I looked away too, almost wanting to laugh at myself. What kind of teen romance movie did I think I was living in? Snapping back to reality, I looked at Ethan and smiled. “Thank you.” “No problem.” He set the water and the fresh pack of napkins in front of me, then sat down in the seat across the table. “Do you prefer eating alone?” After a moment of silence, he suddenly asked. I blinked. “Not really, just… maybe it’s my personality, but I’m used to it. My roommate hates the dining hall food, so she rarely comes here.” Ethan nodded. While we were talking, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Caleb and his girlfriend had finished eating and stood up to leave. They were leaning in close to each other, looking incredibly intimate as they walked out. I didn’t look up. I just took another bite of my food. 8 They say time heals everything. In the blink of an eye, Caleb and I had been broken up for a month. One month. Thirty days. Over seven hundred hours. Over forty thousand minutes. Without Caleb around, my life didn’t really seem to change much. It really is true: the world keeps spinning no matter who leaves your life. For that whole month, I felt mostly numb. I didn’t experience any soul-crushing heartbreak, nor did I toss and turn in the middle of the night. But… My heart always felt a little hollow, like something was missing. The campus wasn’t that big, but Caleb and I rarely ran into each other anymore. The few times we did cross paths, I usually saw him holding hands with his girlfriend, taking a walk. They looked really in love. I heard through the grapevine that his new girlfriend was his first love from five years ago. She had just moved back from studying abroad, came from a wealthy family, had nothing but free time, and was constantly on campus looking for him. However, I did start running into Ethan a lot. Ethan was an incredibly gentle guy. Clean-cut features, a warm smile. Being around him felt like a soft spring breeze. We became good friends. Every night, we’d text back and forth for a bit. Becca seemed extremely approving of Ethan. In private, she was constantly trying to set us up. I politely shut her down every time. Ethan was great, but… I just wasn’t ready to start a new relationship yet. 9 Memorial Day weekend was coming up, and I wanted to take a short trip to clear my head. I mentioned it casually, and Becca got super excited. She insisted our whole dorm and Ethan should go together. Ethan agreed. I couldn’t really argue with it. I figured with a big group, it would be fine, so I said yes. Becca took charge of booking the bus tickets. But on the morning we were supposed to leave, I woke up to an empty dorm. I called Becca, and she cheerfully said, “We headed to the bus station early! You and Ethan can come together. Be good, bye!” Then she hung up. I knew she was trying to play matchmaker. I originally planned to just take an Uber to the station by myself, but leaving Ethan behind felt rude, so I gave him a call. However. When we both arrived at the station and went to the platform, we realized— We’d been played. Becca and the others never showed up. From the very beginning, she had only booked two tickets. Mine and Ethan’s. Standing in the waiting area, Ethan and I looked at each other, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. This aggressive matchmaking was going to be the death of me. With no other option, Ethan and I had to bite the bullet and embark on our three-day, two-person getaway. The main reason I wanted to take this trip was to see the ocean. I grew up landlocked and had never seen the sea. During my relationship, we never made it out there. Now that I was single, I had to see it at least once. On the ride over, Ethan booked a two-bedroom Airbnb. I tried to Venmo him my half, but he declined it. Seeing my confusion, he smiled. “We’re on vacation, no need to keep a strict ledger. Just buy me dinner when we get there.” I thought about it. The trip was three days long; I had plenty of time to even the score. After leaving the station, we took an Uber to the Airbnb. Because I hadn’t done enough research, we only realized upon arriving that while the place was beautiful, it was in the middle of nowhere. Thankfully, the scenery was stunning, the interior was modern, and it was spotless. It was just a hassle to get around. We dropped our bags in our respective rooms, rested for a bit, and headed out. We hit up two small tourist spots and eventually made our way to a famous local boardwalk night market. I have to say, the mini crab cakes there were out of this world.

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The familiar voice drifted through the speakers of my quiet floral studio, cutting through the late-night relationship podcast I had playing in the background. It was Corinne. The woman I had loved for eight years. The woman who hadn’t spoken to me in ten days. “My boyfriend and I have been together since high school,” her voice crackled over the airwaves, heavy with an exhaustion that felt performative. “Back then, he saved me from a terrible situation. His right hand was shattered by a baseball bat. He could never paint again.” My breath caught in my throat. “I swore I would take care of him for the rest of my life,” she continued, her voice trembling just enough to sound sympathetic. “But I’m drowning. I can’t hold on anymore.” “He’s become so volatile, so sensitive,” she paused, letting the silence stretch. “Then, a new intern started at my firm. He’s an artist, too. And looking at his hands—his perfectly whole, unblemished hands—it was like taking my first real breath in years.” She let out a ragged sigh. “I don’t want to look at that ruined hand anymore. I can’t stomach the guilt.” The podcast host offered a gentle, practiced murmur of sympathy. “Guilt is not romance, sweetie. Letting go is the kindest thing you can do for both of you.” “If his presence has become a tax on your happiness, buy out the debt. Settle the score of what he did for you financially, and walk away.” The host had barely finished her sentence when my phone lit up on the counter. An email notification from my bank. A wire transfer from Corinne. Five hundred thousand dollars. The attached memo read: Wesley, this is enough to cover your medical bills and a fresh start somewhere else. Let’s stop torturing each other. Let me go. 1 I accepted the money. I typed out a single word in response: Done. Tossing the phone aside, I looked down at my right hand. A thick, angry scar snaked from the base of my wrist up to my knuckles, a jagged fault line that ached with a needle-like intensity whenever the Seattle air turned damp and cold. This hand had been useless for eight years. And for eight years, it had been Corinne’s prison. Now, she had purchased her parole for half a million dollars. The next morning, I took the train downtown to her firm to return the keys to her penthouse. When I pushed open the heavy glass door to her corner office, she wasn’t there. Tristan was. The intern. The one who made her feel alive. He was sitting in Corinne’s leather executive chair, casually flipping through a stack of contracts. At the sound of the door, he glanced up, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. “Hey, Wesley. Looking for Corinne? She’s in a board meeting.” I didn’t look at him. I walked straight to the mahogany desk and dropped the keyring squarely in the center. I turned on my heel to leave, but Tristan’s voice stopped me. “Wesley, wait. Corinne was in a terrible mood last night. Her stress ulcers are acting up again. Could you maybe—” “I’m not her father,” I cut him off, my voice flat. Tristan’s smile slipped for a fraction of a second before he recovered, his expression smoothing into a mask of polite concern. He picked up a ceramic mug from the desk. “My apologies. It’s not my place. Hey, don’t leave mad. Have some coffee. I just ground the beans myself.” He took a step toward me. Then, suddenly, the toe of his expensive loafer caught on the edge of the plush rug. He pitched forward. The entire mug of scalding, freshly brewed coffee splashed directly onto my ruined right hand. The pain was instantaneous and absolute. I sucked in a sharp, hissing breath, instinctively jerking my arm back as the heat seared into my nerve-damaged skin. But before I could make a sound, Tristan screamed. He screamed as if he were the one who had just been doused in boiling water. A few stray drops had landed on his wrist, leaving a faint pink bloom on his pristine skin. The office door flew open. Corinne rushed in, her heels clicking frantically against the hardwood. She didn’t even glance in my direction. She made a beeline straight for Tristan, her manicured hands hovering anxiously over his arm. “Where did it hit you? Let me see. Is it bad?” Tristan’s eyes welled with perfectly timed tears. He shook his head bravely. “I’m fine, Corinne. Really. It was my fault. I tripped and spilled it all over Wesley.” Only then did Corinne turn to look at me. Her eyes dropped to my right hand, which was already turning a furious, blistering red. But her brow furrowed not with worry, but with a deep, weary irritation. “Wesley, what has gotten into you?” she demanded, her tone dropping in temperature. “Tristan is just an intern. Whatever anger you have toward me, take it out on me. Why do you have to bully a kid?” The words hit me harder than the boiling water. I stood there, watching her physically shield Tristan with her body. Behind her shoulder, I caught Tristan staring at me, a microscopic smirk playing on his lips. I couldn’t speak. The air had been sucked out of the room. I reached past them, picked up the keys I had just dropped, and shoved them into my coat pocket. Corinne’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing now? Are you seriously trying to threaten me with the keys?” “No,” I finally rasped, my throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper. “I just realized there’s no point in leaving them here.” “You’ve obviously already changed the locks.” I turned and walked out. From down the hall, I heard her voice, tight with repressed fury: “Wesley! Are you ever going to stop making a scene?!” I didn’t look back. I just kept walking, putting one foot in front of the other until I was out of that suffocating glass tower. Outside, the midday sun was blinding. My hand was on fire, a throbbing, blistering reminder of what a colossal fool I was. Eight years ago, when this hand took the brunt of a metal bat meant for her skull, she had held my bleeding fingers to her chest and sobbed, swearing she would spend the rest of her life protecting me. Eight years later, my hand was scalded in front of her, and she demanded to know why I was so narrow-minded. I made it back to my floral studio. The heavy scent of eucalyptus, damp earth, and crushed petals wrapped around me. This was how I survived. This was my sanctuary. I pulled an ice pack from the floral cooler and pressed it against my blistering skin. The physical sting dulled slightly, but the burning in my chest only grew more suffocating. My phone vibrated against the counter. It was Corinne’s younger sister. “Hey, Wesley. Did my sister do something stupid again? You know she’s emotionally stunted. Don’t take it to heart.” 2 Bridget’s voice was, as always, a burst of bright, chaotic energy. Throughout this entire agonizing decline of our relationship, she was the only one who had remained fiercely in my corner. “It’s nothing,” I lied softly. “Don’t give me that. She just called me, demanding I talk you off the ledge. She said… she said that guy Tristan burned his wrist and his skin is peeling, and that you were way out of line.” My stomach plummeted. Peeling? I looked down at the massive, fluid-filled blisters rising on my own scarred knuckles, and a bitter laugh clawed its way up my throat. “Wesley, who exactly is this Tristan guy?” Bridget asked, her tone shifting to suspicion. “She’s been bringing him up constantly.” “Just an intern at her firm.” “Just an intern? Bullshit. You know my sister. She is practically allergic to people, especially men. Since when does she care this much about anyone who isn’t you?” Since when, indeed. In high school, Corinne had been the brilliant, socially awkward girl the entire school treated like a pariah. I was the golden-boy artist, the only one who didn’t care what people thought. I pulled her out of the dark, vicious currents of high school bullying and anchored her. She had relied on me with a desperation that bordered on the pathological. When did it change? Probably right around the time she built her empire, while I remained the crippled guy tending to wilting flowers in a dusty shop. “Bridget,” I said quietly, the words tasting like ash. “Corinne and I are done.” Dead silence on the other end of the line. When Bridget finally spoke, her voice cracked. “Wesley, don’t say that. Don’t scare me. It’s been eight years. You guys don’t just end.” “She ended it.” “No! That’s impossible! She loves you. She would never throw you away!” Bridget was crying now, the sound high and panicked. I didn’t have the strength to comfort her. “I’m exhausted, Bridge. I need to go.” I hung up. I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor in the back corner of the shop, utterly still. Beyond the glass windows, the city moved in a blur of headlights and rushing pedestrians. It was a massive city, but there was no room in it for me anymore. Back then, I had turned down a full ride to RISD to follow her here. My art teacher had wept, furious, telling me I was throwing away a generational talent for a teenage romance. I hadn’t regretted it. Because Corinne had gotten into Columbia, her dream school, and she had looked at me with those wide, desperate eyes and promised we would build a life together. I believed her. I used the hand that could no longer hold a paintbrush to learn how to arrange stems, prune thorns, and keep things alive. I built this shop. I thought we were going to walk quietly side-by-side into old age. I thought. That was my fatal mistake. Around dusk, the brass bell above the door chimed. Assuming it was a late customer, I didn’t look up from the counter. “Wesley.” Corinne’s voice. Every muscle in my back locked, but I didn’t turn around. She walked around the counter and crouched down, forcing her way into my line of sight. “Does your hand still hurt?” she asked, a trace of exhaustion threading through her words. I said nothing. She reached out, intending to touch my injured hand. I flinched, jerking it back so violently I knocked over a spool of ribbon. Her hand hovered in the empty air between us, painfully awkward. “I had security pull the footage this afternoon,” she murmured, looking down. “I was wrong. Tristan tripped on his own.” “The camera outside your office has been broken for three years,” I said, my voice eerily calm. Corinne froze. She had insisted on disabling that camera years ago for her own privacy. She hadn’t checked any footage. She was fishing. If I had played along—if I had vented my grievances and complained about how unfair it was—she would have offered a hollow apology. And just like the hundreds of fights before, the incident would have been swept under the rug of our shared history. But this time, I didn’t play the game. Corinne’s expression hardened. “Do you have to be like this, Wesley?” “Like what?” “So uncompromising. So obsessed with being right!” A hollow, broken laugh escaped my lips. “Corinne, who exactly is being uncompromising here?” I stared dead into her eyes. “After eight years, is this really how little you think of me?” 3 She went entirely silent. It was a suffocating, heavy silence—one that cut deeper than any insult she could have hurled at me. Slowly, she stood up. She reached into her designer trench coat, pulled out a small silver tube, and placed it on the counter next to me. “It’s a prescription burn cream from Switzerland. Make sure you apply it twice a day.” Just like that, the mask was back on. The untouchable, pragmatic CEO. She was the benevolent benefactor bestowing grace upon the pathetic, needy dependent. “Also,” she paused, not meeting my eyes. “That money is yours. You earned it. Go… build a good life for yourself.” She turned and walked toward the door. No hesitation. No backward glance. I stared at her retreating silhouette. That back had once been the only thing I needed to feel safe in the world. Now, she was just the knife twisting in my ribs. I grabbed the tube of expensive ointment and threw it at her with every ounce of strength I had left. It hit her squarely between the shoulder blades and clattered loudly onto the hardwood floor. She stopped walking. But she didn’t turn around. The door opened, the bell chimed, and she was gone. I was left completely alone in a room full of dying flowers. For the next few days, Corinne didn’t reappear. The rhythm of my life resumed its hollow ticking. I opened the shop, arranged bouquets for strangers, and locked up. But the throbbing burns on my right hand were a constant, pulsing reminder that the ground beneath me had vanished. Then, the envelope arrived. Heavy, matte black cardstock. Inside was an invitation to a gallery opening. Tristan Matthew. Solo Exhibition. The venue was the most prestigious contemporary arts center in the city. The sponsor listed at the bottom? Corinne CorWes Media. It felt as though a giant, invisible hand had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart until it bruised. Tristan was an artist. Corinne had said that seeing his perfectly intact hands made her feel alive. What was she doing? Was this a victory lap? Was she rubbing my nose in the fact that she had found a flawless replacement? A man who could be everything I was supposed to be, but without the baggage and the trauma? I crumpled the thick cardstock and pitched it into the trash. But on the night of the exhibition, like a man walking to his own execution, I went anyway. Without an RSVP, the security guards barred me at the door. I stood outside in the freezing rain, peering through the massive floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Inside, Tristan was bathed in warm, golden light, wearing a custom-tailored suit, laughing as the city’s elite fawned over him. And standing right by his side, draped in a stunning silk gown, was Corinne. She looked at him with a gentle, glowing pride I hadn’t seen directed at me in half a decade. Standing there in my damp coat, I felt like an absolute clown. A voyeur pressing his nose against the glass of someone else’s perfect life. I turned up my collar and prepared to walk away. That was when I saw it. Hung in the dead center of the main gallery space was the exhibition’s centerpiece. The placard read: Shattered. It was a painting of a young boy curled into a tight, defensive ball in a dark corner, surrounded by a galaxy of jagged, broken stars raining down on him. The composition. The linework. The raw, bleeding emotion of it. I stopped breathing. The world tilted violently on its axis. That was my painting. It was the final piece I had ever drawn. Eight years ago, right after the doctors told me I would never regain fine motor control, I had locked myself in a room and drawn it in a fugue state of pure, unadulterated agony. Because my hand shook so violently, I had only managed to finish the sketch before my muscles gave out. That sketchbook was locked inside a safe in my old studio apartment. Only one person beside me knew the combination. Corinne. She had stolen my grief. She had taken the most agonizing, humiliating moment of my existence, gift-wrapped it, and handed it to her new lover to build his career on. Blood roared in my ears. I couldn’t see straight. I shoved past the velvet ropes, tearing my arm away from the security guard, and burst through the heavy glass doors. “Corinne!” My voice ripped through the elegant hum of the room. The string quartet stumbled to a halt. Dozens of faces turned toward me in shock. Corinne and Tristan spun around. The moment Corinne saw me, her face contorted into a mask of pure fury. She marched toward me, her heels striking the marble floor like gunfire. “Wesley, what the hell is wrong with you?” 4 She kept her voice in a vicious whisper, the disgust in her eyes entirely unfiltered. I pointed a shaking finger toward the center canvas. “That painting. Why is it here?” Corinne glanced over her shoulder at it, her expression entirely blank. “That is Tristan’s work.” “His work?” A hysterical, jagged laugh tore out of my throat. “Are you going to look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never seen that sketch?” Corinne’s pupils contracted sharply. “You’re a monster, Corinne!” I screamed, the sound raw and tearing. “Wesley, stop it!” She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my jacket. “We are in public. Stop acting insane!” “I’m acting insane?!” I stared at her, hot tears finally spilling over my lashes. “You stole my work! You stole my grief and handed it to the man you’re sleeping with, and you have the audacity to call me insane?” The crowd had formed a tight, whispering circle around us. Tristan hurried over, wrapping a protective arm around Corinne’s waist. He looked at me with wide, Bambi-like innocence. “Wesley, man, I think you’re confused,” he said softly, playing to the audience. “This is a completely original piece. Corinne just… provided me with some conceptual inspiration.” “Inspiration?” I sneered. “You colored in my linework like a toddler with a coloring book and you call it inspiration?” “I don’t know anything about any linework,” Tristan whispered, shrinking slightly behind Corinne. “Corinne, he’s scaring me…” Corinne moved instinctively, shielding him behind her back, glaring at me as if I were a rabid dog that needed to be put down. “That is enough. If you don’t leave right now, Wesley, I will have you physically removed.” Security guards. Always security. In her world, I was just a mess that needed to be cleaned up and thrown out. “Okay,” I nodded slowly, wiping the tears from my face with the back of my ruined hand. “Okay. Remember this night, Corinne.” I looked at her—really looked at her—one last time. Then I turned and dragged myself toward the exit. The murmurs followed me out like a swarm of hornets. “Who was that guy? He looked deranged.” “I heard it’s her ex. He’s crippled, apparently. Has serious mental issues.” “God, no wonder she left him for Tristan. Who could deal with that kind of psycho?” Every word was a blade slipping neatly between my ribs. So that was the narrative. I was the unhinged, disabled burden. And Corinne was the tragic heroine who had finally escaped my toxicity. I made it back to the floral shop and locked myself in the storage closet. It was dark and smelled heavily of dust and dried lavender. I dug through a cardboard box at the very bottom of a stack, pulling out an old, weathered Moleskine sketchbook. Inside was the ghost of who I used to be. Charcoal portraits of Corinne studying. Pen-and-ink landscapes of places we promised we’d visit. And on the very last page, the original, trembling graphite sketch of Shattered. It was rough, the lines jagged from my shaking hand, but it pulsed with a desperate, screaming life. Now, it was just a stepping stone for someone else’s vanity. I pulled my knees to my chest, curling up on the dusty floor in the exact same posture as the boy in the drawing. Only this time, I knew no one was coming to pull me out of the dark. For the next few days, my body simply gave out. A brutal fever took hold, leaving me drifting in and out of a delirious haze. The fresh coffee burns on my hand became aggressively infected, aggravating the old nerve damage until the pain was a blinding, white-hot static in my brain. To manage the chronic nerve pain, I required a highly restricted synthetic opioid. Sweating and shaking, I crawled across the floor to my medical drawer. The amber bottle was empty. I distinctly remembered filling a new bottle just a few days ago. I tore the shop apart with my one good hand, knocking over vases and scattering dirt across the floor, but it was nowhere. A cold panic seized my chest. Without the medication, the withdrawal and the nerve pain combined would quite literally send my body into shock. It felt like someone was taking a sledgehammer to the bones in my arm, over and over again. Trembling so violently I could barely hold the phone, I dialed Corinne’s number. She was the only one who knew about my condition. She was the one who pulled strings with private doctors to get me the prescription in the first place. The phone rang endlessly. Finally, a sharp click. “What?” Corinne’s voice was clipped, intensely annoyed. “Corinne, I…” I gasped, my teeth chattering from the pain. “I’m out of my medication. Can you… please, can you bring me some?” “Out again?” she scoffed, the suspicion dripping from every syllable. “Wesley, are you seriously trying to play this game right now?” “I’m not… Corinne, please, I’m dying…” I curled into a tight ball on the floor, my clothes soaked in a cold sweat. The agony in my right arm was escalating, threatening to pull me entirely under. “The boy who cried wolf. Are you ever going to get tired of this act?” Her voice was devoid of an ounce of humanity. “I am incredibly busy. Tristan’s national tour is launching, and I do not have the time to entertain your pathetic tantrums.” Click. The line went dead. Listening to the dial tone, a strange, hollow peace washed over me. I let out a weak, rattling laugh. Maybe dying wasn’t so bad. Corinne. In the next life, I hope to God I never meet you.

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Twice in my life, I have been thrown out of my own home before the age of thirty. The second time was Kellan. He was my childhood best friend, the boy who spent ten years chasing me with a devotion that felt like a religion. After we married, he was the picture of the perfect husband—patient, attentive, and seemingly unbothered by the fact that my ex, Gideon, sent “tokens of regret” every anniversary. Even when three years passed without a positive pregnancy test, Kellan never whispered a word of blame. I remember the way he would press his lips against my ear in our most intimate moments, his voice a warm, honeyed lullaby: “If you don’t want kids, we won’t have them. As long as I have you, it’s enough.” But on the night of our third anniversary, the lullaby ended. He walked through the front door with a woman I didn’t recognize, and I watched from the hallway as the housekeeper dragged my suitcases out of the master suite like they were bags of trash. My fingers were white-knuckled around the pregnancy test I hadn’t yet found the courage to show him. My voice shook, brittle as glass. “Kellan, what is this?” He lit a cigarette, his eyes flashing with a mockery so sharp it felt like a physical blow. He looked at me as if I were the punchline to a joke only he understood. “Nina, stop. The ‘innocent wife’ act is getting old.” He exhaled a plume of smoke. “When Gideon Vane threw you out on the street, did you really learn nothing at all?” The first time I was evicted, it was from a penthouse overlooking Central Park. It was a marriage of convenience to Gideon, a titan of industry. I had gone to the clinic for a checkup, only to return early and find him in our bed with a college student. He didn’t offer an apology. Instead, he blamed my “lack of spirit” and had his security detail escort me to the curb. When I told my father, he didn’t offer a shoulder to cry on. He just sighed and said, “Men with that kind of money don’t settle for one flavor, Nina. Grow up.” Maybe it was spite. Maybe it was a desperate need to feel wanted. That was why I finally said yes to Kellan. I thought I was marrying safety. … 1 The pregnancy test in my palm felt like a live coal, burning through my skin. I looked at him, but I didn’t beg for an explanation. I didn’t have to. The woman’s smug expression and the slight, unmistakable swell of her stomach told the entire story. I reached for my purse, ready to vanish. Kellan crushed his cigarette into a crystal tray and stepped into my path, his face twisted with a dark, vengeful satisfaction. “You’ve been pining for Gideon for years, and I never said a word. You refused to give me a child because of him, and I took the hit,” he said, his voice rising with a terrifying sort of righteousness. “Now that I’ve found someone who can give me a family, you’re going to play the victim?” His lips curled into a smirk. “Look, we’ve known each other forever. You know how this world works. Keep your title, keep your status. You can be the Mrs. Mercer people see at the galas, and she’ll be the one who keeps my bed warm. It doesn’t have to change your position.” A familiar, dull ache throbbed in my chest. He wasn’t wrong about one thing—I’d been here before. I had experience. I didn’t waste words. I simply leaned forward and slapped him. Hard. “You disgust me, Kellan.” The room went silent, the staff frozen in the periphery. Kellan’s smile vanished, his features hardening into something unrecognizable. He grabbed my wrist, his grip bruising. “You think I’m disgusting? You’re a twice-married woman, Nina. What made you think I was going to stay celibate for a woman who gave her best years to another man?” My grip tightened on the plastic stick until it snapped. The jagged edge sliced into my palm. I didn’t feel the pain, but the tears escaped anyway. Kellan’s eyes flickered, a momentary lapse of resolve crossing his face. He softened his voice, a conditioned reflex. “Fine. I’ll make you a deal. Once the baby is born, I’ll send her away. Just… don’t walk out.” I looked at the face I had known since I was five years old. He was a stranger. He noticed the blood on my hand and frowned, reaching for my palm. “What is that?” I wrenched my hand away and tossed the broken pieces of the test into the trash can by the door. “It’s nothing,” I whispered, my voice sounding like it was coming from a great distance. “Just a piece of garbage that wasn’t wanted.” I was talking about the baby. And I was talking about myself. Kellan opened his mouth to speak, but a sharp cry from the woman behind him drew him away. She was clutching her stomach, slowly pulling off her silk face mask. My heart stopped. I knew that face. She was the girl from the penthouse. The “scholarship student” I had personally sponsored for years out of a sense of misplaced charity. Three years had passed, but Talia was still as fresh and radiant as a dewy morning. Gideon had once described her skin as “shaming the silk sheets.” He told me he couldn’t stop thinking about her, even when he was lying next to me. My grand gesture of walking away from Gideon to “set them free” had led her straight to my second husband. And she had managed to get pregnant first. Judging by her bump, this hadn’t started yesterday. I bit my lip until I tasted copper, stepping toward her. “Nina,” Talia said, her voice a sickly-sweet chirp. She grabbed my hand before I could react, her eyes wide with mock surprise. “I had no idea you’d come back to Chicago after the New York disaster. What a small world. We really do have the exact same taste in men, don’t we?” I didn’t answer with words. I swung my hand again. Crack. But the blow didn’t land on Talia. Kellan had stepped in front of her, taking the hit across his cheek. His expression went cold, a dangerous edge bleeding into his voice. “That’s enough, Nina! Two hits are all you get.” He shielded her with his body. “She’s fragile, and she’s carrying my heir. Don’t take your bitterness out on her. You remember how you ended up three years ago? Don’t make me do that to you.” A violent shudder went through me. Suddenly, I was back in that freezing New York alleyway. After I’d caught Gideon, he stopped pretending to be the gentleman. He had looked at me with pure indifference and asked, “A woman’s expiration date is three months in my world. You got a year. Why are you complaining?” To force me into submission, he had used every corporate weapon in his arsenal. He froze my accounts, seized my car, and had me dumped on the street like a stray dog in the middle of a blizzard. I remember the cold, the way the snow turned grey in the slush, and the terrifying weight of the men who had pinned me down in that alley. Then, Kellan had appeared like a miracle. He had fought them off, gathered me into his arms, and wept into my hair. “I’ve got you, Nina… I’ll protect you with my life.” How pathetic. Back then, Talia had knelt at my feet, promising to spend her life repaying my kindness. She chose to repay me in my husband’s bed. And Kellan, the man who promised to be my shield, was now the one holding the sword. The snow outside was light, but I felt colder than I ever had in New York. I wiped my eyes, grabbed my phone, and didn’t look back. I headed for the guest wing, just needing a bed to collapse into for one night before I disappeared. “Wait,” Talia called out. I turned to see her winding her arms around Kellan’s neck. “Didn’t you promise me we’d stay in the south-facing suite? You said the view from the window makes everything… more exciting.” She looked at me, a predatory glint in her eyes. Kellan gave a soft, dark chuckle. Holding my gaze, he scooped her up and carried her into our bedroom. My bedroom. The room with the skylight he’d installed because he wanted us to “sleep under the stars.” The room he’d later planned to convert into a nursery so our baby could be “woken by the sun.” Now, before my baby could even take its first breath, that sanctuary was becoming their nest. I closed my eyes, but I could already hear the echoes of what was to come—the same sounds I’d heard through Gideon’s door. The heavy breathing, the gasps, the betrayal. The sound of the bedroom door slamming shut was the final twist of the knife. I leaned against the hallway wall, my legs giving way. The silence of the house was deafening, broken only by the vibration of my phone. An unknown number. A text message: Nina, don’t you want to know the real reason Kellan ended up with Talia? Meet me at The Magnolia Lounge. 9:00 AM. I didn’t need to check the contact. It was Gideon Vane. The Magnolia Lounge was where we first met. It was where he’d approached me after I lost the bidding on my mother’s last estate painting, my eyes red from crying. The next day, he’d shown up at my father’s house with the painting in hand. For the next six months, the gifts never stopped. My father, seeing a golden goose, practically gift-wrapped me for him. I grew up in a world of artifice; I expected nothing from a tactical marriage. But Gideon had used letters—clumsy, handwritten notes—to crack my shell. When I fell overboard during a yacht gala, he had dived into the dark water without a second thought. I came out unscathed; his legs had been shredded by the reef. I thought I had found my soulmate. I was so certain of it that I brought Talia, my charity case, into our home to give her a better life. And they turned me into a pariah. Thinking about it didn’t hurt anymore. Even seeing Gideon again didn’t stir the old grief. He looked the same—sharp, handsome, perhaps a bit thinner. “There’s something you need to see,” he said as I sat down. He pushed his phone across the marble table. “What?” He hesitated, then swiped the screen. My blood turned to ice. The video was grainy, but unmistakable. It was Kellan, three years ago. He was leaning against his car in a New York alley, lighting a cigarette and handing a thick envelope of cash to a group of vagrants. My breath hitched. Gideon adjusted his glasses, his voice low and grim. “I’m a bastard, Nina. I know that. But Kellan? He’s a different kind of monster. I threw you out, yes. But the men who attacked you that night? The ones who ‘traumatized’ you so he could play the hero? He hired them.” The world tilted. “He wanted you broken,” Gideon continued. “He knew you’d never choose him while you were whole. So he destroyed you to make sure he was the only one left to pick up the pieces.” Flashes of that night surged back. The twisted faces. The laughter. The tearing pain in my abdomen—the loss of the pregnancy I hadn’t even known about yet. “Stop it!” I gasped, clutching the table. The air in the lounge felt too thin. I stared at Gideon, my teeth chattering. “And you? Why tell me this now? Just to prove you’re the ‘lesser’ of two evils? To show me that the man I ran to was worse than the man I ran from?” Tears blurred my vision. “You want to prove that I’ll never be happy without you. But you’re just like him. You all use me like a pawn.” Gideon was silent for a long moment. “I’m a prick, Nina. I cheated. I failed you. But I never planned to replace you. Not legally.” He leaned in, his eyes piercing. “Kellan has been taking Talia to the Mercer family estate. He’s introducing her as his future. And Nina…” He paused. “He filed for a quiet annulment weeks ago. He didn’t just throw you out of the house; he’s erased you from the marriage entirely. Come back to New York with me. Let me fix this.” The shock was so total I felt nothing. It was the white-out of peak agony. I opened my mouth to tell him to go to hell, but a hand suddenly clamped onto my shoulder, yanking me backward. “Gideon! You’ve got a hell of a nerve!” Kellan’s voice exploded in my ear. He was shaking with rage, his grip on my neck nearly choking me. “Is this how it is, Nina? You get your feelings hurt and run straight back to your old flame?” I didn’t fight him. I just stared at him with empty eyes. Gideon stood up, his face darkening. “Let her go, Kellan.” In an instant, a circle of security guards surrounded the table. Kellan laughed, a jagged, ugly sound. “You have no standing here, Vane. She’s my wife. You spent years sending her gifts, playing the pining ex. If you loved her so much, maybe you shouldn’t have been so busy screwing the help.” Gideon flinched, his fists curling. “Don’t get cocky. You’re making the same mistakes I did.” He turned to me. “Nina, when you’re ready, call me.” He walked away, his guards clearing a path. The air between me and Kellan was thick with unspoken venom. I walked to the car without a word, and he trailed behind me, his voice a low, frantic growl. “You aren’t going with him. You aren’t calling him. You’re done with him!” When I didn’t respond, he snapped. He grabbed my shoulders and began to shake me. “Answer me! Do you hear me?” “You’ve been through one divorce. You really want to be a two-time loser? Your father won’t take you back. No one wants a used-up socialite. I’m the only one who loves you, Nina. Just stay in your lane. Be my wife.” Love me? Is that what this was? Betrayal, manipulation, and hired violence? I started to laugh. A low, ragged sound that bubbled up from my chest. Kellan forced my head up, his eyes wide with frantic desperation. “What’s so funny?” I didn’t look at him. I just whispered, “Besides Talia… is there anything else you’re hiding?” Kellan went rigid. He turned his face toward the window, unable to meet my eyes. He didn’t confess, but his silence was a signed confession. My laughter grew louder, more hysterical. It tore through the cramped space of the car like a serrated blade. “Enough! Shut up!” Kellan lunged, trying to cover my mouth. The rage in my chest finally broke. I grabbed his hand and bit down, hard, until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. “You’re a goddamn animal, Kellan!” I spat. “You want to know who I love? I love Gideon. I regret every second I spent with you. At least he was an honest bastard. At least he didn’t kill my soul just to own it!” Kellan’s breath came in ragged hitches. His eyes turned a violent, bruised red. He pinned me against the seat, his hand tightening around my throat. “You think I don’t regret it?” he hissed. “I could have had any woman in this city, and I chose a broken, discarded toy. Gideon had the right idea—Talia is ten times the woman you are. She’s actually fun. She actually knows how to please a man.” The words felt like a physical weight on my lungs. I tried to speak, but he squeezed harder. “What? You like biting? Let’s see how much you like this.” The world began to dim. The last thing I saw was Kellan’s distorted, angry face before everything went black. … When I opened my eyes, I was back in the house. But I wasn’t in the guest room. I was in bed, and my wrist was shackled to the headboard by a heavy iron chain. Talia was sitting in a chair by the bed, smiling as she stirred a steaming cup of liquid. “Kellan said you’re a bit… hysterical. He wants you to take your medicine.” With Kellan gone, she dropped the act. She grabbed a handful of my hair and forced my head back. “I was good to you,” I rasped, my voice a broken thread. “Why would you do this?” Talia laughed, a sharp, jarring sound. “Why? Because you’re pathetic! You’re so desperate to be ‘good’ that you practically handed me your life on a silver platter. I hate people like you. Always looking down from your mountain of gold, offering ‘charity’ like we’re stray dogs. I didn’t want your help, Nina. I wanted your chair. And now I have it.” She forced the liquid into my mouth. It was bitter, stinging my throat. A few minutes later, a sharp, cramping pain bloomed in my lower abdomen. I curled into a ball, my fingers digging into the mattress. “What… what did you give me?” She smiled, a sweet, angelic expression. “Medicine.” “It’s an abortifacient. In ten minutes, your second chance at a family will be nothing but a mess on the sheets. You really aren’t meant to be a mother, are you?” Her laughter filled the room. I reached out, my eyes landing on a paring knife on the fruit plate nearby. With a burst of adrenaline, I lunged, the chain clattering as I pressed the blade against her throat. “Stop it!” Kellan burst into the room, his face pale. He didn’t look worried; he looked furious that I was still fighting. “You’re going to kill someone over Gideon? Is he really worth it?” “Kellan, help me! She’s crazy! She’s trying to kill the baby!” Talia wailed, clutching her stomach. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ve got you,” Kellan said, his voice dripping with a tenderness he’d never shown me. I wanted to scream. Their baby would be fine. But mine? I looked down. The white duvet was already blooming with a dark, horrific red. The knife felt heavy in my hand. Everything became a blur. Kellan disarmed me, throwing the knife aside. He looked at me, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “Nina, where are you hurt?” “It’s just… her period,” Talia lied quickly. He hesitated, a flash of disappointment in his eyes. I watched him. I watched the man who had been my “protector” since I was thirteen years old. When I was thirteen, I fell off a swing. He had dove under me to break my fall, breaking three of his own ribs. I had cried, asking why he didn’t just move. He’d smiled through the pain and said, “If I moved, you would have gotten hurt. I never want you to feel a second of pain, Nina.” The boy who couldn’t bear to see me stub a toe was now the man watching me bleed out from his own betrayal. I dragged myself toward the edge of the bed, reaching for him one last time. Talia let out a staged scream. Kellan reacted instinctively. He grabbed the knife from the floor and turned. Pain is supposed to make you weak, but in that moment, it made me clear. I didn’t move. I let the blade sink into my shoulder. The world turned crimson. I saw Kellan’s pupils dilate, his face turning a ghostly white as he realized what he’d done. I reached up with my good hand, touching his cheek. My voice was a whisper. “Why the New York alley, Kellan?” “Why… why did you kill both of them?” Then, the darkness claimed me again.

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For five years, I’ve lived in the shadow of a title that tasted like ash: The Cursed Heir. It started because my best friend, Derek, died on my birthday—exactly one year to the day after my fiancée, Cora, was killed in a tragic accident. They used to call me “The Golden Boy” with a wink and a smile, but after they were gone, that nickname became a leaden weight around my neck. A curse. I spent every waking moment wondering if they’d still be here if I hadn’t insisted on celebrating another year of my life. I was at a private academy helping my nephew with his transfer paperwork when I saw her. A profile I would recognize in a crowded stadium. I froze, the air leaving my lungs in a sharp whistle. The woman looked exactly like Cora. I couldn’t help myself; I followed her out to the parking lot. She was crouched down, her face set in a stern line as she lectured a small boy. “Zoey, you got into another fight today? If this keeps up, you can forget about dessert for a month.” The boy pouted, crossing his arms. “Cora, you’re such a mean mom! She started it! You always take their side!” Mom? Cora? The world tilted on its axis. My heart didn’t just break; it shattered. They weren’t dead. They were alive, and they had a life together. They had a child. “Uncle Adrian? What are you looking at?” My nephew’s voice pulled me back to the brutal reality. Cora turned at the sound of my name. For a heartbeat, our eyes locked, and the expression on her face froze into a mask of pure, icy shock. … I stood there, paralyzed. My mind was a chaotic storm of emotions I couldn’t categorize. Should I be happy? Happy that I wasn’t the “jinx” who had killed them? Or should I be devastated that they had staged the most gruesome betrayal imaginable just to get away from me? Why? Cora and I had grown up together. On her twentieth birthday, she had legally changed her middle name to match a poem I loved. She told me, “Our hearts are two threads woven into a single tapestry, Adrian. We’ll understand each other’s souls forever.” The day before my birthday five years ago, she had whispered a promise: “Adrian, we’re going to celebrate every year together. I’ll be the umbrella that keeps the rain off you.” But she was the one who brought the storm. I searched for the exact moment she stopped loving me, but the memories were too painful to sift through. The school bell rang, and the children scrambled back toward the building. Cora walked toward me. There was no shame in her stride, no stutter in her step. She looked at me with a terrifyingly familiar warmth. “Golden Boy,” she said softly. “You found us sooner than I expected.” A sharp, stabbing pain flared in my chest. To her, this was just a game of hide-and-seek. I took a ragged breath and looked her in the eye. “When did it start?” She tilted her head, looking genuinely thoughtful, as if we were discussing the weather. “Maybe it was that day you got into a fight for him. I realized then that a man who wasn’t so… dominant… had his own kind of charm. Or maybe it was graduation, seeing him in that frayed, cheap shirt. It moved me.” She sighed, a mature, casual shrug of the shoulders. “Adrian, you can’t predict what you’ll love from one second to the next. Just like I used to hate the billionaire-heir type, but I still fell for you once.” Cora was always an expert at being both cruel and direct. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” I choked out. “Why fake your deaths? Why the secret marriage?” “Because I knew you too well,” she said, her voice devoid of regret. “Back then, you hadn’t learned how to weigh love against interest. You were too impulsive. A public breakup would have ruined both our families and destroyed Derek’s reputation.” She looked at my expensive suit, then back at my face. “But you’ve learned now. Otherwise, you’d be calling the tabloids instead of standing here quietly.” She had calculated everything. Even my silence. I wouldn’t make a scene—not because I had learned “restraint,” but because I was dying. I had six months left, and I didn’t want to spend them screaming at ghosts. I spent the rest of the afternoon in a quiet coffee shop, staring at the steam rising from a cup I didn’t drink, wondering how to tell my parents about the diagnosis. When I reached the front door of the family estate at dusk, I heard a child’s laughter echoing from the drawing room. Confused, I paused by the door. “Derek, take the child and leave through the side gate in five minutes,” I heard my mother say. “Adrian said he’d be home soon.” A heavy silence followed, then my father’s weary sigh. “What you did five years ago was too much. Adrian hasn’t been happy for a single day since. Even if he isn’t my biological son, it breaks my heart to see him like this.” “We’ll make it up to him later,” my father added, though he sounded unconvinced. Derek’s voice—soft, gentle, the voice of the brother I thought I’d lost—replied, “I know, Dad. It’s my fault. I’ll tell him everything soon.” The world went cold. Pieces of a puzzle I never wanted to solve clicked into place. Why my mother was always insisting I bring Derek home for dinner. Why she looked like she was about to cry every time she saw him. Why she was always slipping him money under the table. The Barbie dolls I’d occasionally find in the guest wing. He was the biological son. I was the one who had been switched at birth. And they had known about the “dead” lovers and the secret grandchild all along. They had watched me rot in guilt for five years while they played house with the “real” son behind my back. A chilling numbness settled over me. At least I didn’t have to worry about them being sad when I died. They didn’t need me. They never did. I pulled out my phone and sent a text to my oncologist: I’m opting out of the chemo. Please cancel my next appointment. Suddenly, the door handle turned. I couldn’t face them. I turned and ran into the darkness, not stopping until I reached a deserted park. I sat on a bench and finally, mercifully, let the tears come. There was no one left in this world who loved me. Eventually, my legs went numb. I dragged myself back to the house that was no longer mine. My parents looked at me with varying degrees of guilt until my father finally cracked. “Adrian… Derek… he didn’t actually die.” They watched me, gauging my reaction. “He and Cora are married. They have a daughter.” When I didn’t scream, my mother’s voice sharpened, turning defensive. “Don’t you dare blame him. You were the ones switched. He suffered through a life of poverty that should have been yours. Even if he ‘stole’ Cora, you’re still the one with the trust fund and the title. You should be grateful.” Grateful. The word felt like a slap. I had no right to be angry. Anger is a luxury for those who are loved. I simply nodded. They seemed taken aback by my composure. “The school is a bit far from their place,” my father said, though it wasn’t a suggestion. “They’re going to stay here with us for a while.” That night, Cora and Derek moved in. The house was suddenly loud, filled with their belongings and their laughter. My mother was in the kitchen, a tender smile on her face I had never seen before. “Slow down, Derek,” she cooed. “Let me finish the dishes. You’ve worked hard your whole life. It’s time you were taken care of.” Cora sat on the velvet sofa, her eyes tracking me as I stood in the foyer. “Don’t just stand there, Adrian. Come sit.” I didn’t move. In the house I had lived in for twenty-six years, I felt like a trespasser. Dinner was a spread of everything Derek loved. My mother kept piling food onto his plate, then ruffled Zoey’s hair. “Eat up, sweetie. Your daddy didn’t get to eat like this when he was your age.” Every word was a barb aimed at me. Zoey looked up from his plate, staring at me with wide eyes. “Uncle, why aren’t you eating? Do you hate us?” The table went silent. Derek put down his fork and offered a soft, rehearsed smile. “Don’t be silly, Zoey. Uncle Adrian just has a small appetite.” I opened my mouth to speak, but my mother beat me to it. “Adrian, I thought you were being mature about this. If you’re just going to sit there with that long face and try to make us feel guilty, then leave. I’m begging you, stop being so dramatic for once.” My grip on my fork tightened until my knuckles turned white. A dull, throbbing pain bloomed in my chest. I shook my head, but a sudden, violent cough seized me. My father sighed, a look of disappointment on his face. “Adrian, if the food isn’t to your taste, your mother can make you something else.” I forced a smile and swallowed a mouthful of sandwich. It tasted like cardboard. “It’s fine. Everything is fine.” Cora watched me, a flicker of something—maybe pity—crossing her eyes. I retreated to my room as soon as I could. I locked the door and sank to the floor, the mask of “Golden Boy” finally crumbling. My phone buzzed. Dr. Aris: Are you sure about this, Adrian? Without treatment, your timeline is very short. Chemo could give you at least another six months. I stared at the screen for a long time before typing back: Thank you, Doctor. But I’m ready to leave. A knock at the door. I wiped my eyes and opened it. It was Cora. She was holding a plate of dumplings. “You didn’t eat much. These are the wild mushroom ones you used to love.” “I don’t love them anymore,” I said flatly. As I moved to close the door, she reached out, knocking the phone from my hand. The screen was still glowing. She saw the message. Her eyes darkened. “You’re leaving?” I scrambled to pick up the phone. She had only seen the last part. She looked at me, her voice dropping. “Because of me?” I stepped back. “No. I just want to see other cities.” She wanted to say more, but I shut the door in her face. The next day, I began clearing out my life. I found an old box filled with photos of Cora and me, and the necklace she gave me when she “confessed” her love. The pendant was a tiny gold heart. Back then, her world revolved around me. Back then, my parents loved me. I put it all in a trash bag. In the hallway, I ran into Zoey. He was playing with blocks on the floor. “Uncle, what are you throwing away?” I knelt down and ruffled his hair. His warmth felt alien against my cold skin. “Just some old things that don’t work anymore.” He blinked at me. “Do you hate me and Mommy?” I looked at his face—he had Cora’s eyes. My heart softened. “No, Zoey. You’re a good kid.” “Then why are you always sad?” He took my hand. “Daddy said you were a prince, and princes are always happy. Grandma said you were the luckiest person in the world because you had everything.” Prince. The word was a joke now. Everyone believed Adrian Ellington was the happiest man alive. No one wanted to see the truth. My eyes blurred. I turned away so he wouldn’t see. Cora and Derek walked up. Seeing me with Zoey, Derek rushed over, his face tight with a panic I didn’t understand. He scooped the boy up. “Zoey, don’t bother your uncle. He’s… not well. He needs his rest.” He emphasized “not well” as if he were telling Cora I was faking it for attention. Zoey looked at Cora. “Mommy, Uncle is crying. His hands are so cold.” Cora’s gaze landed on my face. She saw the redness in my eyes and froze. She lunged for the trash bag in my hand, and the necklace spilled out. “You’re throwing this away?” her voice was raspy. “Yes,” I said. “It serves no purpose.” She gripped the bag, her knuckles white. She looked angry—or maybe she was grieving. “Adrian, how can you just let go?” I let out a hollow laugh. “Cora, the past is dead. I’m moving on. Why wouldn’t I?” “Moving on?” She scoffed. “You call this moving on? Looking like a ghost? Do you have any idea how much you’re worrying everyone?” I’m the one who ruined everything? I didn’t answer. I just watched the light in her eyes flicker and die. Derek pulled on her arm. “Cora, leave him. Adrian has been spoiled his whole life. It’s natural he can’t handle sharing the spotlight. I’m fine with it. As long as I have you and a home, I can handle his moods.” I didn’t bother explaining. I walked out of the house. Cora chased me into the driveway, grabbing my wrist and pinning me against the brick wall. Her eyes were swimming with guilt. “Adrian, why are you acting like you’re already dead?” I pushed her away. I was so weak it barely moved her. “It doesn’t matter, Cora.” As the words left my lips, blood began to pour from my nose. It wouldn’t stop. Cora panicked, her hands fluttering toward my face. “Are you sick? Adrian, what is this?” I shook my head, wiping the blood with my sleeve. “I’ve just been taking too many supplements. My blood is thin.” Before she could press further, Derek yelled from the porch. “Cora! Zoey is having a reaction! He’s asking for you!” Cora looked at me, torn, then turned and ran back inside. Once she was gone, I leaned against the wall and coughed into my hand. It came up crimson. I went to the hospital and picked up a fresh bottle of painkillers. The doctor tried to argue for the hospital bed again. I just smiled. “Chemo gives me six months of agony. This way, I get to leave quietly. These last few years have been hard enough. I’d like the end to be easy.” I stayed in a hotel that night. When I returned home the next morning, the entire family was waiting in the living room. “Adrian, how could you?” my mother screamed, her eyes red. For a second, I thought they knew. I thought they cared. “What… what happened?” Cora looked at me with pure loathing. “Zoey nearly died yesterday. A severe peanut allergy.” “You knew Derek was allergic, too,” my father added, his voice cold. “But you put peanut butter in the kids’ snacks.” I looked at Derek. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. I realized then that he was willing to risk his own daughter’s life just to ensure I was exiled forever. “I didn’t do it,” I said. My voice was hollow. My mother stood up and delivered a blow that sent me reeling. The slap echoed through the room. I hit the floor, my head spinning, fighting the urge to vomit blood right there on the rug. My father moved to help me, but my mother stopped him. “No! He’s been spoiled into a monster. He tried to kill a child and he won’t even admit it.” Tears dripped onto the hardwood. My mother spoke one last time. “I wish I had never raised you. I wish the hospital had never made that mistake.” She slammed the door as she left. My father followed. After a long silence, Derek knelt beside me. His voice was dripping with fake sympathy. “Adrian, Zoey is going to be okay. It’s fine. I know you didn’t mean it.” Cora put a hand on his shoulder. “Go get some sleep, Derek. You were up all night at the ER.” When they left, I struggled to my feet and swallowed three painkillers. “What are you taking?” Cora was standing in the doorway. I didn’t answer. She grabbed my arm, her eyes widening as she felt how thin I’d become. “Adrian, you’re skin and bones.” But her concern was quickly replaced by anger. “Zoey is an innocent child. If you hate me, take it out on me.” I am innocent, too, I thought. Why can’t anyone see me? “I don’t hate you,” I said. “And I didn’t hurt him.” I went upstairs and packed a small bag. When I opened the front door to leave, my mother was standing there. She saw the suitcase and hesitated. “Where are you going?” Then, as if remembering she was supposed to be angry, she snapped, “Fine! Go! Don’t come back until you’re ready to apologize!” I checked into the hospital under a different name. I had enough money left for one month. Day by day, my hair began to fall out. I spent my afternoons walking through the city parks until I was too weak to stand. Finally, Cora called. “Adrian, are you okay? Mom and Dad are worried. Just come home. Tomorrow is your birthday. Let’s just move past this.” I looked at my reflection in the hospital glass—a skeleton draped in pale skin. “Tell them to take care of themselves. I’m not coming back.” That night, as the clock ticked toward midnight, the pain became a living thing, clawing at my bones. I reached for the pills on the nightstand, but my fingers were useless. The bottle shattered on the floor, white pills scattering like snow. Sweet, metallic heat surged up my throat. I covered my mouth, but the blood soaked through my fingers and stained the white sheets. At least I don’t have to have another birthday, I thought. The world blurred. The light faded. And finally, the silence was absolute.

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In my third year working the VIP lounges of the city’s high-end clubs, the name Beckett Clifford meant absolutely nothing to me. I was mid-shift, the air thick with expensive cologne and the clink of ice, when a stranger’s hand began to slide up the hem of my skirt. Before I could deploy my practiced “polite deflection,” the heavy oak door of the private suite was kicked open with a violence that silenced the music. A man stormed in. He didn’t say a word before his fist connected with the guest’s face, leaving him a bloody mess on the velvet upholstery. That was Beckett. He stood there, chest heaving, his eyes a turbulent storm of rage and a jagged, inexplicable pain. “This is what you left me for?” he hissed, his voice trembling. “To do this?” I didn’t recognize the emotion in his voice, let alone his face. I did what I always did: I masked my confusion with a practiced, predatory smile. I stepped toward him, letting my body graze his in the way that usually loosened a man’s wallet. “You look new, handsome,” I purred, my voice a low honeyed drawl. “Is this your first time playing? Around here, we don’t care where the money comes from, as long as there’s enough of it.” Beckett froze. Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. I took the opportunity to slide my arms around his waist, leaning in close. “You seem like you have a lot of pent-up energy. Want me to help you blow off some steam? But let’s be clear—you’re going to have to outbid the guy you just sent to the ER.” He shoved me away then, his expression curdling into pure disgust. “You really can’t live without a man’s hand on you, can you? All that ‘pure and innocent’ bullshit from before… it must have been exhausting to maintain the act.” The smile stayed plastered on my face. Inside, I felt nothing. Three years ago, an “accident” had wiped my slate clean. I woke up in a hospital with no past. Who he was, what we had been—it was all gone. … The force of his shove sent me staggering. My hip hit the edge of the mahogany table, a sharp bloom of pain radiating through my side. As a professional, I didn’t let my expression flicker. I knew exactly what I was in this world. If a client was angry, it meant I hadn’t performed my role well enough. I straightened my skirt, smoothed my hair, and turned to the back bar. I grabbed a bottle of the most expensive Louis XIII cognac on the shelf. “Don’t be like that,” I said, walking back to him with a swaying gait, my eyes wide and pleading. “That gentleman was about to tip me a thousand dollars. You chased him off, and my rent is due. Help a girl out?” I pulled a roll of crumpled bills from my clutch and, keeping my eyes locked on his, tucked them slowly into the neckline of my dress. Beckett stared at me as if he wanted to peel my skin off just to see if there was anything real underneath. “Is this a game to you?” he laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. “Faking amnesia? Norah, you’ve hit a new low in your little performance.” I didn’t understand the name he called me, but I understood the contempt. I’d seen it a thousand times. “Whatever the boss says,” I whispered. I poured a glass to the brim and held it out with both hands, letting my body go soft as I leaned into his space. “For the right price, I can be whoever you want. Want the shy college girl? Or the heartless siren? I’m very versatile.” Crash! With a violent sweep of his arm, Beckett sent the entire display of premium spirits flying. Shattered crystal and amber liquid rained down, soaking my hair and my dress. I didn’t flinch. I just stood there, dripping, watching him. “You want money?” He pulled a black Amex from his wallet and flicked it at my face. The sharp plastic edge grazed my cheekbone, a stinging heat following in its wake. “There’s a fifty-thousand-dollar limit on that,” he said, pointing to the floor covered in jagged glass and spilled booze. “Get on your knees. Lick it up. Drink every drop off the floor and finish the rest of the bottles, and the card is yours.” Fifty thousand. My heart hammered against my ribs. Just that afternoon, the hospital had sent another final notice. My brother’s specialized care, the imported neuro-nutrients… they were going to pull the plug tomorrow if I didn’t pay. Fifty thousand would buy him months. I didn’t hesitate. I couldn’t afford to let him change his mind. I let my knees drop directly onto the broken glass. The shards sliced through my stockings and into my skin instantly. It was a white-hot, sickening pain, but I didn’t make a sound. I leaned down, bracing myself on the floor like an animal. The raw alcohol hit my throat like a razor blade. I forced myself to swallow, glass pricking my palms, my stomach churning. My diet had been coffee and cigarettes for weeks; my stomach was already a wreck. This was torture. But I kept going. I reached for the card at his feet. It was my brother’s life. “Cough… cough!” A sudden, metallic heat bubbled up in my chest. I doubled over, a violent coughing fit racking my body. When I pulled my hand away from my mouth, there were flecks of bright red mixed with the cognac. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and gripped the black card tight. “Thank you, sir,” I said, forced a wobbly, flirtatious smile as I struggled to stand. “Need me again tomorrow? I can work on my tolerance. I can wear whatever outfit you like… just name it.” Beckett looked paralyzed. He stared at the blood on the floor, shock flickering in his eyes before it was swallowed by a fresh wave of fury. “You’re pathetic!” He kicked the table over, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the small room. “You were always a damn good actress. Before it was the ‘innocent girl-next-door’ routine, and now it’s this amnesiac martyr act. I wonder how long you can keep it up, Norah!” He slammed the door so hard the walls vibrated. The second he was gone, the mask shattered. I curled into a ball on the glass-strewn floor, clutching the card to my chest. My heart felt like a hollowed-out cavern. I didn’t know him. I didn’t want to know the “past” he kept throwing in my face. Was it good? Was it bad? It didn’t matter. Nothing could be worse than the present. If my past was beautiful, remembering it would only make this hell unbearable. I’d rather be a brainless girl in a short dress, smiling for monsters. Because as long as Evan was in that hospital bed, my dignity was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I’d give my life for him. The next day, I was fired. “You pissed off Beckett Clifford,” the floor manager said, not even looking me in the eye. “No high-end club in this city will touch you now. Get out.” I didn’t even get my last paycheck. Evan’s medication couldn’t stop. Two thousand dollars a day. Just to keep him breathing. With nowhere left to go, I went to the Underground—a windowless basement casino on the South Side. It was a place for the desperate and the predatory. I put on the “Bunny” uniform. It was little more than scraps of satin, fishnets, and six-inch heels. The air was a thick sludge of cigar smoke, cheap perfume, and the sour sweat of men losing money they didn’t have. I carried trays of chips through the crowd. Rough hands pinched my thighs; someone slapped my rear as I passed. I never flinched. I just turned back with a wink, placing their hand firmly onto a drink glass. “A touch is a hundred-dollar chip, honey. A drink is a thousand. Which one are we doing?” Usually, my wit was enough to get me through the night with a pocket full of tips. Until Beckett showed up with a group of his friends. He sat in the center VIP booth, his legs crossed, a cigar smoldering between his fingers. He watched me through the haze. The men with him—the city’s golden boys—looked at me with a sickening mix of recognition and malice. “Well, look at that,” one of them sneered, fanning out a stack of hundreds. “If it isn’t the campus sweetheart herself.” They knew me. I didn’t know them. The man looked at Beckett, saw the coldness in his eyes, and took it as a green light. He whistled to a busboy, who brought over a slop bucket used for clearing tables—filled with cigarette butts, half-eaten appetizers, and the dregs of a dozen different drinks. It smelled like rot. He tossed the stack of hundreds into the bucket. “Need the cash, right? Fish them out with your teeth, and the pile is yours.” The table erupted in laughter. A crowd began to gather, circling me like I was a circus freak. The smell made my stomach roll. But I saw the money. It was thick—at least two thousand. One day of life for Evan. I swallowed my bile and sank slowly to my knees. I leaned over the bucket, held my breath, and lowered my face toward the gray, oily liquid. My lips touched something slimy. I bit down on the edge of a bill. “Enough!” A hand clamped onto my shoulder and yanked me back. I looked up to see Beckett standing over me, his face a mask of distorted rage and something that looked almost like grief. He was always so angry at me. “Is the amnesia act that fun for you? Who are you trying to get sympathy from?” He spat the words out. “You make me sick.” He walked out again. I spat the bill into my hand and wiped the grime off it with my sleeve. Moody prick, I thought, my mind already calculating the remaining balance. A few days later, Margot arrived. She walked into the casino like she owned the air we breathed. She was Beckett’s fiancée—the socialite princess of the city. She stopped in front of me, looking at my tattered satin ears with a look of pure venom. “My engagement ring is missing,” she announced, her voice cutting through the noise. She pointed a manicured finger at me. “She’s the only one who’s been near me. Search her.” I hadn’t been within ten feet of her. But the bouncers were already moving. Rippp— The cheap fabric of my uniform was torn open, buttons flying across the floor. My skin was exposed to the cold air and the leering eyes of a hundred gamblers. Men whistled. I didn’t fight. I covered my chest as best I could and dropped to the floor. “Ma’am, I didn’t take it!” I begged. “Please, don’t let them fire me. I need this job. I really need the money…” I couldn’t be blacklisted again. I couldn’t lose this. Beckett stepped through the entrance at that exact moment. He stopped dead. He saw me on the floor, half-naked and crying, and he looked away, his jaw tightening so hard I thought it might snap. “The ring is in the car, Margot,” he said, his voice strained. He grabbed her wrist. “Why are you wasting your time with trash like this? Let’s go.” They left without a backward glance. I crawled into a bathroom stall and locked the door. The “siren” mask evaporated, and I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. I tried to pin my uniform back together, my fingers shaking too hard to work the safety pin. Evan, I’m so tired. I don’t know if I can do this anymore. But Margot wasn’t done. She had seen the way Beckett looked at me. It wasn’t just hate; there was a flicker of something he couldn’t control. A week later, I received a mysterious invitation for a private party. Appearance fee: Three hundred thousand dollars. I didn’t even hesitate. When I arrived at the sprawling lakeside estate, I realized it was Margot’s birthday party. The room was packed with the city’s elite. Margot sat in the center of the room and tossed a black leather dog collar at my feet. “Put it on.” She smiled, a cold, sharp expression. “Tonight, you’re our pet. Act like a good dog, and the check is yours.” I did the math in my head. Three hundred thousand. That was the surgery. That was the recovery. That was everything. I picked up the collar and buckled it around my neck. A pair of diamond-encrusted stilettos stepped onto my back. The sharp heel dug into my spine through my thin dress. “Such a good girl,” Margot laughed, pressing down. All night, I was their footstool. I was kicked, tripped, and humiliated. My ribs throbbed with every breath, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. But I kept my eyes on that check on the mantel. Hours later, the physical abuse seemed to bore her. She crouched down, grabbed my hair, and forced my head up. “Why the act, Norah?” she hissed. “Were you this ‘innocent’ when those naked photos of you were plastered all over the internet? Did you look this pathetic then?” My mind went blank. Naked photos? When? Even in the clubs, I had never crossed that line. “And your mother,” Margot continued, her voice like a viper’s. “Like mother, like daughter. A homewrecking whore in life, and a pathetic corpse in death. Your whole family is trash.” I stared at her, uncomprehending. Mother… is she dead? My only memory was Evan. My confusion only enraged her. “Still playing dumb!” She kicked me hard in the shoulder. I was kneeling at the edge of the grand staircase. The world tilted as I lost my balance. Thump. Thump. Thump. My head cracked against the marble. Warm blood began to trickle into my eye, blurring my vision. Through the haze, I saw a pair of polished leather shoes. Beckett was here. “Beckett!” Margot cried out from the top of the stairs, her voice suddenly trembling with fake tears. “I invited her to be nice, but she tried to blackmail me! She said if I didn’t give her money, she’d tell people I pushed her! I… I felt so bad I gave her a check…” “Yeah, we saw it, Beckett,” her friends chimed in. “She’s a total grifter.” Beckett’s eyes turned to ice. I knew he wouldn’t believe me. “You’d risk your life for a paycheck?” he sneered, looking down at me with pure loathing. “Extortion now? You really are addicted to the gutter, aren’t you?” “Get out. Don’t bleed on the rug.” He didn’t ask for my side. Not a single word. I just folded the check, tucked it into my pocket, and limped out into the night. The mountain air was freezing. As I walked down the dark, winding road, a flash of a memory hit me. A tall silhouette holding me, a voice deep and tender: “Don’t worry, Norah. As long as I’m here, no one will ever hurt you.” I clutched my head, dropping to the curb in pain. Who was that? Why did it hurt so much to remember? I squeezed the check in my pocket. Don’t think. Just save Evan. “Insufficient funds.” I stared at the bank teller. Margot had given me a fake check. My ears began to ring. I ran back to the hospital, clutching the useless piece of paper. The head nurse met me at the door of the ICU, her face a mask of professional detachment. “Ms. Vance, we aren’t a charity. Your brother’s life support and the imported meds cost a fortune. You’re fifty thousand in the hole.” “If the balance isn’t cleared by 8:00 AM tomorrow, we have to move him to a general ward and discontinue the specialized treatment.” Moving him meant a death sentence. I looked through the glass at the man covered in tubes. “Evan…” I whispered, hot tears finally breaking through. “Just wait. I’ll get the money. Don’t leave me.” My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. [Private Yacht Mystery Game. Female participants needed. $2 million for one night. Rule: Absolute obedience. Risk: Personal safety not guaranteed.] Two million. I didn’t think twice. I dialed the number. To save my brother, my life was a small price to pay. That night, the sea air was biting. I was escorted onto a massive, three-story luxury yacht. When I stepped onto the main deck, my heart stopped. Beckett. Again. He was sitting with Margot, their bodies pressed together in an intimate, heated display of affection. “Oh, look, our star has arrived!” Margot giggled. She pointed to a transparent glass walkway suspended over the side of the yacht, dangling over the churning black waves of the Atlantic. “The game is simple,” Margot said, tossing a box of lingerie at me. “Put that on. Walk the length of the glass bridge. No holding the rails.” “The guests will be throwing ice cubes at you to keep things interesting. If you make it to the end without falling in, the two million is yours.” The yacht lurched in the swells. One slip, and the current would pull you under the hull. It was suicide. “What? Scared?” Margot mocked. “Then get lost.” I looked at the briefcase of cash on the table. I thought of the nurse’s cold words. I thought of Evan’s pale face. “I’ll change,” I said. I picked up the box. It didn’t matter. I’d lost my dignity years ago. Slam! The dressing room door was kicked open. Beckett shoved his way in and locked it behind him. The small space was immediately filled with the scent of his cigar and a suffocating, heavy tension. He grabbed my wrists and pinned them against the steel wall. “Are you really this obsessed with money?!” he roared. “You’d wear that for those men? How much lower can you go?” I looked at his face. I saw the rage, but for the first time, I saw the raw, bleeding agony underneath. It was almost funny. I didn’t smile. I didn’t flirt. I just pried his fingers off my wrists, one by one. “Mr. Clifford,” I said, my voice dead. “Keep your morality to yourself.” It was the first time I’d ever spoken to him without the mask. “My brother is in a hospital bed. If I don’t have fifty thousand by tomorrow morning, they pull the plug. He dies. Period.” My eyes burned, but I refused to cry. “A man like you—born with a silver spoon—will never understand what ‘no choice’ feels like. To save him, I’d let them throw stones at me, not just ice. I’d cut my own heart out and sell it if there was a buyer.” “You think I’m trash? Fine. You think I’m disgusting? Great.” I pushed past him and began to pull on the scraps of lace. “This is my life. Get used to it.” I walked out of the room, leaving him standing there like a statue. The deck was filled with catcalls. I stepped onto the freezing, wet glass of the walkway, barefoot. Below me, the ocean was a roaring black abyss. I was shivering so hard the glass vibrated. “Pelts!” Margot screamed, laughing. Handfuls of ice began to rain down, stinging my back, my legs, my face. I gritted my teeth, staring at the end of the bridge. Ten steps. Five steps… Evan is going to live. A large block of ice struck the back of my knee. My foot slipped on the wet glass. “Ahhh!” “NORAH!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “446527”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Five years later, across a mahogany conference table that smelled of expensive wax and corporate indifference, I looked into the eyes of Daniel West again. As the representative for the vendor, he shook my assistant’s hand with a practiced, oily charm. Then he turned his gaze toward me, his expression curdling into a look of patronizing superiority. “Working for someone else must be exhausting, Laura,” he said, his voice smooth, as if there were no jagged glass between us. He leaned back, the king of his small hill. “If you’re done throwing your little tantrum, you can come back. I’m willing to waive the company’s ‘no dating’ policy just for you.” I didn’t blink. I didn’t even offer him the courtesy of a frown. I simply closed my portfolio with a sharp thud and dialed my team on speaker. “The client’s attitude is unprofessional and stalling. Terminate the negotiations immediately.” The shock on his face was a balm. My mind flickered back to that absurd corporate retreat five years ago—the night it all burned down. We had gone “wild foraging” in the Pacific Northwest. One of the new interns, Brianna, had supposedly ingested some toxic mushrooms. She “lost control” and threw herself at Daniel, my fiancé, kissing him with a desperate, frantic hunger in front of the entire department. What broke me wasn’t the girl. It was Daniel. He didn’t push her away. He held her. Later, he used a damp towel to tenderly wipe her face, dismissing my fury with a wave of his hand. “She’s poisoned, Laura. She’s not in her right mind. Don’t be so dramatic.” When I finally cornered him, asking why he had leaned into the kiss, he had actually smirked. “Did I use tongue? No. So get over it.” Then came the ultimatum: “If you can’t handle it, quit. Out of sight, out of mind.” He never expected me to actually do it. On the day Brianna was promoted to a full-time position, I handed in my resignation and vanished from his life. Looking at his stunned expression now, I felt nothing but a cold, distant amusement. Five years was more than enough time for a clinging vine to grow into a towering oak. … I stood up to leave, but Brianna—now apparently his right hand—pressed her palm down on my documents. “Laura, honey, we just got here! Don’t be so hasty. We haven’t even started the pitch.” “This is Harrington Global, a Fortune 500 company,” a former colleague named Brad snickered from across the table, crossing his arms. “The standards for entry-level staff shouldn’t be this low. Does she really think one phone call decides the fate of a multi-million dollar contract? She’s probably just the glorified coffee runner.” “Oh, Brad, don’t be mean!” Brianna pouted, though the look didn’t reach her eyes. She glanced at Daniel, her voice dripping with performative sympathy. “She and Mr. West have… history. It’s understandable that she’s bitter. Seeing us together probably reopened some old wounds.” I checked my watch. “Fine. You have twenty minutes before my next board meeting. Make them count.” “Laura, are you still playing this part?” Daniel spoke up, his tone lazy. He reclined in his leather chair, watching me with a predatory sort of boredom. “If you want to play games, I’ll indulge you. We’re old friends. Just don’t be too cutthroat on the pricing.” His eyes drifted over my plain silk blouse, settling finally on the ring finger of my left hand. I was wearing a simple, hammered silver band. No diamonds. No gold. Brianna followed his gaze, her lips curling into a smug smile. “Are you actually married, Laura? How sad that you didn’t invite us to the wedding.” “Speaking of weddings,” Brad interrupted, nudging Brianna with his elbow. “When are you and Daniel finally going to make it official? I saw you browsing for those three-carat rocks on your lunch break.” “Brad!” Brianna swatted his shoulder, her cheeks flushing a performative pink. “Stop it. We’re strictly professional.” Daniel smiled, a slow, deliberate thing. He reached out and tucked a stray hair behind Brianna’s ear. The gesture sent a ripple of suggestive murmurs through the rest of their team. I looked down at my notes, my heart a flatline. I had seen this play before. Five years ago, one woman faked a mushroom trip to claim a man, and the man claimed he was “forced” while leaning into the heat. Back then, I thought my heart would stop from the pain. Now? It was just bad theater. The door opened, and a server entered with a tray of lattes. I didn’t want to stay for the second act. I turned to walk out. “Wait, Laura!” Brianna lunged forward, but “accidentally” collided with the server. A cup of scalding coffee flew through the air, splashing across my back. The white silk of my blouse was instantly soaked in a dark, spreading stain. “Oh my god!” Brianna gasped, though her eyes were dancing. “Laura, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” The server panicked, thrusting napkins at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am! I—I felt someone push—” “It’s fine,” I said, my voice like ice as I took the napkins. “I know exactly who pushed you.” Brianna’s face hardened. “What is that supposed to mean? You’re so clumsy you’re going to blame me?” “Seriously,” Brad chimed in. “We all saw it. You turned around too fast.” I caught my reflection in the glass partition. The wet silk had become translucent. It was a mess. “Laura,” Daniel said, his voice tinged with a familiar, weary annoyance. “Stop making a scene.” He grabbed his blazer from the chair and tossed it onto the sofa nearest to me. The implication was clear: Cover yourself up with my protection. I didn’t touch the jacket. I simply turned. “I’m going to the restroom.” I managed to scrub most of the stain out with cold water. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from my husband: The car is downstairs. I typed a one-word reply: Soon. As I stepped out of the restroom, I heard hushed voices around the corner. “…I heard she quit back then because she was caught sleeping around with the mailroom guys. It was a huge scandal.” “Shhh, keep it down… but yeah, I heard there was some legal trouble too. Something about embezzlement that Daniel covered up for her…” They went silent the moment they saw me. Brianna adjusted her collar, her expression shifting back to ‘concerned colleague.’ “Laura, Daniel says he’ll give you one more shot. Sign the contract at our price, and he’ll make sure you’re taken care of on future projects.” I walked past them without a word and pushed back into the room. Daniel was flipping through my project files. He didn’t stop when I entered; he just looked up briefly. “The reporting is solid. Impressive, actually.” He slid the folder back toward me. “Come back to Apex. I’ll double your current salary.” “No thank you,” I said, retrieving my files. “This negotiation is over.” “Laura!” Daniel’s voice cracked like a whip. “Do you think working at Harrington makes you untouchable? They only hired you because you’re a bargain. Where’s your supervisor? How could they entrust a hundred-million-dollar deal to a glorified clerk like you?” I didn’t answer. I walked toward the door. As my hand hit the handle, he yelled, “Laura, it’s been five years! When are you going to stop being so dramatic?” I paused. Dramatic? Was he really so arrogant that he thought five years of silence was just a long-form tantrum? “Mr. West,” I said quietly, “my time is far more expensive than yours.” His face contorted. “Stop acting so high and mighty. If it wasn’t for me, you never would have made it to team lead. You’re nothing without the resume I helped you build.” I ignored the lunatic and stepped into the elevator. The air outside was thick and humid, the sky bruising purple before a storm. Safe inside the car, I watched my alumni group chat explode with notifications. The Class President: @Everyone! Dinner tonight at The Grand. Plus ones encouraged! Our old mentor, Professor Miller, will be there! Of course it was tonight. After five years of radio silence, it turned out Daniel had clawed his way to the top of Apex. He wasn’t even supposed to be at the meeting today—a VP named Marcus was scheduled, but there had been a last-minute swap. I had inadvertently stepped in sht. Someone tagged me: Laura, you haven’t RSVP’d! You have to come! Professor Miller always said you were his favorite. I stared at the screen and finally typed: I’ll be there. Professor Miller had been a father figure to me. I wasn’t going to let Daniel’s ego rob me of a chance to see him. ——– That night, Daniel had rented out the Imperial Suite at The Grand. He was throwing money around like it was confetti. Out of a class of thirty-six, nearly everyone had shown up. The moment I opened the door, Brianna’s high-pitched laugh cut through the music. She was draped over Daniel’s arm while a circle of former classmates fawned over them. “Look who finally showed up! Laura!” “I heard you’ve been freelancing since you quit? Tough market out there,” someone remarked, their voice a mix of pity and judgment. “You and Daniel started at the same firm—you should have held onto him tighter. He’s the Golden Boy now.” I smiled politely and found a corner to sit in. The Class President, already three drinks in, slammed his hand on the table. “You guys have no idea! Laura… hic… back in the day, she actually tanked her placement exams just to get into the same grad school as Daniel. She had Ivy League scores!” “No way! Really?” “Totally true! Her parents went ballistic, but she wouldn’t budge. She followed him like a lost puppy.” The room erupted in whispers. Daniel swirled his scotch, a smug, distant look on his face. “Everyone makes choices,” he said smoothly. I looked at my tea, thinking of that lost girl. At eighteen, I believed some things were worth sacrificing logic for. Hearing him now, so dismissive of the girl who had burned her future to stay by his side, I felt a wave of cold clarity. Brianna laughed loudly. “Well, you have to admire that kind of devotion. It’s so… brave. Let’s toast to Laura’s ‘bravery’!” The sycophants followed suit. “Brianna is so graceful. You and Daniel are the real power couple. Some people choose the wrong path and have to live with the consequences.” My phone buzzed. It was my mother. I stepped out onto the balcony to answer. “Where are you?” she asked, her voice sharp with stress. “The baby needs to be picked up from my place.” I leaned against the railing, keeping my voice low. “I’m leaving soon. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” As I hung up and turned around, two former classmates were standing in the doorway, watching me with predatory curiosity. “Laura, did you get married? We never saw a wedding announcement.” I shook my head. “We didn’t do a big ceremony.” “But I heard you mention… picking up a child?” I smiled, offering a half-truth. “Yeah. My life pretty much revolves around school runs these days.” They exchanged a look. “Oh. So… stay-at-home mom?” I didn’t bother correcting them. When I walked back inside, I heard that Professor Miller had a family emergency and wouldn’t be coming. I grabbed my coat. “Goodnight, everyone. Enjoy the party.” As I walked out, a loud voice trailed after me. “Better hurry, Laura! The nanny needs to get to the employer’s house!” The room erupted in laughter. I looked back at the girl I’d spoken to on the balcony. So that was how she had translated ‘picking up the kid.’ I didn’t have the energy to argue. Outside, the rain was a deluge. I stood under the awning, waiting for my ride. The partygoers began to trickle out behind me. Daniel stepped out, holding a large black umbrella. “Where do you live? I’ll drop you off.” “No thanks.” He stared at me, his jaw tightening. “Laura, what is it going to take? What do you want from me?” I looked at him like he was a glitch in the software. “I don’t want anything from you, Daniel. But shouldn’t you be worried about your fiancée? She might get jealous if you’re seen giving me a ride.” He frowned. “The thing with Brianna back then… it was a mistake. She was intoxicated. What was I supposed to do? If there was really something between us, we’d have kids by now.” I looked at him, truly seeing him for the first time in years. “Is it too late to wish you a happy life and many children, then?” “You—” I didn’t wait for the rest. I stepped into the waiting car and closed the door. A few days later, a headline broke in the financial news: Apex Media’s Landmark Deal with Harrington Global Collapses. My phone was immediately bombarded with calls from unknown numbers. I knew it was Daniel. I had blocked his main number years ago. The only way he could reach me was through new burners or public shaming in the alumni group. The project could have been a win-win. I hadn’t intended to let personal history interfere with work, but Daniel’s insistence that I was “unworthy” of the negotiation had made the decision for me. If he couldn’t respect the person across the table, he didn’t deserve the contract. “Laura?” I froze on the red carpet of a business gala a week later. I turned to see Daniel and his team standing by the entrance. Brianna was in a shimmering, over-the-top gown that caught every flashbulb. “You need an invitation for this,” Brianna said, her voice carrying over the crowd. “Did you sneak in with your employer, Laura? Are you here to hold someone’s coat?” Brad laughed. “Should I tell security to let you in so you can go find your boss? You look a little lost.” Daniel frowned, looking at my dress—a custom, minimalist piece in a deep charcoal. “Enough, Laura. Don’t embarrass yourself. If you come back to work for me, you’ll get to attend these events properly. Don’t do this just to spite me. There are reporters everywhere.” I pulled my hand back as he tried to grab my arm. “Mr. West, it seems Apex has a lot of free time lately. Shouldn’t you be worried about your plummeting stock instead of my social life?” His face darkened. “All this because a server spilled coffee on you? Are you really that petty? Did you learn nothing at Apex? Harrington was insane to put someone like you in charge of anything.” A colleague behind him sneered. “Don’t give her too much credit, Daniel. If she actually had the power to kill a deal, she wouldn’t be dressed in no-name labels at a gala like this. She looks like a charity case.” Daniel seemed comforted by that. “True. I doubt a low-level staffer could dictate terms to the board.” Brianna smirked. “Exactly. That dress probably came from a thrift store. She’s just living in a fantasy world where she’s the boss.” I adjusted my cuffs. The dress was from my mother’s boutique—a small, high-end label that specialized in traditional craftsmanship. It was perfect. “Are you done?” I asked calmly. “Because I’m on a schedule.” Daniel looked annoyed. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re delusional.” Then, his tone softened into that fake, protective warmth. He reached out and snatched Brad’s guest pass. “Fine. If you want to see the inside so badly, just stay close to me. Don’t talk to anyone.” Before I could respond, Mr. Thompson, the event organizer, came running toward us, breathless. “Ms. Whitlock! There you are. Your keynote speech is ready. Mr. Beaumont is asking if you’d like to review the teleprompter one last time?” Daniel froze. Brianna’s smug smile shattered. She looked at Thompson, then at me. “I think you have the wrong person. Keynote? There are only three speakers tonight, and they’re all C-suite…” I took the folder from Thompson. “Mr. Thompson, these people are not on the guest list for the VIP section. Please ensure they remain in the general lobby.” Daniel grabbed my wrist. “What is this? What are you doing?” “I’m working,” I said, gently removing his hand. He looked at me with a rare flicker of doubt. He probably still thought I was the girl who melted whenever he brought me a coffee or “helped” by rewriting my reports after screaming at me in front of the office. He didn’t realize that those “favors” felt like insults now. I walked toward the green room. My phone buzzed—a video call from my mother. “He fell and scraped his knee,” she said, sounding frantic. “He won’t stop crying for you.” I ducked into a private lounge. “I’m here, baby. Mommy’s right here.” I spent ten minutes soothing my son over the screen. By the time I hung up, I realized I was cutting it close. I messaged my colleague: If I’m not on stage in two minutes, play the intro video. I’ll be right there. As I hurried back toward the hall, I passed a semi-open VIP suite. Daniel’s team was inside. “I can’t believe she kicked us out of the VIP area. I had to bribe a waiter just to get these passes. Daniel, you have to reimburse me for this!” “Laura is just bluffing,” Brianna’s voice was sharp. “She’s not on the speaker list. I checked the website this morning. She’s probably just a ghostwriter for the real executives.” “Who cares? How does she have the pull to bar us? Is her ’employer’ really that powerful?” “Maybe she’s sleeping with him,” Brad suggested. “The Beaumonts are old money. They wouldn’t marry a nanny, but they’d certainly keep one as a mistress.” “Shut up!” Daniel snapped. “We’re here for networking. Focus. In thirty minutes, I have an interview with Business Weekly in the lobby. Make sure the press kit is ready.” I shook my head and walked onto the stage. The speech went perfectly. Afterward, as I was heading to the exit to get home to my son, I passed the lobby where the live broadcast was happening. Daniel was sitting in the interview chair, looking every bit the ‘Rising Star.’ The host smiled. “Mr. West, your rise has been meteoric. But you’ve kept your private life very quiet. Any special lady?” Daniel gave a humble smile. “My focus has always been the work.” “I heard there was a first love,” the host teased. “Someone who didn’t make the cut. What do you think about women who try to use marriage as a ladder to success?” Daniel looked pensive. Brianna, sitting in the front row of the audience, suddenly spoke up. “Oh, don’t make him uncomfortable! He was almost fooled by a social climber once. But she’s hit rock bottom now—last I heard, she’s a nanny for a wealthy family.” I stopped in my tracks. A nanny? The interview was being live-streamed. The comments on the monitor were already vicious: Typical gold-digger. Daniel is too good for her. Bet she’s trying to seduce the dad of the kid she watches. I pulled out my phone and opened the stream. I saw Brianna catch my eye in the crowd. She pointed. “Oh, look! Speak of the devil. There she is now, probably waiting to pick up her employer’s dry cleaning.” The cameras swiveled toward me. Reporters, sensing a scandal, rushed forward. “Ms. Whitlock! Did you fail your exams on purpose to follow Mr. West?” “Is it true you were fired from Apex for misconduct?” “Are you here tonight to try and win him back?” Brianna was beaming. The business interview had turned into a tabloid circus. Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the ballroom burst open. A small boy in a tailored miniature suit ran into the room, dodging security. “It’s the Beaumont heir!” someone whispered. The room went silent as the little boy scanned the crowd. Brianna, seeing an opportunity to look maternal in front of the cameras, knelt down. “Hey there, little guy. Are you lost?” She reached out to pat his head, but the boy dodged her. His eyes lit up when he saw me. “Mommy!” he chirped. The silence that followed was deafening. Brianna’s face went white. The cameras caught her frozen, hand mid-air. “Mommy?” she stammered. “You… you’re his mother? You’re married to a Beaumont?” The boy ignored her and jumped into my arms. “Mommy! Daddy says you’re playing the ‘don’t know us’ game again!”

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Seven years. That’s how long it took for time to slip through my fingers. The voice memo from my girlfriend, Bianca, played through the phone’s speaker, her tone thick with a lazy, satisfied exhaustion. She was complaining that the “workout” last night had left her lower back aching and her legs weak. She told me to be gentler next time. My face remained entirely devoid of emotion. I swiped left, deleting the audio. Then, my thumb moved on muscle memory. I opened the Temu app and ordered her a three-pack of clearance cotton underwear for $4.99, free shipping included. 1 Bianca always told me that startup life was a brutal grind, that we needed to practice extreme minimalism and curb our material desires. It was the reason she gave for moving into the guest bedroom, and the reason she had me fronting the rent for our apartment. To support her vision, I juggled three jobs. Even when I was burning up with a fever, I just swallowed cheap ibuprofen and powered through my shifts. Until today. She had gone to take a shower and left her phone unlocked on the bathroom counter. That was when I found the sugar baby spreadsheet. It was a masterclass in accounting, detailing the exact maintenance costs of the men she was keeping. One hundred and ten thousand dollars. In a single month. I scrolled through their group chat. They called me the “free live-in maid.” They laughed about how she bled me dry to fund their five-star dinners and weekend getaways. I didn’t feel a spike of rage. I didn’t see red. With an eerie, floating calmness, I simply gathered the three pairs of cheap underwear I had just bought, along with her packed luggage, and shoved them all into the trash can. When Bianca pushed the door open and saw her burner phone sitting squarely on my desk, her face froze. It lasted exactly one second. Then, the mask of habitual, defensive annoyance slipped right back into place. “Who told you to go through my phone?” Her voice was sharp with reprimand as she lunged forward to snatch the device. I turned my body, letting her hand grasp empty air, and stared back at her with eyes like dead winter. “Aren’t you going to explain?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly soft. “Why a ‘Tristan’ from the assistant pool is sending you voice memos like that?” Bianca let out an exaggerated sigh, running a hand through her damp hair, instantly pivoting to the exhausted, misunderstood entrepreneur. “Joel, can you stop being so damn paranoid? That’s for a client. It’s a corporate escort service arrangement.” “He sent it to the wrong chat by mistake. Do you have any idea what I do out there? I spend my days kissing the rings of venture capitalists, begging for seed money, killing myself so we can have a future.” “And you? You sit at home, work a few gigs, and suddenly you think you’re the king of the castle, running interrogations on me.” Her volume steadily climbed, a desperate attempt to drown her own guilt in righteous indignation. I felt a sharp, stabbing cramp in my stomach—the physical toll of back-to-back all-nighters—as I looked at the woman I had loved for seven years. Seven years. She said the startup was bleeding cash, that we had to sacrifice, pouring every dime into her company’s R&D. To lift the burden off her shoulders, I had quit my stable agency job for three grueling freelance hustles. I covered the rent, the utilities, the groceries. Everything. When my fever spiked to 102 degrees, I didn’t even dare to go to urgent care because of the copay. I just rode it out in sweats and shivers. And her? She claimed the pressure of being a CEO required “independent breathing space,” using it as an excuse to sleep in a separate room for an entire year. I didn’t let her gaslight me. My voice was steady. “If it was sent to the wrong chat, why are you shaking?” Bianca blinked, completely thrown off by my total lack of hysteria. Her eyes darted over my shoulder, landing on my open laptop screen. It was still sitting on the order confirmation page for the clearance underwear. She marched over. When she registered what she was looking at, her features twisted into something ugly and dark. “What the hell is this?” “You bought me five-dollar clearance rack panties? Are you trying to humiliate me, Joel?” She pointed at the screen, her voice shrill, bouncing off the thin apartment walls. “I am a CEO. I sit across the table from investors worth hundreds of millions of dollars every single day.” “You expect me to wear these cheap rags to pitch a ten-million-dollar Series A? Do you know absolutely nothing about maintaining an image?” I looked at her face—contorted by a bizarre, misplaced entitlement—and felt a laugh catch in my throat. It was just so incredibly absurd. “Last month’s rent was paid because I pulled three consecutive all-nighters doing simultaneous translation for an overseas tech conference,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “That haute couture dress you’re wearing right now? I maxed out my credit card to buy it for you.” “And you’re standing in my apartment, lecturing me about your image?” I took a step forward, holding her gaze until she was forced to look away. “I thought every penny was going toward ‘curbing our material desires’?” “I literally cover your Uber Eats orders. How is a five-dollar pair of underwear beneath you?” Bianca choked on her words, a dull red creeping up her neck. She ground her teeth, visibly swallowing her temper, and shifted to her most effective weapon: emotional blackmail. “Joel, you were never like this,” she murmured, her voice softening into a wounded purr. “You used to be so patient. So understanding. I know you’re burned out lately.” “Just let me close this funding round. I swear, the minute the ink dries, I’m buying us a gorgeous house. We’ll get married. A huge wedding, just like we talked about.” She closed the distance between us, reaching out to wrap her arms around my waist. I stepped back. The physical revulsion was so strong it was almost violently magnetic. I couldn’t bear the thought of her skin touching mine. At that exact moment, the phone lying face-down on the desk vibrated. The screen lit up. Another message from Tristan. Boss, I really, really want that limited-edition Daytona. Please? The blood drained from Bianca’s face. She snatched the phone, turning her back to me as her thumbs flew across the screen. “One of the partners is hounding me about the project timeline. I have to put out a fire.” “Just… stop picking fights, okay? Go make dinner. I’m starving.” 2 She didn’t look back. She practically sprinted to her separate bedroom and I heard the heavy, metallic click of the deadbolt sliding into place. I stood alone in the living room, staring at the closed door. There was no screaming match. No falling to my knees in tears. I just felt nauseous. A deep, bone-deep, biological rejection of the space I was standing in. The woman who had built her life alongside mine had, somewhere along the way, been replaced by a stranger whose breath smelled of lies. Pressing a hand against my aching stomach, I turned and walked into the kitchen. I didn’t start chopping vegetables for her dinner. I poured myself a glass of room-temperature water. Through the thin drywall, I could hear the muffled cadence of her voice on a phone call. Even distorted, I recognized the desperate, cloying tone of her apologies, the eager-to-please lilt. It was a voice she had never, ever used with me. I drank the water and set the glass down on the granite counter with a quiet clink. Seven years. It was over. The autopsy was finished; all that was left was to bury it. Bianca stayed locked in her room for half an hour. When she emerged, she had pasted on a serene, affectionate smile. She hovered around the kitchen for a bit, eventually setting a bowl of watery instant ramen down on the table in front of me. “Joel, honey, I was out of line earlier.” “I’ve just been under so much pressure. The VC guys are aggressively trying to lower our valuation, and it’s keeping me awake every single night.” She sat across from me, her eyes heavy with manufactured exhaustion, laced with a practiced pleading. “Consider this bowl of noodles my peace offering, okay?” “Your stomach is acting up again. Eat it while it’s hot.” I looked down at the bowl. Broth and noodles. Not even an egg cracked into it. This was the grand extent of her compensation. I picked up the chopsticks, lifted a few strands of noodles, but didn’t put them in my mouth. My voice was a flatline. “When you say you’re under pressure… is listening to Tristan’s voice memos how you relieve it?” The smile shattered on her face. She let out a heavy sigh and reached across the table to cover my hand. I pulled mine away before she could make contact. “Joel, do you really have to be this relentless?” “I already explained, it was a misunderstanding. If you’re going to suffocate me with this toxic paranoia every single day, I don’t know how I can do this.” It was her classic pivot. The moment I asked a legitimate question, she flipped the board, making me the villain, making me feel like I was the one poisoning the water of our relationship. The old Joel would have spiraled into an anxious pit of self-doubt, analyzing his own behavior. Tonight, the new Joel just found her incredibly, pathetically transparent. I set the chopsticks down and met her eyes, my expression utterly blank. “Fine. I’m done arguing. I ate the noodles. You can go back to building your empire now.” Bianca let out a breath she’d been holding, clearly believing she had won. She was just opening her mouth to launch back into her startup manifesto when the phone on the table violently vibrated. Not the burner. Her main iPhone. The caller ID was a string of digits. No name attached. Bianca glanced at the screen, and I watched the muscles in her neck tighten. She hit the red decline button without a second thought. Two seconds later, it rang again. The relentless, blaring marimba ringtone echoed off the kitchen tiles, deafening in the quiet room. I watched her, a detached observer at a train wreck. “Why aren’t you answering that?” She forced a tight laugh, holding down the power button to shut the phone off entirely. “Spam callers. So annoying.” But the beads of sweat breaking out along her hairline told a different story. A minute later, the burner phone pinged. An incoming WhatsApp audio call. Bianca shot up from her chair like she’d been electrocuted, grabbing her blazer off the back of the sofa. “One of the investors just pulled together a last-minute dinner. Urgent strategy pivot.” “I have to go. Right now.” She didn’t even bother pulling her heels on all the way, practically crushing the backs of the leather as she bolted out the front door. The door slammed shut, rattling in its frame. I sat at the table, staring at the swollen, soggy mass of ramen, and let out a dry, hollow chuckle. I stood up, cleared the table, and went to move the leather tote bag she had dumped carelessly on the couch. As I lifted it, a crumpled piece of thermal receipt paper slipped out of the side pocket and fluttered to the floor. I picked it up and smoothed it out. It was a point-of-sale receipt from a luxury boutique on Fifth Avenue. 3 The item: A men’s watch. The price: $12,000. The timestamp: 2:15 PM, today. At 2:15 PM today, she had texted me complaining that she was locked in a boardroom with investors and hadn’t even had time to chew a protein bar for lunch. I pulled out my phone, snapped a crystal-clear photo of the receipt, folded it back up, and tucked it perfectly into the pocket of her bag. I didn’t scream. My eyes didn’t sting with tears. My brain had never felt sharper. The fog of the last seven years had burned away, leaving a blinding, clinical clarity in its wake. Our entire history was nothing but a punchline. I wanted to know exactly how deep the rot went. I sat at my desk and booted up my laptop, logging into the shared Google Drive we had set up years ago. I had never once snooped. I believed in boundaries. I believed in her. Looking back, that trust was nothing short of suicidal. The drive was cluttered with folders. I bypassed the ones labeled Pitch Decks, Q3 Financials, and Meeting Minutes. I dug until I found a hidden, password-protected subfolder titled Overhead. I guessed the password on the first try. It was the date she incorporated her LLC. Inside was a graveyard of electronic invoices and Zelle screenshots. Confirmations for corner suites at the Ritz-Carlton. Receipts for omakase dinners. And page after page of massive cash transfers. Every single recipient name belonged to a young man. I stared at the numbers glowing on the screen, and my hands started to shake. Not from heartbreak. From an all-consuming, white-hot rage. I had agonized over adding a $3 avocado to my grocery basket to save her money. Meanwhile, she was taking the cash I bled for, the money I traded my sleep and health for, and throwing it at college boys. This wasn’t just infidelity. This was systematic, parasitic financial abuse. I took a slow, deep breath, selected every single file, and downloaded the entire archive directly onto my encrypted external hard drive. For the next few days, I played the part of the oblivious, supportive boyfriend. I woke up early to brew her coffee. I paid the Wi-Fi bill on time. Believing she had successfully pacified me, Bianca grew reckless. She started coming home at 3 AM, or not coming home at all. The excuse was always the same: late-night client entertainment, networking drinks, sealing the deal. I followed the digital breadcrumbs she left behind and found the lease agreement for a Porsche 911 in her name. Monthly lease payment: $8,000. My monthly grocery allowance from her: $100. One night, she walked into the apartment reeking of expensive cologne and stale cigarette smoke. I was sitting in the dark on the couch, watching her struggle to unzip her dress. “Where were you today?” I asked. She froze, her eyes darting away from mine. “I told you this morning. I was playing 18 holes with Richard Caldwell. God, networking is exhausting.” She kicked off her shoes and headed for the bathroom. “Do you need to rent an $8,000 Porsche to play golf?” The words hung in the air. She stopped dead in her tracks, rooted to the center of the living room rug. Slowly, Bianca turned around. Her face was a mask of pure, venomous fury. “Are you auditing me, Joel?” She closed the distance between us, jabbing a manicured finger at my chest. “I leased that car to project success! Do you think these venture capitalists are idiots?” “If I don’t look like I already have money, who the hell is going to write me a check?” Her voice echoed off the walls, pitching higher, leaning into the performance of a deeply wronged martyr. “I am working myself into an early grave for our future.” “And instead of having my back, you’re sneaking around like a rat, digging through my finances.” “You disappoint me, Joel. You really do.” And then came the history lesson. The classic redirection playbook. “Have you conveniently forgotten who slept in the uncomfortable plastic chair at the hospital for three days when you had your surgery two years ago?” “Have you forgotten who supported you for six months when you got laid off from the agency?” “Do you have a single shred of gratitude in your body?” I sat there, perfectly still, watching spit fly from her lips as she performed her outrage. When I had my surgery, yes, she was in the room. She spent those three days sitting in the corner, playing Candy Crush on her iPad, and didn’t so much as pour me a cup of ice chips. When I lost my job, I lived exclusively off my own savings. Her version of “supporting me” consisted of bringing home lukewarm, half-off takeout from the deli downstairs on her way home from work. I let her finish. Then, I cut through the noise with a flat, even tone. “Since you’re out there hustling so hard… you can cover the rent from now on.” 4 Bianca’s jaw practically hit the floor. She hadn’t expected me to touch the money. Her eyes widened in genuine disbelief. “Excuse me? What are you saying? You’re nickel-and-diming me now?” “You lease a Porsche,” I replied smoothly. “Surely a couple thousand for rent is pocket change for a CEO like you.” I stood up, towering over her, holding her gaze. She hit the impenetrable wall of my stare, and her aggressive posture deflated. The fire went out, replaced by a panicked backpedaling. “Joel, please, don’t throw a tantrum over this.” “The company accounts are locked tight right now. Once the liquidity frees up, I will reimburse you for every single cent, I promise.” She slapped on that sickly-sweet, placating smile, trying to smooth over the crack in the ice. I didn’t say another word. I walked past her, went into the guest bedroom, and locked the door. The next morning, I woke up to an Instagram DM request. It was a photo. A young guy, barely out of his twenties, sitting in the passenger seat of a Porsche. Resting casually on his steering wheel hand was the $12,000 watch. The caption was a masterclass in provocation. Sugar mama privileges hit different. In the background of the shot, I could clearly see the custom leather car freshener I had bought Bianca for her birthday last month. I clicked on the profile. It belonged to Zane, the new “marketing intern” at her company. I stared at the glowing screen for a long time. Then, I laughed. A cold, hard sound in the empty room. Bianca thought she was a criminal mastermind, moving her pieces seamlessly across the board. She had no idea that her little toys were getting restless in the dark. They were eager to mark their territory, desperate to push the boring, live-in boyfriend out of the picture. But I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of a screaming match. I wanted them to have front-row seats when their glamorous, deep-pocketed sugar mama was stripped down to absolute zero overnight. I took a screenshot of the DM and dropped it into my encrypted hard drive with the rest of the arsenal. I had everything I needed. It was time to pull the trigger. That weekend, Bianca came home shockingly early. She walked through the door carrying a sleek bakery box, her face plastered with an eager, fawning smile. “Joel! Happy seven-year anniversary.” “Look, I went all the way across town and waited in line for that dark chocolate truffle cake you love.” She set the expensive box in the center of the dining table, frantically trying to engineer a moment of domestic bliss. I stared at the intricate ribbons on the box. I felt absolutely nothing. Seven years. A monumental block of my life, traded for a mountain of cheap lies. “Thanks,” I said. My voice was utterly dead. Bianca faltered, clearly unsettled by the ice in my tone. She rubbed her hands together awkwardly. “I’m gonna jump in the shower, I smell like the subway. Let’s cut the cake when I get out, okay?” She practically fled into the bathroom, in such a rush she didn’t even grab a change of clothes. The shower turned on. I walked slowly toward the bathroom door and looked at the vanity just outside it. Her main iPhone was sitting right there by the sink. The screen was still illuminated. In her haste to play the loving girlfriend, she had been texting someone and forgot to lock it. I didn’t even have to guess a passcode. I picked it up. The messaging app was open. Pinned at the very top was a group chat titled Core Operations. There were six members. Besides Bianca, the other five avatars were all selfies of young, attractive guys. Zane was in there. So was Tristan. I scrolled up lightly. The conversation was jarringly explicit. Ten minutes ago, Bianca had dropped a massive Apple Cash payment into the group with the caption: Happy weekend, boys. Play nice. Zane had instantly claimed his share, replying: Thanks baby. You coming over tonight? Tristan chimed in right beneath him: Hey, you’re playing favorites, Boss. You spent all day yesterday with Zane, it’s my turn today. 5 Bianca’s reply: Down boys. The schedule is pinned in the files. Everyone plays by the rules. I tapped the pinned file. It was a Google Sheet labeled Q3 Logistics. It was a meticulously color-coded calendar. Monday through Friday, it detailed exactly which bed she was sleeping in. Weekends were blocked out in gray: Home base. Maintenance duty. — Meaning, come back to the apartment to keep me docile. The spreadsheet included columns for their preferred luxury brands, dietary restrictions, and their fixed monthly stipends. The combined total was bleeding $110,000 out of her accounts every thirty days. And there, in a little notes column next to my name, was a single phrase: Free maid / ATM. The chat history was a graveyard of insults directed at me. There was a voice memo from Zane. I held the phone to my ear. “Can’t believe the idiot still thinks you’re broke and grinding for VC money. He bought you dollar-store underwear? What a pathetic loser.” Tristan’s text followed: Just keep him on a leash. A free maid is a free maid. Once your series B clears, we’ll kick him to the curb. And Bianca’s final message in the thread: Don’t worry about him. He’s incredibly naive. He’ll never leave me. I stared at the blue and gray bubbles. The familiar nausea rolled through my stomach, heavy and dark. No tears. No heartbreak. Just a freezing, arctic rage. This was the woman I had given my twenties to. This was the “entrepreneurial dream” I had sacrificed my own career to fund. I walked away from the vanity, phone in hand. I stepped into the living room, picked up the new underwear she had bought to replace the ones I threw away, grabbed the designer coat draped over the chair, and shoved all of it into the kitchen trash. Then, using her unlocked phone, I took screenshots of the Core Operations chat. Every voice memo transcription, every Apple Cash drop, the entire color-coded schedule. I attached the screenshots, along with the PDF of the luxury receipts from the hidden Dropbox folder. I selected all contacts. Her angel investors. Her VC partners. Her suppliers. Her parents. Her aunts and uncles. BCC: All. Send. I watched the little blue bar shoot across the top of the screen. Delivered. I walked into the bathroom, dropped her iPhone directly into the toilet bowl, and pressed the flush lever. I walked back to my bedroom, pulled my duffel bag from the closet, and shoved my essentials inside. Laptop, documents, three changes of clothes. I locked my bedroom door from the inside. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I pulled out my own phone, navigated to the SEC whistleblower portal, and the local authorities’ white-collar crime division website. I uploaded the raw files of her fraudulent expense reports, the diverted corporate funds used for her escorts, and the forged invoices. Submission Successful. I leaned my head back against the wall and let out a long, slow exhale. Enjoy the weekend, Bianca. It’s your last one.

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