The third year of Elena’s “graduate studies” in London had stretched the Atlantic into a vast, digital void. I had slowly grown accustomed to a relationship that lived entirely within the confines of a five-inch screen—a routine of pixelated kisses and time-zone math. That Tuesday, I was killing time at a high-end organic market in downtown Chicago, drifting through the aisles. On a whim, I snapped a photo of a gourmet display and sent it to her: “At the grocery store. Thinking of you. Everything reminds me of you today.” My phone buzzed almost instantly. “What a coincidence! I’m at a market too, wishing you were here. I miss you so much it hurts.” She followed it with a cute, pouting cat emoji. I felt that familiar, dull ache in my chest, a mixture of longing and affection that made me smile despite the distance. I started to move toward the snack aisle when a scene near the imported chocolates caught my eye. It was a picture-perfect family. The man was tall, strikingly handsome in a bespoke charcoal suit, leaning down to catch the hand of the woman beside him. She was radiant, holding the hand of a toddler who was waving a bag of organic fruit snacks and chirping “Daddy!” in a sweet, high-pitched voice. A pang of envy hit me. I looked away, offering a small, polite smile as I prepared to walk past them, unwilling to intrude on their private bubble of happiness. Then, the woman turned her head. The profile was unmistakable. The slope of her nose, the way her hair tucked behind her ear—it was Elena. My Elena. … My brain went white. The blood rushed to my head with such force I could hear the pulse thundering in my ears. Instinct took over before logic could even find its footing. By the time I realized what I was doing, I had already lunged forward. My fist connected squarely with the handsome man’s jaw. He wasn’t prepared for the impact. He stumbled back, a look of pure shock turning into immediate, searing rage. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he roared, wiping a smear of red from his lip. Without waiting for an answer, he threw himself at me. We became a blur of limbs and anger, crashing into a display of expensive olive oils. Elena’s scream pierced the air—a sharp, jagged sound. She threw herself between us, her hands clawing at my jacket, before her palm connected with my cheek in a stinging slap. “You psychopath!” she yelled, her voice trembling. “Who do you think you are? Why are you attacking my husband?” Then, she actually looked at me. The words died in her throat. The color drained from her face, leaving her ghost-pale under the fluorescent lights. “Elena,” I said, the name tasting like ash. I wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of my mouth and let out a short, hollow laugh. “Care to explain what you’re doing in Chicago?” My gaze dropped, landing on the subtle but unmistakable curve of her belly beneath her designer coat. “And whose child you’re carrying while you’re supposed to be across the ocean?” Panic flared in her eyes for a split second. The man, sensing the shift, pulled her protectively into his side. He looked down at her, his brow furrowed. “Babe? Who is this guy?” Elena’s expression shifted. The panic was stifled, replaced by a chilling, practiced composure. She looked me straight in the eye, her voice cold and steady. “I don’t know him. I… I might have seen him around, maybe? He’s clearly unstable.” She turned to her husband, her voice softening into a plea. “He’s just a crazy person, Greyson. Let’s just go.” I don’t know him? Less than sixty seconds ago, she was telling me she loved me via text. Now, she was standing five feet away, effectively erasing seven years of my life with a single sentence. The rage in my chest felt like it was going to burst my ribs. When did she get married? That child looked at least two years old. If he was her husband, what was I? A secret? A long-distance placeholder she kept for the ego boost while she lived a double life right under my nose? She hadn’t been in London. She had been here, in this city, building a home, raising a son, and getting pregnant again with another man’s child. The humiliation was a physical weight. I wanted to scream, to shake her, to demand the truth. My fists clenched until my knuckles turned white, but I forced myself to breathe. My father had raised me with a strict, perhaps outdated, code: you never lay a hand on a woman. I stepped closer, my voice a low, dangerous vibration. “Elena. Say it again. Look me in the eye and say you don’t know me.” She knit her brows, her face a mask of annoyed pity. “Sir,” she said, projecting her voice for the benefit of the gathering crowd. “Are you trying to harass me? I have no idea who you are or how you know my name. I am a married woman. My son is right here, and I am pregnant. Please stop this delusional behavior before my husband calls security.” I started to laugh. It was a dark, jagged sound. “Fine. Have it your way.” I turned and walked out of the store without looking back. Five minutes later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. “I’ll explain everything later. Please, Des, just trust me. Don’t do anything rash.” I didn’t reply. I blocked her number, deleted our entire message history, and wiped her from my digital life in three taps. I was about to power down the phone when a local “People of Chicago” video popped up on my feed. Normally, I’d swipe past, but a face caught my eye. The man from the grocery store. The ID was his name: Greyson Pierce. I clicked on the profile, and my heart sank into my stomach. It was a “lifestyle vlog” account. It went back three years. The most recent video was from this morning. A “Get Ready With Us” for preschool drop-off. It showed Elena holding the little boy’s hand, skipping toward a private school gate. Greyson’s voice came from behind the camera, warm and filled with pride. “Slow down, you two! Mommy’s got a passenger on board, remember?” The caption read: “Finally sending the monster to school. Time for some 1-on-1 time with my beautiful wife!” The comments were nauseating. “Greyson is such a girl-dad in the making.” “Elena is so lucky.” My eyes burned. I felt like an idiot. I had seen this account before—it was popular in the city’s socialite circles. How had I never realized the “mysterious, private wife” was the woman I was sending “goodnight” texts to every evening? I scrolled down. Three months ago. A video of Elena’s slender hand feeding a grape to Greyson. The caption: “She heard me say I missed the grapes from that specific vineyard in Bordeaux. She literally walked out of a high-level board meeting and flew to France just to bring me some. She lost a million-dollar deal, but she said my smile was worth more.” I looked at the date: June 25th, 2024. The memory hit me like a physical blow. That was the day I had been rushed to the ER with acute gastritis. My fever had hit 103. In my delirium, I had called Elena, begging her to come home, telling her I just needed her to hold my hand. She had sounded so stressed on the phone. “Des, I’m so sorry. I’m in the middle of a seminar in London. I can’t just leave. It’s impossible.” She had Venmo’d me a hundred dollars. “Get a friend to take you to the hospital, okay? Order some soup. Rest for me.” I had been so touched by her “concern,” so guilty for “distracting” her from her studies. Now, looking at the video, I realized she hadn’t lied about being in France. She just wasn’t there for school. She was there to hand-deliver grapes to her husband while I was vomiting blood in a Chicago hospital room thirty minutes from her house. I scrolled more. A video of her in a silk apron, cooking dinner. Greyson’s caption: “She hates takeout. No matter how late she works, she always makes sure there’s a home-cooked meal waiting for us. I love you, baby.” I laughed, a dry, sobbing sound. It wasn’t that she cared about “health.” It was just that my health hadn’t been worth the effort of a home-cooked meal. Then, a photo of Greyson in the mirror, wearing a sharp navy tie. Caption: “My wife insists on tying my tie every morning. She says it’s her favorite ritual.” My breath hitched. I remembered my college graduation. I was struggling with my first real silk tie in front of a cracked mirror. Elena had leaned over my shoulder, her chin resting on my collarbone. “Desmond,” she had whispered. “Once I learn how to do this perfectly, I’m going to do it for you every single day.” I had kissed her forehead. “I’ll never let anyone else touch my ties but you.” She had learned. She had become an expert. She just gave that “special ritual” to someone else. Finally, I reached the very first video. It was a shot of two hands, intertwined, showcasing matching platinum wedding bands. The caption: “Mrs. Pierce, you look stunning today.” The date was the exact day Elena supposedly flew to London to start her program. During those hours she was “in flight” and unable to text, I had sent her two messages: “Stay safe over there, El. I’m already counting the days.” “When you get back, let’s finally get married.” While I was planning our wedding, she was walking down the aisle with Greyson Pierce. I clicked the phone off. I sat in the dark of my apartment for a long time, just breathing. Three years. The last three years had been a curated, high-definition joke at my expense. I went to my bedroom and fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep. Sometime later—hours, maybe—a frantic pounding on my door startled me awake. I stumbled to the entrance, bleary-eyed. When I opened it, Elena was standing there. My face went cold. I tried to slam the door, but she shoved her arm into the gap. I didn’t care; I kept pushing. “Ow! Des, stop! You’re hurting me!” she cried, her eyes welling with tears. “Get your arm out of the way, Elena, or I’ll break it,” I said, my voice devoid of emotion. “Please,” she begged, refusing to move. “Just let me explain. Please.” “Explain what?” I sneered. “Explain the logistics of how you managed to sleep with two men in the same city for three years? Explain how you’re carrying his ‘wild seed’ while I was waiting like a dog for you to come home from a London that didn’t exist? Or should we talk about how you’re a Mrs. Pierce now? Congratulations, by the way. Sorry I missed the wedding.” She looked frantic. “No! It’s not like that! Des, we never broke up! I never wanted to leave you!” She grabbed my forearm, her tears spilling over. “I didn’t have a choice! The Pierce family… they’re powerful. My father’s company was failing. It was an arranged marriage, a business merger. I was the only daughter. I had to do it!” I nodded slowly. “And that’s your excuse? My family isn’t exactly poor, Elena. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you think for one second that my family could have helped yours? That we could have been the ones to merge?” I found myself shouting. Even now, in the middle of this betrayal, I was angry that she hadn’t chosen me to save her. It was a pathetic realization. “Elena,” I said, my voice dripping with loathing. “If you made your choice—to marry him, to have his children—why keep me on a leash? What was the end game? Were you going to wait until I found out? Or were you planning to keep me as your little side-piece forever?” “No!” she cried. “I never wanted you to be in the shadows! Des…” she closed her eyes, a look of twisted pragmatism crossing her face. “Don’t be naive. Real mergers happen between the top one percent. We are old money, Des. You’re… different. My parents told me to endure it for three years. Give the Pierces an heir, solidify the assets, and then I could get a divorce. Once I had the settlement, I could come back to you. It would have been so much easier then!” I stared at her, wondering if I had ever actually known this person. I started to laugh. “What did you just say?” “You think I’d want you as a second-hand wife? After you spent three years in another man’s bed?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I shoved her back and slammed the door. She stayed in the hallway for a long time. Finally, I heard her muffled voice through the wood. “I know you still love me, Des. You’re just hurt. You’ll wait for me. I’ll make this right.” She didn’t make it right. The next person to show up wasn’t Elena. It was Greyson Pierce. It happened during our Q4 strategy meeting. I was at the front of the conference room, presenting a proposal for a new tech acquisition, when the double doors were kicked open. They hit the walls with a boom that silenced the room. Greyson walked in, his hands in his pockets, looking like a man who owned the world. He was followed by four large men in suits—security, or perhaps something more private. He walked straight up to the podium, stopping inches from my face. With a slight nod from him, his guards moved. Before I could even react, they had me pinned, forcing me to my knees on the carpet. The room erupted in gasps. Greyson smirked and tossed a phone onto the table in front of me. “Desmond Whittaker, right?” he said, his voice a calm, dangerous purr. “You’ve got a lot of things to say, apparently. Why don’t you tell everyone here about your relationship with my wife?” I gritted my teeth, looking at the screen. The messages were gone—she had wiped them. The only thing left was the Venmo record from the day I had gastritis. A hundred dollars. “Are you a high-priced escort, or just a pathetic charity case she keeps on the side?” Greyson asked, his eyes burning with a mix of triumph and fury. “My wife is young. She gets bored. She made a mistake with a nobody like you, and I can overlook that. But you? You’re a snack she had while she was waiting for dinner. You don’t get to exist in my world.” I looked up at him and smiled. “Are you done?” Greyson blinked, clearly taken aback by my lack of fear. He let out a sharp, angry laugh. “You’ve got a thick skin. I’ll give you that.” One of my senior VPs stood up. “What is the meaning of this? Let Mr. Whittaker go immediately!” Greyson didn’t even turn his head. “Maybe you should Google who I am before you open your mouth. I’m handling a private matter with a parasite. Sit down.” Then, he punched me. Hard. Right in the gut. I groaned, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. But the pain cleared the fog. I had had enough. With a surge of adrenaline, I wrenched my arms free from the guards—I’ve spent five mornings a week in a boxing gym for years; they weren’t expecting me to actually know how to fight. I lunged upward, catching Greyson with a hook that sent him reeling back into the mahogany table. “You actually hit me?” Greyson roared, clutching his jaw. “I’m just getting started,” I said, my voice cold. I looked at him with genuine pity. “Elena? She’s a piece of trash I’m done with. You want her? Keep her. She’s all yours.” “But don’t you dare come in here acting like the victim,” I continued, stepping toward him. “You’re the one who should be embarrassed, Pierce. Because you’re the interloper. You’re the one who walked into a seven-year relationship and thought you bought something new.” Greyson’s face darkened. “What are you talking about?” I wiped the blood from my lip. “It seems Elena hasn’t been honest with you about the timeline. Here, why don’t you see for yourself how long we’ve been—” Before I could pull out my backup phone, a hand snatched it from my grasp. Smash. The phone was hurled against the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces of glass and silicon. I looked up, stunned. Elena was standing there. She looked horrified, her eyes darting between us. She spoke quickly, her voice sharp and frantic. “What are you doing hitting my husband? Desmond, who do you think you are?” I looked at her, and the last shred of affection I had for her finally died. She was still playing the game. She was protecting her meal ticket, and she was arrogant enough to think I’d just play along and take the fall. Greyson looked at her, his expression wounded. “Elena… who is he? You told me you didn’t know him. Why is there a money transfer? Why did he say you were together?” “It’s nothing,” Elena said, her voice turning sweet as she stroked his arm. Her smile was perfectly composed. “I just remembered. He was a student I used to sponsor. A charity case from years ago.” She turned to me, her eyes like ice. “Desmond, I tried to help you when you had nothing. Is this how you repay me? I gave you money because I felt sorry for your family’s situation. I didn’t realize you’d grow some deluded obsession with me. You’re a social climber, nothing more. Did you really think a girl like me—a Sterling-Rossi heiress—would ever actually look at someone like you? You’re a cockroach.” One of my executives stood up, looking baffled. “What? Sponsored? What the hell are you talking about?” “Exactly,” another joined in. “Who do you people think you are, coming in here like a mob and talking this nonsense?” Elena frowned. She didn’t understand why they weren’t instantly believing her. She expected them to see a “nobody” being crushed by a socialite. She didn’t realize that in this room, she was the one out of her depth. Before she could say another word, a deep, booming voice echoed from the doorway. “Well, this is fascinating. I’d very much like to meet the woman who claims to be ‘sponsoring’ the son of Charles Whittaker, the sole heir to the Whittaker Global empire.”

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In the dead of night, when sleep feels like a luxury I can no longer afford, I usually find myself scrolling through my feed. That’s how I saw it—a post from my best friend, Beth. She had shared one of those mindless personality quiz results. The bold text over her photo read “Seductress,” and she’d captioned it with a line that made my skin crawl: “A little kitten looking for her master… any takers?~” I was about to leave a teasing comment, something about her being a bit too thirsty for a Tuesday night, when my eyes caught a reply that made my heart lurch into my throat. The comment came from a burner account I’d been quietly following for years—an account belonging to my husband, Cole. The words felt like a physical blow: “The 24-karat gold cage is ready. Don’t run too fast, little kitten.” I stared at the screen, unable to breathe. Cole was the kind of man who still got a shy flush on his face when things got too heated in the bedroom. To see him post something so raw, so… carnal… it felt like looking at a stranger. A thousand questions swarmed my mind, but I forced them down. I couldn’t just confront him. Not yet. Everyone in our social circle knew that Beth was Cole’s “third rail.” You didn’t touch the subject. You didn’t bring her up. Even at our wedding, I had purposefully seated Beth at a distant table, far from the head of the room, just to avoid any potential friction between them. The next day, the man who prided himself on never missing a family dinner suddenly called to say he had to work late. The timing was too perfect, the excuse too hollow. My feet took me to Beth’s apartment before my brain could tell them no. Standing outside her window, I saw him. Cole—the man who claimed he couldn’t boil an egg to save his life—was standing in Beth’s kitchen, wearing an apron, meticulously plating a meal. I didn’t have the courage to walk through that door. Instead, I went home, pulled out the divorce papers I’d tucked away in a drawer months ago as a “just in case” that I never thought I’d need, and signed my name with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking. … I opened the app again, wanting to screenshot the evidence, but then I saw it. The timestamp. He had posted that comment on my birthday. At exactly midnight. During the thirty seconds I spent blowing out my candles and wishing for a lifetime with him, he was busy flirting with my best friend. A sharp, stinging ache hit the bridge of my nose. My phone buzzed. A text from Cole, his tone as warm and deceptive as ever: [Donna, honey, this project is running late. Don’t wait up. Get some sleep.] I stared at the screen, the irony tasting like ash in my mouth. I didn’t reply instantly like I usually did. In our three years of marriage, Cole had been the perfect husband in the eyes of the Manhattan elite. His only flaw was his vocal distaste for Beth. Whenever her name came up, his jaw would set, and his eyes would turn to ice. Everyone knew the story. Five years ago, he had chased Beth relentlessly. She had rejected him at every turn. The final blow came at a high-society gala where she told him in front of a dozen people, “You’re boring, Cole. You don’t have a romantic bone in your body. I’d rather be single than spend a night with a man who treats life like a spreadsheet.” After that, he never looked at her again. He even pulled his firm’s investments from any company that dared to hire her. Later, when our families started pushing us together, we slid into marriage like it was the most natural thing in the world. He treated me with such tenderness that people began to say the “cold Cole” was a myth. I actually believed we had found love after the vows. But it was all a performance. When did it start? After her divorce? Or was it always there, simmering beneath the surface? I walked into our empty apartment. In the master bath, the shower was still set to the exact temperature I liked. Cole always made sure of it; he’d even warm my towels in the dryer before I got in. He was a man with a reputation for being a devoted lover. Now, I realized it was just a script he was following. A few minutes later, a text from my cousin, Toby, popped up. He had been looking into things for me. He sounded livid. [Donna, I found the paper trail. Cole has transferred over two million dollars to Beth’s personal accounts.] [They meet every week. Every time you think he’s at the office, he’s with her.] [Should I tell your mother? She’ll ruin him.] I typed back, my fingers cold: [Don’t do anything rash. I’ll handle this.] When Cole finally came home late that night, I had scrubbed every trace of emotion from my face. He smelled like the cold night air—and something else. Something floral. He frowned when he saw me still up, reaching out to pull me into his arms. “Why aren’t you in bed? Have you been waiting for me?” Beth’s name was a lump in my throat. I swallowed it. “Yeah. Just a little insomnia.” He tucked my head under his chin, his voice thick with performative guilt. “I’ve been so busy lately, I’ve ignored you. I’ll make it up to you this weekend. I’ll get you something special.” Still the perfect husband. The next morning, as he was rushing to get dressed, I spoke up. “It’s Saturday, Cole. Where are you going?” “Emergency meeting at the office. I have to be there.” He cinched his tie with practiced ease, grabbing his keys. I said softly, “Do you know what today is?” He paused, glancing at the calendar on the wall, and feigned a look of sudden realization. “God, I’m an idiot. Our third anniversary.” He stepped closer, kissing my forehead. “The meeting is unmovable, but I’ll make it up to you tonight, okay?” I felt a cold laugh bubbling in my chest. Make it up to me? By coming home with another woman’s scent on his skin? “Go ahead,” I said. “I have plans with a friend anyway.” He looked relieved and practically ran out the door. I waited five minutes, got into my car, and drove straight to Beth’s office building. At noon, the lunch crowd was swarming the nearby bistro. I followed them in and took a seat at a booth directly behind them. I watched as Cole meticulously peeled shrimp and placed them in Beth’s bowl. A chill swept through me. He had told me for years that he hated the smell of seafood, that he couldn’t stand the texture. We never had it in the house. And yet, here he was, playing servant to her cravings. I watched him reach across the table to wipe a stray drop of sauce from the corner of her lip. It was an action so intimate, so natural, it felt like a knife to the ribs. Beth giggled, swatting his hand away. “Stop it. People are looking.” “Let them look,” Cole’s voice was low, but it carried perfectly to my ears. “I’m taking care of my kitten. Why should I care what they think?” Kitten. There it was again. I didn’t confront them. I followed them. I watched as he took her to every place he had ever taken me—the same parks, the same galleries. They even sat in our usual spots. It was a systematic erasure of our life together. Every romantic gesture he had ever shown me had just been a rehearsal for her. I was the practice round. I was the mannequin he used to learn how to be the man she wanted. I waited until evening to corner Beth as she was heading home. She was wearing a new designer dress, her makeup flawless. When she saw me, a flicker of panic crossed her eyes, but it was gone in a heartbeat, replaced by a practiced smile. “Donna! What are you doing here? Waiting for me?” I didn’t play along. “Beth, you know he’s my husband.” Twelve years of friendship, discarded for a sordid little thrill. Her smile faltered. She tried to look confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Cole and I can barely stand each other. You know that.” I pulled up the videos, the screenshots, and the bank transfers on my phone and shoved them in her face. “Barely stand each other? Is that why he’s buying your bags? Giving you millions? Is that why he calls you his kitten and talks about gold cages?” Beth’s face went ghost-white. She hadn’t expected me to have receipts. “We’re in love,” she whispered, her eyes welling up with easy, practiced tears. “I didn’t want to hurt your marriage, Donna. He came to me. He told me there was nothing left between you two.” “In love?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. “That bag on your shoulder was bought with our joint account. You’re spending my money, sleeping with my husband, and you want to talk to me about love?” She stood there, frozen. My eyes moved to the necklace around her neck—a delicate silver chain with a small cat pendant. “That’s a beautiful necklace,” I said. Her hand instinctively went to the pendant. “It was my mother’s birthday gift to me,” I continued. “Cole told me he lost it when we moved. I see he ‘found’ it and gave it to you.” Four years ago, before my mother passed, she gave me that necklace and told me to keep it safe. Cole had held me while I cried, promising to protect everything I cherished. I reached out, my fingers steady, and unhooked the clasp from her neck. I tucked the silver into my pocket. “You…” Beth hissed, but she didn’t dare stop me. As I turned to walk away, she called out, her voice sharp and desperate. “Donna, I’m pregnant. It’s Cole’s.” I froze. “Don’t hate me,” she said, her voice dropping to a theatrical sob. “He loved me first. It took me getting divorced to realize how good he was. I won’t take him from you, Donna. You stay here in the city, and I’ll move upstate. I just want my baby to have a father sometimes.” She had it all planned out. The perfect mistress arrangement. I didn’t turn back. I let the tears fall only when I was out of her sight. Twelve years of friendship. Done. When I got home, I laid all the evidence out on the dining room table. Cole walked in twenty minutes later. When he saw the files, his face transformed from confusion to a terrifying, dark rage. “You spied on me? Donna, since when did you become so manipulative?” I didn’t flinch. I looked him dead in the eye. “Manipulative? Compared to a man who’s been gaslighting his wife while sleeping with her best friend? You call her your kitten. You’re building her a cage. Does it bother you that your little whore has to be kept in the dark?” Cole’s eyes snapped. Before I could move, his hand swung. The slap echoed through the quiet apartment. My head jerked to the side, my cheek stinging with a heat I’d never felt before. The silence that followed was deafening. “You hit me?” I whispered, the words trembling. He looked at his hand, then at me, horror dawning on his face. He reached out to touch my face. “Donna, I didn’t mean… you pushed me. You shouldn’t have said those things about her.” I started to laugh, a jagged, broken sound. “You love her that much? Then why did you marry me? What was I, Cole? Your cover? Your practice run? A joke you told yourself?” “Enough!” he barked. “Beth and I are… it’s complicated. You’re making a scene out of nothing.” “Nothing?” I mocked. He finally broke, his shoulders sagging with a frustrated sigh. “Fine. I admit it. I married you to spite her. I wanted to prove I could be the romantic man she said I wasn’t. But I didn’t lie about our time together—I do care for you. Isn’t that enough?” “She’s vulnerable right now, Donna. She’s just been through a divorce. She needs me. But there’s nothing more to it.” A sharp pang of grief hit me. Nothing more to it? Then where did the baby come from? I took a deep breath. “Why me, Cole? Why did you pick me to destroy?” He took a step forward and grabbed my hands. His voice was suddenly, terrifyingly gentle. “Because I knew you loved me. I knew you’d never leave.” It was the cruelest answer he could have given. I wanted to scream, but the pain was so deep I couldn’t even breathe. He had known about my secret crush for years and used it as a leash. I had been a fool, thinking we were “learning to love” each other. The two most important people in my life had conspired to break me. Cole pulled me into a hug, whispering into my hair. “Donna, I’ll move her away. Somewhere far. She won’t interfere with our life. I promise.” I pushed him back. “So you’re going to keep her? Like a pet?” He didn’t answer. The silence was his confirmation. The front door opened then. Beth walked in, her eyes red from crying. She looked at Cole, then at me. “Donna, please don’t fight because of me. I came to apologize.” She walked over and gave a small, theatrical bow. “I’m so sorry. Six months ago, after my divorce, I was in a dark place. We had a few drinks and things happened. It was a mistake. Please, don’t let this ruin your marriage. It was all my fault.” Cole immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her. “It’s not your fault, Beth. Don’t blame yourself.” Watching them, I felt a wave of nausea so strong I thought I would retch. A mistake? For six months? They weren’t “mistaken.” They were addicted to each other. Cole roughly shoved me aside to guide Beth toward the door. “This isn’t the time. I’ll take you home.” He didn’t look back at me once. He didn’t see the signed divorce papers on the table. An hour later, Toby called. He sounded like he was about to explode. “Donna, I had a contact at the hospital check the records. Beth’s prenatal visits, her travel history—everything. That baby isn’t Cole’s.” I gripped the phone. “What?” “She was seeing a guy before her divorce was even finalized. She probably doesn’t even know who the father is herself. She actually had a private DNA test done—amniocentesis—and it’s a 0% match for Cole. I’m sending you the PDF right now. We can end this.” I closed my eyes. “Don’t tell anyone. Just send it to me.” Two hours later, I had the report in my inbox. I printed it out and tucked it into the very back of the divorce settlement. A little parting gift for the happy couple. I was leaving, but I wasn’t going quietly. I booked a flight to Vancouver for the following week. After our fight, Cole stopped coming home. He was likely waiting for me to cave, to play the “good wife” and beg for his return. I thought I could spend my final days in the city in peace. But two days before my flight, the world ended. I was leaving a department store with a few travel essentials when two men in masks grabbed me. Before I could scream, I was shoved into the back of a black van. As the darkness of a sedative started to take hold, I heard another voice screaming in the van. It was Beth. When I woke up, we were both tied to support beams in a crumbling warehouse. My wrists were raw from the hemp rope. The kidnappers were pacing, eyes darting between us. They called Cole. Twenty minutes later, the warehouse doors crashed open. Cole charged in, looking like a man possessed. “Let them go,” he rasped. “I’ll give you whatever you want.” The kidnapper laughed, playing with a switchblade. “We want money, obviously. But I know you’ve got plenty of that. I want to see how much they’re worth to you. Ten million into this account just to keep them breathing. And then… we play a game. You can only take one with you.” One. My fingers curled into my palms. Even now, after everything, I had to be measured against her. Cole’s eyes darted between us. When he looked at me, there was a flicker of shame, but it was instantly swallowed by the terror he felt for Beth. Beth started wailing, her voice shrill and broken. “Cole, please! I’m so scared… the baby… think about the baby!” That was it. That was the killing blow. Without a second of hesitation, Cole pointed at her. “I choose her. Let her go.” He looked at me then, his voice shaking as he spoke to the kidnapper. “Don’t hurt Donna. Give me an hour, I’ll get you another fifty million.” The kidnapper’s eyes lit up. “One hundred million. If it’s not in the account in three hours, your wife dies.” “Done. Just wait for me. Donna, don’t be afraid. I’m coming back for you. I promise.” He scooped Beth up and ran out the door, leaving me in the dark with the wolves. In his heart, I had never even been a contender. The heavy doors groaned shut. Time began to stretch into an agonizing crawl. The kidnappers grew impatient. One checked his phone and spat on the floor. “The bastard lied to us. The account is frozen.” Enraged, they began to take it out on me. A boot to the ribs. A fist to the jaw. “I can give you the money,” I whispered, my voice cracked. “Just let me go.” They didn’t believe me. They thought I was a stalling tactic. The beating continued until the world started to blur into a haze of grey. “He’s not coming back,” one of them muttered. “She’s useless now. Get rid of her like we planned.” They tied heavy iron weights to my ankles. I was dragged across the concrete, the sound of the ocean growing louder with every step. The water was ice. It shocked my system, making my lungs burn for air I couldn’t reach. I struggled, but it was futile. The weights pulled me down, down into the black. I hate you, Cole, I thought as the pressure crushed my chest. Two more days… I was two days away from being free. The light above the surface faded. My consciousness fractured.

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The system’s chime echoed in my mind just as a fresh wave of agony bloomed behind my ribs. I slumped against the cold, sterile tiles of the hospital corridor, clutching my chest. Every word of the conversation between my fiancée and my sister was a jagged shard of ice, driven straight into my marrow. They had lied. The four failed heart matches, the months of agonizing “bad luck”—it was all a fabrication, a cruel game played to appease the “real” son who had suddenly appeared in our lives. Now that he had been diagnosed with heart failure, the donor organ I had spent years waiting for—the one that was supposed to be my second chance at life—was being diverted to him. My sister hadn’t flown back from London to support me. She was here with a waiver, her voice a practiced melody of manipulation as she told me to “just wait a little longer.” She claimed the long-lost biological brother couldn’t wait. But who was counting the times I had teetered on the edge of the abyss? Yesterday, I had been the one throwing her out of my room in a fit of righteous fury. Today, my life-saving surgery had been reassigned behind my back. The family bonds I cherished and the love I had built were nothing more than cheap, disposable commodities in their eyes. Before my tears could even dry, I pressed the activation key for the Return Program. … [Return Program initiated. Countdown: Seventy-two hours.] Just three more days. Then I could leave this miserable existence behind forever. I leaned against the wall, forcing oxygen into my failing lungs as I shuffled back to my room. When I pushed the door open, the sight was a physical blow. Orderlies were already sweeping my personal belongings into cardboard boxes. Two men were unhooking my ventricular assist device—the machine keeping my heart beating. My sister, Isabelle, was directing them with cold efficiency. My fiancée, Helena, stood by her side, her silence a heavy, suffocating shroud. I leaned against the doorframe, gasping for air. “What… what are you doing?” Helena’s eyes flickered toward my ghostly face. Her fingers twitched, a momentary lapse in her composure, before she looked away and turned toward Isabelle. Isabelle’s expression shifted, a flash of guilt quickly replaced by a hardened resolve. “Adrian, Lucas just came out of a crisis. He’s in the critical observation window. He needs this private suite and this specific equipment. It’s an emergency.” I tightened my grip on the doorframe, trying to breathe through a spasm. my voice was a raspy whisper. “Isabelle, I’ve failed four matches. My heart is a ruin. If you take this away, I’ll die.” Isabelle turned bone-white. She gritted her teeth. “You’ve survived every crisis before. You’ll make it through this one. Lucas is different—he’s fragile. Please, Adrian. For me. Just give your brother this one thing.” I looked at these two women—the people I had loved with every fiber of my being. One was the sister I had adored for twenty years; the other was my childhood sweetheart. And here they were, ruthlessly asking me to hand over my only chance at survival. Suddenly, the weight of it all—the years of trying to earn their love—just vanished. I felt an incredible, numbing exhaustion. What did it matter? In a few dozen hours, I would be gone anyway. I let out a jagged, self-deprecating laugh and nodded. “Fine. Take it.” Isabelle’s rehearsed arguments died in her throat. She stared at me, bewildered by my sudden compliance. Right then, a searing pain clawed at my heart. I stumbled, my knees buckling. “Adrian!” Helena lunged forward, catching my arm. When she realized I wasn’t dead yet, she let out a long breath, her voice softening into that manipulative tenderness I used to mistake for love. “Adrian, you’ve always been so strong. You can handle a few days without the monitors. Once Lucas is out of the woods, I promise I’ll get you the best care available.” She brushed a hair from my forehead. “When you’re better, I’ll take you to that chalet in St. Moritz. Just the two of us.” Three months ago, those words would have been my lifeline. Back then, if I so much as nicked a finger, Helena would cancel her board meetings to bandage it herself, her eyes red with worry. But now? She knew exactly how excruciating a thoracic surgery was, yet she had tricked me into the operating theater four times, letting them cut me open for nothing, just to spite me on behalf of Lucas. “Stop it, Helena. Stop the act.” Her hand froze. The irritation of being seen through flickered across her face, and she withdrew her touch. “If you’re going to be ungrateful, then we’ll do this the hard way.” She signaled the orderlies to move my remaining things to a general ward. My assistant, Arlo, burst into the room, his eyes bloodshot with rage. He shoved an orderly who was tossing my things. “You can’t throw this out!” Arlo’s voice cracked. “This is Adrian’s pain journal! Every night he couldn’t sleep from the agony, he wrote in this just to stay sane. How can you treat it like trash?” Isabelle and Helena’s expressions shifted. Helena stepped forward and snatched the notebook, flipping it open. A stack of yellowed receipts fluttered to the floor. She paused, reading a page. Isabelle was in that horrific crash. The hospital was out of her blood type. I’m the only match. The doctors say over-donating will damage my heart long-term, but as long as she lives, I don’t care. She flipped to another page, filled with frantic calculations. Helena’s firm was set up. The penalties are astronomical. I liquidated the trust my grandmother left me to cover her margins. I took out private loans to bridge the gap. The interest is mounting, but she can’t know. She has enough pressure. I’m a man; I’ll carry this debt for her. The two women stared at the papers, a momentary silence falling over the room. But the ego is a powerful thing. They didn’t want to be the villains of this story. “Adrian,” Isabelle said, her voice dripping with disbelief. “Did you really plant these ‘props’ just to compete for our affection with Lucas? That’s low, even for you.” Recalling all the genuine love I had wasted, I didn’t even bother to argue. I leaned down to pick up my journal. As I bent over, the world tilted. A violent throb erupted in my chest. I collapsed, cold sweat instantly soaking my shirt. Isabelle merely sighed, annoyed. “This again? The moment the monitors are gone, you stage a heart attack? Grow up.” Helena waved a hand at the security guards. “Get him out of here. Adrian, when are you going to start acting like a man? This is pathetic.” I was numb as the guards dragged me down the hall to a cramped, freezing bed in the general ward. [Countdown: Sixty-eight hours.] Just a little longer. I curled into the thin sheets. Without the assist device, every breath was a conscious struggle. Arlo sat by my bed, tears streaming down his face as he cursed them under his breath. He told me he’d go find a way to buy the medication I needed, even if he had to beg for it, and then he ran out. A few hours later, Lucas walked in. He looked slightly pale, but his eyes were bright with triumph. He walked to my bedside, leaning in close, his chest puffed out. “Adrian,” he whispered, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “Can you hear it? Listen to how strong this heart beats.” He chuckled. “You really think those four matches failed because of ‘luck’? I just told Isabelle and Helena that I felt you were looking down on me. To make it up to me, they made sure you went under the knife for nothing. They even swapped your post-op anti-rejection meds for vitamins.” He leaned closer, his voice a venomous hiss. “You’re pathetic. Betrayed by your woman and your sister, and you were still pining for them in that stupid diary. It’s hilarious.” My entire body shuddered. I stared at him, the horror of his words sinking in. Four times I had gone into that theater with hope, only to wake up to failure. I had spent nights coughing up blood, watching my hair fall out in clumps from the ‘meds’ they gave me. I thought it was just my fate. It wasn’t fate. It was a game. A primal surge of rage gave me a burst of phantom strength. I lunged at him, swinging my fist with everything I had left. “Go to hell!” Lucas didn’t expect the attack. My fist caught his jaw, sending him stumbling back. “Help! Isabelle! Helena! Adrian’s gone crazy! He’s trying to kill me!” The door was kicked open. Isabelle and Helena rushed in, panic written all over their faces. “Adrian! What are you doing?” Helena screamed, shoving me back with enough force to send me crashing against the wall. Isabelle threw her arms around Lucas, frantically checking his chest. Lucas sobbed into her shoulder. “My heart… it hurts. He wanted to kill me. He wanted to take it back!” Helena turned on me, her eyes flashing with hatred as I lay twitching on the floor. “Have you lost your mind? Lucas just got off the table! Do you have to be a murderer too?” I lay there, the light fading from my vision as the pain reached a crescendo. I watched the women I would have died for shield a monster like he was a wounded lamb. I forced a bloody smile. [Countdown: Forty-eight hours.] Please, system. Make it fast. That night, Lucas claimed his chest felt “tight,” and the entire cardiology wing went into an uproar. I lay in the dark, listening to the chaos outside, my mind drifting to the past. A year ago, the truth about our “switched at birth” status came out. Lucas was the biological Parker; I was the mistake. To make up for his years in foster care, Isabelle gave him everything—my room, my car, my position. “Adrian, he suffered for twenty years. We owe him. Just be patient,” she’d say. And Helena, under pressure from her family to align with the “real” heir, tried to keep us both on a leash. She thought if she gave Lucas whatever he wanted, he’d eventually let us be together. Lucas took advantage of that. He broke my childhood mementos. He pushed me into a freezing lake in the middle of winter, which triggered my heart failure. They always told me to wait. To be the bigger person. But they forgot one thing: once a man’s dignity is ground into the dirt, once his heart is truly broken, there is nothing left but ash. Isabelle burst into my room, her eyes bloodshot. She didn’t say a word as she began ransacking my bedside locker. “What… what are you doing?” I asked weakly. She ignored me until she found a small amber pill bottle. She grabbed me by the collar and slammed the bottle into my face. “Adrian! Do you have any humanity left?” she screamed. “They found toxins in Lucas’s porridge. It was this, wasn’t it? If you couldn’t beat him to death, you’d poison him!” The bottle hit my eye, making stars dance in my vision. I looked at the bottle on the floor. It was the specialty medication Arlo had bought with his own savings. Without the machines, these were the only things keeping my heart from stopping. “That’s my… medicine,” I gasped. “Liar!” Isabelle slapped me, hard. The force spun my head around, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. “Lucas’s nurse saw you lurking near his room! How can you still lie?” I couldn’t even stand up, let alone “lurk” anywhere. The label on the bottle clearly stated the drug’s name and its use for heart failure. But she chose not to see it. They only believe the lies that make them feel righteous. Rapid footsteps sounded in the hall. Helena entered, her face a mask of cold fury. She looked at my battered state, a flicker of something—regret?—crossed her eyes, but she suppressed it. “He just survived, Adrian. Do you really want him dead that badly?” I looked up at my sister. For a second, I saw the girl from ten years ago who had stood between me and a group of bullies, her own head bleeding as she told me, Don’t be scared, Addy. I’ll protect you forever. Now, that same person threw a legal document at my face. “Adrian, Lucas is the blood that the Parkers have missed for twenty years. If you can’t coexist with him, there’s no room for you in this family. This is a severance agreement. Sign it, and you’re dead to us. Your life is no longer our concern.” She spoke with such finality, but she didn’t offer me a pen. She was certain I would beg for forgiveness, as I always did. I looked at the paper. “Okay.” I didn’t have a pen. I bit my finger hard until it bled, and using the blood as ink, I scrawled my name at the bottom and pressed my thumbprint down. Isabelle’s pupils dilated. She looked at me, stunned. “I only… I just meant…” But I couldn’t hear her anymore. A roar of pain erupted in my chest, and the world began to spin. I fell backward. [Countdown: Twenty-four hours.] My consciousness flickered in the dark. I heard Arlo screaming outside. “Let me go! He’s dying! His heart is failing!” A guard’s voice, bored: “Orders from Ms. West. No one goes in without her permission.” “You’re killing him! I’ll call the police! I’ll destroy you all!” Then came the dull thud of fists hitting flesh. I tried to move, but my eyelids felt like they were made of lead. When I finally woke, Helena and Isabelle were sitting by my bed. “Where… where is Arlo?” Helena’s face was stone. “The servant who wouldn’t stop barking? I had him detained.” I struggled to sit up. Isabelle pushed me down and handed me a script. “The poisoning story has gone viral. People are digging into the ‘fake heir’ scandal. Our stock prices are cratering because of your drama. You are going to do a livestream. You will admit you’re the one who poisoned him, you will apologize to Lucas, and you will publicly break off the engagement.” I stared at the script and laughed. Helena grabbed my hand, her voice dropping to a persuasive hum. “Adrian, think about the companies. If you do this, I’ll release Arlo unharmed. I swear, once the stocks stabilize, I’ll divorce Lucas. I’ll find you a new heart. We’ll get married for real. This is the last time I’ll ask you to sacrifice. Be a man, okay?” I didn’t want to. But for Arlo’s life… I looked at the countdown. I closed my eyes. “Fine.” Half an hour later, the camera was on. I read the words, branding myself a jealous poisoner and a fraud. I renounced my name and my inheritance. The comments section exploded. The fake son is a monster! Why isn’t he dead? Rot in hell, you piece of trash! Helena watched the stock ticker climb back up. She immediately announced her upcoming marriage to the “rightful” heir, Lucas Parker. Then, she shut off the feed. “I did it,” I whispered. “Let Arlo go.” The door opened, and Lucas walked in, grinning. “Don’t bother looking for him, ‘Brother.’ Half an hour ago, I told him about your little confession. He thought he was the reason you were being blackmailed. He said as long as he was alive, they’d have a leash on you. So he grabbed a guard’s knife and shoved it into his own throat. Died instantly. Such a loyal dog.” My brain went white. My vision blurred into a bloody haze. Since Lucas returned, everyone had turned their backs. Only Arlo, the boy who had followed me since we were ten, had stayed. He had literally taken bullets and blows for me. I had tried to give him money to leave this sinking ship, but he’d just yell, My life is yours, Adrian! If they want you, they have to go through me! He kept his word. My sanity snapped. I swung my hand to slap the smirk off Lucas’s face. Smack. Isabelle caught my wrist and delivered a brutal blow to my cheek. The taste of copper flooded my mouth. She shielded Lucas, glaring at me. “You dare touch him in front of me? I regret ever taking in a viper like you!” Helena stepped in too, pushing me back. “Adrian! Are you insane? It was just a servant! Arlo chose to do that. It’s not Lucas’s fault!” I stared at them. My tears had run dry. My heart didn’t even feel pain anymore—just a cold, empty void. Before they could react, I scrambled onto the windowsill. Helena’s face finally changed. “Adrian! What are you doing?” Isabelle panicked, lunging toward me. “Addy, stop! Don’t be stupid!” Lucas stood back, sneering. “Are you still falling for this? He’s just trying to guilt-trip you because he knows you care. He doesn’t have the guts to jump.” I looked at the three of them—their fear, their arrogance, their lies. I smiled. [3… 2… 1…] I opened my arms and let myself fall backward into the sky. The wind roared in my ears, punctuated by a single, soul-shattering scream from above. “NO!!!”

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That stifling summer, I spent most of my time sitting in the second row by the window. Maybe you never even noticed me in my corner. Let’s just call him “J.” It feels more appropriate that way. In the dead of night, a viral post suddenly flickered onto my phone screen. … [I was deeply saddened to hear about your current situation.] [You were the golden boy of our class. The math teacher’s favorite, the one the physics teacher used to joke was his “star disciple.”] [And yet, you chose to drop out for the sake of the “it-girl” from the rival school.] [After all these years, I only have one question.] [Are you doing okay now?] The delicate prose never explicitly mentioned unrequited love, yet every syllable was drenched in it. The comment section was a sea of sympathy for the author and vitriol for “J’s” decision to throw his life away. The “it-girl”—sketched in just a few strokes of the pen—was being torn apart by the masses. I was so irritated that I nudged my husband awake. He was snoring softly beside me. “Are you doing okay now?!” I hissed. Blinking away sleep, Jude instinctively pulled my arm toward him and kissed it. “Honey… mmm… so tired.” Seeing the dark circles under Jude’s eyes, my heart softened. He had just pulled three consecutive all-nighters for his research and had finally managed to crawl home for a few hours of shut-eye. “Go back to sleep,” I whispered. Jude seemed like he wanted to say something, but the pull of exhaustion was too strong. Within seconds, he was out again. In the minutes that followed, that post racked up over a million likes. The internet was in a state of collective mourning. [Young love is like a spring rain,] one comment read. [Fine and persistent, soaking into your heart until it’s cold. Every year you ask yourself: do you regret never speaking up?] [Sweetie, I think he definitely liked you back. This is so tragic.] [This was clearly a mutual pining situation. If either of them had taken one step forward, that other girl wouldn’t have stood a chance. J wouldn’t have ruined his life.] [Youth is nothing but a collection of regrets. The author’s words are breaking my heart at 2:00 AM. I hope you find someone better.] A few skeptics chimed in. [Maybe the author’s feelings for J weren’t romantic? Not everything has to be a soulmate drama.] [How could she not love him?] someone shot back. The writing was exquisite, the emotions raw. It focused on those small, agonizingly vivid moments that define a crush. I should have been moved. But there was a problem: the “fallen hero” of the story was my husband, Jude Callahan. The author’s description of “J” was so meticulous that I recognized him instantly. But I wasn’t just some bystander in this narrative. I was the “it-girl.” The one who supposedly dragged the protagonist into the mud and ruined his future. And according to the comments, I was the villain. [I always had a bias against girls who spent too much time on their appearance back in school. Turns out, I was right.] [The prettier they are, the more dangerous they are. Look at this—his whole life, destroyed.] [The author says their school was the top public academy in the state, but the ‘belle’ was from the private school next door. Tell me you see the red flag.] [Poor J. A brilliant life wasted on a girl like that.] [He’ll regret it. He probably already does. He didn’t have the courage to be with the author, but he threw away his future for a distraction.] [Haha, J is probably sitting in some cramped rental right now, cursing that girl for wasting his potential.] [He didn’t know what was worth holding onto until it was too late.] Almost everyone blamed me for Jude’s “downfall.” The author included. Between her lines was a thick layer of resentment and “what-ifs.” In her story, Jude was a sun that had been eclipsed. I was the one who pulled him into the abyss. [May 2018. Sunny. The teacher was explaining the final physics problem. No one understood it, but you got it right on the first try. I wanted to ask you about it, but I was afraid my ignorance would make you laugh. So, I started working harder.] Short, poignant entries detailed how the author pushed herself academically just to keep Jude in her sights. [Sweetie, you’re such a good soul.] [Your hard work wasn’t for nothing. Loving someone means rising to their level, not letting them sink into the shadows with you.] [That’s the difference between you and that other girl. You would have walked beside him toward his future. Instead, his future is gone, and you’re the one who succeeded.] [I can’t stop sighing. J chose the wrong person.] The “J chose the wrong person” comment became the top-rated response, with thousands of people nesting their agreement beneath it. But then, one user asked: [Did J actually like the author?] [He could drop out for the ‘it-girl,’ so why didn’t he ever confess to the author?] A debate erupted. By 2:00 AM, the author appeared in the comments. She didn’t say much, just a simple “Goodnight.” She told everyone not to argue. “My story with J ended ten years ago. Our paths won’t cross again.” But her words only fueled the fire. [It’s 2:00 AM and you’re still awake. What are you thinking about?] [Probably thinking about the teenage version of J.] [I counted. This post is 8,976 words. Darling, how long did it take you to write this?] [Remember, everyone, this is just a snippet. Her teenage diaries are probably filled with nothing but him.] [Are you okay now, honey? Have you found someone better than J?] The author didn’t reply again. I turned off my phone. I believed her words—or at least, her memory of them. In my mind, Jude had always been a kind, warm person. The next morning, Jude was already gone before I headed to the office. He was wrapping up the final stages of a research project and was likely already at the airport for his flight. While I was getting ready, I reflexively opened the app again. The author—who had previously claimed this was a burner account and wouldn’t be updated—had posted again. It was a selfie video. Under the bright sun, a girl in a white-and-blue dress was beaming at the camera. [Holy crap, she looks like a first love!] [She has such a pure, cute smile. She’s precious.] [Her bio says ‘Single.’ Does she still love J?] [She’s this beautiful and J didn’t go for her? How stunning was that other girl supposed to be?] [Ugh, probably the ‘mean girl’ type. I’m a girl, and I definitely prefer the author’s vibe.] [Let’s not pit women against each other. Let’s just love the author and let J have his ‘it-girl.’] I thought about it for a second and then hit “Follow.” The internet is a double-edged sword. Moving prose deserves its traffic. But I wasn’t about to stay the villain in a story I didn’t write. Within hours, her face-reveal video had hundreds of thousands of likes. Her “burner” account had transformed into a million-follower platform overnight. With just a few thousand words, she had become a sensation. The comments attacking me grew more vicious, and they didn’t spare Jude either. [Birds of a feather. Trash belongs with trash.] [Did the ‘it-girl’ even finish high school?] [Poor J probably didn’t even get his GED.] [The right person walks with you toward your future. You made the right choice by not ending up with him.] [Are you a college grad, honey? Where did you go?] The author replied: “I graduated from a top-tier state university. Ivy-equivalent.” The hype reached a fever pitch. [Wow! A genius!] [Man, J could have been at Harvard or MIT. He was the star.] [So impressive. J was the golden boy, but you’re the golden girl.] [Maybe the author is romanticizing J too much. Maybe he wasn’t actually that great.] [Exactly. The author herself is the real catch here.] Amidst the praise, the author responded again: “No, he really was brilliant.” She replied to comment after comment. She talked about how Jude was always at the top of the rankings, how he swept every academic competition. In her telling, Jude was a rare, once-in-a-generation talent. “A talent like that shouldn’t have been allowed to fade.” [Your writing still loves him.] [Your writing still hates her.] [That girl was the rot that spoiled the whole harvest.] [Otherwise, J and the author would be standing at the top of the world together today.] [You’ve held onto this for so long. Do you really just want to ask him if he’s okay?] People started asking for her location, trying to help her “find” J. She didn’t answer. But eagle-eyed users noticed she had liked a specific comment from the night before: [Sweetie, I think he definitely liked you back. This is so tragic.] The comment section exploded. [Even the author thinks it’s a tragedy. We have to find him.] [Anyone have J’s contact info? I want to give him a piece of my mind.] [Give me the contact for the girl who dragged him down. I have a few choice words for her.] [So, are you still single because you’re waiting for him?] Seeing that people were starting to doxx Jude and me, I sent the author a private message. “I hope you can respect people’s privacy.” Her response? She went live that very night. In the livestream, she shared a screenshot of my message. The viewers went ballistic. [I don’t even need a second to guess who this is.] [It’s the ‘it-girl,’ isn’t it?] [She’s not afraid of her privacy being leaked; she’s afraid of the truth. She knows she ruined him.] [Wow. The author is just sharing her life story. What does it have to do with her? What a loser.] [Talk about guilty conscience. She was barely a footnote in the essay, and now she’s acting like a victim. She’s probably just jealous the author is going viral.] In the stream, the author—Annabel—bowed slightly toward the camera. “I’m sorry for taking up everyone’s time. I wanted to address the recent content I’ve posted.” “First of all, I haven’t leaked anyone’s private information.” [Exactly! Where’s the leak?] [God, she has such ‘main character’ energy. Love it.] [The Ivy League intellect is showing. So articulate.] “I’m also very grateful for the love you’ve shown my writing. It was just a late-night reflection. I never expected it to blow up like this.” A few alumni from her school recognized her in the comments. [Annabel was the commencement speaker for the class of 2018! She’s amazing.] [Yeah, she came back to visit the teachers last year. She’s as kind as she is smart.] Annabel looked directly into the camera, her eyes clear and defiant. “I wrote the story. It was my experience. And yes, I know who sent that message.” “Perhaps you’re watching this right now. I want to say: my conscience is clear regarding Jude. But do you owe him an apology?” [Mic drop!] [The ‘it-girl’ is just lurking because she’s scared of being called out. We see you!] [Since when is writing a memoir against the law?] [Some people think being pretty in high school means the world revolves around them forever. You’re just a supporting character in Annabel’s world, honey.] [A villainous supporting character, at that.] Annabel then urged her followers not to leak anyone’s info. “Please keep the discussion civil. Words can hurt. Thank you.” [Okay, okay, if the queen says so, I’ll stop.] [I’m done. She’s not worth the energy anyway.] [What a class act. If my son meets a girl like this, he’s lucky.] Someone asked about Jude again. [Is there really no sequel for you two?] Annabel went quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. “My story might cause him trouble, so I won’t be updating this account anymore.” After that livestream, I stopped following her. Internet fame is a flash in the pan. Jude was busy, and I wasn’t exactly sitting idle. My subsidiary company was preparing for an IPO. Two weeks later, Jude returned from his trip. He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes deeper than before. The moment he saw me at the airport, he practically melted into me. “I missed you so much,” he mumbles against my neck. I poked his forehead. “We’re at the airport. Get off.” He wouldn’t let go, so I laughed and took his hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.” As we waited for our Uber, I felt eyes on me. A prickle at the back of my neck. In the car, I remembered the viral post and asked, “Do you remember an Annabel?” Jude nodded. “Yeah. She was in my homeroom junior year, I think.” “Oh… so you do remember her.” Jude caught my tone immediately. “I remember everyone’s name from high school. Why? Do you know her?” I gave him a playful huff. “I didn’t. But I do now. Apparently, the two of you were hopelessly in love with each other in secret.” Jude looked horrified. “What? No! I never liked anyone else. Since we were kids, it’s only ever been you.” Because I wasn’t just a “footnote” in Annabel’s story. I was the girl who grew up next door to Jude. We were childhood sweethearts. But Annabel’s story got one thing right. Jude really did drop out of high school because of me.

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After my mother was gone, I finally understood the manipulative, sweet-faced tactics those women had used to destroy her. Now, I was going to take every single one of those textbook moves and use them to dismantle my father. Watching him drown in the relentless spit and venom of public opinion, I felt a sensation blooming in my chest that I couldn’t quite name. He stood there, his mouth opening and closing as he desperately tried to explain himself, but the panic choked off every syllable. It was a beautiful thing to witness. When he stared at me, his eyes wide and unrecognizing, a sharp pang of grief hit me—immediately swallowed by a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated vindication. He must have forgotten. Without my mother playing the role of his tragic Leading Lady, the bulletproof aura of his Leading Man persona was destined to shatter. From this day forward, we were all going to crawl back down into the muddy reality of ordinary people. None of us gets to be the main character anymore. 1 I was very young when I realized my mother was the Leading Lady, and my father was the Leading Man. I knew because the words hovered in thin air right above their heads. I had dragged our housekeeper, Marta, through every picture book we owned, sounding out the shimmering letters until I pieced them together: The Heroine crowned my mother, and The Hero floated above my father. I asked Marta what those words meant. She laughed, her eyes crinkling. “It means they’re like the prince and the princess, Birdie.” She pulled a beautifully illustrated copy of Cinderella from the shelf and read the whole thing to me, letting her voice dip and soar. And they lived happily ever after. I decided I liked that story. My parents were deeply in love, our home was a sanctuary, and aside from my Grandmother Davenport occasionally dropping passive-aggressive hints about wanting a grandson, we were the picture of a perfect family. But the weather in a storybook can turn without warning. When I was five, the atmosphere in our house shifted, thick and suffocating. That was the day I saw another person with words suspended above her head. She was devastatingly beautiful. My father had brought her home from the airport, and the moment they walked through the door, she collapsed against his chest, weeping softly into his tailored lapel. My mother and I had just gotten home from kindergarten. We opened the front door and froze, taking in the sight of them tangled together in the foyer. They froze, too. My father started talking, his words rushed and defensive. The woman started explaining, her voice breathy and fragile. But my mother’s face just grew paler, her expression turning to stone. Meanwhile, I was busy studying the glowing letters hovering above the weeping woman’s head. The… Wicked… Other… What was the last word? I couldn’t read it yet. With my parents distracted by the escalating tension, I tugged on Marta’s apron strings. We consulted my children’s dictionary. Woman. The Wicked Other Woman. The Villainess. I asked Marta what it meant. She burst out laughing, thinking it was the cutest thing in the world. “Oh, listen to our little Birdie! Five years old and she already knows about the wicked other woman in the soap operas!” She repeated it as a charming anecdote over dinner that night, expecting the usual chorus of affectionate laughter from the family. Usually, my childish misunderstandings were the seasoning to our family meals. But that night, only my grandmother laughed. My father’s face darkened, a storm brewing in his jawline. My mother stared blankly at her plate. The beautiful woman looked like she had been struck. She put down her fork, her eyes instantly swimming with tears. “Sylvia, I’m so sorry. I… I’ll leave right now. I won’t ever come back and ruin your peace.” She pushed her chair back and ran out the front door into the night. My father didn’t hesitate. He shot up from the table and chased after her. My grandmother’s laughter abruptly vanished. She slammed her hand on the mahogany table, glaring at my mother. “Is this how you raise your child, Sylvia? To be so venomous?” Marta quickly scooped me out of my chair and hurried me out of the room. I felt the hot prickle of shame. I had caused a disaster. But… why was my mother the one getting yelled at? Later, sitting on my bed, I pressed Marta. “What does a villainess actually do?” Marta sighed, sensing the mood in the house had irrevocably shifted. “In the stories, Birdie, the wicked woman is the one who tries to break up the hero and the heroine. They usually pretend to be very innocent and pitiful so everyone feels sorry for them. Then, they trick everyone into bullying the heroine. But don’t you worry, sweetie. It always works out in the end. The wicked woman gets what she deserves, the hero realizes how wonderful the heroine is, and he fights to win her back.” She sounded so certain. I believed her completely. But real life didn’t seem to be following Marta’s script. The woman’s name was Angelica. She was an adopted daughter my grandmother had taken in years ago, making her my father’s adoptive sister. It was pouring rain outside. When my father returned, he was carrying her in his arms. She was soaked to the bone, wearing his suit jacket over her bare shoulders, her long, pale legs exposed. She looked breathtakingly fragile as she shivered in his grip. “Sylvia, I’m so sorry,” she whimpered, her teeth chattering. “Richard was just so worried about me, he wouldn’t let me leave. I promise, as soon as I’m better, I’ll go.” Her words sounded perfectly reasonable. So why did my chest feel so tight? Why did it feel like a heavy stone was pressing against my windpipe? I wanted to say something. I opened my mouth, but my vocal cords seized. I couldn’t make a sound. That night, I woke up to the damp warmth of my mother’s tears falling onto my cheeks. I lay perfectly still, my eyes closed, listening to her whispered, broken voice in the dark. “Did I ever say she couldn’t stay here?” my mother cried to my father, her voice trembling. “If I had said it, I would own it. But I didn’t. Why are you putting words in my mouth? Why do you automatically assume I’m so petty that I can’t tolerate her presence? Richard, is that really who you think I am?” No, I wanted to scream. She’s not! But as I opened my mouth, the air vanished from my lungs. It was as if an invisible hand had clamped over my face. I was physically incapable of speaking. It wasn’t until the desperate urge to defend my mother faded from my mind that the terrifying, suffocating sensation released me. Over the next few months, it happened again and again. That was when I realized the horrifying truth: I was not allowed to change the plot. We had all been sucked into the gravitational pull of a predetermined narrative. I was just a single drop of water trying to swim against a raging whirlpool. It was pathetic, really. But this was my mother. My gentle, warm, brilliant mother. She was the one who read to me with a voice like honey. She was the one who painted my scraped knees with iodine, blowing on the sting with tears in her own eyes. She woke up at dawn to make pancakes in the shapes of animals, crept into my room at midnight to tuck the blankets under my chin, and carried me through the ER doors in a frantic sprint the one time my fever spiked. She was so inherently good. She didn’t deserve to be misunderstood. She didn’t deserve to be bullied by the narrative. And so, this tiny drop of water decided to see what it would take to tear the whirlpool apart. 2 My parents were fighting again. It was because Angelica had fallen down the grand staircase. My mother hadn’t laid a finger on her. Even Angelica didn’t explicitly accuse my mother of pushing her. She just lay at the bottom of the steps, her eyes red, her voice trembling like a frightened bird. “Richard, please, it wasn’t Sylvia’s fault. I just… I lost my footing…” My mother stood at the top of the stairs, her face an absolute mask of shock. “I didn’t touch her.” My father’s jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter. “Right. Of course you didn’t!!!” He shot my mother a look of pure, glacial disgust, scooped Angelica up, and rushed toward the door to take her to the hospital. I grabbed my father’s pant leg. I opened my mouth, screaming in my head: Mom didn’t push her! I saw the whole thing! She threw herself down the stairs! Nothing came out. My voice had been stolen again. The universe had pressed the mute button on me. In that moment of forced silence, a spark of absolute fury ignited in my chest. I wanted to thrash, to bite, to scream until the windows shattered. But I couldn’t lose my temper. Marta had told me once—when dealing with sweet-faced vipers, losing your cool just makes you look crazy. Instead, I looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Daddy, don’t leave. Can’t we just call a doctor to come to the house?” His expression only grew darker, his eyes hardening as he looked past me to my mother. “Sylvia, using our child as a pawn? Don’t make me despise you.” My mother swayed like a tree about to snap. She bit her lip until it bled, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Richard, you should have the doctors check your head while you’re at it.” Once again, the scene ended in wreckage. I couldn’t understand it. Why? Why was it always like this? Why was the truth so impossible to communicate? Why was it always her fault? My small body was carrying a weight far too heavy for my spine. It wasn’t until a minor incident at my kindergarten that I truly understood how impenetrable the barrier of human bias could be. Once a narrative is set, facts bounce right off it. A new girl, Evie, had transferred to our class. During lunch, she decided she wanted the chicken nugget on my plate. She could have just asked. Instead, she lunged across the table to snatch it. She was clumsy, missing the plate entirely and falling hard onto her bottom. Instantly, she wailed, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. “My nugget! Birdie, please don’t take my food! And why did you push me?” Every teacher in the room rushed to her side, cooing and comforting her. Then, they turned their stern, disappointed eyes on me. “She tried to steal my food!” I yelled, my voice cracking. “I didn’t touch her!” But Evie just blinked her massive, tear-filled eyes. With trembling fingers, she picked up a half-eaten, soggy piece of chicken from her own tray and placed it on mine. “It’s okay, Birdie. Don’t be mad. You can have mine if you’re that hungry.” It was a piece she had chewed on and spit out. The sheer, calculated malice of it took my breath away. “I’m not eating your garbage,” I snapped, and swatted her hand away. Evie’s plastic tray clattered to the floor. My favorite teacher, the one who usually brushed my hair after naptime, glared at me with absolute fury. “Beatrice Davenport! That is utterly unacceptable behavior!” I froze. And then, I saw red. I was not going to be my mother. I was not going to swallow the injustice. I grabbed Evie’s tray and hurled it. Then I grabbed my own tray and smashed it against the wall. I went down the table, flipping the plates of every kid who had rushed to comfort her. If I wasn’t allowed to eat in peace, nobody was eating. It became a massive ordeal. The administration called our parents. My mother arrived first. She looked at me, looked at the mess, and immediately chose to believe me. She stood tall, her voice cool and authoritative, demanding they pull the security footage. The cameras didn’t lie. Clear as day, it showed Evie lunging to steal my food and falling on her own. But then, Evie’s parents arrived. It was my father. And Angelica. Evie burst into fresh tears and buried her face in my father’s neck. “Daddy, I thought it was my nugget that fell on her plate! I was just so hungry, Daddy. Please don’t be mad at me.” The truth of the incident was proven. But somehow, everything got worse. The principal, looking deeply uncomfortable, suggested I had “anger management issues” for destroying the classroom over a misunderstanding. My mother and father erupted into a screaming match in the hallway. My mother demanded to know why Angelica had a child, and more importantly, why that child was calling my father “Daddy.” Angelica burst into hysterics, sobbing that she was a burden and wanted to die, before dramatically fainting in the hallway. They rushed her to the hospital, where doctors gravely announced her heart condition had severely deteriorated due to stress. My Grandmother Davenport arrived and coldly told my mother she was a failure of a parent. She lectured me about generosity and grace, shaking her head that I could be so petty over a piece of food. Everyone—my father, my grandmother, the teachers—flocked to the hospital to check on Angelica. Only my mother stayed behind with me. We sat in the empty kindergarten classroom, staring at each other. A heavy, suffocating depression settled over us. For the first time, I viscerally felt the profound, terrifying isolation my mother lived with every day. The absolute impossibility of defending yourself against a reality everyone else had already agreed upon. I looked down at my hands. “Mommy,” I whispered. “Did Daddy become Evie’s dad because I’m a bad girl?” What I really wanted to ask was: Mom, did I ruin everything? Did I make it worse for you? 3 My mother’s breath hitched. She dropped to her knees in front of my tiny chair, gripping my shoulders. Her eyes were fierce, blazing with a protective fire. “No,” she said, her voice dropping to an intense, solemn whisper. “No, Birdie. This is your father’s failure. It is his fault for indulging Evie, for deceiving her into thinking he is her father. It is his fault for prioritizing another woman’s child and abandoning his own. You did nothing wrong. The fault is his. We are not staying in that house anymore. We are leaving.” She packed a single suitcase and drove us straight to my Uncle David’s house. My uncle welcomed us with open arms. He saw the dark, exhausted shadows beneath my mother’s eyes and immediately swore he would go demand justice for her. My mother begged him not to engage. But David was proud. He said he was her older brother, and he would never let anyone disrespect his little sister. He marched off to the hospital to confront Richard. He didn’t come back that night. Or the next. My mother and I stayed at his house for three days. She didn’t send me back to kindergarten. We just existed together in this quiet, stolen bubble of time. We watched the clouds drift past the skyline, traced the frost on the windows, and sat on the balcony at night watching the city lights blur. It was the only time I remember us truly breathing. On the fourth day, my uncle returned. He looked like a ghost. His clothes were rumpled, his face unshaven, and his eyes darted away from my mother’s gaze. When he finally spoke, the words shattered our fragile peace. “Sylvia… could you maybe just… compromise with Angelica? She’s very sick…” I stared at my uncle, my jaw practically on the floor. My mother froze. She told me to go play in the guest bedroom. A few minutes later, the walls shook with the sound of them screaming at each other in his study. Not long after, my mother emerged, her face the color of ash. She grabbed my hand, and we walked out of my uncle’s house. We wandered the city streets for hours, aimless. The world was so vast, yet there wasn’t a single square inch we could claim as ours. We passed a florist, and my mother stopped to buy a bouquet of white lilies. We took a cab to the cemetery, to my maternal grandmother’s grave. My mother laid the flowers down and finally broke. She wept with a raw, agonizing sound that clawed at my chest. “Mom,” she sobbed into the cold stone. “I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you.” I knew the lore of my parents’ romance. Marta had told me the fairy tale. The ruthless, untouchable young CEO and the brilliant, untainted college student. Worlds colliding, sparks flying, a love that defied the odds. Marta had swooned over it. But fairy tales are poison. It had only been six years, and their epic romance had been entirely dismantled by the presence of a third person. I stood in the graveyard, trying to push the words out of my throat: Mom, let’s go. Let’s divorce him. We don’t need him. But the invisible vice clamped down on my jaw again. It was like a cinderblock resting on my chest. I couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. Then, my mother wiped her eyes and looked at me. “Birdie. If I divorce your father… who do you want to live with?” In an instant, the pressure vanished. The plot’s hold over my throat released. I burst into tears, furious and relieved all at once. “I’m staying with you!” She pulled me into her chest, holding me with a grip that felt like steel. She did ask my father for a divorce. He treated it like a child’s temper tantrum. “Stop being ridiculous, Sylvia,” he scoffed, not even looking up from his phone. “I’m trying to find a heart donor for Angelica. I don’t have the bandwidth for your drama right now. Don’t cause trouble when things are this critical.” My mother looked at him, and I saw the last ember of her love turn to ash. “Sign the papers, and I’ll disappear. No one will ever bother you again,” she said quietly. She tried to take me and leave the house. But my grandmother stood blocking the grand entryway. “Beatrice is a Davenport,” the old woman snarled. “You can walk out that door, Sylvia, but my granddaughter stays.” Four massive security guards stepped forward, physically tearing me from my mother’s arms. In that moment, I wanted my grandmother dead. I screamed, kicked, bit the guards’ hands, thrashing like a wild animal. My mother panicked, her eyes wide with terror as a guard accidentally bruised my arm. “Birdie, stop! Don’t hurt yourself! Please, don’t hurt yourself. I won’t go! I’m staying, I’m staying!” I stopped fighting instantly. I couldn’t be the chain that kept her in this prison. “Goodbye, Mommy,” I said, forcing my voice to be steady. “I’ll be a good girl. I’ll wait right here for you to come back.” I broke free from the guard, bolted up the stairs, and locked myself in my bedroom. I pressed my face against the window glass, looking down at the driveway. She was weeping. But she wiped her tears away, squared her shoulders, and looked up at my window. I ducked behind the curtain, my heart hammering against my ribs. When I peeked out again, her car was gone. 4 I declared a cold war on my father and grandmother. I acted as if they were invisible. If they entered a room, I left it. At kindergarten, I became a ghost. Evie, with her sugary smiles and tragic backstory, quickly became the darling of the classroom. I didn’t envy her. I knew I was different. I could see the glowing titles over their heads; I knew the mechanics of the universe we were trapped in. She was blind to it all. And frankly, I didn’t want any love that required me to perform like a trained circus animal to receive it. At home, my only ally was Marta. She stepped into the void my mother left, reading to me, validating my feelings, and sneaking in to double-check my blankets at night. One afternoon, I woke up from a nap to find Marta sitting by my bed, giggling quietly at her phone screen. I crept up behind her to read over her shoulder. [Call off the engagement party tomorrow. I refuse to be a burden to you.] [I never agreed to a breakup. You don’t have the right to walk away from me.] I was a sharp kid, and I’d been practicing my reading. I puzzled out the dialogue. It hit me like a lightning bolt. It sounded exactly like the script my parents were trapped in. “Read it to me,” I demanded. Marta jumped, nearly dropping her phone. “Birdie! You’re awake!” “Read it,” I insisted, crossing my arms. Marta hesitated. Reading trashy romance web-novels to a five-year-old was definitely above her paygrade. She tried to redirect me, but I went on a hunger strike. By dinnertime, Marta caved. She leaned in close, conspiratorially. “This is our secret, okay? You can’t tell your father.” I nodded solemnly. From that day on, the covers of the books on my nightstand were The Girl Who Drank the Moon or Where the Wild Things Are. But the actual stories I was hearing were The Billionaire’s Runaway Bride, The Alpha’s Forced Vow, and His Innocent Obsession. I devoured book after book. I quickly realized they all shared the exact same skeleton. The Male Lead was powerful and arrogant. He constantly misunderstood the Female Lead, inflicted unimaginable emotional trauma upon her, and then, after some catastrophic event forced him to “realize his mistakes,” he would grovel and win her back. It was a terrifying prophecy of my mother’s future. If she stayed on this track, she was doomed to this endless cycle of abuse disguised as passion. As her daughter, I couldn’t see the romance. I only saw the horror. A few days later, my mother came back. She looked hollowed out. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. When my grandmother threw barbed insults at her in the hallway, my mother just took it, staring blankly at the wall. I found out later that my father had systematically destroyed every job opportunity she lined up. Every time she got hired, he made a phone call, and she was let go. She had returned to the house to protect the people who had tried to help her. And those divorce papers? My father had run them through the paper shredder in his office. My mother was a bird in a gilded cage, and the man holding the key didn’t see her as a living, breathing thing to be respected, just property to be secured. When she saw me, she fell to her knees and crushed me to her chest. “Birdie. Are you okay?” “I’m great. Are you okay, Mommy?” “I’m perfectly fine.” Liar. I could smell the despair on her skin. She radiated defeat. I went to my room, dug a paperback out from beneath my mattress—a trope-heavy novel about a wife faking her death to escape her abusive billionaire husband—and solemnly placed it in her hands. I figured maybe she could take some notes on the escape logistics. My mother stared at the garish cover, let out a startled laugh, and then burst into tears. “Oh, Birdie. You’re trying to take care of me? I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m making you worry.” I wanted to tell her I didn’t care about the worry; I just wanted her to be free. The bedroom door swung open. My father stood in the frame. His eyes instantly zeroed in on the trashy romance novel in her hands. “Sylvia, what the hell are you letting her read?” 5 “I gave it to her!” I shouted, throwing my arms out to shield my mother. “Leave her alone!” “Do not yell at her,” my mother said, her voice eerily calm but vibrating with tension. My father looked at her, looked at me, and his expression shifted into something unreadable. He quietly closed the door. It was bizarre. We had practically bared our teeth at him, and he hadn’t exploded? I decided then that maybe there was a glitch in his programming. If he was supposed to be the “Hero,” maybe I just needed to feed him the right script. I emptied my piggy bank and begged Marta to order books from Amazon. How to Be a True Partner, The Engaged Father, 9 Rules for a Healthy Marriage. I arranged them perfectly on the desk in his study. When he got home from work, I waited in the hallway, took his hand, and led him inside. He looked shocked. I hadn’t let him touch me in weeks. His posture softened immediately, and he scooped me up, carrying me into the study. Then he saw the books. A low, self-deprecating chuckle escaped him. He kissed my forehead. “Did you buy these, Birdie? Or did your mother? Have I really been that terrible?” My eyes welled up. Months of fear and suppressed anger bubbled to the surface. He panicked. He awkwardly wiped my tears away with his thumbs, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry, Birdie. I am so sorry. Daddy messed up. I never should have ignored you or your mother.” He actually sat down and read the books. He made a visible effort to soften his edges, and he finally sat down with my mother to explain the truth about Evie. “Evie is the product of an assault,” he confessed, his voice heavy with shame. “Angelica was attacked years ago. She has severe heart trauma, she physically couldn’t handle an abortion, and mentally, she couldn’t bond with the child. She left Evie with nannies. Evie was so traumatized, so desperate for a father figure, that I stepped in. I thought I was protecting her.” My mother’s posture lost some of its rigidity, but she held her ground. “You should have told me. Instead, you let me find out in the worst way possible. Evie’s situation is tragic, Richard, but her tragedy shouldn’t be weaponized against my daughter. You allowed Birdie to be publicly humiliated to protect a lie.” My father didn’t argue. He just looked down, his jaw tight. “I know. It won’t happen again. No more secrets.” For a few weeks, the ice began to thaw. It felt like we were stepping back into the light. But in a narrative built on melodrama, peace is just the setup for a bigger disaster. Angelica was discharged from the hospital. My father went to pick her up himself. She walked through the front door, laughing softly at something he said. Then she saw my mother, and the color violently drained from her face. “Why is David Hastings’ sister in this house?” Angelica shrieked, backing away toward the door. “Make her leave! I will not breathe the same air as the sister of the man who raped me!” 6 My mother looked as if she had been struck by lightning. She stood frozen in the foyer, her hands trembling.

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Three years ago, an accident took my life. Or rather, it should have. Instead, a soul from another world hijacked my body to perform some ridiculous “favorability mission.” She failed. Miserably. It took every ounce of my will to bargain with the new System overseer to claw my way back. I traded everything for a single chance to reclaim what was mine. The System’s mechanical voice echoed in the hollows of my mind: [Host, you must successfully conquer the target, Zack Blackwood, within 30 days.] Then came the cold ultimatum: [Failure to complete the mission within the allotted time will result in permanent erasure.] I tightened my fists, glaring at the translucent blue interface only I could see. “This is a joke,” I hissed, my voice rasping. “That interloper spent three years turning my body into a two-hundred-pound disaster. Forget Zack Blackwood—at this point, a blind man wouldn’t look at me twice, let alone an elite CEO.” The System seemed to falter, a momentary glitch in its processing. [Well…] it paused, searching for a logical out. [Perhaps Zack Blackwood prefers a… more substantial presence?] … I let out a harsh, dry laugh as I faced the full-length mirror. My thighs were like pillars. My midsection looked like I was wearing a permanent life buoy. Two hundred pounds of soft, neglected weight. That brain-dead transmigrator had abandoned my company, ignored my legacy, and spent every waking hour playing the part of Zack’s pathetic, groveling lapdog. When she realized her “mission” was going nowhere, she gave up entirely, drowning her sorrows in grease and sugar. She had taken my supermodel frame—the body I had spent years honing with Pilates and discipline—and turned it into a mountain of grease. Looking at the mirror, seeing that I barely fit in the frame, I felt a wave of existential dread. “No more sugar. No more carbs,” I muttered. “I’m welding myself to the treadmill.” [That is wise, Host. This System will assist in your weight loss. After all, conventional data suggests men prefer a leaner aesthetic. It will aid the mission.] “Shut up,” I snapped. I started the treadmill, the belt groaning under the unfamiliar weight. As I felt the first beads of sweat break across my skin and the agonizing tremor of my muscles, I gritted my teeth. “Whether I ‘conquer’ him or not, I refuse to spend another second trapped in this version of myself. And another thing—why did that idiot get three years while I only get thirty days? Is your software refurbished or just cheap?” The System bristled. [Host! This unit has been ranked number one in the Central Bureau for three consecutive months!] I suspected it was lying, but I didn’t have the energy to argue. I hadn’t even finished five miles when my secretary’s name flashed on my phone. A crisis at the office. I showered quickly and moved to the walk-in closet. The moment I slid the doors open, I nearly had a stroke. Neon pink lace dresses. Tight, leopard-print spandex leggings. What kind of deranged, tacky aesthetic had that girl been sporting? Resisting the urge to set the entire wardrobe on fire, I settled for an oversized black tracksuit—the only thing that didn’t make me look like a burst sausage—and headed straight for the company. In the back of the car, I scrolled through the archived chats. Every single message was a masterclass in desperation. [Zack, are you tired at work? Did you eat lunch?] [Zack, it’s okay if you don’t reply. I’ll always be right here waiting for you.] It wasn’t just the words. She had attached “cutesy” selfies to every single text. I felt a surge of nausea so violent I had to look away. At least she had stopped the photos after she’d put on the weight, or I might have thrown the phone out the window. When I stepped into the Rossi & Co. headquarters, the lobby went silent. The staff looked at me with a mix of pity and suppressed laughter. For three years, that waste of space hadn’t set foot in the building. She’d forgotten where the entrance was, let alone how to read a balance sheet. The fact that the company hadn’t folded was a testament to the sheer grit of my senior VPs. I ignored the stares and threw open the boardroom doors. One look at the disastrous financial reports and the veins in my forehead began to throb. I spent the morning like a hurricane, firing two executives who had been cooking the books within the first hour. By noon, the whispers of ridicule in the halls had shifted back into the terrified, reverent silence I remembered. The System chimed in, opportunistic as ever. [Host! Reclaiming the company is fine, but Zack Blackwood is the priority! You have 27 days left before total erasure.] [First Sub-Mission: Straighten Zack’s tie. Reward: One ‘Metabolic-Accelerant’ pill.] “That’s it? That’s the mission?” I asked, skeptical. [Host, do not be deceived. The previous occupant failed this simple task for three years straight.] I paused, surprised. [Zack Blackwood is notoriously untouchable. Despite being married to the previous occupant for three years, he never allowed her within three feet of his person. Their marriage has been entirely in name only.] A strange, sharp spark of satisfaction flickered in my chest. So, my old protege had kept his standards high. Good for him. “Fine. I’ll take the mission.” [Excellent! Let us go find him immediately!] the System chirped. “Not yet. I have a company to stabilize first.” Conquering Zack was a matter of survival, but I wasn’t like the girl who came before me. I wasn’t going to set my empire on fire just to warm a man’s hands. The System went quiet, sounding distinctly disappointed. I worked until nine in the evening before finally heading back to the villa. To my surprise, the lights in the living room were on. I stopped in the doorway, taking in the man sitting on the sofa. His charcoal-gray suit was impeccable, draped over a frame that had grown broader and more imposing in my absence. Three years hadn’t aged him; they had simply polished him into something lethal and expensive. The moment he heard me, he stood up. For a split second, I saw a flicker—a shimmering ghost of a look in his eyes—before he masked it. “You went to the office today,” he said. His voice was like a low cello note, vibrating with something that sounded suspiciously like a tremor. I didn’t answer. I walked straight up to him. I reached out and grabbed the lapels of his jacket, pulling him slightly forward as I smoothed the silk of his tie. Zack froze. He didn’t pull away, but he went rigid, his breath hitching in his throat. The System began to scream in my head. [WAHHH!! Host, you did it! Mission accomplished in one move!] [But be careful! Records show the target prefers gentle, domestic women. Don’t break character!] I took a deep breath, swallowing the sharp, sarcastic retort that was already on the tip of my tongue. For the sake of my life, I could play nice. Just for a moment. I forced a smile—one I hoped looked soft but probably looked like I was baring my teeth—and pitched my voice into a breathy, feminine lilt. “Zac, darling… I just wanted to see how things were going at the firm.” The silence that followed was so thick it felt like the air had turned to lead. The light in Zack’s eyes vanished instantly. He looked at me with a cold, piercing detachment, seasoned with a heavy dose of disappointment. “Don’t do things that don’t suit you,” he said, his voice flat. He stepped back, breaking my hold and creating a vast, chilly distance between us. “I have work at the office. I won’t be back tonight.” He turned on his heel and walked out without a second glance. I stood in the middle of the room, fuming, while the System wailed. [What happened?! It was going so well! Why did his face turn like that?] I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “Because you told me to act like a ‘gentle’ idiot. He was probably repulsed.” I collapsed onto the sofa, the plush velvet straining under me. Memories of the old Zack surfaced unbidden. In high school, he hadn’t been this untouchable titan. He had been the “bastard son” of the Blackwood family, the one his half-brothers used to kick into the dirt behind the gym. I had picked him up because he had a face that belonged in a museum and eyes that looked like they could burn the world down if someone gave him a match. I made him mine. I made him my shadow. Back then, I was the only one allowed to bully him. I remembered making him walk across the city in a blizzard just to get me a specific brand of hot chocolate. I remembered making him kneel in front of the entire student body to tie my loose shoelaces. He had been a silent, loyal dog, never once flinching, never once complaining. Who would have thought that after graduation, his brothers would meet their ends in a “tragic accident”? He had been plucked from the shadows and made the sole heir to the Blackwood fortune. And when my parents died, and I needed a strategic alliance to save the company, I chose him. Now the tables had turned. I was the one who had to play nice? The thought made my blood boil. I swallowed the Metabolic pill the System awarded me and headed for the treadmill. The next morning, the scale showed a ten-pound drop. The System’s tech was apparently more reliable than its romantic advice. I was still a “substantial presence,” but I could breathe a little easier. I went back to the office and spent the day tearing through the restructuring. The System, unable to help itself, popped up again. [Second Sub-Mission: Deliver a ‘Meal of Love’ to Zack Blackwood. Reward: One ‘Metabolic-Accelerant’ pill.] “Busy. I have a board meeting.” I had three days to complete the mission. I decided to let Zack stew for two. In those forty-eight hours, fueled by a murderous workout regime and the lingering effects of the System’s pill, I dropped another twenty pounds. By the third day, the System’s countdown was driving me insane. [Life span: 27 days! Deliver the food NOW or face the consequences!!!] “Fine! Stop nagging.” I picked up a high-end takeout container from the most exclusive bistro in the city—the kind where you need a three-month reservation—and headed to the Blackwood Building. Even thirty pounds down, I felt like a tank moving through the sleek, minimalist lobby. I could hear the whispers as I passed. “She’s here again? God, give it a rest.” “Two hundred pounds of desperation in a tracksuit. If I were Mr. Blackwood, I’d lose my appetite too…” I stopped. My gaze swept over the cluster of receptionists like a cold blade. I looked them dead in the eye. “Is Blackwood Industries paying you to provide a lunch-hour commentary, or are you just naturally this unprofessional?” They turned pale, scurrying back to their monitors. I wasn’t in the mood to swallow insults today. [Host! Calm down! They don’t matter! Remember: Be gentle when you see Zack!] “I know!” I hissed. I shoved open the door to the penthouse office. Zack was behind a desk that probably cost more than a suburban house. He didn’t even look up at first. “What do you want?” Cold. Harder than the System’s voice. I set the bag on his desk, forcing a pleasant expression. “Zack, I brought you lunch.” Zack’s eyes flicked to the bag. His face darkened instantly. With a sudden, violent motion, he swept his arm across the desk. CRASH. The expensive meal hit the trash can with a wet thud. “I hate that place,” he said. His voice wasn’t just cold now; it was lethal. I stood there, my hands curling into fists. You ungrateful little… Back in school, I was the one who made sure he ate. He used to eat the scraps I gave him in the corner with tears in his eyes. Now he was too good for the best bistro in the city? [AHHH! Host! I told you to cook it yourself!] the System shrieked. [The previous occupant’s cooking was terrible, but he never threw it away! Look at what you’ve done!] I don’t cook, I snapped back internally. That bistro had been my favorite place. Back in the day, I used to make Zack stand in line for an hour to get me their signature tartare. Looking at the trash can, it clicked. He didn’t hate the restaurant. He hated that I was bringing him something the real me loved. He thought it was a sick joke. “Stop this,” Zack said, looking up at me, his eyes full of warning. “We agreed to a marriage of convenience. Stay on your side of the line.” [Host! Say something sweet! Fix it!] Sweet? There isn’t a sweet bone in Diana Rossi’s body. “A marriage of convenience, right.” I let out a sharp, jagged laugh, suppressing the weird ache in my chest. “I was just checking the ‘Dutiful Wife’ box on my way to a real meeting. Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Blackwood.” I turned and slammed the door behind me. [You’re insane! You can’t talk to him like that!] the System wailed. [No man likes a woman with a temper like yours! You’re going to fail!] “Shut up and give me my reward.” [But you made him angry—] “The mission was to deliver the meal. I delivered it. Give. Me. The. Pill.” I swallowed the second pill. Between that and the grueling hours at the gym, I lost another twenty pounds over the next two days. My face was starting to emerge from the puffiness—the sharp line of my jaw, the high set of my cheekbones. I was still “big,” but I was starting to look like a version of myself again. [New Mission: Create a grand birthday surprise for the target!] I rolled my eyes. A birthday surprise? I’d never thrown a party for anyone but myself. I delegated the entire thing to the house staff. That evening, the villa was transformed into something out of a Pinterest nightmare. Balloons, flowers, a three-tier cake. I even found his bedroom covered in rose petals. It was the first time I’d stepped into his private suite. On his nightstand sat a framed photo. I froze. It was a photo of me from high school. I didn’t even know it existed—it was a candid shot, taken from a distance. I glanced at a half-open drawer and saw a flash of color. A deep burgundy silk ribbon. My favorite hair tie from years ago. I pulled the drawer open fully. My breath caught. Next to the ribbon was a stack of photos. All of them were me. Me sleeping on a desk in senior year. Me laughing on the university track. Me, me, me. He had been stalking me for years. I moved to the closet. One side was filled with his suits. The other side? It was filled with my old clothes. The ones from before the accident. A strange, heavy emotion settled in my throat. I dialed his number. “You need to come home. Now.” There was a five-second silence. Then, a clipped, “Fine.” I couldn’t fit into those old clothes yet, so I just took my old silk ribbon. I needed to confront him about the photos. But ten o’clock came and went. The food grew cold. The candles on the cake melted into stubs. Not a soul came through the door. [Don’t be sad, Host. He’s probably just stuck in a meeting. Call him again?] the System whispered. “Waste of my time,” I snapped. I tore off the restrictive floral dress I’d forced myself into. I put on my gym gear—a sports bra and leggings—and tied my hair up high with that burgundy ribbon. If he wasn’t coming, I wasn’t going to waste the night. I still had three miles to run. I ignored the System’s nagging, put on my noise-canceling headphones, and cranked the treadmill to a sprint. I let myself drown in the music and the burn of my muscles. Suddenly, a hand yanked my hair from behind. The ribbon was torn away. My hair tumbled down. At that speed, I lost my balance instantly. I gasped, stumbling back, waiting for the impact of the floor. It never came. I slammed into a solid, warm chest. Zack caught me, but he didn’t hold me. The second I was stable, he shoved me away like I was radioactive. I staggered, catching my breath, ready to tear his head off. But when I looked up, I saw his eyes. They were bloodshot. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. He was clutching the burgundy ribbon in a white-knuckled grip. “I warned you,” he hissed, his voice trembling with fury. “Stay. Out. Of. My. Room.” In that moment, every ounce of “playing nice” evaporated. Everything the System told me about being gentle went out the window. I have spent my entire life as the sun that everyone else revolved around. No one—no one—shouts at me. No one lays a hand on me. And especially not the boy who used to follow me around like a shadow. My body moved faster than my brain. I lunged forward and snatched the ribbon back out of his hand. I shoved my finger into his chest. “Zack Blackwood! Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? This is my house! This is my ribbon! You have no right to tell me which room I can or cannot enter!” Zack stood frozen, stunned. “You…” I wasn’t finished. I was tired, I was hungry, and I was done being pushed around. I hauled off and kicked him—hard—right in the shin. “OW!” His six-foot-two frame buckled. He groaned, doubled over, his face turning a ghostly shade of pale. Oh. Oops. I might have aimed a little… high. Zack looked up at me, his eyes watery and red. I couldn’t tell if it was from the pain or something else.

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The ER doctor’s voice was a jagged serration against the rhythmic, wet hum of the machines, screaming for someone—anyone—to sign the consent forms. I couldn’t answer. I was a knot of agony, my body convulsing on the thin hospital mattress, every nerve ending screaming in a language only pain understands. My mother stood at the foot of the bed, her face a mask of polished marble. She didn’t look at the doctors. Instead, she took the “Critical Condition” notice, looked at it for a beat, and then slowly, methodically, tore it into pieces. The confetti of my life drifted to the linoleum floor. She reached out and grabbed my younger sister, Daisy, by the shoulder, pulling her toward the glass doors of the trauma bay. “Look at her, Daisy. Take a good look,” she whispered, her voice sickeningly tender, the way one might talk to a child at a museum. “This is what happens when you try to run. This is the price of rebellion. Your sister is just providing you with a demonstration.” I stared at her, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth. I swallowed it down, a final, bitter gulp. Mom, I thought, the words trapped behind a shattered jaw, in the next life, I refuse to be your lightning rod. I refuse to be the warning you use to keep Daisy in a cage. Three years ago, I had crawled through the bowels of hell to get back here. I had dragged my broken, discarded body across borders just to see home again. Back then, when Daisy had mentioned wanting to travel, Mom had crushed sedatives into my tea and watched with a steady hand as the traffickers hauled my limp body onto a shipping container. She’d stood on the docks, holding Daisy’s hand, pointing at the receding horizon. “Remember,” she’d told her. “The world outside is full of monsters that eat girls like you.” Even before that, when Daisy got scammed by some boy online, Mom used my social security number to take out predatory loans to cover the debt. When the collectors came and smashed our windows, she’d watched me shaking in the corner and sneered at Daisy, “See? That’s what happens when you trust men.” Mom always said I was the scout. The one who walked into the fire so Daisy would know it was hot. … The siren of the ambulance was a dying animal’s shriek in the midnight damp of the pier. I was on the gurney, my throat a mess of bloody froth. My legs had been snapped by the cartel enforcers on the boat—bone shards jutting through the skin like white flags of surrender. The pain was a living thing. It was so loud I didn’t even have the strength to shiver. The back doors of the rig swung open with a metallic crash. Evelyn rushed in, pulling a trembling Daisy behind her. “Oh, good God. Look at this mess,” Evelyn said, staring at my gray, sunken face. She actually let out a short, sharp laugh. She grabbed Daisy by the scruff of the neck, forcing her head down until she was inches from my face. “Do you see it now?” Evelyn hissed. “This is the ‘true love’ you were willing to die for? You wanted to run off and meet that boy from the internet? Your sister went out there for you. She scouted the path. She spent three years in that gutter so you wouldn’t have to, and look at the state of her!” Daisy screamed, clawing at her own eyes, trying to recoil. “Mom! Stop! Please! There’s so much blood!” Evelyn’s grip tightened. “Scared? Good. You should be. You thought that man loved you? Love is what got your sister sold. Love is why she was beaten every single day.” The paramedic, a woman with tired eyes, finally had enough. She shoved Evelyn back. “Back off! She’s in hypovolemic shock! Her blood pressure is bottoming out at fifty! We need to move!” Evelyn stumbled, her expression instantly darkening. She watched the nurse prep a syringe of epinephrine and suddenly reached out, snatching it from the tray. “What is that? How much does that shot cost?” The nurse looked like she’d been slapped. “Are you insane? Give that back! She’s dying!” “She’s tougher than she looks,” Evelyn said coldly, slamming the syringe down onto a metal kit. “She survived three years on a godforsaken boat; she can survive five minutes without a needle. This ambulance ride is already costing me a fortune. Driver! Stop the van! We aren’t going to the University Hospital!” The driver slammed on the brakes, nearly sending us all flying. “Ma’am, what the hell are you talking about? She needs a Level 1 Trauma Center!” “Take her to the clinic on 4th. It’s cheaper,” Evelyn demanded, her voice flat and reasonable. The nurse was shaking. “A clinic? They don’t have an OR! She has two broken ribs puncturing her lungs, a ruptured spleen—if we don’t get her to surgery, she’s a corpse!” “Then that’s the price of her own stupidity!” Evelyn reached out and yanked the leads of the EKG monitor off my chest. She leaned over me, her eyes twin pools of ice. “Jade, you were the one who ran off with those animals. You think you can come back and drain our savings? I’m telling you now, I’m not paying to fix what you broke.” I lay in a pool of my own warmth, my tears mixing with the blood. She was the one who crushed the pills into my milk. She was the one who called the broker at the docks and watched the container door lock me into the dark. For three years in that compound, I was whipped, I was drowned in a cage, I was treated like livestock. The only thing that kept me breathing was the thought of coming home. And I had made it. Only to be used as a prop in a horror story for my sister. I forced my fingers to move, hooking them into the fabric of Evelyn’s sleeve. “Save… me… Mom… please…” I didn’t want to die. I was only twenty-three. Evelyn looked down at my bloody hand with nothing but disgust. She peeled my fingers back, one by one, then raised her hand and delivered a stinging slap across my pale, sweat-slicked cheek. CRACK. “Save you? You’re the girl who went looking for trouble. Why should I waste a dime on a used-up thing like you?” Daisy was hysterical now. “Mom, she’s bleeding out! Please let them help her!” Evelyn turned and slapped Daisy, too. “Shut up! You pity her? She is the living proof of what happens when you don’t listen to me! Look at her! Look at the gore! Take all that romantic shit in your head and flush it, or you’ll be the one on the table next!” The nurse used the distraction to snatch the leads back, pressing her hand over my chest. “Driver! Ignore this lunatic! Go to City General Emergency! Now! I’ll take the heat!” The sirens wailed again as the ambulance tore through the night. Evelyn fell back into her seat. She didn’t fight for the equipment anymore. She just watched me with the detached curiosity of someone looking at a broken appliance. “Fine. Go to the big hospital. Let’s see how they handle a life as worthless as yours.” The rig screeched to a halt at the ER bay. The gurney was whisked inside. Doctors were shouting, a blur of blue scrubs and bright lights. “Get two units of O-neg! Call Thoracic! Where’s the family? I need a signature! Any allergies? Medical history?” Evelyn sauntered in behind them, Daisy huddled in her shadow. “She’s a sturdy girl,” Evelyn said, crossing her arms. The admitting resident rushed over with a clipboard. “I need you to sign these! Now! And I need her ID so we can get her into the system and pull blood! Hurry!” Evelyn didn’t move. She patted her designer handbag, her tone conversational. “I left in such a rush. I don’t have her ID.” Daisy froze, tugging at Evelyn’s coat. “Mom… I saw you take Jade’s ID out of the drawer and put it in your bag right before we left…” Evelyn reached out and pinched Daisy’s arm, hard. Daisy let out a sharp cry, tears springing to her eyes. “Be quiet,” Evelyn hissed. “I said I don’t have it.” The doctor was sweating. “Without an ID, we can’t process the blood request! Her BP is too low to read! Every second we waste is a minute of her life!” “I can’t manifest a card out of thin air. Stop yelling at me,” Evelyn said, rolling her eyes. In the trauma bay, a nurse had already cut away my blood-soaked clothes. “Heart rate’s down to forty! She’s hemorrhaging! Prepare for central line access!” Hearing this, Evelyn took a step forward, leaning against the doorframe of the trauma bay. She shouted at the nurses over the din. “Hey! Make sure you’re wearing double gloves! Don’t let her blood touch you!” The nurse looked up, confused. “Why?” Evelyn smirked, pointing at me. “She’s been living in the gutters across the border for three years. Who knows what kind of filth she’s picked up? HIV, Hepatitis, Syphilis—you better run a full panel before you start cutting. My family won’t be held liable if you get infected!” The room went dead silent for a heartbeat. The medical staff paled. In an ER, the fear of an undisclosed needle-stick or blood-borne pathogen is real. Protocols dictate that if a high-risk infection is suspected, the staff has to switch to full-body protective gear, and blood samples have to be sent for expedited screening. Even “expedited” meant twenty minutes. Twenty minutes I didn’t have. The lead doctor’s face turned grim. He looked at Evelyn. “Are you stating for the record that the patient is high-risk for infectious diseases?” “Would I lie about that?” Evelyn shrugged. “She’s been sleeping in God knows whose bed for three years. Do what you have to do.” I lay on the cold table, listening to her words. The pain in my chest finally eclipsed the pain in my bones. “I… didn’t…” I tried to scream it. I tried to tell them that even when they shocked me into unconsciousness with cattle prods, even when they broke my legs, I never let them touch me like that. I was clean. But my throat was a well of blood. No sound came out. The doctor gritted his teeth and turned to his team. “Full PPE! Everyone! Get the infectious disease protocol started! Use plasma expanders to keep her pressure up while we wait for the screen! We move as fast as we can, but nobody gets stuck!” The surgery was put on hold. Those four words were my death sentence. The nurses backed away to gown up. Seconds bled into minutes, and every second drained the last of the warmth from my veins. Evelyn turned back to Daisy, pointing through the glass of the trauma bay. “Daisy, look at that.” “The moment a girl takes the wrong path, the moment she lets men touch her, even the doctors are afraid to save her.” “Everyone thinks she’s dirty. Everyone is disgusted by her.” Daisy watched as the tubes were snaked into my body, watching as my blood stained the sterile white sheets. She was shaking like a leaf, her spirit finally breaking. “I get it, Mom… I won’t go… I’ll stay home… I’ll never talk to them again…” Evelyn patted her head, satisfied. “That’s my good girl. Your sister’s pathetic life finally has a little value.” Through the glass, I saw that smile. She was using my dying gasps to extinguish the last spark of Daisy’s will. The doors burst open. The doctor ran out, clutching a few sheets of paper, his voice cracking. “The screens are negative! She’s clean! But we’ve lost twenty minutes! She’s in multi-organ failure—we have to take the spleen now! Sign the papers! Pay the deposit so we can move!” Evelyn glanced at the results and sniffed. “So she’s clean. You ‘experts’ sure took your time for nothing.” The doctor’s eyes were bloodshot. He slammed the “Notice of Critical Condition” in front of her. “Shut up and sign! And pay!” Evelyn looked at the paper but didn’t pick up the pen. Just then, her phone buzzed. It was a video call from my father, Bob. Evelyn answered. My father’s panicked voice boomed from the speaker. “Evelyn! Where are you? The police called—they said Jade was found at the pier! Is she okay? Tell me she’s okay!” Evelyn casually turned the camera toward me, showing my mangled body on the table. “There she is. Barely a breath left.” On the screen, my father’s face went white. He looked like he was about to vomit. “Jade! Oh my God, my baby! Doctor! Please, save her!” The doctor yelled at the phone, “The family won’t provide ID or payment! We can’t proceed!” Bob lost it, screaming at Evelyn. “Give them the ID! Now! Use my emergency card! Just save her!” Evelyn rolled her eyes and moved the phone away. “Stop shouting. I told you, I can’t find her ID. And I didn’t bring enough cash. Besides, even if they save her, she’ll be a cripple. Why waste the money?” My father’s hand slammed against a desk on the other side of the screen. “Evelyn, you lying bitch! I saw you put Jade’s ID in the hidden pocket of your bag yesterday! I watched you do it!” “Give it to them! Give it to them right now!” The lie was stripped bare. Evelyn’s face stiffened. The medical staff in the hallway looked at her with pure, unadulterated loathing. A nurse stepped forward, snatched Evelyn’s bag, and ripped open the hidden zipper. There it was. My ID, tucked away like a secret. “You had it the whole time! You let her lie here and die!” The nurse’s eyes were wet with rage as she sprinted toward the registration desk. Evelyn, robbed of her bag, finally snapped. She screamed at the phone. “Bob, shut up! You’re never home! You didn’t see Daisy falling for that little punk online! She was going to buy a ticket tomorrow! Do you care? No!” “I had to show her! I had to make sure she understood!” “I’m doing this for our family! Jade’s life was already ruined! Daisy still has a chance!” She turned and pointed at me. “She deserves this! She was always the difficult one! I’m using her to teach our daughter how to be a woman!” My father broke down on the screen, sobbing. “You monster… she’s your own flesh and blood. You sold her to those people… and now you’re killing her.” I lay on the table, and the world began to go black. So my father knew. He knew my mother had sold me, and he had done nothing. The monitor let out a long, piercing wail. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep— The green line went flat. The doctor screamed, “Code Blue! Start compressions! Epinephrine, now! Charge to two hundred!” My consciousness began to drift, floating up, leaving the battered shell of my body behind. I watched from the ceiling as they jumped on my chest, sweat pouring off their faces. I watched as the nurse eventually stopped, her eyes red, and pulled the white sheet over my head. The doors opened. The doctor walked out, his shoulders slumped. He looked at Evelyn. “She’s gone. Sign the time of death and get her out of here.” Evelyn blinked. She looked at the paper, then past the doctor to the shape under the white sheet. She didn’t cry. Instead, she grabbed Daisy’s hand and shoved her forward. “Daisy. Look.” “When you’re dead, they just cover you with a rag. That’s what happens to girls who chase boys online.” “She gave her life to warn you. If you ever try to contact a man behind my back again, this is your future.” Daisy collapsed to the floor, her mind finally snapping. She curled into a ball, screaming. “I won’t! I’ll be good! I’ll do whatever you want! Just make it stop!” Evelyn nodded, satisfied. She looked at the doctor and waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, stop with the dramatics. She’s fine. She’s just playing dead to scare her sister. If I go in there and give her a good smack, she’ll get up.” The doctor stared at her, his voice trembling. “Are you even human? She’s dead. You delayed us for fifty minutes. Her spleen ruptured. She died of hypovolemic shock.” “Incompetent,” Evelyn hissed. She shoved the doctor aside and marched into the room. She walked straight to the bed and ripped the sheet off my face. “Jade, enough! Get up!” “You’ve been pulling this stunt since you were five. Stop wasting the hospital’s time. We’re going home.” She reached out and pinched my cheek, hard. There was no warmth. Only a cold, heavy stillness. My skin was the color of ash. My eyes were half-open, pupils fixed and dilated. Evelyn’s fingers faltered. She dug her nails into my skin. I didn’t flinch. “Jade?” Her voice went thin. She grabbed my shoulders and began to shake me violently. “I said get up! Listen to me! Get up!” My head lolled to the side, swaying limply with her movements. Total, hollow silence. Evelyn recoiled, stumbling back against a crash cart. “No… that’s not right…” “I timed it… she survived three years of hell… how could she die from twenty minutes in a hospital?” The nurse walked in and slammed the death certificate into her chest. “She’s dead. And you’re the one who killed her.”

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Under the blinding glare of the chandelier, the tension in the auction house was thick enough to choke on. The royal nineteenth-century bridal diadem—a masterpiece of gold filigree and sapphires that I had spent the last three years painstakingly restoring with my own hands—was sold. Lennon Caldwell had just won it with an astronomical, record-breaking bid. But the real shock didn’t come from the price tag. It came when he turned around and casually placed that historically profound, breathtakingly irreplaceable artifact onto the perfectly coiffed head of Hollywood’s newest It-girl. The room erupted into a cacophony of gasps. Dozens of camera lenses instantly pivoted, zooming in on my face. Every reporter in the room was holding their breath, waiting to see how the “long-term fiancée” would unravel. Lennon glanced over at me. His eyes held that familiar, careless arrogance—a quiet disdain he didn’t even bother to hide anymore. “The diadem is a symbol of good fortune,” he said, his voice entirely too light for the weight of the moment. “I’m just letting Gia borrow it for the evening to calm her nerves. I’ll have my assistant send a brand-new set of diamonds to your apartment tomorrow.” “Don’t bother.” The absolute stillness in my own voice surprised even me. Lennon’s brow furrowed. He clearly thought I was throwing a tantrum. “Don’t be childish, Camille. Gia just won her first major acting award. She needs this kind of press right now.” A small, quiet smile escaped my lips. I didn’t say another word. I simply turned on my heel and walked out, leaving the suffocating humiliation of that ballroom behind me. He would never know. He would never know that the sapphire diadem was the bridal crown I had spent thousands of hours repairing for myself, meant to be worn on the day I married him. But since it had been tainted, I no longer had any use for it. 1 Footsteps clicked against the marble behind me. It was Gia. “Is she mad at me?” her voice drifted down the corridor, dripping with manufactured innocence. “Should I go take the shiny stones off and give them back?” Lennon’s reply was a cold drawl. “Ignore her. She’s just spoiled.” Stepping out of the gala, the Manhattan night air hit me with a biting chill. Lennon didn’t know the truth about the diadem. He didn’t know it wasn’t just a museum piece; it was my dowry. I had spent three years hunched beneath magnifying lamps, mending every fractured wire, re-setting every loose stone, dreaming of the moment I would walk down the aisle toward him. Back at my restoration studio, Lennon’s assistant quietly entered and set a velvet tray on my workbench. The diadem lay inside, looking pitifully abandoned. Two delicate strands of antique gold wire were snapped. A flawless sapphire was missing. The intricate enamel work was chipped. Lennon strolled in a few minutes later, loosening the collar of his tailored tuxedo. “Have it fixed by tomorrow morning.” I sat on my stool, staring at the wreckage of gold and jewels. I didn’t move a muscle. Lennon walked over and pinched my chin, forcing my face up. “What are you spacing out for? A little repair job is nothing for those hands of yours. It needs to be at the Global Heritage Exhibition by the day after tomorrow. This is about the Caldwell family’s reputation. Don’t be ungrateful.” I turned my face sharply, breaking his grip. “I can’t fix it. It’s ruined.” His expression darkened. “Camille. Do not test my patience. Gia had a little accident and bumped it. As the future Mrs. Caldwell, it is your absolute duty to clean up her messes.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cheap velvet box, and tossed it onto the workbench. “Take it. It’s a thank-you gift from Gia. A limited-edition designer hair clip. Don’t ever say I don’t treat you well.” The box popped open on impact. Inside sat a gaudy, rhinestone-encrusted pink bow. It was the same clip Gia had been wearing on the red carpet earlier tonight. A single strand of her blonde hair was still tangled in the clasp. I took a slow, trembling breath. I reached toward the velvet tray to pick up the diadem. In my distraction, the jagged edge of snapped gold wire sliced deep into my index finger. A bead of dark red blood welled up instantly, dropping heavily onto the antique gold. Lennon swore under his breath and snatched the diadem away, inspecting the metal. “Why are you so clumsy? Do you have any idea how much this artifact is worth if you stain it?” He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and frantically buffed the blood off the gold. He never once looked at my bleeding hand. The studio door pushed open, and Gia slipped inside, immediately wrapping her arms around Lennon’s bicep. “Don’t be mad at her, Lennon,” she pouted. “She’s probably just jealous that I got to wear it. It must be so hard for her to see me in something so pretty.” Lennon set the cleaned diadem back onto the tray. “Did you hear that? Learn a little grace from Gia. Fix it, and send it straight to the exhibition gallery. Don’t hold up Gia’s dress rehearsal tomorrow.” With that, he wrapped his arm around Gia’s waist and led her out the door. I stood rooted to the floor, watching their silhouettes disappear into the hallway. Slowly, I reached out, picked up the rhinestone clip and the velvet box, and dropped them both into the trash can. I walked into the back room of my studio. The space was filled with the quiet ghosts of a wedding that would never happen. Hanging on a velvet mannequin was an antique, Edwardian silk-chiffon bridal gown I had spent three years meticulously re-beading by hand. On the table sat half-finished custom wedding favors. I pulled out my phone and scrolled to an international number I had saved but never dared to call. He answered on the first ring. “Camille?” I closed my eyes. The silence in the room felt heavy, suffocating. “That proposal,” I whispered. “My answer is yes.” There was a heartbeat of silence on the other end, followed by the deep, steady intake of breath, and then a voice thick with quiet triumph. Just as I hung up, my phone buzzed with an audio message from Lennon. “Get the repairs done and get to sleep. We’re going to City Hall on Monday to sign the marriage license. I refuse to have my bride looking like a corpse with dark circles under her eyes. Don’t embarrass the family.” I stared at the transcribed text on the screen for three seconds. Then, I deleted the entire conversation thread. 2 The next morning, the studio door swung open. Lennon walked in with Gia clinging to his side. I was bent over the workbench, carefully fusing a microscopic gold filament. I didn’t look up. Gia began wandering around my pristine studio, picking up and dropping my delicate restoration tools like they were toys. “Why is everything in here so… dusty?” she whined, pinching her nose. “It smells like an old basement.” She drifted over to the vintage mannequin. She reached a manicured hand toward the fragile Edwardian lace. It was spun from decades-old silk—incredibly delicate, irreplaceable. I slammed my tools down. “Don’t touch that!” Startled, Gia yanked her hand back. Her elbow caught the edge of a heavy tin of industrial gilding solvent resting on the high table next to the gown. The tin tipped. A thick, toxic amber liquid splashed violently across the immaculate white silk. The chemicals soaked instantly into the antique threads. The intricate beadwork I had spent thousands of hours sewing melted into a hardened, ruined stain. Instinct overrode logic. I lunged forward to push her away and save the fabric. But before my fingers even grazed Gia’s shoulder, a massive force shoved me backward. Lennon had stepped between us, shoving me violently against the mahogany workbench. The sharp corner of the table dug ruthlessly into my lower back. I collapsed against the wood, curling in on myself as a cold sweat broke out across my forehead. The pain was blinding. “Are you insane?!” Lennon roared. “It’s just a ragged old dress! If it’s ruined, it’s ruined! How dare you lay a hand on Gia? Do you have any idea how much her body is insured for?” Gia shrank into Lennon’s chest, pointing a trembling finger down at the toe of her designer heels, where a single drop of solvent had landed. “Lennon… my limited-edition shoes got dirty…” Lennon glanced down. Without a second thought, he reached over, grabbed the delicate hem of my ruined Edwardian bridal gown, and ripped it off the mannequin. “Here, let me wipe it off.” He balled up the gown—the dress I had poured my soul into, the dress I had bled over for three years—and knelt on the floor, using it as a rag to scrub Gia’s shoes. I clutched my back, breathless, watching my life’s work get dragged across the dusty floor. In Lennon’s hands, my sacred, irreplaceable history was nothing but a dirty towel. Once the shoe was clean, Lennon casually tossed the soiled, crumpled heap of vintage silk into the corner. He dusted off his hands. He turned to look at me, still gasping by the table, and pulled a sleek black Amex from his wallet, slapping it onto the bench. “Enough of the dramatics. Go buy yourself a custom Vera Wang or whatever it is you want. Nobody wears vintage garbage like that anymore anyway. You’d be a laughingstock.” Gia looped her arm through his. “Exactly. That old thing was so tacky. You have such amazing taste, Lennon. Can we leave now? The fumes in here are giving me a headache.” Lennon nodded. He didn’t spare me a single glance as he escorted her out of the room. No one asked if I was hurt. No one apologized. The studio fell into a deathly, ringing silence. I gripped the edge of the table and forced myself to stand. My legs shook as I walked over to the corner and picked up the gown. It was stiff with chemicals, stained brown, coated in floor dirt. I picked up my heavy fabric shears. Snip. Snip. I cut the gown into shreds. I threw the pieces into the metal fire-safe bin by the door, struck a match, and dropped it in. The flames caught quickly, devouring the silk, reducing the lace to black ash. I stood there, watching the fire hollow out the fabric, when my phone vibrated. A text from Lennon. “Gia is shaken up. I’m staying at her place tonight. Use the time to reflect on your behavior. Stop acting like such a bitter, petty woman.” 3 Three days before we were supposed to sign our marriage license, the Caldwell family hosted a highly publicized charity gala. Lennon’s PR team made it clear that my attendance was mandatory—it was meant to build hype for the upcoming society wedding. I arrived at the ballroom doors wearing a severe, unadorned black slip dress, my face entirely free of makeup. When Lennon spotted me, his jaw tightened. He marched over and hissed in my ear. “We are celebrating tonight. Why the hell are you dressed for a funeral? Go upstairs and change into something bright. Stop trying to embarrass me.” I met his gaze, my eyes completely hollow. “The only other dress I had was the one you used to polish your girlfriend’s shoes. This is all that’s left.” Lennon was momentarily speechless. Before he could formulate an excuse, Gia bounded over, poured into a siren-red couture gown. “Lennon, do I look okay in this?” she beamed. Lennon’s irritation vanished. He flashed his media-ready smile, wrapping his arm securely around her waist as he turned to the approaching investors. “Everyone, this is Gia. She’s our charity ambassador for the evening, and the new face of Caldwell Fine Jewelry.” He led her through the glittering crowd, soaking up the flattery, completely forgetting I existed. Then, the auction began. Gia’s eyes locked onto a piece on the velvet display stand. It was a vintage 1920s Art Deco pearl-and-diamond hair comb. The pearls were luminous, aged to a perfect creamy luster. It was my late mother’s heirloom. It had been lost to creditors years ago after her death. “Lennon, look at that comb. It’s absolutely stunning. I want it,” Gia purred, shaking his arm. Lennon didn’t hesitate. He raised his paddle. “Five million.” No one in the room dared to bid against the CEO of Caldwell Enterprises. The gavel slammed down. The comb was delivered directly to his table. I stepped forward immediately, my hand outstretched. “That was my mother’s comb. Please. Let me have it.” Lennon casually sidestepped my hand. With a slick, practiced motion, he slid the antique comb into the side of Gia’s blonde updo. He took a step back, admiring his work. “Flawless,” he murmured. “Beautiful jewels for a beautiful girl.” I held my hand out again, my voice trembling. “Give it back to me.” Lennon grabbed my wrist. His grip was bruisingly tight. He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. “I told you to stop being petty. She’s just wearing it for the night. You’ll get it back when we go home. I bought it to boost our philanthropic image. Stop acting like the whole world owes you a massive debt.” On stage, the auctioneer’s voice boomed through the speakers. “And now, for our next lot! A magnificent fifteenth-century Venetian gold chalice, miraculously restored by the world-renowned antiquities expert, Miss Camille Dubois! Bidding starts at eight million dollars!” Lennon released my wrist and let out a derisive scoff. “Who would pay eight million for a glued-together piece of trash? The only reason anyone bids on her little arts and crafts is because she has my last name attached to her.” A man in the front row of the VIP section casually raised his paddle. “Fifty million.” The entire ballroom went dead silent. The man who stood up was dressed in a bespoke charcoal-grey suit that screamed quiet, unfathomable wealth. It was Gideon Roth, the notoriously elusive billionaire art collector who had just returned from Europe. Lennon froze, his sneer faltering into a plastic smile as Gideon took the microphone. Gideon’s dark, piercing gaze bypassed Lennon entirely and landed squarely on me. “Miss Dubois’s craftsmanship is nothing short of divine,” Gideon’s voice was a low, magnetic baritone. “She is an artist who breathes second life into history. Fifty million is merely a starting point.” A wave of murmurs rippled through the elite crowd. Every eye turned to me. Lennon’s smile looked painful. He raised his voice, attempting to reclaim the narrative. “Mr. Roth is too kind. My fiancée’s little hobby is just patching up broken garbage. It’s hardly worthy of this kind of stage.” Standing just behind Lennon, I let out a soft, genuine laugh. I looked at the back of Lennon’s neck and spoke, my voice carrying clearly. “Mr. Caldwell is right. I am an expert in fixing broken garbage. It’s just a shame that some things are rotten all the way down to the core. Those things can never be fixed.” Lennon whipped around, genuine shock flashing in his eyes before it hardened into pure fury. He glanced around at the cameras, swallowed his rage, and reached out, patronizingly patting the top of my head. “Always so defensive,” he chuckled tightly. “Gia is staying over at the penthouse tonight. Make sure the guest room is ready. And be a good host.” I didn’t flinch. I just let his hand fall. Three days left. 4 The night before we were scheduled to sign the marriage papers, Gia moved into our penthouse. Lennon stood in the doorway of the master bedroom, pointing inside. “You’re sleeping in the guest room tonight. Gia has trouble sleeping in strange places, and this custom mattress is the only firmness that works for her spine. You’re the host; make some sacrifices for our guest.” That custom mattress was the one I had spent months researching and importing from Sweden to accommodate the chronic lower back pain Lennon suffered from. I didn’t argue. I just turned and walked down the hall. “Where are you going?” he called out. “The study. I have paperwork.” “Good. Be productive. Behave yourself, and I’ll buy you something nice after we sign the papers tomorrow.” I walked into the study and locked the heavy oak door behind me. I opened my laptop, connected to the printer, and printed out a single document. Then, I opened the wall safe. I took out my bank cards, the property deeds in my name, and every single piece of expensive jewelry I had accumulated over the last eight years. I dragged a large cardboard box out from the closet and unceremoniously dumped everything inside. I taped it shut and slapped a shipping label on the top. The delivery address was the National Women’s Charity Foundation. Deep into the night, the muffled sounds of Gia’s giggles drifted through the walls from the master suite. I sat on the floor of the study. From my pocket, I pulled out a cubic zirconia replica ring—a cheap, flawless fake. I set it dead in the center of the mahogany desk. I had sold the real diamond engagement ring months ago to buy better restoration equipment. He had never even noticed. The next morning, Lennon emerged from the master bedroom. He walked into the kitchen and slid a plate toward me. “Eat up. Then head to the museum. Today is your big debut. Don’t humiliate me.” I looked down. It was the leftover half of Gia’s breakfast delivery. Gia didn’t eat carbs, so Lennon was tossing the bread to me. Years ago, if we shared a single piece of toast, he used to meticulously cut the crusts off just the way I liked before giving me the larger half. “I’m going to announce our engagement officially at the exhibition today,” Lennon said, adjusting his Tom Ford tie in the hallway mirror. “I’m giving you the ultimate validation. You must be thrilled.” I picked up the half-eaten sandwich and dropped it into the trash can by my feet. Lennon paused, his hands freezing on his tie. “Camille. What is your problem?” I stood up, pulling a paper towel from the dispenser to wipe my hands. “No problem at all. In fact, I’ve prepared a massive surprise for you today, Lennon. I guarantee it will be an event you will never, ever forget.” He blinked, surprised, and then a smug grin spread across his face. “I knew you’d come around. Finally learning how to be a proper partner. Alright. I’m looking forward to it.” As we headed for the door, Gia squeezed past me in the entryway. The sharp stiletto heel of her shoe stepped squarely onto the toe of my pristine white pump. She left a dark, scuffed footprint right across the leather. “Oh! My gosh, Camille, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even see you standing there,” Gia gasped, covering her mouth in mock horror. Lennon barely glanced down. He sighed impatiently. “Out with the old, in with the new. Change into some flats anyway; you’re going to be working backstage all day. Heels are completely inappropriate for staff.” I stared at the ruined white shoe. Slowly, I slipped it off and laced up a pair of nondescript running sneakers. As I walked out, I pulled the penthouse key off my ring and dropped it silently down the storm drain by the curb. I headed for the Met. 5 The Global Heritage Exhibition was a media spectacle. Hundreds of journalists and live-streamers crowded the grand hall. Lennon had leveraged the full weight of Caldwell Enterprises to sponsor the event. He wanted to parade the antique diadem, and his future wife, in front of the world to drive up the company’s stock prices. In the backstage dressing room, Lennon knelt on the floor, adjusting the hem of my vintage silk gown. He looked up at my reflection in the vanity mirror. “Go out there, Camille. Tonight, the spotlight is entirely yours. Once you finish your presentation on the diadem, I’ll be waiting right in the front row.” His voice dropped into a smooth, practiced cadence. “I am going to give you a proposal that will make every woman on earth sick with envy.” Gia stood in the corner, her eyes red-rimmed and furious. “Lennon, I want to go on stage too! I helped bring publicity to the diadem!” Lennon held up a hand, silencing her. “Stop it. Tonight is Camille’s moment. This is about Caldwell’s legacy. You sit in the audience and behave. Do not cause a scene.” I looked at myself in the mirror. The pale, luminous silk draped elegantly over my frame. Around my left wrist, partially hidden by the sleeve, was a slender crimson silk cord—a quiet gift from Gideon Roth. “Okay,” I smiled softly at the mirror. Seeing my smile, the tension drained from Lennon’s shoulders. He looked incredibly satisfied. Moments later, I stood center stage. The spotlight isolated me in a pool of brilliant white. Beside me, secured beneath bulletproof glass, the sapphire diadem gleamed. I leaned into the microphone. The cavernous hall fell utterly silent. “This diadem has survived centuries,” my voice echoed, steady and clear. “It has been buried in dust, its gold fractured, its jewels lost to time. To restore it is not merely to bend metal or glue stones. It is an act of returning its dignity.” I looked down into the front row of the VIP section. Lennon was staring up at me, a proud, possessive smirk on his face. “But antiques have a soul,” I continued. “If placed in the wrong hands, even the most priceless jewel becomes worthless gravel. The true duty of a restorer is to ensure the artifact is returned to someone who truly understands its worth, someone who will protect it. In my profession, we call this ‘repatriation.’ In life, we call it ‘cutting our losses.’” Applause broke out across the room. Lennon was clapping the loudest, his chest puffed out, utterly oblivious to the double meaning. I turned my gaze to the glass case. “The diadem is now whole. Its fractured past is history. And in the spirit of this sacred moment of renewal, I would like to announce a very personal piece of news.” Down in the VIP row, Lennon practically vibrated with excitement. He adjusted his collar, reached into his breast pocket to pull out a massive velvet box, and slid one foot into the aisle, preparing to mount the stairs. I raised my left hand, the crimson thread stark against my pale skin. I looked past Lennon, addressing the microphone. “On this night of new beginnings… I would like to ask my fiancé—” “Will you come up here and place my true engagement ring on my finger?”

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One year ago, a cruel, calculated game tore twenty years of history to shreds. My supposed best friend, Melanie, hit a “Royal Flush” during a high-stakes poker night at the club. With a predatory smile, she pointed at the three men my father had hand-picked as my potential suitors and demanded they ghost me for an entire year. She called it a “litmus test for true love,” a way to see which of them was truly worthy of my hand. I had been standing in the shadows that night, my heart racing, fully expecting them to laugh in her face. Instead, they exchanged a single, chilling look and agreed in unison. Even when my father threatened to strip them of their positions in our firm, they remained cold. They told him—and me—that it was for my own good, that if I couldn’t handle a little “test,” I didn’t deserve to be a Blackwood bride. In that moment, watching them trample my dignity in the name of love, something inside me died. Fast forward to today. Those same three men are standing on my doorstep, brandishing their documents like trophies, their faces masked in a nauseating, entitled arrogance. They told me the “probation period” was over. They were here to offer me the “charity” of choosing one of them to marry. Looking at their smug, victorious expressions, I couldn’t help it. I laughed. I didn’t just chuckle; I let out a sharp, jagged sound that cut through the morning air. I stepped aside, ignoring the papers they tried to shove into my hands. My voice was as flat as a dead calm sea. “Excuse me. I have an appointment with my OB-GYN for a prenatal checkup.” … “Drop the act, Norah. You haven’t even had a man in your bed for a year. What prenatal checkup?” Hudson stepped closer, invading my space just like he used to. He leaned down, his voice a low, teasing rasp against my ear. “Though, I have to say, you’ve put on a little weight this year.” He let his gaze wander over me with a possessive heat. “It suits you. You look… riper. More womanly.” His chest brushed my back, his thumb ghosting over the skin of my neck. A wave of genuine nausea rolled through me, but it wasn’t the baby. It was him. I shoved him away with everything I had. “Don’t touch me, Hudson. Get back.” I instinctively shielded my stomach, my other hand trembling as I pointed toward the street. Hudson stumbled back, looking genuinely shocked. Behind him, Blake and Tatum both frowned, their brows knitting together in synchronized annoyance. Hudson adjusted his glasses, his tone shifting back to that of a rational adult explaining something to a difficult child. “The separation was necessary, Norah. It was meant to teach us all how to value you. The test is over. We’ve grown. We know how to love you better now.” The other two chimed in like a well-rehearsed choir. “He’s right. We thought about you every single day,” Blake added, his voice dripping with faux-sincerity. “We had to prove ourselves out there,” Tatum said. “It was hard, but it was all so we could stand beside you as equals, not just as your father’s proteges.” I looked at these three men—men my father had raised, mentored, and treated like sons—and felt a profound sense of desolation. Hudson had been my favorite once. He was the one who, years ago, would drive across three states in a blizzard just to bring me my favorite dessert when I was sad. When I was sick in high school, he stayed up all night outside my door, refusing to sleep until my fever broke. Blake was the intuitive one; he always knew what I was thinking before I even spoke. Tatum was the quiet powerhouse, the one who kept the family business running like a Swiss watch. He once looked me in the eye and promised that even if we never married, he would protect me until his last breath. But after that night at the club, they vanished. They didn’t just leave; they gutted us. They took my father’s proprietary trade secrets and used them to prop up Melanie’s startup. They leaked confidential files to prove they “didn’t need the family name,” nearly bankrupting us in the process. This past year, the company has been a sinking ship in a hurricane. My father’s heart gave out under the stress, landing him in the ICU for months. I was the one who stood on the deck alone. I was the one who kept the lights on. Hudson, seeing my silence, pressed forward again. His shadow fell over me, his warm breath fanning across my face. “That pregnancy comment… it’s just a move to get under our skin, right?” He glanced at my hand, still protective over my belly, and let out a dry chuckle. “If you really want a baby that badly, come to the courthouse with me now. I promise I’ll… satisfy that craving tonight.” I felt a smirk tug at the corner of my mouth as I looked up at him. “You really think you’re the last man on earth, don’t you, Hudson? You think if I’m carrying a child, it has to be yours?” His smile curdled. A flash of genuine rage flickered in his eyes. “Norah. Watch your mouth.” I met his gaze, my expression icy and provocative. “I’m saying you have a wildly inflated sense of self-importance.” He lunged forward, his fingers clamping onto my chin like a vice. “We’ve explained this a dozen times! It was a test! We’re back now, aren’t we?” I wrenched my face away from his grip. “A year is a long time, Hudson. It was long enough for me to fire every mole in the company. Long enough to prune my social circle of every ‘friend’ who betrayed me.” I paused, letting the silence hang. “And it was more than enough time to find a better man for my bed.” “You—!” Hudson’s fist clenched, his veins bulging. He looked ready to explode, and I instinctively took a half-step back, shielding my abdomen. “Are you insane, Norah?” he hissed. “Do you have any idea why we did what we did? We went out there to build empires! We did it so people would know we weren’t just some pampered house-pets living off your father’s charity! We did it so we could claim you as men who earned you!” The tension was a physical weight between us, but it was shattered by the shrill ring of Hudson’s phone. He checked the screen and instantly let go of me. He hit speaker. Melanie’s voice came through, a high-pitched, hysterical wail. “Hudson? Blake? Is anyone there? Please, help me! I was at the casino… I won big against some guys, but they’re refusing to pay. They’re cornering me… they’re trying to pull me into a back room… they’re trying to touch me… Please!” The three men turned pale. The transformation was instantaneous. “Melanie, stay calm. Don’t let them touch you. We’re coming!” Melanie sobbed out a location, and the three of them turned toward the curb as if pulled by a single string. Before he dove into the car, Hudson shot a look back at me. “Melanie is fragile, Norah. Her safety—her dignity—is on the line. I have to go.” “We’ll finish this when we get back,” Tatum added. “Then we’ll decide which one of us is taking you to the courthouse.” I watched their taillights disappear, my hand resting on the slight curve of my stomach. My heart felt like a hollowed-out cavern. I remembered a night six months ago. My father was still in the hospital. To save the company, I was forced to attend a dinner with a group of predatory investors. They had plied me with drinks, their hands wandering where they didn’t belong. I had locked myself in the restroom, shaking, listening to them pound on the door, laughing, telling me to “be a good girl” and come back out. My dress was torn at the shoulder, my mascara was a ruined mess. In that moment of pure terror, I had called them. Tatum didn’t pick up. Blake blocked my number after the third ring. On the twentieth try, Hudson finally answered. In the background, I could hear Melanie’s melodic, carefree laughter. I didn’t care about the pride then. I just sobbed into the phone. “Hudson, please… help me. I’m at the Pierre… these men, they won’t let me leave… I’m scared…” Hudson’s voice had been like shards of dry ice. “Norah, don’t use ‘safety’ as a cheap trick to lure me home. It’s pathetic. We gave Melanie our word that we wouldn’t see you for a year, and we intend to keep it. Stop embarrassing yourself.” He hung up. Just as the door was about to give way, just as a greasy hand reached for me, a shadow had fallen over the room. A tall, powerful man had stepped in, draped his heavy cashmere coat over my shoulders, and carried me out of that nightmare. He was coming home tomorrow. ——– The driver dropped me off at the private wing of the hospital. I walked in alone, only to find the last four people on earth I wanted to see clogging the hallway. Melanie was slumped in a chair, looking “faint,” draped artfully across Hudson’s lap. Blake was arguing with a nurse about a prescription, and Tatum was carefully blowing on a cup of hot tea for her. Melanie spotted me instantly. She shrank into Hudson’s chest, then looked at me with a look that was pure, unadulterated venom masked by a pout. “Norah? Oh my god, what a coincidence. Are you here for a checkup too?” She touched her forehead, playing the victim. “I was so traumatized by those men at the casino. Hudson and the boys were so worried, they insisted on a full physical. But Norah… what are you doing in the Maternity wing? None of the boys have been with you all year.” She let out a gasp that was entirely too loud. “You didn’t… you didn’t get yourself knocked up by some random guy, did you? Are you trying to trap one of my boys into being a step-daddy for a mistake?” Blake walked over, clutching a slip of paper, his lip curling in a sneer. “Really, Norah? Melanie is literally shaking from an assault, and you’re here playing some disgusting pregnancy angle?” I stopped in my tracks, looking at the three of them. “Melanie,” I said, my voice cold and clear. “The child in my womb, regardless of who the father is, is the sole heir to the Blackwood estate. But what about you?” I let my eyes scan the three men surrounding her. “You spent a whole year ‘winning’ them. You tore my life apart to get them. And yet, after all that, not one of them has actually put a ring on your finger, have they?” I leaned in slightly. “Let’s call it what it is. You’re not a girlfriend. You’re just their collective hobby.” Melanie’s fake fragility vanished. Her face twisted. “How dare you! Hudson, did you hear what she said? She’s so cruel! No wonder you guys left her.” She turned her watery eyes back to me. “Even if they love me, it’s because you’re a bitter, cold woman. In a relationship, the one who isn’t loved is the real intruder.” I laughed, a sharp, dry sound. “Are you really bragging about being a three-for-one special, Melanie? Do you need me to draw up a shift schedule for you? It must be exhausting keeping all three of them ‘satisfied’.” Melanie’s face went scarlet. Hudson stood up abruptly, nearly dumping her on the floor. “Norah, shut your mouth!” He began wiping Melanie’s tears with his thumb, glaring at me. “She almost lost her dignity today, and you’re standing here insulting her! If you don’t apologize to her right now, none of us will ever marry you. Consider your ‘test’ failed.” Blake’s eyes were like daggers. “You’re a disappointment, Norah. Melanie took care of us this year while you were busy being a ‘boss.’ We finally saw how fake you are. You’re just a spoiled heiress using your father’s name to bully people. You don’t have a fraction of Melanie’s heart.” Tatum handed the tea to Melanie, his voice thick with disdain. “Norah, if this pregnancy thing is a joke, it’s in poor taste. But the way you spoke to her… apologize. Now.” They crowded around her, a wall of masculine aggression. I felt a pang in my throat, but I just smoothed my hand over my stomach. “If you think she’s such a saint,” I said, my voice steady, “then marry her. All three of you.” I turned to leave, but Hudson’s voice barked out behind me. “Norah, get back here! Who do you think you’re—” My phone buzzed in my pocket. Headline: [Baby, landing at 7 PM tomorrow. Be home soon.] Hudson grabbed my wrist just as a doctor stepped out of an exam room. The doctor looked at the chart and then at me. “Ms. Blackwood? Your results are in.” The doctor smiled professionally. “Everything looks perfect. You’re in excellent health for the second trimester. The baby is thriving.” Before I could speak, the rage on Hudson, Blake, and Tatum’s faces vanished, replaced by a bizarre, sickening sort of pride. “Norah… you were actually preparing your body? In secret?” Hudson stepped closer, his grip on my wrist loosening into a caress. His voice turned sickeningly sweet. “I knew it. I knew that even after a year apart, you were doing this for us. You were getting ready to start our family.” Blake actually smiled. “So that’s why you’re acting so tough. You wanted to see which one of us would be the best father, didn’t you? Trying to secure the ‘Blackwood’ future before you picked a husband?” As their attention shifted to me, Melanie’s face curdled. She gripped the armrests of her chair, her voice wobbling with fresh tears. “Norah… so you were ‘nesting’ this whole time? I… I didn’t mean to take them away from you today. It’s just… those men at the casino… one of them kicked me because I was trying to protect the gift I bought for you. It hurts so much… I think I’m dying…” The men’s eyes snapped back to Melanie. Seeing her “frail” state, Hudson’s anger redirected toward me. “Melanie, stop. You’re too good for this world. Even now, you’re thinking about a gift for her?” Blake’s face hardened. “Norah, don’t think that because you’re carrying a child for one of us that you get a free pass. You still owe her an apology.” Melanie sobbed, then looked up at me with a look of feigned sisterly concern. “Norah, I know you want the ring and the status, but you’ve hurt these boys. Just bow your head, say you’re sorry, and I’ll convince them to forgive you. For the sake of the baby.” She sniffled. “I’ll help you. I’ll tell them you didn’t mean it. Just apologize.” Hudson stood there, looking like he was granting me a royal pardon. “Norah, if you want to fix this and move forward with the wedding, do what she says. Apologize.” I looked at these three men—the men my father built from nothing. Once, they were my world. Now, they just smelled like rot. I let out a soft, mocking hum. “Do you three actually believe you’re that special? That I’d spend a year pining for you, preparing my body to bear your ‘legacy’?” I looked them up and down with visceral disgust. “I’m taking care of myself for the sake of my child. As for you three…” I let my gaze linger on Melanie. “You should stay with her. Honestly. A ‘Green Tea’ girl and three backstabbing lapdogs? It’s a perfect genetic match. Just don’t let the offspring out into polite society.” Hudson exploded, reaching for my collar. “Norah, you bitch—!” I stepped back, easily dodging him. “Melanie, you love picking through the trash, don’t you? Well, here’s your haul. Keep them.” I didn’t look back as I stepped into the elevator. The next afternoon, I put on my best silk gown. Tonight was the gala at the Pierre, celebrating the return of the head of the Blackwood-Vane conglomerate. Every major player in the city would be there. I arrived thirty minutes early. As I stepped into the ballroom, I ran straight into the quartet of nightmares. Hudson, Blake, and Tatum were surrounding Melanie like a palace guard. When they saw me, their faces darkened. “Norah? You’ve got to be kidding me.” Hudson’s eyes were full of loathing. “You actually scammed an invite to a Blackwood-Vane event just to follow us?” Blake let out a harsh laugh. “The company is circling the drain, and you’re here trying to gold-dig? Did you realize we weren’t going to cave yesterday, so now you’re looking for a new target?” I ignored them and walked toward the lounge area. My morning sickness was hitting late today, a sharp wave of nausea rolling through my gut. I reached for a table to steady myself and gagged. Melanie’s eyes went wide. She let out a piercing, theatrical shriek. “Oh my god! Norah! Are you… are you actually sick?” The sound drew the attention of the surrounding elite. “You really are pregnant!” Melanie cried out, her voice carrying across the room. Hudson stormed over, grabbing my arm with bruising force. “You make me sick, Norah. That stunt at the hospital wasn’t an act? You were actually trying to find a fall-guy?” “You’ve got some nerve,” Blake spat. “We were gone for a year, and you spent that time jumping into bed with god-knows-who? And now you want to pin the ‘bastard’ on one of us?” Tatum waved over a security guard. “Get her out of here. This is a high-profile event. We don’t need a woman with this kind of… reputation… ruining the evening.” Melanie played the peacemaker again, her voice dripping with fake pity. “Boys, don’t be too hard on her. She’s desperate. Her father is failing, her company is gone… she just wanted to find a rich father for her mistake. It’s sad, really.” The whispers started. “Is that the Blackwood girl? Pregnant and looking for a victim?” “How scandalous. And she tried to trap those poor men?” The security guard reached for my shoulder. Hudson gave me a rough shove toward the door. “Get out. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” I stumbled, the nausea making my head spin, and I nearly hit the floor. Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the ballroom swung open. Twenty suited security personnel flooded in, forming a silent, impenetrable corridor. The room went dead silent. A deep, velvet voice cut through the air like a blade. “Who told you that child was a mistake?”

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The night before the confession, I received a hotel room number from my childhood friend. I thought there would be a surprise, so I rushed over with flushed cheeks. After entering the room, I saw him entangled in bed with a girl. Seeing me, he didn’t stop. In fact, he became even more intense. After finishing, he slowly climbed off the woman. He lit a cigarette, smiling carelessly through the smoke. “No hard feelings, I’m just tired of hiding. I don’t want to keep sneaking around with her anymore.” He paused, carefully pulling the blanket up to cover the woman. “Don’t worry, I’ll still show up for tomorrow’s confession.” “After all, you’ve been chasing after me for ten years. Who else would want you besides me?” “Tomorrow, everything stays the same, except…” “You get the title, she gets my body.” He looked at me mockingly, waiting for me to ask him why like I used to, all hurt and pitiful. I said nothing and turned to leave. The next day at the confession, I threw myself into his sworn enemy’s arms. “You get the title, and you get my body too.”

“She’s here, she’s here! Bella’s here!” “Bella and her ten-year childhood friend—the campus heartthrob—confessing their love! How romantic!” The field was packed with students, completely surrounded. Dylan loved his reputation and demanded that my confession to him be grand and spectacular. For this spectacular confession, he’d been hyping it up online for three months, attracting a huge crowd of onlookers. “Bella, how do you feel about confessing today?” “Bella, aren’t you worried Dylan might reject you?” I said nothing, slowly walking toward the center of the field. The confession was arranged on the sports field. Dylan stood in the center wearing last night’s clothes, his face carrying a confident smile of certain victory. This morning he texted me, saying seven rounds last night had left him a bit tired, so he might be late. I didn’t expect him to actually show up. I looked at him calmly. He was certain I couldn’t leave him. Our families were neighbors. I’d practically grown up following right behind him. Since childhood, whenever I threw a tantrum or cried, he’d threaten me that he wouldn’t play with me anymore. Until I obediently listened, letting him mold me however he wanted. This time was the same. I showed no reaction. He thought I’d compromised. Dylan’s good buddy, Nathan, looked at me with an ambiguous expression. “Bella, you actually came!” He laughed lecherously, slinging his arm around Dylan’s shoulder. “Bro, you’re not playing fair! You won’t teach your brothers this amazing technique for controlling women!” Another guy chimed in: “So jealous of Dylan! Seven rounds in bed last night, and today he still gets a confession from the campus beauty!” Several of them burst into laughter. Dylan, being flattered, was in a great mood, his lips curving upward. “Of course. She’s my little follower I’ve trained since childhood. How could she not be obedient?” A woman who’d followed behind him since childhood—if she didn’t listen to him, who else would she listen to? So this was how he saw me. Nathan looked at Dylan with admiration. I slowly walked toward the center of the field. Sunlight fell on my white dress, making me look like an angel. A flash of amazement crossed Dylan’s eyes. Dazed, he said, “My girlfriend is so beautiful.” Without thinking, he slowly began walking toward me. Before he could move, Dylan’s buzzing phone diverted his attention. Seeing the contact name, his lips unconsciously curved upward. He walked away a few steps to answer it. “You’re awake? Looks like I didn’t work hard enough last night?” On the other end, the voice was soft and sweet, carrying a mix of complaint and coquetry that stirred the heart. “I’m in pain… It’s all your fault. You were too rough this morning. I don’t care, you have to take me to the hospital!” Dylan softened his tone: “Alright, my fault, my fault. I’ll take you to the hospital right now for a thorough checkup!” Dylan chuckled softly and turned to leave. Nathan quickly stopped him: “Who is it?” “Yesterday’s little vixen.” Dylan put his phone in his pocket, his tone unconsciously affectionate: “I was too rough last night. The little vixen is in too much pain to take it. I’m going to check on her.” Nathan raised an eyebrow: “Today is Bella’s confession day. Teachers and students are all watching. If you leave, what about Bella?” Dylan was unconcerned. “What’s the rush? No matter how late it is, she’ll wait for me. A little while won’t make a difference.” “Sophia isn’t the kind of girl who throws tantrums. She must really not feel well.” “You just keep an eye on things here. It’ll be fine.” Thinking for a moment, he stepped forward and shoved a bouquet of flowers into my hands in front of everyone. “Take a photo and post it yourself to handle things.” Click—done. He yawned lazily: “That’s that. I’m taking Sophia to the hospital for a checkup first. You handle those people.” “Dylan.” I called out to him, saying calmly: “If you leave today, I won’t confess to you.” His steps paused. He turned to look at me. His dark eyes were unreadable, then he smiled carelessly. “In this entire city, who would want you besides me?” “Bella, you simply can’t leave me. Stop making a scene.” Before leaving, he tossed out casually: “My patience is limited. Stop making a scene. When I come back, the girlfriend position is still yours.” Dylan left quickly. His buddies exchanged awkward glances. Everyone looked at me uncomfortably. No one spoke. I looked up toward the direction Dylan had left, my lips curving slightly. Dylan, go ahead. Go comfort your Sophia. Then I’ll just change the male lead for this confession.

I slowly walked to the center of the field. Everyone was staring at me. The surrounding flowers and balloons were beautifully arranged. Students and teachers were all there too. Except for the male lead. Nathan caught up, forcing out a smile. “Um… Bella, Dylan has urgent business. He’ll be back in a bit. Don’t overthink it.” His other buddies also crowded around, trying to smooth things over. “Right, right! Dylan always has everything under control. Today’s your confession day—he’ll be here soon!” “Bro guarantees it—being with Dylan, you’ll definitely be the happiest woman in this city!” “Men are all like this, you know.” The guys went back and forth, making his scumbag behavior sound completely reasonable. I looked at my phone. It was now 11:50 AM. I smiled at everyone. “Of course I’ll wait for him to come back.” If he didn’t come back, how could he witness me leaving with someone else, and the fall of the Thompson family? There was still some time before the scheduled confession. I stood in the center, my eyes scanning across the entire field. The roses in the flower beds were ones Dylan had personally imported from abroad not long ago. The floating balloons were all pig-shaped ones I liked. The heart formation on the side was also designed by a top designer Dylan had personally hired. The scene was extremely romantic. This man liked to do everything to the extreme. In college, when pursuing me, he followed me to the lab for three months without complaint. Even for data and reports he didn’t understand, he put aside his pride to ask others for help, learning everything from scratch bit by bit. A high-and-mighty, unruly rich kid reforming himself for a woman. Even though he never formally confessed, I was willing to take the initiative to confess and go to him. But this man that every woman would dream of turned out to be a scumbag. No comfort, no explanation. He only left me with one option: obedience. My best friend Emma found me, angrily defending me. “He used to treat you so well, buying gifts more diligently than anyone. I thought he was a good man!” “I never imagined he’d betray you like this. And to think I told my arranged marriage partner to learn from him!” She opened her phone, showing me new social media content. [Little vixen is too clingy. She insists on one more round to cure her illness. Won’t let me leave unless I cure her. No choice but to satisfy her.] Below were comments from all his buddies. [Congrats, Dylan! Two women now!] [When Bella finds out, she’s going to make a scene. Dylan, have you figured out how to coax her?] Dylan quickly replied. [Like I said, body for Sophia, title for her.] He said it so matter-of-factly, not treating me like a person at all. I clicked into Sophia Turner’s social media—sure enough, she had new content too. In the photo, a man and woman were embracing, exposed skin covered in bruises and marks. On the bed behind them were scattered intimate clothing, and on the sheets, faint traces of their passionate aftermath could be seen. Caption: Stop it! I told you to be gentler with your treatment! I remained expressionless and took a screenshot. “Bella, don’t wait for him anymore!” “That pair of cheating dogs is disgusting.” Emma grabbed my shoulders, shaking me: “Bella, don’t be foolish! Toads with three legs are hard to find, but men with three legs are everywhere. Why hang yourself on one tree? Hurry up and cancel today’s confession and cut ties with Dylan!” “You could have been admitted without exams in senior year, but you chose to repeat the year to tutor that spoiled brat. You taught a complete idiot until he finally got into college just last month, wasting your precious youth!” “In college, you both started managing family businesses. The Thompson family went from loss to loss under his management. You stayed up late every night creating various proposals for him—that’s the only reason the Thompson family maintained its position today.” “Even when he was out partying and all kinds of scandals spread about him, you were the one who handled everything! Silly girl, wake up! You gave him everything, and what did he give you in return?!” Emma became more agitated as she spoke, her eyes moistening: “I don’t care anymore. If you confess to him, tomorrow I’m hanging myself at your bedside.” I gently comforted her, saying seriously: “Thank you, Emma.” “Don’t worry, I won’t be confessing to Dylan.” After comforting my best friend, I opened my dad’s chat. “Dad, I admit defeat.” Dylan really wasn’t worth it.

Dylan’s buddies gathered not far away. Drunk and loose-lipped, they said everything. “Dylan’s so lucky! Out there enjoying himself now, and tonight when he gets back together with Bella, he can keep enjoying!” “Bella’s personality is so easy to manipulate. Look at her—watching Dylan get seduced by a vixen without any reaction. She can really take it!” “Dylan’s born to enjoy life. Bros, work hard and learn from Dylan!” Emma couldn’t help but want to confront them. I signaled her to stay quiet, recorded the video, and continued watching the show. Good content should be shared with everyone. Nathan video-called Dylan. The call was answered instantly. Ambiguous sounds came from the other end. Dylan, breathing heavily, joked: “I’m treating my little vixen’s illness. You guys want to watch the whole thing?” Someone asked: “Dylan, aren’t you coming back? The students are getting impatient.” Dylan said irritably: “What’s the rush? Isn’t Bella there? She’ll think of reasons to explain for me.” “Right now I need to properly treat my little vixen’s illness!” I stepped forward and took a photo of their video call screen. Several guys instantly froze in place. Nathan quickly hid his phone behind his back, forcing out a smile. “Bella…” I interrupted him. “There are five minutes left until the confession time. Shouldn’t you all go find good positions to stand?” Nathan scratched his head, laughing: “Bella, you’re really underestimating Dylan!” I rolled my eyes at them and pulled Emma away. Nathan had no choice but to explain the situation to Dylan. Dylan was dismissive. “Five minutes? Is she kidding?!” Dylan scratched his head irritably. “You guys go over first. I’ll be right there.” Dylan’s fair-weather friends caught up with me and started making excuses again. “Bella, you’re the only one in his heart, but men, you know…” Emma kicked the guy who was talking. “Trash is trash. What excuses!” I remained silent. Ten-plus years as childhood friends—Dylan had been excessively good to me. If he hadn’t come clean, I would never have discovered he had someone else. To say I wasn’t hurt would be a lie, but I was grateful—at least we weren’t married yet. As for the option he left me, I chose to flip the table. The group arrived at the center of the field. It was already packed with people. A man walked toward me. I took the initiative to walk toward him and nestled into his arms. The smiles on Dylan’s buddies’ faces completely froze. The guests below had varied expressions. This confession wasn’t for Dylan?! On the other side, Dylan finished his last cigarette and got dressed. Sophia was wrapped entirely in the blanket, mumbling discontentedly: “Rushing, rushing, what’s the rush! I haven’t finished treatment yet…” Dylan smiled and pinched the soft flesh on her body. “Let me get through this formality, then I’ll come back and continue the treatment.” He opened his phone. A flood of messages poured out. Dylan paused slightly and clicked on the latest video Nathan had sent. In the video, I wore a white dress, not the least bit disheveled. Instead, I was smiling—calm yet radiant. I didn’t walk down the rose path Dylan had laid out for me, didn’t take the flower he’d casually shoved into my hands. Instead, I walked straight toward the front of the crowd. Standing there was a tall, imposing man with an aura of cold intensity.

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