Lydia’s call came through almost instantly. Her voice was a jagged mess of disbelief and sharp, hysterical demands. She asked if I had completely lost my mind. We had the house, the ceremony, the registry, and the honeymoon all lined up. We had fought so hard to get to this finish line, she screamed. I just told her, calmly, that it didn’t matter. She already had a replacement ready to step into my shoes. After all, that man had been a part of every step of our planning. He probably knew the choreography of our wedding better than I did. It only took the length of a single cigarette for me to decide on the divorce. From the moment the flame licked the paper to the second the ember burned close enough to sting my fingers, a total of nine minutes and forty-seven seconds passed. When the butt hit the pavement, I hit “send” on the digital divorce papers. … The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. In that moment, her silence was a confession. She tried to maintain her composure, but when she finally spoke, the tremor in her breath gave it all away. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about, Adrian. You’re being paranoid.” If life had a playback feature, she would have hated hearing how much her voice shook. “Don’t play dumb with me, Lydia. I don’t make moves unless I’m holding all the cards.” That was the killing blow. Her voice dropped, small and defeated. “Can we talk? In person?” She arrived faster than I expected. We met at the rooftop lounge of a downtown coffee shop, in the designated smoking area. She was chain-smoking, her movements frantic. I walked up and pulled the last cigarette from her pack, gesturing for her to give me a light. She leaned in, her eyes rimmed with red, and whispered as she sparked the flame, “I thought we agreed to quit? For the baby we were trying for?” I wasn’t the one who broke the rules first. She saw the look in my eyes and quickly added, “I just bought these downstairs. I swear. I always try to keep my promises to you, Adrian.” “When did you find out?” she asked, her voice hollow. “Last night.” It was a fluke, really. I was about to turn in when I remembered I hadn’t booked the hotel rooms for my parents’ flight in for the wedding. I grabbed Lydia’s phone to check the map for nearby boutique hotels. That’s when I saw it. An endless, incriminating scroll of search history for hotels. They weren’t five-star resorts for a honeymoon. They were scattered across every corner of the city—cheap motels, boutique stays, places with “discreet” written all over them. I didn’t find confirmation emails, but when I accidentally clicked into a recent search for a place called The Velvet Suite, I saw her user review. “Thanks to the staff for the complimentary gift. The atmosphere was incredibly sensual. My boyfriend says we’re definitely coming back.” I stared at those words—”My boyfriend”—for what felt like hours. I didn’t know what to do next. I turned my head to look at Lydia, sleeping peacefully beside me, and I felt… nothing. Just a vast, cold emptiness. What made it worse was the digging. It didn’t take long to find him. I expected a stranger. I didn’t expect Toby. Toby, the junior associate I’d been mentoring since last January. For eighteen months, I had been his champion. I gave him my resources, my client list, my shortcuts to success. And for twelve of those months, he had been sleeping with my wife. I remembered the first time I introduced him to Lydia. She’d acted like she couldn’t stand him. She’d come home and complained that he seemed “slimy” and “too ambitious,” warning me not to trust him. He was sharp at work, though. A fast learner, a hard worker. When I looked at him, I saw a younger version of myself, and I couldn’t help but reach out a hand to pull him up. I didn’t realize that by pulling him up, I was letting him kick me into the abyss. Lydia crushed her cigarette with a trembling hand and tried to snatch mine away because I had started coughing. It was as if she only just remembered that since my bout with pneumonia last year, I couldn’t handle smoke. She pulled me out of the smoking section and turned to me, desperation in her eyes. “I want to explain. Please?” “You can, but I won’t be listening,” I said. “I only trust what I see and hear for myself now.” Every affair story is boring in its predictability. It starts with small grievances that turn into a shared resentment against me. Lydia thought I wasn’t “present” enough or “nurturing” enough. Toby thought I was too “authoritarian” and didn’t understand “modern leadership.” There’s a saying: having common interests makes you friends, but having a common enemy makes you soulmates. Lydia and Toby had built a bridge out of their petty complaints about me, crossed it, and ended up in the same bed. Lydia went on and on, a stream of consciousness I barely processed. Whether it was a sordid fling or “true love” didn’t matter. The result was the same. I interrupted her frantic monologue. “The ceremony hasn’t happened yet. We can still call it off without a public spectacle. I sent the papers to your email. Print them, sign them, and let’s be done.” We had eloped at City Hall months ago for the mortgage paperwork. I thought it was the beginning of our forever. I didn’t know I was signing my own death warrant. The word “divorce” hit her like a physical blow. She frowned, her voice rising. “Are you even listening to me, Adrian?” I let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Will listening change the fact that you’ve been opening your legs for my protégé?” She flinched. “Do you have to be so… aggressive? Every single second?” “Oh, I see. What’s the next line in the script? That if I weren’t so ‘aggressive,’ you wouldn’t have been driven into his arms?” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Are you going to tell me it takes two to tango? That I must have done something to make you decide to spend your nights texting him and your days in hourly hotels?” Lydia went pale. Then red. Then a sickly shade of grey. “I don’t want a divorce!” she finally exploded, her voice echoing across the rooftop. “And you think I wanted a cheating wife?” I snapped back. “You think I wanted a traitor for a student? If I could control the world, I wouldn’t be standing in this pathetic scene right now. You couldn’t even control your own impulses, and now you want to negotiate? It’s pathetic, Lydia.” “I’m not negotiating,” she sobbed. “I’m telling you. I won’t sign.” My cigarette had burned out. I had wasted another ten minutes on this person. I felt a sudden, crushing exhaustion. “Marriage takes two people, Lydia. But divorce? That only takes one. This is over.” I turned to walk away. She grabbed my sleeve, her face twisted in a mask of agony. “Do you really think,” she hissed, “that we got here and you’re 100% innocent? You don’t have a single flaw?” I ripped my arm away. “I am certain I didn’t deserve this. I work hard, I take care of our families, I trust my partner. My ‘strength’ and ‘independence’ are who I am. You knew that on day one. You had a thousand days and nights to decide you didn’t like my personality—you didn’t have to use that time to cheat.” I looked her dead in the eye. “Don’t try to gaslight me. I’m not one of your assistants. I’m your husband. Or I was. Marriage can fail, Lydia, but don’t be a woman I despise. Own your choices. You are the only one responsible for this.” That finally silenced her. As I walked toward the exit, I could feel her gaze burning into my back. I didn’t look back. Partly because I refused to give her another ounce of my energy, and partly because I didn’t want her to see the tears finally blurring my vision. I thought I had cried myself dry the night before. But as I stepped into the elevator, the memories flooded back. How we had spent years moving closer, inch by inch, only to tear it all down in a second. The skyscraper of our life together collapsed just before dawn. The wedding was a month away. The down payment on the house was gone. The photographer, the caterer, the venue—the deposits were all paid. Suddenly, it hit me. Marriage isn’t the light at the end of the tunnel. With someone as unfaithful as her, marriage would have been the beginning of a true, permanent darkness. I didn’t let myself wallow. I had a checklist. Fixing the Lydia situation was just step one. Dealing with the fallout she created was the real work. A minute after I hung up with the real estate office, my phone rang. It was Lydia’s father, Richard. Richard was a veteran in my industry. He was the one who introduced us. Before Lydia and I started dating, he was my mentor, a man I respected immensely. But the moment things got serious between us, he transformed into a hyper-critical father-in-law. “You’re withdrawing the down payment?” he boomed without a greeting. “Why wasn’t I consulted? We spent months finding that place! I pulled a dozen favors to get you that discount, Adrian. You’re thirty years old—stop acting like a child.” “I can’t get a hold of Lydia. What the hell is going on?” My patience was non-existent. “I don’t want the house anymore, Richard.” He sputtered. “What do you mean you don’t want it? You loved that place!” “It’s funny how things change,” I said, my voice cold. “I spent months looking at that house and decided I didn’t like it. Just like I spent three years looking at your daughter and realized I don’t like her either. Take the house back. Take your daughter back. It’s a win-win.” I hung up before he could scream. I had an appointment at the office. I needed to see my favorite student. But before I even reached the building, Toby decided to give me one last “surprise.”

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As the cornerstone of a team where I personally generated ninety percent of the revenue, my world was defined by data points, closing ratios, and the relentless pursuit of the next big contract. That was until the afternoon a new intern offered me a five-dollar latte, and I politely declined. I never imagined that such a trivial moment would become the catalyst for my professional execution. My boss publicly lambasted me for a “lack of team spirit,” but the true frost came afterward, when my colleagues began weaving a web of malicious, fabricated rumors to tear me down. I didn’t scream. I didn’t plead. Instead, I quietly spent my nights organizing every lead, every contact, and every ounce of leverage I had built over the years. Then, I took my entire empire across the street to our fiercest competitor. In just three days, my former company’s infrastructure didn’t just stumble—it paralyzed. Their stock price cratered. And in the end, the man who once looked down his nose at me was reduced to a shell of himself, desperate and broken, begging me to come back and save the house he had set on fire. 01 It all started with a lukewarm latte. It was the final day of September, and the office was a ghost town of glowing monitors and humming air conditioning. I had been there since dawn, hammering out the Q4 strategy, and by eleven p.m., I finally clicked “save” and closed my laptop. My eyes ached with that specific kind of exhaustion that feels like sand behind the lids. On my way out, I passed the breakroom. Lexi, the new intern, was fluttering around like a nervous moth, handing out coffee and pastries to the few souls still grinding away. “Janice! I got one for you too,” she said, her voice bright and hopeful as she held out a cup with a local logo on it. I gave her a tired, appreciative smile but didn’t take it. “That’s so sweet of you, Lexi, but I really don’t do caffeine this late. I’d never sleep. Give it to someone who needs the boost.” Lexi’s face fell, a flicker of genuine embarrassment crossing her features. Around the room, the typing stopped. Three of my colleagues exchanged a look—sharp, knowing, and heavy with a sudden, inexplicable tension. I was too drained to decode the subtext. I just waved goodnight and walked out into the cool city air. The next morning, I was summoned to the corner office. Philip Crawford, the CEO, was reclined in his leather chair, cradling a mug like it was a scepter. “Janice, how long has it been? Three years?” “Three years and two months, Philip,” I replied, taking the seat across from him. “Three years of being the top producer. Your numbers are undeniable.” He paused, his gaze hardening. “But I’m getting feedback that you’re becoming… unreachable. Isolated. Lexi tried to do something nice for the team yesterday, and you wouldn’t even give her the time of day? She’s a kid, Janice. You humiliated her.” I stared at him, wondering if this was some kind of elaborate prank. “Philip, I was here until eleven last night finishing the proposal you demanded by Monday. I didn’t have time for a coffee break, and quite frankly, I don’t drink sugar-laden lattes. That’s a personal preference, not a character flaw.” Philip waved his hand dismissively, his expression one of weary disappointment. “Ability is only half the battle in this business. Look at Lexi. She’s been here two months and everyone loves her. You? Aside from the revenue, what exactly do you bring to the culture of this firm?” I felt the air leave my lungs. What did I bring? I brought ninety percent of his annual earnings. I brought a third of the regional client base. I took a crumbling boutique agency and turned it into a top-ten industry player. And I wasn’t allowed to say ‘no’ to a five-dollar drink? “If you feel my personality is a liability to the company’s growth,” I said, my voice terrifyingly calm as I stood up, “then perhaps you should find someone else to carry the quota.” Philip’s face darkened. “Don’t play the resignation card every time your ego gets bruised, Janice. I’m telling you this for your own good. If you don’t fix your attitude, you’ll be miserable wherever you go.” I didn’t argue. I just turned and walked out. 02 The shift was instantaneous. The atmosphere in the office turned from professional to predatory within forty-eight hours. The gossip in the breakroom used to be about commissions or industry news. Now, it was a choreographed assault on my reputation. “You heard how Janice landed the Sterling account, right?” I heard Chad, the lead for Team B, whispering as I approached the door. “Word is, she doesn’t just ‘pitch’ in the boardroom. There are certain… after-hours services involved.” “No way,” a junior analyst giggled. “Total way. How else does a woman her age dominate the charts like that? It’s not just ‘hard work,’ honey.” Chad had been at the firm for five years, and for five years, he had lived in my shadow. Last year, his bonus was a fraction of mine. He wasn’t just talking; he was praying for my downfall. I pushed the door open. The silence was deafening. Chad’s face went pale for a split second before settling into a smug, greasy grin. “Hey, Janice. Just joking around. Don’t take it personally.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Chad, do you want me to remind everyone exactly how you ‘closed’ that mid-west lead last month? Or should we keep our professional histories private?” The color drained from his face entirely. I grabbed my water and left, but the poison had already spread. Anonymous messages started appearing on the internal Slack channels. Slurs. Accusations of embezzlement. Someone even mocked up a fake thread suggesting I was having an affair with a married client. I didn’t delete them. I took screenshots. I saved logs. I organized them into a folder marked Evidence. When I brought it to Philip, his response was a shrug. “If you’re innocent, people will eventually see that. Defending yourself just makes you look guilty, Janice. Just ignore the noise and keep hitting your targets.” Keep hitting my targets. My labor paid the rent for thirty people who spent their lunch hours calling me a whore. The irony was a bitter pill to swallow, especially since I was in the middle of negotiating a twenty-million-dollar deal with a tech giant—a contract that would triple our firm’s valuation. I spent my days being the ultimate professional, charming CEOs and refining deliverables. Then I’d go home, sit on the edge of my bed in the dark, and read the latest insults posted about me until my hands shook. My mother called one night to check in. I told her I was fine, that I’d just won a quarterly award. “Take care of yourself, honey,” she whispered. “Don’t let them work you to death.” “I won’t,” I promised. Then I hung up, buried my face in the pillow, and wept until I couldn’t breathe. 03 The breaking point arrived in mid-October. I was in the office at 1:00 a.m. polishing the final draft of the twenty-million-dollar contract. The client, a man named Mr. Henderson, had already given me a verbal “yes.” All that remained was the formal signing. I headed down to the lobby to grab a coffee from the vending machine and ran into Felix from IT. Felix was one of the few people who didn’t participate in the office politics. He was a quiet, brilliant misfit, much like me. “Janice,” he said, looking around the empty lobby nervously. “I shouldn’t tell you this.” “Tell me what, Felix?” “Last Friday, while you were at the Henderson site, Philip called us into a meeting. He’s fast-tracking a new CRM—a ‘Client Management System.’ He ordered us to scrape every single one of your personal contacts, your communication logs, and your lead histories and input them into a shared database.” My heart skipped a beat. “What’s the official reason?” “He said ‘risk management.’ That the company shouldn’t have all its eggs in one basket. He told the sales team that once the system is live, all your clients will be ‘rotational assets’ that anyone can access.” I had spent three years building those relationships. Every dinner, every late-night troubleshooting call, every secret preference of every decision-maker—I had earned that trust through blood and sweat. It wasn’t just data. it was my life’s work. And Philip wanted to strip it from me so he could hand it to people like Chad. “Is the system live?” “It’s ready. But Philip said to wait until after you sign the Henderson deal. He doesn’t want to spook the client before the ink is dry.” A cold, sharp laugh escaped my throat. It was brilliant, really. Let me do the heavy lifting, let me secure the firm’s future, and the moment the commission was locked, they’d discard me like a used tissue, keeping the “assets” I’d brought to the table. I walked out of the building and stood on the sidewalk, the biting wind whipping my hair across my face. I remembered three years ago, when this firm was five people in a cramped office with a leaking ceiling. Philip had looked me in the eye and said, “Janice, if you help me build this, I’ll make sure you’re set for life.” I had believed the lie. Suddenly, I thought of Sawyer. He was the CEO of Vanguard Solutions, our primary rival. He’d been trying to headhunt me for a year, offering me a package that seemed almost too good to be true: double the base, double the commission, and my own independent department. I had always said no because I felt a sense of loyalty to Philip. What a pathetic, expensive mistake. 04 I spent the next seventy-two hours in a fever of cold calculation. I re-organized everything. Every client file, every recording of every meeting, every scanned contract—I backed them up into an encrypted drive that never touched the office server. These weren’t just files; they were my leverage. Then, I sent a simple text to Sawyer: Is that offer still on the table?

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It seemed the only reason I existed was to serve as a cautionary tale for my brother’s upbringing. I remember when Tyler first started middle school and developed a junk food habit. My mother decided to fill an old Gatorade bottle with concentrated weedkiller and left it sitting right on my nightstand where it couldn’t be missed. I drank it. The agony that followed was a white-hot serrated knife twisting in my gut, sending me heaving and thrashing across the floor. My dad threw me into the car, racing through the night toward the ER, only to be pulled over at a sobriety checkpoint. Even though the breathalyzer came back clean, my mother sat in the passenger seat and laughed. She screamed at the officer that the machine was a piece of junk, insisting my father had a six-pack of beer. She stared at Tyler in the backseat, pointing at my seizing body as if I were a prop. “See that?” she told him. “That’s what happens when you’re reckless with what you put in your body.” She didn’t even notice that my breathing was becoming a series of shallow, broken stutters. When Tyler blew fifty dollars on a gaming app, she stripped me of my clothes and tried to force me to go on a live stream to “earn it back,” claiming she was teaching him the value of money. When Tyler got caught shoplifting a candy bar, she dragged me to the store manager, forced me to my knees in the middle of the aisle, and made me slap my own face until my cheeks were bruised, just so Tyler could witness the weight of “shame.” Well, Mom… this time, I’m using my life to give you your final lesson. Are you satisfied yet? … 1 “Your equipment is a joke. My husband just polished off a bottle of whiskey, and you can’t even pick it up?” When I heard my mother say those words, my body was already wracked with tremors. A spray of dark blood hit the back of the driver’s seat. I looked at her, my vision blurring, unable to grasp the cruelty of it. The officer’s face hardened instantly. “Sir, step out of the vehicle! We’re going to need a blood draw!” My father’s eyes were bloodshot, bordering on hysterical. “Are you insane, Lydia? You know I’m allergic to alcohol! Stop playing games—our daughter is dying!” Tyler lunged forward from the backseat, grabbing my mother’s arm and shaking her. His voice was a panicked vibrato. “Mom! Please, stop! Daisy drank poison! If we don’t get her there now, she isn’t coming back!” But my mother wouldn’t budge. She insisted he was drunk. Even with a clean breathalyzer, the protocol for a “refusal” or a suspected malfunction meant the officers had to take my father in for a blood test. Dad was the only one who could drive. Tyler didn’t have a license. Every second we sat idling under the harsh blue and red lights was a second I didn’t have. As the officer reached for the door handle to pull my father out, I forced myself upright. My throat felt like it had been scrubbed with glass. “Officer… please,” I wheezed, my voice a ghostly rasp. “My dad is sober… my mom, she’s just… she’s making it up. Please, I’m poisoned. I can’t… I can’t breathe…” The words were cut short by a violent, wet cough. Thick, copper-tasting blood spilled over my lips. The officer’s expression shifted from professional sternness to pure alarm. He knew what weedkiller did to a person’s internal organs. But it was the height of rush hour. The intersection was a gridlocked nightmare, and the small task force at the checkpoint was already stretched thin. There wasn’t a spare cruiser to rush me to the hospital. He glanced at his body cam, then barked at my mother, “Did he drink or not? If he’s sober, you leave now! If you’re lying about him being drunk and he actually is, the consequences are on you. Decide right now!” I looked at her, tears streaming down my face. “Mom, please tell the truth… I’m slipping. Just tell them the truth, let me live, and I’ll let you punish me however you want later. I’ll do anything.” People in the cars nearby were starting to roll down their windows, shouting. “Lady, look at your kid! Just get her to the hospital!” “What kind of sick joke is this?” Stung by the public judgment, my mother finally waved a dismissive hand at the officer. “Fine, fine. Good lord, everyone is so dramatic. I was just having a little fun!” The tension in my chest eased for a fraction of a second. My body went limp against the upholstery. But just as the officer backed away and my father went to shift the car into drive, my mother let out a sharp, mocking chirp of a laugh. “See? You people are so easy to fool. My husband was at a party all afternoon—he’s hammered. If you let him drive, he’ll probably plow into a minivan and kill a whole family.” The officer’s face went livid. He lunged into the car, physically dragging my father out of the driver’s seat, shouting for his partner to get the handcuffs. I felt my heart stutter. The pain in my stomach and the suffocating pressure in my chest collided. The world began to tilt into blackness. Tyler, watching my body begin to convulse, finally broke. He screamed at her, a raw, guttural sound of pure hatred. “Mom! Are you crazy?! Look at her! Daisy is dying right in front of you!” My mother remained eerily calm. “Why are you screaming? Look at her closely, Tyler.” “This is a lesson. I am using her pain to teach you something you clearly haven’t learned.” “You need to remember: never touch a bottle if you don’t know what’s in it. And stop reaching for soda every five minutes like an addict!” I stared at her, my eyes wide and stinging. In a moment of life and death, she was holding a seminar. My father was shaking so hard he could barely stand. “Daisy is… she’s… how could you…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. My mother just rolled her eyes. “I diluted that stuff with plenty of water. It’s not that strong. Daisy is young and healthy; she’s tougher than she looks. Stop overreacting.” She turned back to Tyler, her tone sharpening. “I’m sick of seeing you with a Coke in your hand every day. Maybe seeing this will finally make it stick.” I lay there, the chemical fire climbing from my stomach to my throat. The sounds around me—the sirens, the shouting, the radio chatter—all began to bleed into a dull, underwater hum. Suddenly, a black SUV pulled onto the shoulder. A middle-aged man jumped out and ran toward us. It was Mike, my dad’s best friend since grade school. He shouted at the police, “Hey! I know these people! That’s my best friend! I’m sober—I haven’t touched a drop today. Check my dashcam if you want.” “I’ll take the girl! You guys do your protocol with Tom, but don’t let this kid die on the side of the road!” Tyler, cradling my cooling body, began to sob. He bowed his head toward Mike, incoherent with gratitude, and started to lift me to carry me to the SUV. My father looked at Mike, his voice breaking as he whispered a promise to repay him for the rest of his life. I curled into Tyler’s arms. Even as the pain tore me apart, a tiny spark of hope flickered. Uncle Mike was like family. He would get me to the hospital. They’d pump my stomach. I’d have a chance. But just as Tyler reached the door of Mike’s car, my mother lunged forward. She grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut, blocking our path. 2 The world seemed to stop. The frantic noise of the highway faded into a chilling silence. Tyler was shaking so violently I thought he might drop me. His grip on me tightened. My mother glared at Mike, her voice rising to a shrill, hysterical pitch. “Who the hell are you?! I don’t know you! Why would I let my daughter get into a stranger’s car? For all I know, you’re a predator!” Everyone froze. Even Mike looked like he’d been slapped. “Lydia? What are you talking about? It’s Mike! Mike Miller! Tom and I grew up together. We literally had dinner at your house three weeks ago. Have you lost your mind?” My father stepped forward, grabbing her shoulders, his face a mask of shock and fury. “Lydia! Stop it! You know Mike. He was at the hospital when Daisy was born, when Tyler was born. We spend every holiday together. You’ve known him for twenty years!” “I don’t know him!” she shrieked, shaking his hands off and planting her feet. She wouldn’t budge from the door. “The world is full of look-alikes! Why should I trust him? What if he’s a liar? If anything happens to my daughter, are you going to take responsibility?” Tyler collapsed to his knees right there on the asphalt, still holding me. He began to beg, his voice thick with tears. “Mom! Please! She’s stopping… she’s barely breathing! Mike is Mike! He wouldn’t hurt us! Please let us go!” She didn’t even look down at him. My father’s hand went to his chest, his voice dropping to a dangerous, ragged growl. “Lydia, what is this? That is your daughter. She is dying. What do you actually want?” “What do I want?” Her voice suddenly peaked, dripping with a strange, poisoned combination of self-pity and spite. “This is your fault, Tom!” My father looked bewildered. What did Mike trying to save me have to do with him? Under the confused stares of the paramedics and police who were finally closing in, my mother finally spat out the truth. “Last Thursday was the twentieth anniversary of the day we first met! I told you two weeks in advance I wanted to go to that French place downtown. And you forgot! You didn’t even say ‘Happy Anniversary’!” “Tom Miller! You claim you have a bad memory? You claim you can’t keep track of the things that matter to me? Well, now you can see exactly what happens when you’re ‘careless.’ This is the consequence of your negligence!” My father looked like he was watching his entire world crumble. “Lydia… are you serious? Do you know how many anniversaries you make me keep track of?” “The wedding, the first date, the first kiss—hell, the anniversary of the first time we held hands! I try, Lydia. I really do. But I just started that new project at the firm. I’ve been sleeping two hours a night. I was exhausted! I gave you my credit card and told you to buy whatever you wanted to make up for it. Why are you bringing this up now?” Seeing him push back only fueled her fire. “Don’t you dare raise your voice at me!” “If you make a mistake, you pay for it! Accepting a ‘gift’ doesn’t mean I forgave you. And don’t act like I’m the problem now—you used to call me ‘romantic’ when we were dating. Now I’m just ‘too much’?” My father realized there was no reasoning with her. He looked down at me—my eyes were rolling back, my consciousness flickering like a dying candle. In a desperate move, he turned and dropped to his knees before the police officers. “Officers, please. Arrest me. Do whatever you have to do. But please, take my daughter. She drank weedkiller. She’s fading. Please don’t let her die because of this.” The two officers hurried to help him up. They looked at my limp form in Tyler’s arms, signaled to their backup, and lifted me into the back of a squad car. With the sirens screaming a deafening, mournful wail, we tore through the traffic toward the emergency room. I thought that once I passed those sliding glass doors, I would be safe. I thought the nightmare was over. But my mother wasn’t finished. 3 I had just been moved onto a gurney when the trauma room doors burst open. My mother flew at the nurses, reaching for the IV line they were trying to start in my arm. “You people are nothing but thieves! This is a scam!” she screamed. “Ten thousand dollars for an admission deposit? For what? She drank a little diluted poison. You’re price-gouging because we’re in a panic!” Tyler’s face was beet red, his eyes streaming. He was just a student; he didn’t have a dime to his name. He grabbed her hands, trying to pin them down, sobbing for her to just stop, to let them save me. She shoved him back with surprising strength. “I gave birth to her! I wouldn’t hurt her! It was a tiny amount—she’s not going to die. This hospital is just trying to take advantage of us. We’re leaving! We’ll find a clinic that isn’t a rip-off!” She actually tried to drag me off the bed. It took three nurses to physically restrain her. In the middle of the chaos, my father arrived, having finished his blood draw. When he saw the scene, something in him snapped. His eyes were a terrifying, dark red. “Lydia! If you interfere one more time, I am filing for divorce tonight. I will take the kids, and you will never see them again as long as you live!” The word “divorce” seemed to hit her harder than the reality of my dying. She froze, then frantically fumbled in her purse for her wallet. My father and Tyler let out a breath they’d been holding for a lifetime. They thought she was finally surrendering. But no one expected what she did next. She clutched her bank card and bolted out of the room. My father and Tyler chased after her like madmen. Their shouting grew faint, then disappeared entirely down the hallway. In the trauma room, it was just me and a team of helpless doctors and nurses. The chemicals had already done their work, searing through my vitals. My eyelids felt like lead. The rhythmic beep of the monitor became a frantic, high-pitched scream. The doctors grabbed the paddles, the “clear!” ringing out, but my spirit was already drifting, untethered, toward the ceiling. When I opened my eyes again, I was hovering above them all. I saw my own body—pale, still, and utterly broken—on the table. That’s when my mother burst back in, waving a stack of cash. My father was shaking, his voice a ghost of itself. “Lydia… she’s almost gone. Why did you run to an ATM? Why did you waste twenty minutes getting cash when you could have just swiped the card? Do you realize those minutes cost her her life?” My mother just rolled her eyes, breathless. “Last month, Tyler clicked a bad link on his phone and someone hacked fifty dollars out of his account.” “I needed to show you both the risks of digital payments. I wanted to make sure you never, ever use your cards online again. I had to make a point about security!” She stepped forward, shoving the door to my room open.

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The conversation at the reunion dinner drifted, as it always did, back to the “golden days.” Someone laughed, leaning across the white linen tablecloth, and remarked how everyone back in prep school thought Gordon and Natalia were a match made in heaven. Then, another voice chimed in, a bit more pointedly, saying no one expected me to be the one to finally pin down a man as unattainable as Gordon Ashford. A wave of polite, well-bred laughter rippled through the circle. “And what are you doing these days, Natalia?” a woman asked, her eyes glittering with curiosity. Natalia waved a hand dismissively, the diamonds on her wrist catching the light. “Oh, nothing much. I was just promoted to Executive VP at a tech firm in the city.” The table erupted in murmurs of genuine impressed surprise. Being an EVP at twenty-four wasn’t just success; it was a conquest. They showered her with praise, calling her a powerhouse. Then, the spotlight shifted back to Gordon. Everyone knew his path was already paved—the Ashford Group was his to inherit, a crown waiting for its king. Finally, the eyes turned to me. “And you, Cora? What’s your career path looking like?” I opened my mouth to answer. I wanted to tell them about the quiet, heavy dignity of my work. But Gordon’s hand settled on my shoulder, his grip firm and possessive. He cut me off before I could speak. “She’s actually retired from the workforce. She’s at home, preparing to be the full-time Mrs. Ashford.” Natalia smiled, a thin, sharp thing. “That’s quite a sacrifice,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “You must really love him, Cora.” Gordon raised his glass to her in a mock salute. “She’s not like you, Nat. She’s too soft for the corporate world. If I don’t keep her close, she’s liable to wander off and get herself into trouble again.” The table erupted in “Awws” and teasing remarks about how Gordon was a “doting husband-to-be.” I looked down at my plate, forcing a smile to match theirs. But inside, something cold was settling in my marrow. I wondered when my trauma—the nightmare of being abducted and held captive years ago—had become nothing more than a half-baked punchline he used to keep me small. 1 I sat in the passenger seat of his Obsidian Black SUV, the silence between us heavy. Gordon had one hand resting casually on the steering wheel. He didn’t start the engine immediately. Instead, he turned his head to look at me, his gaze wearing that familiar, patronizing warmth. He reached out, his thumb and forefinger gently pinching my earlobe. “You’re quiet. Still upset?” I turned my head away, watching the neon lights of the city blur against the rain-streaked window. “Gordon… do I really make you that ashamed?” He didn’t rush to answer. He started the car first, pulling smoothly out of the parking lot. Only when we were merged into the late-night traffic did he speak, his tone measured and calm. “Do you honestly think I’m ashamed of you?” I said nothing. He let out a soft, indulgent chuckle, as if my question were merely a child’s tantrum. “Cora, I’m trying to protect you. You graduated from a top-tier university, and yet you chose that job. People won’t understand your ‘calling.’ They’ll just see it as morbid. They’ll pity you, or worse, they’ll look down on you.” “I don’t want you to be the subject of dinner party gossip,” he continued, his voice dropping to that tone of unshakable certainty. “We don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Being my wife is more than enough for you. It’s the best thing for everyone.” He spoke with such terrifying logic, as if he were simply arranging the furniture of my life for my own comfort. I looked out the window. The night was thick, suffocating. Gordon, sensing my silence as submission, reached into the back seat and pulled out a designer gift bag. “Stop brooding. I got you something.” I took it, unwrapping the tissue paper to find a heavy glass bottle. Perfume. Clear liquid, gold-flecked, with a black silk ribbon tied around the neck. It smelled like wealth and old money. “Another one,” I whispered. “Gordon, you’ve bought me nearly a hundred bottles of perfume by now.” He smiled, his posture relaxing. “It’s got a heavy rose base. It’s beautiful. You should wear it next time we go out.” Rose. I froze. Suddenly, a surge of bitterness, sharper than anything I’d felt before, rose up in my throat. “Why? Do I smell that bad today?” I turned to look at him, my expression flat, a ghost of a smile haunting my lips. Gordon’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered. He reached over and ruffled the back of my hair, the way one might soothe a nervous golden retriever. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just wanted to give you a gift.” His composure was a suit of armor, soft but impenetrable. My sharp edges simply bounced off him. Every single time. I looked down, put the perfume back in the box, and tightened the cap. “I get it,” I said, my voice slipping back into the submissive tone he preferred. “Why aren’t we moving?” He checked his phone. “Waiting for Natalia. She mentioned it was hard to get an Uber this late. Since we’re heading the same way, I told her we’d drop her off.” A moment later, Natalia climbed into the back seat, bringing a gust of the cool night air with her. “Sorry to keep you guys! You’re lifesavers.” “It’s no trouble,” Gordon said. “Actually, I wanted to pick your brain about the new acquisition. Cora doesn’t really follow the nuances of the M&A world.” The rest of the drive was a symphony of their shared world. They talked about hostile takeovers, modern art galas, and industry trends. They were intellectual equals, two titans of the same industry. I couldn’t contribute, and more importantly, I didn’t want to. When the car pulled up to our apartment building, Gordon kept the engine running. “Go on up,” he said. “I’ll be back as soon as I drop her off.” I pushed the door open but didn’t go inside immediately. I stood in the shadows of the lobby entrance and looked back. Natalia had already climbed into the front seat. She was leaning over, seemingly struggling with her seatbelt. She said something, her voice carry a hint of practiced helplessness. Gordon laughed—a genuine, warm sound. Then, he leaned over quite naturally to click the belt into place for her. The amber glow of the streetlamp washed over them, framing them in a warm, cinematic light. In that moment, I had to admit the truth: they were the perfect pair. And I? I was just a ghost from a messy past, someone he was trying to scrub clean with expensive perfume, hoping to drown out the scent of the life I’d actually lived. I let out a long, slow breath. The tension that had been holding me together for years finally snapped, silent and absolute. I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Mallory. I’m in. Let’s do it. See you tomorrow. 2 Back in the apartment, I started to pack. I opened the vanity drawer. It was a graveyard of perfume bottles, row after row of them. Gordon seemed to believe that if he piled enough fragrance high enough, he could mask the “stench” of the world I had come from. I sighed, turning toward the closet. I pulled out a few simple, practical outfits. Hidden at the very bottom of the wardrobe, I found an old tin box. Inside was a yellowed notebook. On the first page, in the shaky but determined handwriting of a teenage boy, were the words: On our 25th birthday, I’m going to make you my wife. Next week was my twenty-fifth birthday. I thought I was numb to it all, but the ink suddenly blurred. Tears fell, one by one, staining the aged paper. Gordon, in his high-rise office and his world of mergers, had surely buried that promise under a mountain of ambition. Just like he’d forgotten I was allergic to roses. Just like he’d forgotten my one unbreakable rule—the “sickness” I carried from my childhood. I cannot forgive a broken promise. That pathology started on my fifth birthday. My parents had taken me to a park, promising me the biggest cake in the bakery if I waited on a specific bench. I sat there as the sun dipped below the horizon, watching the streetlamps flicker to life. I waited all day. I waited until the park was empty, until a security guard called the police. They never came back. From that day on, I learned one thing: a promise is the cheapest currency on earth, and waiting is the cruelest form of torture. I spent two years in the foster system after that. I survived bullying, hunger, and the kind of violations that still make my skin crawl. They are the recurring cast of my nightmares. When I was seven, my grandmother—my father’s mother, though she had disowned him long ago—found me. She was a stooped woman with a bag of warm roasted peanuts and a heart made of iron. She took my hand and said, “Come home, little bird.” She wasn’t rich. She was poor. She spent her sixties selling sewing kits on street corners just to keep me in school. But she was different from my parents. When she said she wouldn’t leave, she didn’t. When she promised to get me to college, she worked until her hands were raw and cracked in the winter cold to save every penny for my tuition. I studied like my life depended on it. I got into a prestigious high school. And that’s where I met Gordon. Our young love was pure, simple. No grand gestures, just notes passed under desks and silent, shy walks home. We promised to go to the same university. We promised to watch the snow fall by the lake. Just when it felt like the world was finally being kind, fate decided I hadn’t suffered enough. The summer after graduation, trying to help my grandmother with the bills, I fell for a fake job listing. I was kidnapped and taken deep into the mountains, sold to a labor ring. That was the beginning of my second nightmare. 3 When an eighteen-year-old girl vanishes into the dark corners of the country, everyone knows what happens. My grandmother went to the police, but they told her to wait. She waited seven days at the precinct, only to be told they had found my biological parents. She dragged her sick body to beg them for help. My father sat on his leather sofa, smoking, saying he had a “new family” and didn’t want the scandal. My mother wouldn’t even see her; she sent a message saying she only had one child now—her son. My grandmother collapsed from the stress. Gordon, realizing I hadn’t shown up for two weeks, went on a rampage. When he found out I’d been taken, that proud, sheltered boy fell to his knees and begged his parents to use their connections to find me. His parents, horrified that he was involved with a girl like me, refused at first. But he went on a hunger strike. He broke windows. He forced their hand. They tracked me to a place called Blackwood Ridge—a notorious dead zone for lawlessness and trafficking. They warned him: It’s a black hole. If you go there, you might not come back. And Gordon, when the whole world had written me off, went anyway. He went alone, defying everyone. For thirty-seven days, I lived in hell. I was ready to die until I saw him—bloodied, bruised, but standing in front of me. For years, I replayed that scene in my head. I told myself that the universe didn’t owe me anything because it had given me him. I thought we were finally safe. We weren’t. The police called my grandmother to tell her I’d been rescued. She was so overcome with joy that she ran out of the house toward the station. Crossing the street, a truck running a red light hit her. By the time I got to the hospital, her face was unrecognizable. The swelling had stretched her wrinkles flat. Her jaw was displaced, her lips torn. I knelt by her bed, trying to wipe the blood from her face, but the grit and the red wouldn’t come away. A nurse cried as she told me to stop, that she was already gone. But I couldn’t stop. I was desperate to piece her back together, to find the kind, smiling woman underneath the wreckage. I couldn’t give her back her face. I couldn’t even see her one last time. Gordon arrived as I was retching from grief. He held me tight. “I’m your family now,” he whispered. “I’m never leaving. Wait for me. By the time we’re twenty-five, I’ll give you a real home.” After college, I chose to become a restorative artist—a mortician specializing in reconstruction. I wanted to make sure that everyone who left this world left it clean. I wanted their families to see them as they were meant to be seen. I thought Gordon would understand. But perhaps time is a thief. Perhaps only I stayed in that hospital room while he moved on to skyscrapers… I dried my eyes and put the notebook back in the tin. The bedroom door opened. I was so lost in the past I hadn’t heard him come home. He saw my red eyes and frowned. “What is it now?” I held the box to my chest and looked up at him. His face blurred into the face of the boy who had saved me in the mountains. I couldn’t help it; I had to ask one last time. “Gordon.” “Yeah?” “Next week is my birthday. Twenty-five.” I paused, my heart hammered against my ribs. “Do you still want to marry me?” 4 Gordon’s usual composure flickered. Just for a second, there was hesitation—even a touch of bewilderment. But he smoothed it over quickly. He knelt down, his fingers brushing the corner of my eye. “Don’t be silly,” he sighed, his voice a mix of exasperation and practiced affection. “We basically are married. Is a piece of paper really that important to you?” I stared at him, saying nothing. He took my silence as agreement. He smiled and patted my hair. “Stop overthinking. I’ll take you to get a bag for your birthday. That limited edition one you liked? I’ve already had them put it on hold for you.” I lowered my head. “Okay.” Satisfied, Gordon got up to shower. “But Gordon,” I said softly, “when did I ever look at a bag?” He paused, his back to me. Then he turned with a charming smile. “I must have misremembered. Must have been a different one.” I nodded. The sound of the shower filled the room. A little while later, his rhythmic breathing told me he was asleep. He always slept deeply, unlike me. I stood in the dark, watching him for a long time. I watched until my eyes ached. I watched until the sliver of moonlight moved from his brow to his jaw. I watched until I had said every silent goodbye I had in me. Then, I picked up my backpack. The lock clicked—a sound as soft as a sigh. I didn’t look back. Downstairs, a dark SUV was idling under a streetlamp. I opened the door and slid in. Mallory didn’t ask questions. She just reached over and pulled me into a fierce, bone-crushing hug. Mallory had been taken with me all those years ago. She was the only person who truly knew how much blood Gordon had spilled to get us out. Like me, she could never say a bad word about him, no matter what he had become. “It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice husky. “Don’t cry.” She shifted the car into drive and pulled away from the curb. “When I saw how he was with you back then, I really thought…” She trailed off. “Forget it. Be strong. Maybe this is the universe doing you a favor. You have no idea how happy Luke was when I told him today.” Luke. Just hearing his name brought a flicker of warmth to my chest. He had been a rookie cop back then, helping the seniors rescue us. He’d been so nervous his hands shook while he wrapped me in a blanket. When the traffickers tried to rush us with clubs, he’d stepped in front of me, taking a hit to the shoulder meant for my head. Now, he was Mallory’s boss at the precinct and one of our only true friends. And soon… he would be more than that. We reached Mallory’s place, and I could hear someone in the kitchen. She winked at me. A tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged from the kitchen holding two steaming bowls of noodles. “Sutton—I mean, Cora. Dinner’s ready.” Luke looked at me, looking uncharacteristically shy. Mallory started eating, glancing between us with a smirk. I put my chopsticks down. “Alright, you need to go home, Mallory. We have a busy few days.” “Oh, right!” she squeaked. “Dress fitting tomorrow! Let’s get some sleep!” Before he left, Luke looked at me. “Don’t worry about the hotel or the vendors. I’ve got it. Just… pick the dress you love.” He turned red, then added, “You won’t regret this, Cora. I promise.” I smiled and nodded. I pulled out my phone. Gordon’s chat window was still open. I hesitated, then tapped his profile. Block. Contact list. Block. I opened our shared family tracking app. Leave Family Circle. Delete Device. Grandmother, I thought. In five days, I’m getting married. I hope you’re happy for me.

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This is my final chance to rewrite the stars for Donna. I’ve traveled back across a decade, carrying the weight of a single mission: save her. If I fail, she ceases to exist in both timelines. Total erasure. So, I cannot afford to lose. Everyone thinks I’m pathetic for crawling back to an ex-girlfriend who’s now confined to a wheelchair, but I don’t care. I’m relentless. She hates me for what happened ten years ago—for the way I seemingly abandoned her when she needed me most. She spends her days finding new, inventive ways to humiliate me, but I don’t flinch. Until tonight. Until this twisted game of “Truth or Dare” got us locked in a high-tech escape room together. The rules are simple: the door only unlocks if you whisper the name of the person you truly love while a sensor confirms your heart rate has hit the “arousal” threshold. I waited, breathless. And then I heard it. She didn’t say my name. She said “Parker.” Parker—the “Golden Boy,” the perpetual optimist who hovers around her like a loyal golden retriever. The man she usually treats with cold indifference. I stood there, paralyzed by the shock. Donna just let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “It’s just a game, Cade,” she whispered, her voice like broken glass. “Don’t go catching feelings now. It’s pathetic.” Then, her eyes darkened with a predatory glint. She leaned in, her voice a low, seductive lure. She told me that if I stayed in this dark room all night as “punishment,” she’d grant me a single minute of being “back together” as a reward. I looked at her—at the woman I’ve died for twice before—and slowly shook my head. “It’s okay,” I said softly. “I don’t need it anymore.” She has no idea that my only goal is to restore the girl she used to be. To undo the accident that took her legs. To save a version of her that doesn’t yet know how to hate me. 1 “Think about it, Cade. This might be the only chance you ever get…” Donna’s voice trailed off. A flicker of genuine shock crossed her face, cracking her icy mask. “What did you just say? You’re… turning me down?” She narrowed her eyes, searching my face for the catch. “What’s the play here? Playing hard to get? Trying to reverse the psychology?” I met her gaze. My throat felt like it was full of acid, but I kept my voice steady. “I’ll take the punishment. I’ll stay the night.” “But as for getting back together?” I took a breath. “There’s no point.” The smirk on Donna’s face froze. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the armrests of her wheelchair. I saw a flash of something dark and turbulent in her eyes—resentment, maybe, or a bruised ego. “Fine,” she spat. “What’s the price, then? What are you going to demand this time? Do you want me to go back to that shithole fishing village with you? Or do you want me to sit through another one of your hollow, miserable explanations?” She leaned forward, her voice rising. “I don’t get it, Cade! You were the one who dumped me. You were the one who walked away. Why do you always act like you’re the goddamn martyr?” I bit my lip, forcing myself to look up so the tears wouldn’t fall. This is the third time. The third life. And she still loathes me. In the first life, I tried to prove my love by literally jumping off a cliff for her. When she stood over my body, all she said was, “Serves him right.” In the second life, I brought her to my old mentor, the man who gave me the scholarship. I tried to prove I didn’t leave her for a career abroad. She hated me even more for it. She ended up framing that mentor for bribery, just to strip away everything I cared about. In this life, I tried total honesty. I told her the truth: that being with me was the only way to save her life. She laughed in my face. She threw a bottle of experimental meds—developed by Parker, her “Golden Boy”—at my feet. “I’m not the eighteen-year-old idiot I used to be, Cade,” she had said. “Being with you is a ‘cure’? Listen to yourself. That’s the most pathetic pickup line in history.” Looking at the sheer disgust in her eyes now, I felt a bone-deep weariness for the first time. But then I looked at her legs. I remembered the night ten years ago—the night she was jumped by my father’s creditors because she was working three jobs to pay for my tuition. I remembered the sound of the impact. I looked at the heart rate monitor on the wall. The jagged green line was still settling. She claimed to hate Parker, but her heart skipped when she said his name. I forced a bitter smile. “I don’t want anything from you this time, Donna.” “I’ll say it one last time. I never abandoned you. I never tried to climb over you to get to the top. I am literally here to save your life.” I turned my head away, quickly wiping my eyes with my sleeve. Donna hesitated. For a split second, the air between us shifted. Then, the door to the escape room was thrown open. A silhouette burst through the light, rushing straight to her. “Donna! Are you okay?” Parker. He was breathless, his eyes brimming with performative concern. He knelt by her chair, ignoring me entirely. “You’ve always been terrified of the dark. Why did you let him drag you into this game?” “Come on. Let’s go home.” He threw a sharp, protective glare in my direction. It was a mirror image of the way I used to stand in front of Donna when we were kids. When he realized the wheelchair was locked, he paused. He followed Donna’s gaze up to the heart rate monitor on the wall. His expression shifted instantly to one of smug, sugary triumph. “He’ll be fine,” Parker said, his voice softening as he looked at Donna. “He’s not the scared little boy who used to hide behind you anymore, Don. Let him stay.” Donna’s cold aura seemed to thaw slightly under his touch. She looked at me, almost as if she were trying to convince herself of something. “One night, Cade,” she murmured. “After tonight, I’ll give you one last chance to explain yourself.” I watched them leave. Parker pushed her chair into the light, and then the door slammed shut. Darkness rushed in. The old, familiar terror began to crawl up my spine. She’d forgotten. She’d forgotten that ten years ago, I nearly died in a place just like this. I pulled my knees to my chest, burying my face in my arms. The tears came fast then. All I could think about was the eighteen-year-old version of Donna—the girl who was waiting for me to “win” this game so we could both go home. Then, a cold, mechanical voice flickered in my mind. [Warning: Host’s will to continue has dropped below the threshold. Automatic failure sequence initiated.] 2 [Confirmation required: Do you wish to forfeit the mission?] I bit my lip until I tasted copper. I was a second away from saying yes. Suddenly, the last faint light in the room died. The darkness was absolute. My mind spiraled back to the cellar, to the smell of damp earth and my father’s drunken rants. My head throbbed. I tried to scream for the System, to tell it to take me back. Thump! The door was kicked open. A figure silhouetted against the hall light ran toward me. In my disoriented state, the shape looked just like the girl from my memories. I felt a surge of hope. She came back. She actually cares. The System’s question vanished from my mind. I must have passed out, because I started to dream. I was back in Portside, the foggy coastal town where we grew up. Donna was an orphan, the girl everyone liked to kick around. Our first real conversation happened after a group of neighborhood kids threw a rock at her head. I had saved up every cent I earned from paper routes. I carried her on my back three miles to the town clinic. She was so thin back then. She wouldn’t look at me. “I’ll pay you back,” she had muttered. I just blinked at her. “It’s okay. I heard you go into the city sometimes. Can you just… take me with you next time?” I wanted to study. My parents wouldn’t let me. I needed to learn the train routes so I could sneak away to take the entrance exams. We became inseparable. When I was eighteen, I got my acceptance letter to a university abroad. My father tore it into confetti. They wanted to sell me off to work the industrial docks to pay their gambling debts. I tried to run, but Portside was a trap. I spent three months locked in a literal pigpen behind our house. Donna was the one who found me. She went feral, fighting my father to get me out. She nearly died doing it. After we escaped, she worked three jobs to pay for my life. When I tried to say no, she’d just pinch my cheek and laugh. “Just wait until you graduate, Cade. Then we’ll get married.” “You’re the reason I work so hard. I want to give you the world.” The eighteen-year-old Donna loved me with every fiber of her being. That’s why, when the scholarship abroad finally came through and she was crippled by my father’s enemies on the same night, I took the deal. I signed up with the System. She had even told me back then, “Ten years from now? I’ll probably be a boss. You won’t even need to ‘win’ me over.” But as I left, she looked worried. “Cade… if the version of me ten years from now has really changed… if she’s gone cold… then just give up. I promise, I’d rather you be free than have you hurt by a version of me that forgot how to love you.” The dream started to dissolve. I reached out for her hand. “Donna!” I screamed. My eyes snapped open. I wasn’t looking at Donna. I was looking at Parker’s smug, amused face. He saw my confusion and started laughing. “You actually thought it was her, didn’t you? You thought she ran back to save you?” He pulled out his phone and hit play on a video. “It was a security guard, Cade. They didn’t want a lawsuit if you had a heart attack in there.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a hiss. “You think these pathetic guilt trips work on her? She spent ten years suffering because of your betrayal.” He paused, his eyes turning cold. “I’m the protagonist of her story now. Why did you have to come back?” “Since you won’t take the hint… don’t blame me for this.” Before I could react, he screamed. He threw himself onto the floor, knocking over the hot tray of food he’d brought in. The scalding soup splashed across his arm, turning the skin red. That was the exact moment Donna rolled into the room. Parker looked up at her, tears welling in his eyes. “Cade… I only came here to check on you. Why would you do this?” He grabbed the hem of Donna’s coat. “It’s my fault. I just mentioned that your legs were getting better… and he lost it. He kept saying that the only way you’d truly heal is if you were with him.” I looked at Parker’s “gotcha” smile and found myself laughing. It was a hollow, jagged sound. I looked Donna straight in the eye. “You were standing right outside the door, weren’t you?” “You saw exactly what happened. Didn’t you?” 3 Parker’s eyes went wide. “Donna, no, it’s not—” For a heartbeat, I held onto a sliver of hope. I waited for her to defend me, the way she used to when we were kids. Then she spoke, and the words were like ice water in my lungs. “I could call the police and have you charged with assault for this, Cade.” Her face was a mask of indifference. I was a stranger to her. A nuisance. Parker let out a breath of relief, leaning closer to her chair. “Can’t handle it?” Donna mocked, seeing me look down. “This is nothing. I spent ten years in this kind of pain. When my business in the city finally started to take off, your father’s old associates burned my warehouse to the ground. And you? You were gone without a word.” “Now I’m successful again. Now I’m back on top. And suddenly, you’re back, sniffing around like a stray dog.” Her eyes were rimmed with red, her voice trembling with a decade of suppressed rage. “What makes you think I’d ever wait for you? What makes you think I’d ever forgive you?” The room went silent. The weight of everything—the three lives, the sacrifices, the silence—finally broke me. “I didn’t!” I screamed. “Donna, the reason I left was because—” I felt a physical pressure on my throat. The System was blocking the words. I started shaking. “Because why? Say it!” she yelled. There was a tiny, desperate flicker of hope in her expression. I closed my eyes and let out a long, ragged sigh. “I can’t tell you the ‘why.’ But I never left you because I wanted to. I came back to save you.” To make you walk again. Before I could finish, I saw the look of “here we go again” wash over her. She turned her chair around and pulled out her phone to dial 911. Just as the call connected, the door pushed open again. “Nate? Oh my god, Nate! It is you!” A young woman with a round, cheerful face walked in. She looked at the mess on the floor and winced. “What happened here?” She looked at me with genuine excitement. “Where have you been for ten years? When you suddenly gave up your spot for the London program, our professor was devastated. You just… vanished. Everyone thought you were dead.” Boom. Donna’s head snapped toward the girl. She shoved her chair forward, grabbing the girl’s arm. “What did you just say? He didn’t go abroad?” The girl frowned, pulling her arm back. “Who are you? Yeah, Nate stayed. He never even picked up his transcripts. He left everything in his dorm. It was like he was erased from the planet.” Sensing the toxic atmosphere, the girl made a quick excuse and bolted. Parker tried to recover. “Cade, nice touch. Hiring an actress? Really?” I ignored him. I pulled my hand away from Donna’s grip and looked down. My fingers were beginning to turn translucent. The “erasure” was starting. I looked for Donna, but she was already turning away, her mind a whirlwind. “I’ll look into this,” she muttered. “You better not be lying to me, Cade.” She turned to Parker, her voice sharp. “You overstepped. Get out.” Parker started to protest, but she leaned in and whispered something in his ear. He turned pale and left without another word. I leaned back against the hospital bed. I was so tired. I looked at my fading hand and whispered to the empty room, “It doesn’t matter anymore.” Three days later, Donna appeared at my door. She looked at me with a complexity I couldn’t decipher. She rolled her chair to my bedside and pulled out a faded, cheap silver ring. “I bought this ten years ago,” she whispered, her voice husky. “I was going to ask you to stay.” “Is it too late now?” I looked at her, my heart a flat line. “What about Parker?” She didn’t answer. She just slid the ring onto my finger. 4 After that, we didn’t mention Parker. It was as if he had been a fever dream. The “proposal” wasn’t mentioned again either. We just… existed. She would kiss my forehead. She would wipe a stray crumb from my lip. I asked her once, “Are we back together?” She didn’t answer. She just told me to focus on getting better. One afternoon, she brought me a vanilla cone—my favorite from the old days. I reached out to take it, but my fingers passed right through the cardboard sleeve. The cone hit the floor with a splat. Donna didn’t get angry. She just silently leaned down from her chair and wiped the mess with a wet wipe. “It’s okay,” she said quietly. Looking at her like that, I almost believed we were okay. If I hadn’t seen the text Parker sent me an hour earlier—a photo of Donna at a bridal boutique, fitting a wedding dress. “It’s normal for tastes to change after ten years,” Donna said suddenly. That was it. The fuse lit. “Enough!” I grabbed my phone and shoved the photo of her in the wedding dress in front of her face. “What is this, Donna? What is the point of this sick game?” “You ‘propose’ to me, you refuse to talk to me, you act like we’re back together—and all the while, you’re planning a wedding with Parker? What am I to you? A pet? A trophy?” She stared at the photo, and then she started to laugh. Cold, melodic, and terrifying. “It took you this long to realize I was playing you?” She braced herself against the arms of her wheelchair and, to my absolute horror, stood up. She looked down at me, her height making her seem like a stranger. “Cade, the ‘actress’ you hired was good, but not good enough. You said being with you would save me? Look at me. I’m standing.” “I’m fine. I’m better than fine. And you? You have nothing left to hold over me.” I sat there, stunned. “I did it on purpose,” she smirked. “Parker’s meds worked. He made me walk again. So I’m marrying him. What does it matter who I marry, anyway?” Her phone buzzed. Parker. She waved it at me. “If you want to object at the wedding, Cade, maybe I’ll give you a check for the entertainment value. You can finally have the money you wanted.” She looked at her legs, pride glowing in her eyes. “I’m going to the ceremony now. To my new life.” As she turned to leave, I called out, one last time. “Donna! If you marry him, you’ll die! The mission will fail, and you’ll be erased!” She didn’t even pause. She didn’t hear the last part. The System flickered to life. [Mission Failed. Initiating return sequence to T-minus 10 years.] [Return will commence once host’s body reaches 100% transparency.] At the engagement gala, Donna stood tall under the flashing lights. She held Parker’s arm, her eyes scanning the crowd. She was looking for me. She wanted to see me break. But as the officiant began to speak, a sudden, violent wave of vertigo hit her. Her legs buckled. There was a scream, a chaotic rush of bodies. Parker was shouting. As she collapsed on the floor, she felt a terrifying sensation—not pain, but absence. Like her very soul was being pulled out through a straw. In the fading light of her vision, a crimson warning flashed in the air: [WARNING: TARGET ERASURE IN PROGRESS. HOST HAS ABANDONED MISSION. COUNTDOWN INITIATED.]

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Standing outside the courthouse, I slipped the debit card into my pocket and, quite unexpectedly, burst into laughter. Just moments ago, Quentin had practically hurled the divorce decree at my face. “Evelyn, don’t even dream about the twenty million in premarital assets,” he’d said, his voice dripping with a casual, practiced disdain. “I’ve kept you like a pet for six years. You should know when to take the win and walk away.” Behind him stood his ‘ghost of the past’—the girl he’d never quite gotten over. Felicity. Her four-month baby bump was just starting to show beneath her designer silk, and she wore a smile that was as elegant as it was poisonous. That was when the first line of text flickered across my vision—a shimmering, digital scroll of “bullet comments,” like a live feed from a movie I didn’t know I was starring in. You are currently in a tragic melodrama. The text continued, mercilessly: You are the disposable character slated to exit in Chapter Three. Your label: The gold-digging ex-wife who married into the elite only to be tossed out like trash. It got worse. A notification pinged in the corner of my eye: Warning: Your grandmother will pass away in three days. According to the “script,” her will contained a final arrangement for me. A marriage to a man named Grady. He was a forty-year-old widower, a long-haul trucker with a teenage daughter and a measly eighty thousand a year to his name. But then, the scroll took a sharp turn. Note: Grady owns a series of defunct logistics routes and abandoned warehouses. In three months, the federal government will designate this specific corridor as a National Economic Zone. The eminent domain compensation? Twelve hundred million dollars. 1 “Sign it.” Quentin’s attorney pushed the three-page document toward me. Every clause was a clinical reminder that I was nothing. The twenty-million-dollar estate? Quentin’s. The penthouse, the cars, the summer house? All registered under the family trust. Quentin’s. The final line: Evelyn Vance voluntarily waives all claims to asset division. Quentin sat across from me, legs crossed, his wedding ring already gone from his left hand. Beside him, Felicity smoothed her yellow sundress over her stomach. I’d been married to him for six years, and I hadn’t heard her name once until she’d shown up on our doorstep three months ago. “Just sign, Evelyn,” Quentin’s mother sighed from the corner, barely looking up from her phone. “Dragging this out is pathetic. You have nothing to your name. Do you really want to humiliate yourself in open court?” A line of text floated by: [Sign it. This agreement is your only shield. Leaving with nothing means you owe the family nothing—not even your silence.] I picked up the pen. “Wait,” Felicity interrupted, her voice a soft, melodic trill. “Quentin, Evelyn has been with the family for so long. It feels… cruel to leave her with nothing. Maybe we could set up a small trust? Just for her basic needs?” Quentin waved her off. “She doesn’t need it.” Felicity lowered her head, the picture of “I tried my best,” while her hand traced a protective circle over her womb. Everyone in the room was watching me. They were waiting for the breakdown. They wanted the sobbing, the pleading, the sight of me on my knees begging Quentin to stay. In the original “book,” that’s exactly what Evelyn did. She’d clung to his legs until security dragged her out. The footage would go viral under the headline: Gold-digger crashes and burns after being evicted from high society. I signed. My hand was perfectly steady. The ink was dark and final. Quentin’s mother looked up, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. “Done.” I pushed the papers back and stood up. “Evelyn,” Quentin called out. I turned. He pulled a card from his pocket and slid it across the mahogany table. “There’s five thousand dollars on this. Consider it… a final gesture of goodwill.” Felicity chimed in instantly. “See? Quentin still has a heart.” Five thousand dollars. For six years of my life. I picked up the card, held it to the light, and tucked it into my jeans. “Thanks.” As I walked out, I heard his mother mutter behind me, “Finally. We never should’ve let your father agree to that match. A girl from the middle of nowhere… six years of free-loading is enough.” The text scrolled: [Don’t look back. Your grandmother has three days. You need to go now.] I didn’t look back. The sun was brutal as I stepped onto the sidewalk, the heat rising from the asphalt in shimmering waves. My phone buzzed three times in my pocket. My mother. “Evie… your grandmother was admitted this morning. The doctors… they say you should come home. Fast.” 2 The train ride back to my hometown took seven hours. I spent it staring at the scrolling text in the air, scrolling back through the “plot.” [Your name is Evelyn. Thirty-two. Character archetype: Vain, materialistic, failed trophy wife. In the original ending, you commit suicide on the day of Quentin’s wedding. The ‘Ghost’ steps over your grave to take her throne. No one mourns you.] Failed trophy wife. I stared at those words for a long time. The text flickered: [You didn’t fail. You were pregnant twice. The first at three months, the second at two. Both times, Quentin’s mother laced your tea with ‘herbal tonics.’ The second loss scarred your uterus. You are permanently infertile. The records are at the University Women’s Hospital, Case File #HY-2019-03742.] The train plunged into a tunnel. For a few seconds, the world was black. The digital glow of the text reflected in the window, bone-white and ghostly. My two children. The first time it happened, Quentin was away on business. His mother had brought me soup in the hospital, telling me, “You’re young, you’ll have another.” The second time, as I lay on the surgical table signing the consent forms, the doctor told me my uterine lining was paper-thin. That the odds of a third pregnancy were… non-existent. Quentin had taken a call outside the OR. When he came back, he just said, “It’s fine. Let’s not force it.” His tone then was exactly the same as it was today. She doesn’t need it. The text scrolled again: [The hospital keeps records for fifteen years. You have time for justice. But for now—see your grandmother.] The train screeched to a halt at a small, dusty station at 2:00 AM. My mother was dozing in the hospital hallway. When she saw me, her first words were, “She’s been waiting for you all day.” The room smelled of antiseptic and ozone. My grandmother lay there, a tangle of tubes connected to her frail, bird-like frame. “Evie,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering open. I knelt by the bed and took her hand. It felt like dry parchment. “Is it over?” she asked. “It’s over. I’m out.” “Good.” She squeezed my hand with the last of her strength. “The Sterling family… they weren’t for you. Evie, I’ve left someone for you.” “Who?” “Grady. He’s the grandson of your grandfather’s old army buddy. He’s forty. Lost his wife two years back. He’s a trucker, raises a girl on his own. He’s rough around the edges, but he’s a good man. A real man.” She coughed, and my mother rushed over with water. “Evie, marry him. Trust an old woman’s eyes.” Three days later, she was gone. At the wake, the small-town gossip was a low hum in the background. “I heard she got kicked out of the city.” “Not a dime to her name.” “Six years wasted. Who’s going to want her now?” I knelt before her casket and bowed my head. The text scrolled: [Grady’s number is in the red silk pouch under your grandmother’s pillow.] I found it. A folded scrap of paper with a number written in bold, utilitarian strokes. I dialed. It rang six times before a deep, gravelly voice answered over the roar of an engine. “Yeah?” “My name is Evelyn. I’m the granddaughter of—” “I know who you are,” he interrupted. He paused, the engine noise fading slightly. “Did she pass?” “Yes.” There was a silence for a few beats. “I’m hauling a load to the coast. I’ll be there the day after tomorrow. Wait for me.” The line went dead. The text scrolled: [He’s coming. And so is your billion dollars.] 3 Grady arrived in a beat-up, sapphire-blue Peterbilt. It was covered in road grime, with a crack spiderwebbing across the windshield. When he jumped down from the cab, I took him in—six-foot-two, tanned dark by the sun, with deep-set eyes and a jaw that looked like it was carved from granite. He wore a faded grey t-shirt and work boots that had seen better decades. Forty years old. He looked forty-five, in a way that felt sturdy rather than old. “Evelyn?” “Yes.” He looked at my suitcase—a designer LV trunk—and then at his truck. “Get in. Put the bag in the sleeper. Don’t worry, it won’t break.” He took the heavy suitcase from me with one hand and tossed it into the back like it was a bag of feathers. It landed amidst a pile of rachet straps and oily tarps. “Climb up. Handle’s on the right.” The cab was high. I was wearing a skirt and struggled with the step. Grady didn’t say a word; he just stepped behind me, put a hand firmly on my waist, and hoisted me up. “Hold on. The road’s rough.” He climbed in the other side and cranked the engine. The whole world started to vibrate. This was a far cry from the silenced interior of Quentin’s Mercedes. From up here, I could see the roofs of every car on the road. We drove for thirty minutes in silence. The text was working overtime: [Grady. Forty years old. In the original book, he had less than two hundred words of dialogue. He was the ‘rough guy’ the fallen socialite married out of desperation. Readers called him ‘the garbage collector Evelyn deserved.’] [But this man is the hidden variable of the entire world.] He pulled into a gravel lot in a decaying industrial park. Rusting warehouses stood like ghosts against the horizon. He parked in front of a small, one-story brick house. “Home,” he said. It was humble. Peeling paint, a couple of spare tires on the porch, and a yard overtaken by knee-high weeds. The front door creaked open. A girl stood there. Maybe twelve or thirteen, in a school hoodie, her expression guarded and icy. “Dad? This is her?” “Yeah.” The girl looked me up and down, her gaze landing on my stilettos. “Are you here to spend his money?” Grady frowned. “Macy, knock it off.” “He doesn’t have any,” Macy said, ignoring him and staring me down. “He clears maybe fifty grand a year after fuel and taxes. If you’re looking for a payday, keep walking.” She was sharp. A little accountant in a ponytail. I crouched down so I was eye-level with her. “I’m not here for his money.” “Then why are you here?” “To show him how to make more. Is that okay?” Macy narrowed her eyes, but she stopped talking. The text scrolled: [This kid will be your fiercest ally. Win her over first.] Dinner was simple—pot roast and potatoes. Grady pushed a mountain of food toward me. “Eat up. We’re going to the courthouse tomorrow to get the license.” I froze with my fork halfway to my mouth. “That fast?” Grady bit into a roll. “Your grandmother called me before she passed. Asked me to look after you. I don’t intend to keep her waiting.” Macy snorted into her water. The text scrolled: [Once you sign that license, you have seventy-two days. You must renew all his land leases within that window. If the federal announcement hits before you do, the price will skyrocket a hundredfold, and you’ll get nothing.] I started eating. Seventy-two days. I could work with that. 4 At the courthouse, the clerk looked at our IDs, then at us, then back at the IDs. Thirty-two and forty. I was in a simple dress; Grady was in a white button-down that looked like it hadn’t been ironed since the nineties. “Smile,” the photographer said for our license photo. Grady twitched his lips. He looked like he was passing a kidney stone. Once the papers were stamped, he tucked them into his shirt pocket. “Let’s go. I’ve got a haul this afternoon.” By the third day of our marriage, the news had reached the city. Quentin’s mother had posted in her “Inner Circle” group chat. A former friend, Sarah, sent me the screenshot. “Can you believe who Evelyn ended up with? A middle-aged trucker. Living in a shack by the docks without central heating.” A string of laughing emojis followed. “Mrs. Sterling always had an eye for quality. She knew that girl was trash.” “So sad.” “Not sad, deserved.” Ten minutes later, Felicity updated her Instagram. A photo of the Sterling estate gardens, covered in roses. Caption: “So glad I have someone to keep my hands warm this winter. It’s all I’ll ever need.” Sarah sent the screenshot with a ‘crying-laughing’ face. “You okay, Evie?” I replied with four words: “I’m good. Just busy.” And I was. The text had given me a map: The abandoned logistics routes under Grady’s name spanned six parcels of land. Three were thirty-year leases signed by his father, set to expire in seven months. Two were parking lots he’d let lapse. The last was a tract of communal industrial land he had the ‘Right of First Refusal’ on but had never used. Six pieces of the puzzle. In three months, every single one would be inside the “Red Line” of the new National Economic Zone. But if the leases expired or the rights lapsed, the government compensation would go to the landlords, not Grady. I found Grady under his truck, covered in grease. “Grady.” “Yeah?” “The leases your dad signed. Where are they?” The sound of a wrench hitting metal echoed from the undercarriage. “Kitchen cabinet. Second shelf. Blue tin box. Knock yourself out.” I found them. The paper was yellowed and smelled of old tobacco. Expiration date: Three months and eleven days from today. We were cutting it close. But I needed money to renew them. Legal fees, back taxes, and deposits would run about thirty thousand dollars. Grady’s entire savings. I waited until he crawled out from under the rig. He wiped his face with a rag, looking at the stack of documents in my hand. “What’s this?” “We’re renewing all six leases. Now.” “Why? Those routes are dead. No one uses those warehouses. It’s a waste of money.” “Do you trust me?” He looked at me, wrench in hand. He didn’t say anything for a long time. “Thirty thousand, Grady. All of it. In three months, I’ll turn that thirty thousand into three hundred million. Do we have a deal?” “Three hundred million?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Have you been drinking?” “Have I ever joked about money?” Grady stared at me. The scent of diesel and grease hung heavy in the air. The wind whistled through the weeds of the empty lot. “Money’s in the dresser. Top drawer. Password is my birthday.” I turned to go, but he caught my arm. “Evelyn.” “Yeah?” “If you lose it, you’re riding shotgun for three months to help me earn the fuel money back.” I looked back at him. His face was filthy, his expression dead serious. “Deal.” The text scrolled: [He believes you. He has no idea he just won the lottery.] The next day, I took thirty thousand in cash to the County Land Office. While waiting in line, I noticed a man in a sharp suit at the front counter. I recognized the silhouette. A red warning flashed in my vision: [That’s the Chief Legal Officer for Quentin’s firm. They’re scout-buying land in the area. Move.] I gripped the documents tighter. 5 The man was Marcus Vane. I’d seen him at the Sterling Christmas parties for years. He didn’t recognize me. In my jeans, sneakers, and no makeup, I wasn’t the polished doll he remembered. The text moved fast: [The Sterling Group got an inside tip. They’re land-banking around the zone. They have four of Grady’s parcels on their hit list. You have to file the renewal before they file an acquisition intent, or the landlord will take their higher offer.] I stood behind him, catching a glimpse of his paperwork: Portside North, Parcel 3. That was Grady’s fifth parcel. My palms were sweating. When I finally got to the window, the clerk flipped through my stack. “These three are automatic renewals, just pay the back taxes. These two need the corporate seal. This last one? You need a certificate of good standing from the Logistics Bureau.” “How long?” “Standard is two weeks.” Two weeks was too long. The text pinged: [Express Lane. Small business owners with veteran status get a 72-hour turnaround. Grady’s dad was Army. The business is still under his name. Go to the Veteran Affairs desk.] I spent the rest of the day sprinting between offices. I called Grady while he was on the road. “I’m hauling steel to the border,” he said. “I won’t be back until the day after tomorrow.” “You have to be here tomorrow. Quentin’s company is trying to buy the land out from under us.” There was a three-second silence. “Quentin? Your ex?” “My ex.” Grady didn’t ask how I knew. He didn’t ask for an explanation. He just said, “I’ll drop the load and turn around. I’ll be there by noon.” Six hundred miles. He drove through the night. At 11:00 AM the next day, the blue Peterbilt roared into the parking lot. Grady jumped out, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. “Where do I sign?” By the end of the day, we had the stamps. We beat Quentin’s firm by less than twenty-four hours. That afternoon, Marcus Vane showed up at the landlord’s office with a multi-million dollar buyout offer. The landlord just shrugged. “Sorry. The tenant just exercised his renewal option this morning.” I imagine Marcus calling Quentin. I imagine Quentin’s voice over the speaker: “What do you mean someone renewed? Who?” “A guy named Grady. Runs a mom-and-pop trucking line.” Quentin wouldn’t know who Grady was. But he was about to find out.

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The moment my husband crushed his third cigarette into the crystal ashtray and told me he wanted a divorce, the smell of bleach hit me like a physical blow. It was a phantom scent, a sensory ghost from a future that hadn’t happened yet—or rather, a past life that had already ended. It was the smell of the ten years I’d spent playing nurse to him in sterile hospital rooms. It was the smell of the air in my daughter’s lungs when she pointed a finger at me and called me a “sinner.” It was the suffocating, desperate smell trapped inside my oxygen mask as I lay dying, listening to the news that my ex-husband had just married the young girl who used to be our maid. Now, sitting across from me, Richard’s voice was strained, caught between guilt and a perverse kind of excitement. “I’ve fallen in love with her, Elena. One of Natalie’s classmates. It’s… it’s the real thing.” I stared at the unopened pack of nicotine gum on the coffee table. I’d bought it last year after the doctor warned him about his blood pressure. What a waste of money. “Okay,” I said. My voice sounded light, airy, as if I were discussing someone else’s weather. In my previous life, this was the moment I had shattered our wedding photos. I had screamed, wept, and demanded to know how he could do this to our daughter, to our twenty-five years of history. And what did that get me? The girl was sent abroad by her parents, Richard spiraled into a pit of whiskey and self-pity, and eventually, he collapsed from a stroke at a business dinner. I was the one who pushed his wheelchair through a decade of physical therapy. I wore through seven pairs of shoes walking him back to health, only for him to stand on his own two feet and immediately slap a divorce settlement in front of me. Even our daughter, Natalie, had turned on me then. “It’s your fault, Mom! If you’d just let go ten years ago, Dad wouldn’t have wasted a decade. You ruined my career, my future—everything!” The day they kicked me out of the house, I was coughing up blood at the gates of the subdivision, scrolling through their Instagram posts celebrating “the new family.” But now, the morning sun was filtering through the blinds, and Richard was waiting for my explosion. I picked up the pen and flipped to the last page of the agreement. “I want the old cottage in the valley. You can keep the rest.” Richard froze. The expression on his face was identical to the one he’d worn in my past life when I’d refused to sign. It was perfect. This time, I wasn’t saving him. I was saving myself. 1 He snapped his head up, eyes wide with disbelief. “What? Say that again.” I picked up a piece of the braised pork I’d made for lunch and chewed slowly. “I said fine. We’ll split the liquid assets fifty-fifty. You have a problem with that?” He narrowed his eyes, his mind clearly racing to find the trap. He remained silent. I scooped a large portion of rice into my bowl and started eating with an appetite I hadn’t felt in years. In my last life, I had starved myself for three days after he told me. I had withered away until the sickness took me. Not this time. This time, I was going to be well-fed. Richard let out a long, theatrical sigh, the “burdened intellectual” persona sliding back into place. “Elena, I’m being serious. I love Skye. And she loves me.” “Despite the twenty-five-year age gap, our souls are… intertwined. As my partner for the first half of my life, I expect you to respect my journey. I want your blessing.” I nodded, mouth full. “Sure. I’m pretty sick of your journey anyway.” He blinked. Then, a flicker of genuine surprise—and relief—crossed his face. “You’re… you’re not just saying that? You’re not planning to make a scene at the university?” I just kept eating. He began to rub his hands together, his excitement becoming palpable. “Good. I’m glad you’ve reached this level of maturity. You’ve spent twenty years by my side; I suppose some of my refinement was bound to rub off on you.” “Listen,” he continued, his voice dropping into that condescending ‘professor’ tone, “we’ll divide the assets into three. One for you, one for me, and one for Natalie. It’s more than fair.” “I’m staying with Dad,” Natalie said suddenly. She had been slumped on the sofa, scrolling through her phone, pretending not to listen. “He can manage my share of the money.” Richard let out a booming laugh. “See? That’s my girl! Honestly, Elena, this is a great deal for you. You’ve been a housewife for two decades. You haven’t exactly ‘contributed’ to the household income. You’ve lived off me for twenty years. You should be grateful for a third.” Natalie waved her phone at me, a cruel smirk on her face. “Mom, I just recorded you agreeing to the divorce. Don’t even think about backing out.” 2 I looked at my daughter. There was still a dull ache in my chest—a vestigial remain of maternal instinct. This was the girl I had raised. I used to think we were a team. In my first life, when Richard asked for the divorce, my first thought had been her. She was applying for grad school, and she needed her father’s connections and financial backing. I knew Richard. If I divorced him then, he would have cut her off to spend every cent on his new muse. So I endured. I stayed in a dead marriage, making myself small and pathetic just to ensure she had a bridge to her future. And how did she repay me? By leaving me to rot in a rural shack without so much as a bag of rice. By ignoring my calls when I was too sick to stand. When I finally reached her on the phone, she had said: “Just die already, Mom. People like you don’t contribute anything to society anyway. You’re just wasting oxygen.” Recalling those words, I smiled thinly at her. “Don’t worry, Natalie. I won’t fight your father for you. Even if you wanted to come with me, I wouldn’t take you.” Her face shifted, the smirk faltering for a microsecond before hardening into a sneer. “Please. As if I’d ever go with you. What could you possibly do for me?” “Skye is my best friend,” she continued, her voice rising in a defensive trill. “When she marries Dad, we’ll be closer than ever. She has a Master’s degree, she’s beautiful, she actually matches Dad’s intellect. When you stand next to him, you look like his housekeeper.” She stuck her tongue out at me, a childish gesture from a twenty-year-old woman. “I’m going to be surrounded by culture and sophistication now. I don’t need you.” She threw her fork onto the table and sauntered back to her room. I looked around the room. I looked at the half-eaten meal I’d cooked, the laundry drying on the balcony that I’d washed, the houseplants I watered because she forgot, the pet turtle she’d cried for and then never fed once. I had done everything for her. And in her eyes, it was worth nothing because it wasn’t ‘intellectual.’ Her father was a professor, so even when he did nothing, he was a giant. I was a mother, so even when I did everything, I was trash. Fine. I didn’t want this ungrateful ghost of a daughter anymore. 3 After lunch, I walked out the door. At the bottom of the stairs, I ran into Richard and Skye. They weren’t even trying to hide it anymore. They were walking up the path, fingers intertwined, looking like a sickeningly sweet couple in a jewelry commercial. I walked past them as if they were invisible. “Mrs. Miller!” Skye called out. She was beaming, that youthful, predatory glow radiating off her. “Are you heading out?” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You might want to stay out late. I’d hate for you to come home and see something… upsetting. You know, like this.” She pressed her lips to Richard’s in a bold, wet kiss. Richard looked slightly uncomfortable, his eyes darting around to see if any neighbors were watching, but he didn’t pull away. Skye pulled back, a glint of malice in her eyes. “Oh, and Mrs. Miller? Richard said he’s buying me a villa in the hills. Do you even know what a villa looks like? You’ve probably never stepped foot in one.” She winked. “Maybe after the divorce, you can come over and be our cleaning lady. At least then you’d get to see how the other half lives.” I remembered the first day I met Skye. She had seemed so sweet, so harmless. She told me she wanted to go into academia and asked if my husband could tutor her. By the third week of “tutoring,” I had heard her moans through the office door. “I just love mature men with authority,” she had whispered. In my last life, I fought to keep them apart. This time? I was going to help them find their “happily ever after.” After all, I had what I needed. I hailed a taxi and went straight to a local labor agency. I hired six strong men and drove two hours out to the countryside, to the old farmhouse my parents had left me. It was overgrown with weeds, abandoned for over a decade. It was the place where I had died in my previous life. In that life, Natalie had shoved me into the dirt here and laughed. “Guess what, Mom? Dad had eight million dollars stashed away in a private account the whole time. Bribes, ‘consulting fees,’ cash gifts from students’ parents… all of it. He hid the cash in the floorboards of this dump because he knew you’d never look here.” Eight million dollars. He hadn’t touched a cent of it when he was paralyzed. He’d let me work three jobs to pay for his medicine while Natalie spent his pension on designer shoes. And the moment he recovered, he’d dug it up to buy Skye a new life. He wouldn’t even give me ten thousand for my surgery. Well. This time, I was the one with the shovel. 4 After securing the “inheritance,” I took a week-long solo trip to the coast. I spent money on things I’d always denied myself—expensive wine, silk sheets, a spa treatment that made my skin feel like a human’s again. Richard sent me a barrage of texts every day. [I’m sick of seeing your junk in the hallway. Get back here and move your stuff out!] [How long are you going to hide? We need to sign the final papers.] When I finally returned, the neighbors stared. I looked rested. I looked younger. “Going through a divorce suits you, Elena!” one of them joked. I laughed. “It turns out not taking care of a grown man is the best skincare routine there is.” We lived on the second floor. I looked up and saw Skye on the balcony, looking down at us with a scowl. I walked into the apartment and realized my slippers were gone. Whatever. I didn’t need them. The place was transformed. Every piece of furniture I’d picked out was gone. Even the curtains had been replaced with something tacky and over-the-top. Skye walked out of the kitchen, looking smug. “I threw your stuff out, Elena. Your taste was… depressing. I hope you don’t mind. You’re leaving anyway, right?” I remained calm. “Actually, I like it. It saves me the trouble of looking at things I’m tired of.” Her smile faltered. Young girls are so impatient; they expect you to crumble. “Listen to me, you old hag! Richard doesn’t want you! Look at these!” She pointed to the walls. Our wedding photos had been replaced by glossy shots of her and Richard. There was a “family” portrait of Richard, Skye, and Natalie. “There’s no room for you here anymore,” she hissed. I glanced at the photos. “Technically, we haven’t finalized the paperwork. Legally, I’m still his wife. And legally, this is still my home.” “So what? He doesn’t love you! You’re nothing!” she screamed, her voice echoing through the apartment building. Just then, the front door—which I’d left ajar—was pushed open. A middle-aged couple rushed in, faces flushed with rage. “Skye!” the man roared. Skye turned white. “Mom? Dad? What are you doing here?” She looked at me, realization dawning. “You! You called them!” Before she could finish, her father stepped forward and slapped her across the face. “We worked ourselves to the bone to put you through school, and you spend your time breaking up a marriage? You’re coming home right now!” Richard walked in from work at that exact moment. He tried to play the ‘distinguished professor,’ tried to “reason” with them. Skye’s father didn’t want to talk. He chased Richard around the living room, swinging his briefcase until Richard was cowering behind the sofa with a bloody nose. After they dragged a screaming Skye out of the apartment, Richard wiped his face and looked at me with pure hatred. “We’re going to the courthouse this afternoon. I am giving Skye the life she deserves, and you are not going to stop me!” I smiled. “You think you can handle her parents?” “That’s my business! Just sign the papers!” I shook my head slowly. “I’ve been thinking. I don’t think I want a divorce anymore.” 5 Richard’s face contorted. “What did you say?” I shrugged. “You were right, Richard. I’m just a housewife. Skye said I’d end up as a cleaning lady. Why would I want that? I’ll just stay here. You can do whatever you want with whoever you want, but I’m keeping the title of Mrs. Miller.” He slammed his hand on the table, his face turning a dark, dangerous purple. “You will sign!” It was the same look he’d given me in the other life. The same entitlement. “Richard,” I said quietly, “You’re a professor. You’re supposed to be good at logic. Tell me, what have I gained from this marriage?” “Have I gained wealth? Jewels? A life of ease? No. I’ve gained the labor of raising your child, the stress of managing your home on a pittance, and a daughter who treats me like dirt.” He stared at me, his bravado leaking away. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “I… I offered you a third of the money,” he muttered. I set my tea down. “You have eighteen thousand dollars in your savings account. A third is six thousand. How long is that supposed to last me? I don’t even have a place to live.” “This apartment is my pre-marital property!” he shouted. “Exactly,” I replied. “Divorce is a bad deal for me. So, I’ve decided I don’t care. Go play with your student. I’m staying.” “You’re being unreasonable! Greedy! You’re a small-minded, petty woman! Marrying you was the greatest mistake of my life!” I didn’t blink. “Get her things out of my house. If I have to do it, I’m throwing them off the balcony.” I walked into the master bedroom and started hushing Skye’s designer bags into the hallway. Natalie came home and screamed at me, calling me every name in the book. I put on my noise-canceling headphones and started a movie. At dinner, the two of them sat at the table, staring at me with thunderous expressions. “Where’s dinner?” Richard demanded. I arched an eyebrow. “Are you joking? After the way you’ve treated me, you think I’m cooking for you?” I picked up my takeout and went into my room, locking the door. This went on for three days. Finally, Natalie snapped. “I can’t take it anymore, Dad! Just give her what she wants!” “The house is old anyway, and the savings are nothing! Let her have them! I’m sick of her cooking, and I’m sick of her face!” “Skye will cook for us once we move into the villa! Just do it, Dad! Her parents are trying to marry her off to someone in another state!” Five minutes later, there was a knock on my door. “Fine,” Richard spat through the wood. “The house, the savings—you can have it all. Just sign the damn papers.”

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My soul floated, light as a dandelion seed, looking down at the girl collapsed on the cold, linoleum floor. Mom, I’m sorry. I really wasn’t lying this time. I just couldn’t hold on anymore. Despite knowing I suffered from severe chronic anemia, my mother had insisted I participate in the university’s campus-wide blood drive. She didn’t want the “optics” of her own daughter sitting out while she, the Dean of Students, presided over the event. She called it “leading by example.” At the 100-milliliter mark, the world began to tilt. My vision went grainy, like an old television losing its signal. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trying to escape a cage. I reached out, my fingers trembling as I tried to steady the tube, trying to tell the nurse I needed to stop. But she just clamped her hand over my wrist, pinning me down. Stacy, the phlebotomist, shot me a look of pure, unadulterated annoyance. She looked at my ghost-white face and scoffed. “Only a hundred mils and you’re already trying to tap out? Everyone else is doing the full four hundred. Don’t be a drama queen.” She leaned in closer, her voice a sharp whisper. “This is a charity drive, honey. Trying to fake a faint to get out of it is just selfish. Honestly, people like you should be forced to give double just for the attitude.” My mother stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, her eyes like chips of flint. She didn’t offer a hand or a kind word. She just looked disappointed. “Zoey, is this how I raised you?” she asked, her voice echoing in the sterile room. “Everyone else is doing their part. You don’t get to be the exception just because you’re mine.” Then came the words that felt like a death sentence: “You stay in that chair until you hit four hundred, Zoey. Even if it kills you, you are finishing what you started.” I gasped for air, but my lungs felt like they were filled with cotton. When the third bag began to fill, the light finally went out. My body felt heavy, like lead, and I felt myself slip away as I hit the floor. 1 A suffocating darkness grabbed me, and then—nothing. My physical body slumped over the donation table, the sudden movement jerking the needle. Blood began to backflow into the tube, a dark, rhythmic pulse. Stacy shoved my shoulder, her patience clearly gone. She ripped the needle out with a sharp, careless tug. “I’m trying to work here! Can you stop moving for five seconds? Now I have to re-stick you.” When I didn’t answer, she let out a huff of disgust. She grabbed my arm and drove the needle back in, hard. “Oops. Missed the vein. You won’t mind, right?” She did it again. And again. She dug the needle in with a sickening deliberate-ness until my inner elbow was a mess of bruised, purple skin. But I couldn’t feel the sting anymore. “Fine, play the silent treatment,” Stacy muttered, swapping the bags without looking up. “Zero school spirit. Everyone else is doing their part, and you’re here acting like it’s a Greek tragedy. It’s just blood, Zoey. You’re so entitled.” She glanced toward my mother. “I don’t know how Dean Mercer ended up with such a spineless, selfish daughter.” The students in line behind me started to whisper. “I heard she’s actually sick, like, really anemic,” one girl murmured. “What if she’s actually hurt?” “Please,” another boy replied, rolling his eyes. “The nurse said she’s faking. And look at Dean Mercer. She’s totally calm. If something was actually wrong, her own mom wouldn’t just be standing there, right?” I hovered above them, desperate, looking at my mother. Her brow was furrowed, her lips thinned into a line of pure resentment. “Zoey! Get up this instant! You’re making a scene in front of the entire department!” I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Stacy paused, her hand resting on my limp arm. She looked up at my mother and sighed. “Dean, she’s really committed to this act. Should I even bother continuing? She only hit the hundred-mark. Everyone else did the full draw, but she’s just… being difficult.” Stacy leaned in as if sharing a secret. “Actually, she just threatened me. She told me that because she’s the Dean’s daughter, I should just credit her for a full bag and let her go, or she’d have me fired. Maybe we should just let her go before she causes more trouble.” I tried to scream, to tell the truth, but I had no voice. My mother’s face darkened. A flash of pure rage crossed her features. She walked over and kicked me—hard—right in the small of my back. Because my body was already a dead weight, the force sent me sliding off the chair and onto the floor. “You are a disgrace,” she hissed. “When did you become so manipulative? I honestly don’t know who you are anymore.” 2 I lay there, a discarded doll on the tiles. My mother was shaking, her heels clicking as she stepped closer and pressed the toe of her shoe down on my wrist. “Is this fun for you, Zoey? Making me look like a fool in front of my colleagues? Do you think being my daughter means you get to hold everyone hostage with your tantrums?” She leaned down, her voice a cold, jagged blade. “The biggest mistake I ever made was fighting so hard to bring you into this world.” A few students behind us gasped. Stacy covered her mouth, but her eyes were dancing with a cruel sort of glee. My heart—the ghost of it—ached. I remembered the stories. My mother had gone through three rounds of IVF to have me. I’d seen the faint, faded marks on her skin from the hundreds of injections. I knew she had bled for me, cried for me, suffered for me. And I remembered being a child. I was born premature, the anemia a lingering shadow from my first breath. My mother used to stay up all night when I was sick, her notebooks filled with meal plans and massage techniques to keep me healthy. She used to be my protector. But everything changed when she became Dean. On my first day of college, she sat me down for a “professional” talk. We have to maintain boundaries, she had said. No special treatment. No favoritism. To “maintain boundaries,” she gave my merit scholarship to the runner-up. “If you take it, people will say I rigged it for you,” she explained. “You have to understand, Zoey.” To “maintain boundaries,” she gave my spot in the prestigious state internship to a student from a “troubled background.” “I have eyes on me, Zoey. I have to be seen as fair.” I understood. I swallowed the unfairness every single time. I did it for her. But this time, to prove her “fairness,” she had forced me into this room. “Because you’re my daughter, you should be the first one in line. If you don’t do it, how can I ask anyone else?” And now, she was telling me she regretted my existence. I looked down at my body. My arms were a map of bruises and needle holes. I wasn’t faking. I was gone. Stacy grabbed my arm, pretending to pull me up, but her grip was loose and mocking. “Come on, Zoey. Just two hundred more mils and we’re done.” She “slipped.” She stumbled back, letting out a small shriek as she fell to the floor. The blood bag she was holding flew out of her hand, hitting the floor and bursting. Deep, crimson blood splattered everywhere. My body was jerked upward for a second before slamming back down into the puddle of my own blood. My white shirt soaked it up instantly. Stacy bit her lip, her eyes suddenly brimming with fake tears. “Zoey! Why would you do that? I was just trying to help you up, and you pushed me!” She looked at my mother, her voice trembling. “She just threw the blood. All that work… wasted. Dean Mercer, I’m so sorry. I know how much you care about this drive.” Stacy started to sob, the picture of a victimized worker. “I’m so jealous of her, you know? She has a mother like you, she gets to go to this great school, and I’m just a nurse working double shifts. And she treats me like garbage.” I stood there, invisible, watching the absurdity. A dead girl can’t push anyone, Stacy. But my mother believed her. She walked over and pulled Stacy into a hug, rubbing her back. “It’s okay. Don’t cry. I won’t let her bully you anymore.” I felt a coldness that had nothing to do with death. My mother looked at my body on the floor with utter loathing. “Since she’s so determined to ‘play dead’ to get out of this, I’m not lifting a finger to help her.” She looked at Stacy. “Take the blood she wasted out of her other arm. Draw it all. I want to see exactly how long she can keep up this little performance.” The students in line started chiming in. “She’s totally faking. I can’t believe Dean Mercer has to deal with this.” “So entitled. She thinks she’s royalty just because of her mom.” “She’s literally wasting everyone’s time. Just pull the blood and move on.” Then, the University President walked into the room, alerted by the commotion. He saw me on the floor, surrounded by red, and his face went pale. “Dean Mercer, what happened? Do we need an ambulance?” My mother turned, a weary, practiced sigh escaping her lips. “Mr. President, please excuse my daughter. She’s having a bit of a tantrum because she didn’t want to donate. The blood on the floor? She threw it to get back at me.” She looked back at me with a hard, unforgiving glare. “Don’t worry about her. The more attention we give her, the worse she gets. She needs to learn that she can’t always get her way.” 3 The President hesitated, looking at me with concern. “Dean, blood donation is voluntary. If she’s really this resistant, maybe we should just let it go.” He shook his head and walked away to attend to other donors. My mother’s anger only intensified. “Still not moving? Fine. You can stay right there on the floor while they finish.” She looked at Stacy. “Finish the draw while she’s down there. When you’re done, leave her. If she wants to lay in the dirt, let her. Don’t let her hold up the line.” Without another glance, my mother walked out of the room. Stacy grabbed a fresh needle. She didn’t look for a vein this time; she just jammed it in. She drew the full four hundred milliliters—and then some. When she was finished, she kicked my leg. “Okay, the show’s over. Your mom’s gone. You can stop acting now.” When I didn’t move, Stacy rolled her eyes. She looked at the guys waiting in line. “Hey, can a couple of you carry this ‘princess’ outside? She’s taking up space.” I watched from above as two boys hauled my limp body out like a bag of trash and dumped it on the sidewalk under the blistering afternoon sun. Two hours passed. The drive ended. A few students walked by, glancing at me. One girl paused, biting her lip. “Is she okay? She’s been out here in the sun for a long time. She looks… blue.” Stacy, who was packing up her gear, walked by and snorted. “Don’t bother. She’s just trying to get someone to pity her so they’ll go tell her mom. It’s a total scam. Trust me, I’ve seen girls like her a million times.” Another student joined in. “Yeah, she’s the Dean’s daughter. She’s just a brat. She’s probably waiting for a camera crew.” The girl who had been worried looked embarrassed and quickly walked away. Stacy smirked, feeling triumphant, and headed toward my mother’s office to finish the paperwork. “Dean Mercer, here are the final logs. Everything’s accounted for. If you could just sign off…” My mother glanced at the log. When she saw my name next to the “400ml” mark, her expression softened slightly. “Where is she? I told her she was supposed to stay and help you volunteer as part of her ‘community service’ for the attitude she gave me.” Stacy lowered her head, looking hesitant. “Well… I tried to get her up, but she said she wouldn’t move unless you personally came out and apologized to her. She’s still lying on the sidewalk.” My mother’s face turned a violent shade of red. “Dean, she’s been out there a while,” Stacy added, her voice sugary and manipulative. “Maybe you should just go give her a little hug? Just to get her to stop embarrassing the school?” My mother slammed her hand on the desk. “I have spent my life indulging her! No more. If she wants to be stubborn, she can stay on that pavement until she rots.” 4 The sun climbed higher. The campus emptied as students retreated to air-conditioned dorms. My body began to change. The heat was unforgiving. A few stray cats, drawn by the metallic scent of the blood on my clothes, began to circle. It was a special kind of hell, watching them. My spirit drifted back to my mother’s office. She and Stacy were laughing now. Stacy was flipping through the old notebook my mother used to keep—the one with the recipes for my anemia. “Wow, Dean Mercer, you really did all this for her?” Stacy asked, her voice dripping with fake admiration. “Every meal, every vitamin… you must have spent years on this.” I saw my mother’s eyes flicker. For a second, she looked at the yellowed pages with a flash of genuine memory. A shadow of the mother she used to be crossed her face. She sighed, reaching out to pat Stacy’s hair. “If only she were half as appreciative and sensible as you are, Stacy.” Just then, the President knocked and hurried in. “Dean, is your daughter still outside? It’s ninety-five degrees out there. If she has a health condition, heatstroke is a real risk.” My mother’s hand froze for a second before she waved it off. “She’s fine. She’s too vain to let herself get a tan, let alone heatstroke. She’s just waiting for me to break. My daughter is a master of the long game, Mr. President. When she gets bored, she’ll come crawling back.” The President sighed and left, looking unsettled. A few minutes later, there was another knock. My mother straightened her posture, a look of “I told you so” blooming on her face. She thought it was me. But it was a group of students. They were there to pick up their certificates for the Dean’s List and the state competition awards. My mother forced a smile and handed them out. “Congratulations. You all worked very hard.” The students looked at each other, then at her. “Actually, Dean… we wanted to say thank you. We know Zoey stepped down so we could have these spots. We heard she did it to help the ‘school’s image.’” The smile on my mother’s face died. I watched the realization hit her like a physical blow. She had told everyone I was “disqualified” or “lazy.” She hadn’t realized the students knew the truth—that she had forced me to give up my hard-earned honors to prove she wasn’t playing favorites. She looked like she’d swallowed glass. “She didn’t ‘step down.’ She was caught cheating on the preliminary exam. You earned these. She didn’t.” The students looked uncomfortable and hurried out of the office. My mother’s heart was racing now. She was humiliated. The door knocked again. Stacy smirked. “That’s definitely her this time, Dean. Ready to beg.” My mother cleared her throat, assuming her most authoritative tone. “Come in, Zoey! I hope you’ve enjoyed your little nap on the sidewalk.” She didn’t wait for the person to enter. “If you’re here to apologize, don’t bother unless you’re ready to publicly apologize to Nurse Stacy tomorrow morning. And I want a five-thousand-word essay on ‘Accountability’ posted on the student portal by midnight, or don’t bother coming home!” The knocking became frantic. My mother stormed over and ripped the door open. She froze. Two police officers stood there, their faces grim and heavy. “Are you the mother of Zoey Mercer?” My mother blinked, her annoyance still simmering. “Yes. What did she do now? Did someone report her for loitering on the sidewalk? I’ve already told her to get up.” The lead officer didn’t answer. He looked at her with a profound, terrifying pity. “Ma’am, I need you to brace yourself. Your daughter, Zoey, has passed away.”

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I let Virginia hold my hand up to the light, my expression perfectly entirely neutral. Instantly, the eyes of half a dozen college friends sitting around the café table zeroed in on us. She let out a soft, breathy laugh, tilting my hand so the overhead bulbs caught the metal. “This ring… what, maybe a couple hundred bucks? Tops?” The sudden chill of the band against my skin made me instinctively rub my thumb over the metal. “Does your guy just not know how to shop?” Virginia’s voice was laced with a thin, sugary venom. “The setting is so… basic. Come on, Nic, you deserve better than this.” I took my hand back, my voice completely steady. “I think it’s perfect.” Virginia blinked, visibly thrown. She hadn’t expected me to be so unbothered. 1. “Nic, don’t be mad.” Virginia leaned in, adopting that cloying, I’m-only-looking-out-for-you tone she’d perfected over the years. “I just don’t want you getting played. You’re too naive.” “I’m not mad.” Sitting next to me, Gemma watched the exchange, her mouth opening and closing as if she wanted to intervene but didn’t know how. “Jon told me he picked it out himself.” I picked up my latte. “And I love it.” “Picked it out himself?” Virginia let out a sharp laugh. “When a guy says he ‘picked it out himself,’ it means he couldn’t be bothered to actually put in the effort. Let me tell you, when Bradley bought my ring, he dragged me to three different jewelers in Manhattan. Finally went with a custom cut. Fifteen grand.” She fluttered her left hand over the table. The diamond was huge, aggressive, and blinding. “Fifteen grand. And that was after his corporate discount.” Right on cue, one of the girls across the table chimed in. “Virginia, your ring is gorgeous, seriously.” “Obviously.” Virginia shot me a sidelong glance. “Look, Nic, I’m just being real with you. Your boyfriend runs some tiny startup, right? How much money could he possibly have? Don’t set your expectations too high.” I didn’t answer. Just then, the bell above the café door jingled, and a man in a sharply tailored suit walked in. “Bradley!” Virginia practically leaped out of her chair, looping her arm through his. “What are you doing here?” Bradley offered a polished smile. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d come pick you up.” His gaze swept over the table, lingering on my face for a fraction of a second. “And this is…?” “Nicole. My roommate from college,” Virginia supplied smoothly. “The one I was telling you about? She just got engaged. The ring is very… um, minimalist.” Bradley’s eyes dropped to the ring on my finger. There was a microscopic pause. A slight shift in his posture. “Congratulations, Nicole.” His tone was remarkably respectful—somehow even more polite than the way he spoke to Virginia. I gave him a brief nod. “Thank you.” Virginia entirely missed the nuance. “Bradley, look at it. It’s mall jewelry, right? A couple hundred at best. Doesn’t it just scream ‘lack of commitment’?” Bradley offered a tight, noncommittal smile. “Everyone has different tastes, Virginia.” “You’re always so diplomatic.” She swatted his arm playfully. “Whatever. I just think a man’s budget shows his devotion.” She turned back to me. “Don’t hate me for being blunt, Nic. We’ve been best friends for a decade. If I don’t tell you the hard truth, who will?” “Right.” I offered a faint smile and took a sip of my coffee. Under the table, Gemma gently nudged my foot with hers. As the group was splitting up outside, Virginia pulled me aside, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Nic, are you really sure about this? The guy is a small-time freelancer. What can he actually offer you?” “Offer me?” I looked her dead in the eye. “He gives me exactly what I want. I’m happy.” “You…” Virginia let out a heavy sigh, shaking her head. “You settle too easily. Whatever. It’s your life.” She hooked her arm through Bradley’s and walked away, the sharp click-clack of her stilettos echoing against the pavement. Gemma stood beside me, hesitating. “What is it?” I asked. “Nothing.” She shook her head. “It’s just… Virginia is being Virginia. Just don’t let her get in your head, okay?” I watched Virginia get into a sleek black car. I didn’t say a word. Ten years. We had known each other for exactly ten years, from freshman dorms to now. When I got back to our apartment that evening, Jon was in the kitchen. He had an apron tied around his waist, flipping something in a pan. When he heard my keys drop, he turned and gave me that slow, easy smile of his. “Hey. How was the reunion?” “It was alright.” I walked over and wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my cheek against his back. He went still for a second, then reached back to gently pat my hands. “Everything okay?” “Yeah.” I breathed in the scent of garlic, olive oil, and the clean, cedar smell of him. “Just wanted to hold you.” He didn’t push for details. He just turned off the burner, turned around, and took my hands in his, his thumb tracing the thin metal of my ring. “Do you really like it?” “I do.” “Honestly?” His voice dropped an octave. “I know the setting isn’t exactly flashy, but…” “I love that you picked it.” I looked up at him, cutting him off. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” He went quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was fierce, almost a vow. “Nicole, I promise you. One day, I’m going to give you everything.” I just smiled. He didn’t know that, as far as I was concerned, I already had it. 2. The next morning, I was scrolling through Instagram when Virginia’s newest post popped up. It was a perfectly filtered selfie of her and Bradley. The caption read: Some people spend their whole lives settling for cheap knock-offs. Others find the real thing without even trying. So blessed. The comments were a flood of heart-eyes and fire emojis. Couple goals! Bradley spoils you! This is the kind of love I’m holding out for. I kept scrolling. Halfway down, I saw a comment from one of the girls who had been at the café: Didn’t your friend just get engaged? Let’s see the ring! Virginia had replied: Don’t even ask. Literal bargain bin. Her guy is basically a starving artist. The girl replied: Oof. Tragic. Virginia: Honestly, I’m embarrassed for her. But you can’t buy taste. I stared at the screen. My thumb hovered over the glass for five, maybe ten seconds. Then I closed the app and locked my phone. Jon came out of the bedroom, buttoning his cuffs. “Everything good?” “Yeah.” I forced a smile. “You’re wearing that one today?” He looked down at his charcoal dress shirt. “Why? Does it look bad?” “No. It looks great.” His clothes were always like this. Impeccably clean, perfectly fitted, but totally devoid of logos. If you didn’t know anything about textiles, they looked like basic department store finds. I remembered the first time Virginia had met him, years ago. She had pulled me into the bathroom and whispered, Nic, he dresses like a substitute teacher. Are you sure he’s not totally broke? I hadn’t defended him then. Five years. We had been together for five years, and Jon never flaunted a single thing. He was the quietest person I knew. When I asked about work, he’d just say he was “handling some investments” or “running a project.” I never pushed. I figured when he wanted to talk about it, he would. I wasn’t going to drag it out of him. That night, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Gemma. Nic, Virginia is going off in the group chat again. I opened the college chat. Sure enough, Virginia was holding court. Ladies, tell me I’m not crazy. If a man proposes with a ring that costs less than a month’s rent, doesn’t that just mean he doesn’t value you? I was sitting there watching her show it off, and I physically cringed. I’m telling you, her guy’s little ‘business’ is probably going to fold by Christmas. A few people sent awkward emojis. One girl wrote: Idk Virginia, maybe it’s the thought that counts? Virginia fired back immediately: The thought? Can you pay a mortgage with ‘thoughts’? A man’s worth is directly tied to what he’s willing to spend on you. Period. I watched the text bubbles pop up, one after another. Eventually, I just swiped out of the chat. I didn’t type a single word. Gemma texted me privately: Are you seriously not going to say anything? Doesn’t this make you furious? I thought about it. Why would I be? Let her exhaust herself. But she’s humiliating you… Let her. I tossed my phone onto the sofa just as Jon walked out of his home office. “What were you reading?” “Nothing.” He crossed the room and sat down next to me, his eyes studying my face. He had a terrifying ability to read the micro-shifts in my mood. “Who upset you?” “Nobody.” He didn’t interrogate me. He just reached out and took my left hand. “Nicole. No matter what anyone is saying out there, I am always in your corner.” A sudden, sharp warmth bloomed in my chest. “I know.” He looked down at my ring, his thumb slowly brushing against the small, brilliant stone. “I sourced this diamond myself,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “It took me a long time.” “How long?” “Six months.” I blinked. Six months? “I wanted to find the exact right stone for you.” He looked up, his eyes locking onto mine with a startling intensity. “Not the biggest. Not the loudest. But the one that belonged on your hand.” Looking at him, my throat suddenly felt tight. My eyes stung. “You’re an idiot,” I whispered. “Yeah.” A soft smile touched the corners of his mouth. “But you’re worth it.” 3. That weekend, Gemma practically dragged me out for matcha lattes. We found a quiet corner in a minimalist café in Brooklyn. The second she sat down, she exhaled a heavy sigh. “Nic. Don’t shoot the messenger, okay?” “What now?” “It’s Virginia.” Gemma hesitated, twisting her straw. “She’s not just talking trash in the group chat. She’s taking it on tour.” I took a slow sip of my drink, letting the earthy warmth settle in my stomach. “She was telling the girls from the sorority that you’re getting scammed. That Jon is some deadbeat loser who’s using you, that you have terrible taste…” Gemma was getting flushed just repeating it. “Who does she think she is?” “She is who she’s always been.” “And you’re just… okay with this?” I offered a small, tired smile. “What does getting angry accomplish?” Gemma stopped, stunned. “Nic, you…” “It’s been ten years, Gem.” I looked down at the pale green liquid in my cup. “Since graduation, when has she ever been different?” Gemma fell silent. Because she knew exactly what I meant. The year we graduated, I landed a junior role at a major tech firm. Virginia’s reaction? You’re way too introverted for corporate. You’ll burn out in six months. Three years later, I was leading my department. A year ago, I bought my first apartment in Queens. Virginia came to the housewarming, looked around, and said, This neighborhood is dead. Terrible investment. Six months later, the city announced a new subway extension three blocks away. My property value shot up thirty percent. And last month, Jon proposed. And right on schedule, she told me the ring was cheap and my fiancé was a joke. Every single milestone of my life, she had to find a way to step on it. And every single time, I had chosen not to fight back. “Why don’t you ever defend yourself, Nic?” Gemma asked softly. “Defend myself to who?” I looked up at her. “Would she listen?” Gemma opened her mouth, then closed it. “Ten years,” I repeated, the weight of the decade suddenly feeling incredibly heavy. “I thought she was just… difficult. But a real friend doesn’t constantly try to make you feel small so they can feel big. A real friend doesn’t hate seeing you win.” “So what are you going to do?” “Nothing.” I picked up my cup again. “She can live her life, and I’ll live mine.” Gemma watched me for a long moment, biting her lip like she was debating whether to jump off a cliff. “Spit it out, Gem.” “It’s just…” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “I heard a rumor. That she’s not just talking behind your back.” “Meaning?” “She’s…” Gemma grimaced. “Look, it’s just a rumor. Just… keep your guard up, okay?” I didn’t press her. When we stepped out of the café, the afternoon sun was blindingly bright. I stood on the edge of the sidewalk, watching the swarm of New Yorkers rushing past, and felt an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. A ten-year friendship. I couldn’t believe how fragile it actually was. I used to justify it. I used to tell myself Virginia was just insecure, that she had a sharp tongue but a good heart. But looking back at the mosaic of our history… was she actually a good person? My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Jon. Done with coffee? I’m five minutes away. I typed back: Yeah. Exactly five minutes later, a sleek, unmarked black town car pulled up to the curb. Jon pushed the door open from the inside. He took one look at my face as I slid in. “You look drained.” “I’m fine.” He didn’t call my bluff. He just reached across the center console and threaded his fingers through mine. “What do you want for dinner?” “Whatever. I don’t care.” “Then I’m cooking.” I turned my head and looked at his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the quiet focus in his eyes. The exhaustion that had been sitting on my chest suddenly began to lift. Whatever was happening out there, in the noise of the world, I had this. I had him. 4. The real turning point came the following week. Virginia dropped a message in the group chat: Drinks this Friday! Private room at The Soho Club. Everyone has to come! I had planned on ignoring it, until my phone pinged with a direct message from her. Nic, you HAVE to come. I’ve got some high-tier guys coming. Need to introduce you. I stared at the screen, my brain glitching. High-tier guys? I was engaged. Why the hell was she trying to set me up? Gemma texted me a second later: Are you going to this thing? Are you? I replied. Virginia is demanding I come because there are ‘single guys.’ Gemma attached a confused emoji. But you literally have a ring on your finger. What is she playing at? I didn’t reply to Gemma. But on Friday night, I put on a dress and took a cab to Soho. The private room at the club was dimly lit and humming with aggressive networking energy. There were about eight people already there. The second I walked in, Virginia practically sprinted over. “Nic! You made it!” She latched onto my arm and physically dragged me across the room, planting me in front of a guy wearing a flashy Rolex and too much cologne. “Nic, meet Kyle. He’s in private equity, went to Wharton, owns three properties in the city.” She leaned in, not bothering to lower her voice enough. “Major upgrade from your little freelancer, right?” I stared at the guy in the suit. A cold, dead calm washed over me. “Nice to meet you, Nicole.” Kyle held out a hand, flashing a rehearsed, predatory smile. I didn’t take it. I just gave him a blank nod. “Hi.” Virginia pinched my arm. “Nic, don’t be a snob. Kyle is quite the catch.” “Virginia. I’m engaged.” “Engaged isn’t married.” Virginia waved her hand dismissively. “Besides, we both know your guy can’t provide for you. Why not just upgrade while you still have your youth?” I looked at her. All the years of making excuses for her just evaporated. I felt utterly, entirely done. “I’m not upgrading.” “God, why are you so stubborn—” The heavy oak door of the private room swung open. Bradley stepped inside. “Bradley!” Virginia instantly dropped my arm and glided over to him. “What are you doing here?” “Had a dinner meeting downstairs.” Bradley’s eyes scanned the room, stopping abruptly when they landed on me. “Nicole. You’re here?” “Yeah, I insisted she come.” Virginia looped her arms around Bradley’s neck. “Her fiancé is a dead end, so I’m doing her a favor. Showing her what else is out there.” I watched Bradley’s face. A distinct shadow of panic flickered across his eyes. His jaw tightened. “Virginia. She’s engaged.” “So? They haven’t signed papers.” Virginia rolled her eyes. “Besides, you’ve seen the guy. He’s nobody.” I stood there, watching the performance, the ice in my veins solidifying. So this was it. To her, my five-year relationship was nothing but a punchline. She hadn’t invited me here to catch up. She had invited me here to be the prop in her own ego trip. To publicly humiliate me and prove, once again, that she was better. “Virginia,” I said. My voice was low, cutting through the ambient noise of the room. “I’m leaving.” “What? No!” She lunged forward and grabbed my wrist. “I went through all this trouble to get you out here! Just stay for one drink.” “No.” I yanked my arm out of her grip, grabbed my clutch, and turned toward the door. “Nic, don’t be a bitch about this!” Virginia’s voice turned shrill behind me. “I’m literally trying to save your life!” I didn’t look back. Stepping out onto the cobblestone streets of Soho, the night air hit my face like a splash of ice water. I stopped at the corner, closed my eyes, and took a massive breath. Ten years. I finally saw her clearly. She was never my friend. I was just the designated loser in her personal reality show. The stepping stone she used to boost herself up. 5. When I unlocked the apartment door, Jon was still awake. He was sitting in the dark on the living room sofa, the blue light of his phone illuminating his face. When he heard the deadbolt click, he stood up instantly. “Hey.” “Hey.” I dropped my keys in the bowl, walked over, and collapsed onto the sofa next to him, burying my face in the crook of his neck. “What happened?” His arm came around my shoulders, his hand smoothing my hair. “You okay?” “Just exhausted.” “Tell me.” I stayed quiet for a minute, then let it out. “Virginia invited me out. It was a setup. She was trying to pawn me off on some finance bro.” I felt Jon’s muscles go rigid against me. “She told me…” I let out a dry, bitter laugh. “She told me you were a dead end. That I needed an upgrade.” Silence hung in the apartment. When Jon finally spoke, his voice was terrifyingly calm. Dangerously quiet. “What else did she say?” “Nothing.” I didn’t want him to carry my hurt. “I just walked out.” “Nicole.” He shifted, forcing me to look up at him. His eyes were dark, serious in a way I rarely saw. “I want you to stay far away from Virginia from now on.” I blinked, surprised. He never inserted himself into my friendships. He was usually the ultimate diplomat. “Why? Do you know something?” He didn’t answer the question directly. He just took my face in both his hands. “She is not a safe person for you. You deserve better.” I leaned my forehead against his chest, closing my eyes. I didn’t ask anything else. That night, I had a fractured, restless dream. I was back in my tiny freshman dorm room. Virginia was sitting cross-legged on my bed, laughing. Nic, we’re going to be best friends forever, right? I smiled and nodded. Of course. Then the room spun, the lights went harsh, and she was standing in a crowded room, pointing at me. She’s such a pathetic idiot. She’ll take whatever scraps I throw her. I woke up with a gasp. Pale gray morning light was bleeding through the blinds. Jon was beside me, breathing slow and steady in his sleep. I slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, a weird detail from the night before suddenly clicked into place. At the Soho club, the way Bradley had looked at me. It wasn’t the way you look at your fiancée’s random college roommate. It was a look of… suppressed panic. Of intense calculation. He knew something. I shook my head, trying to clear the cobwebs, and walked back out to the kitchen. My phone vibrated on the counter. A text from Gemma. Nic, I need to tell you something crazy. What? It’s Virginia… I think she tried to slide into Jon’s DMs.

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I gripped the printed flight confirmation in my hand until my knuckles turned a ghostly white. This was supposed to be a surprise for Jackson Burke’s twenty-fifth birthday—a cross-country flight from New York to San Francisco to finally close the gap of our long-distance relationship. I had spent months planning this, thousands of miles for a single moment of joy. Then, a notification from the “Inner Circle” group chat shattered everything. Jackson had posted a photo. It was a shot of a rumpled, messy king-sized bed, the sheets tangled in a way that left nothing to the imagination. His caption felt like a physical blow: “Long distance is a joke. Turns out the little intern at the office is way more ‘hands-on’ than a screen.” He had clearly forgotten I was still in that chat. The group exploded. His “bros” scrambled to do damage control, posting laughing emojis and telling him he was just “sampling the local flavor.” They told me not to take it personally—that Lexi, the “struggling” intern from the scholarship program, was just being sweet and attentive, and Jackson was a guy with needs who couldn’t help himself. Jackson didn’t delete the message. Instead, he tagged me directly. His tone was chillingly entitled: “Since you saw it, I’ll be straight with you. I had a few drinks last night, and I couldn’t resist her.” “Michelle, you’ve always been the sensible one. Don’t be a drama queen about this.” So, the reason he missed my birthday call? The reason he said he was pulled into an all-nighter at the lab to finish the “breakthrough” project? It was all a lie. He wasn’t in a lab. He was in a hotel room, exploring someone else. Lexi, the so-called “impoverished” intern, decided to chime in with her own brand of toxic sweetness: “I’m so sorry, Michelle. You have everything—the career, the money—but I only have Jackson. Please don’t hate me…” I stared at the screen, a jagged, cold laugh escaping my throat. Slowly, deliberately, I tore the flight confirmation into tiny, unrecognizable shreds. Jackson, if you love “charity cases” so much, then you can rot in the gutter with her. … “Michelle, since you’re reading the chat, I’m not going to waste time explaining.” The phone rang before I could even process the silence. Jackson didn’t even wait for me to say hello. “You need to apologize to Lexi right now so we can move past this.” “I need to apologize to her?” I squeezed the phone, my nails digging into my palm. “You went radio silent in the group chat, Michelle. Do you have any idea how that looks? It’s passive-aggressive,” Jackson snapped, his voice thick with self-righteousness. “Lexi was so intimidated by your silence that she cried all night! She thinks you’re going to use your influence to ruin her.” “Ruin her?” My laugh was brittle. “Jackson, you’re playing house with a girl using the money I sent you to cover your ‘living expenses’ while you built that project. And you’re telling me you’re the one being tortured?” “Don’t bring up the money again!” Jackson’s voice rose, a sure sign I’d hit a nerve. “What’s a few thousand dollars anyway? Once I land the core investment, I’ll be worth ten million. Lexi is the one pulling all-nighters running data for me. What do you do? You send ‘good luck’ texts from three thousand miles away. You’re useless to me here.” In the background, I heard a soft, performative sob. “Jackson, don’t be mean to Michelle,” Lexi’s voice drifted through the speaker, thin and fragile. “It’s my fault. I’m not high-class like her. I’ll just leave…” “Lexi, stay put!” Jackson muffled the receiver, but I could still hear him. “She doesn’t know the first thing about back-end architecture. Without you, this project would have folded months ago.” My blood ran cold. Back-end architecture? The “core project” he was so proud of? I had spent the last year pulling actual all-nighters, writing every single line of that proprietary code and sending it to him so he wouldn’t feel like a failure. “Jackson,” I said, my voice so calm it terrified me. “Are you sure you want to burn this bridge today?” “Burn it?” Jackson scoffed. “Don’t try to threaten me with a breakup. You either get in that chat and tell everyone you forgive her, or we’re done. Period.” “Understood.” I hung up and immediately left the group chat. The next morning, I didn’t cancel my flight. I boarded the plane to San Francisco. But I wasn’t going there to win him back. I was going to take back what belonged to me. Three hours later, I stood outside the door of the luxury apartment Jackson was “renting” near campus. I still had the code. When I pushed the door open, the scent of a floral perfume that wasn’t mine hit me like a physical wave. Everything had changed. Lexi’s cheap heels were tossed in the foyer. On the sofa sat a pile of designer hoodies I’d bought for Jackson; they had been shredded and used as cleaning rags. The bedroom door was ajar. Lexi was sitting at my vanity, slathering a thick layer of a bespoke, $800-an-ounce night cream—a set I hadn’t even opened—onto her face. Jackson was behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. “Jackson,” Lexi pouted into the mirror. “Michelle’s stuff feels so cheap. My skin is actually breaking out.” “She always was a bit of a penny-pincher,” Jackson murmured, kissing her neck. “Just wait until tomorrow. Once Astra Ventures signs that $10 million check, I’m taking you to Bergdorf’s. We’ll buy you the real stuff.” I leaned against the doorframe, my voice cutting through the air like a blade. “That’s a custom Biologique Recherche line, Lexi. It’s five thousand dollars a bottle. The reason it feels ‘off’ is because your skin isn’t used to anything that isn’t sold at a drugstore.” They both spun around. Jackson’s face went pale, then instantly morphed into a mask of fury as he stepped in front of Lexi. “Michelle? Are you stalking me now? Who gave you permission to be here!” “I pay the lease on this apartment, Jackson. I don’t need permission.” I looked at his protective stance and felt a wave of nausea. “You pay? Please.” Jackson let out a derisive snort. “The two thousand you send me barely covers the utilities in a place like this. Stop trying to play the big-shot benefactor. It’s pathetic.” He had no idea. I hadn’t rented this place; I’d bought it outright a year ago so he could live in comfort. The “two thousand dollars in rent” I asked for was a lie I told to protect his fragile ego. Lexi cowered behind him, her eyes red. “Michelle, please don’t be mad. I’ll wash it off. I’ve just never seen such pretty things before. I was curious… Please don’t stress Jackson out. He has the biggest meeting of his life tomorrow.” “Shut up,” I said coldly. “You’re a footnote, Lexi. Don’t speak to me.” I walked past them and grabbed the laptop sitting on the desk. It was my laptop—the one containing the original source code for the entire architecture. Jackson grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight I felt my bones groan. “Are you crazy? That’s Lexi’s computer! She’s been working on that data for a month!” “Her computer?” I wrenched my arm back and pointed to the small, elegant engraving on the bottom of the chassis: M.S. “I had this custom-built last year. Those are my initials, Jackson. You’re not just a liar; you’re a thief.” Lexi burst into theatrical tears. “Jackson, I did that! I told you! I engraved ‘My Soul’ on it so I’d never forget how much you supported me! Why is she being so cruel?” Jackson’s eyes turned bloodshot with rage. He swung his hand, and the sound of the slap echoed through the room. Crack. My head snapped to the side. My ears rang, and I tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. “Michelle, you are psychotic!” Jackson yelled, pointing a finger at me. “You can’t handle the fact that Lexi is actually talented. You’re so jealous that she helped me finish the code that you’re trying to steal it? You’re evil!” I held my burning cheek and looked at him. Really looked at him. “You hit me.” “And I’ll do it again if you don’t get out!” Jackson’s face was twisted with disgust. “Leave! Now! Before you ruin anything else!” I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply lifted the laptop and slammed it onto the hardwood floor with everything I had. The screen shattered. The chassis buckled. “No!” Jackson screamed, diving for the wreckage. “The source code! The meeting is tomorrow!” “Since it’s ‘hers,’ she can fix it,” I said, turning on my heel. Behind me, Lexi let out a strangled gasp. “Jackson… the motherboard is crushed! We don’t have a backup of the final build! What are we going to do?” “Michelle! You bitch! You’re not leaving!” Jackson lunged at me, grabbing the collar of my coat and slamming me against the wall. “Give me the cloud password. Now. Or I’m calling the police!” My back throbbed from the impact. I looked into the eyes of the man I had loved for two years—a man who was now a monster for the sake of a girl who had stolen my life. “Jackson, do you know why I kept the primary build on a local drive?” I whispered, my voice terrifyingly steady. “Because it was my heart. Go ahead. Call the cops. Tell them you’re trying to scam Astra Ventures out of ten million dollars using a program you didn’t write.” Jackson froze. A flicker of genuine panic crossed his eyes. Lexi ran over, clutching Jackson’s arm. “Michelle, how can you be so heartless? Jackson is right on the edge of success! If you withhold that password, you’re destroying his entire future! If you ever loved him, you’d sacrifice this for him!” “Love?” I looked at her with pure disdain. “You’re a thief, Lexi. You stole a boyfriend and a few lines of code. You don’t get to talk to me about sacrifice.” “I didn’t steal anything!” Lexi sobbed, burying her face in Jackson’s chest. “Jackson, I didn’t… we worked on that data together!” “Enough!” Jackson shoved me aside and pulled Lexi into his arms. When he looked at me again, his eyes were dead. “I see who you really are now, Michelle. We are done. Permanently.” “Good.” I straightened my coat. Just then, my phone began to vibrate violently in my pocket. It was my mother’s lead surgeon. “Ms. Griffith? Your mother’s condition has taken a sharp turn. We need to move her into the second stage of the targeted immunotherapy immediately. But we ran into an issue—the two hundred thousand dollars you deposited into the hospital escrow account was withdrawn this morning. We can’t proceed without the funds.” My heart stopped. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. I looked up at Jackson, my voice trembling. “You touched the money? My mother’s medical fund?” I had put that money into a joint account under his name months ago to keep his credit score up for the “business,” thinking he’d never touch what I told him was for my mother’s life-saving treatment. Jackson showed zero remorse. He actually laughed. “Medical fund? You mean the money you ‘saved’ by skimping on my allowance for the last two years? That was my money, Michelle. Lexi needed a dress for the Astra gala tomorrow. She couldn’t show up looking like a peasant. I wasn’t going to let her be embarrassed.” “Two hundred thousand dollars,” I whispered, my vision blurring with hot, angry tears. “You spent my mother’s life on a dress?” “Stop acting like a martyr,” Jackson snapped. “Your mother has been a vegetable for a year. Why waste good money on a lost cause?” Lexi reached up and nervously touched a diamond necklace glinting at her throat. “Michelle… the necklace was only sixty thousand… it wasn’t the whole two hundred… The rest went to my private coaching fees for the presentation. Jackson just wanted me to look the part.” I didn’t think. I lunged forward and delivered a stinging slap across Lexi’s face. She screamed, collapsing to the floor and clutching her cheek, gasping for air as if she were dying. “Lexi!” Jackson roared. He stepped forward and kicked me squarely in the stomach. The force of it sent me flying backward. I crashed into the pile of broken glass from the vanity Lexi had knocked over earlier. The shards sliced through my white cashmere sweater, and I felt the warm bloom of blood against my skin. “Don’t you touch her!” Jackson stood over me, his face a mask of pure malice. He brought his heavy boot down on my hand, grinding it into the floor. “Your mother can rot for all I care. But if you touch Lexi again, I will make sure you never walk again.” The pain was blinding. I felt my fingers pop, the agony radiating up my arm. I watched him. I watched him pick Lexi up with the tenderness of a saint, whispering sweet nothings into her ear. “Give me the password,” Jackson said, looking down at me as if I were a cockroach. “Consider that two hundred thousand the price for your life. Give it to me, or your mother gets kicked out of that clinic tonight.” He didn’t know that I was the primary donor for that clinic. I gritted my teeth, pulling myself up from the glass, inch by agonizing inch. I looked him in the eye. “The password is my birthday.” Jackson immediately pulled out his phone, his thumbs flying. Once he saw the “Access Granted” screen for the cloud drive, he let out a sigh of relief. The look of disgust returned to his face. “Get your trash and get out. Now.” I dragged myself toward the door, my hand dripping blood onto the pristine floor of the apartment I had bought for a ghost. The next evening. The Grand Ballroom of the Fairmont San Francisco. The room was a sea of black ties, silk gowns, and the heavy scent of old money. Jackson Burke was the man of the hour, glowing under the crystal chandeliers as he basked in the praise of the tech elite. Lexi was on his arm, draped in the sixty-thousand-dollar necklace, preening under the spotlight. “Mr. Burke, the rumors about this algorithm are incredible,” one of the venture capital titans said, raising a glass. “You’re too kind,” Jackson beamed, patting Lexi’s hand. “But I can’t take all the credit. My partner, Lexi Moore, is the true genius here. She’s the architect of the vision.” Lexi blushed, looking down with practiced modesty. “Jackson is being modest. He’s the one who guided me.” A ripple of polite applause went through the crowd. I stepped off the elevator and entered the room. I wasn’t wearing a gown. I was wearing a simple black suit, my hand wrapped in a thick, ugly bandage. “Well, look who it is,” Lexi said. She had spotted me and broken away from the crowd, intercepting me near the bar. “The bitter ex. Are you here to beg for a job?” I didn’t answer. I walked toward the wine service. Lexi’s face twisted with annoyance at being ignored. She took a step forward, grabbed a glass of red wine, and—with a theatrical gasp—poured it over her own head. “Ah!” She shrieked, falling to the floor in a heap of wet silk. “Michelle, please! I’m sorry! I’ll give him back, just don’t hurt me!” The music stopped. Every eye in the ballroom turned toward us. Jackson charged through the crowd like a bull. When he saw Lexi shaking on the floor, drenched in wine, and me standing there with a cold, blank expression, his rage boiled over. “Michelle!” He didn’t hesitate. He stepped up and swung. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t block. Crack. The blow was so hard it sent me to the floor. My bandaged hand hit the marble, and I felt the stitches tear. Blood began to seep through the white gauze instantly. The room went silent. I slowly sat up, wiping a smear of blood from my lip with my good hand. I looked at the faces around me—the judgment, the mockery. I looked at Jackson, standing tall in his stolen glory. I looked at Lexi, smirking from the safety of his arms. “The CEO of Astra Ventures will be here any minute,” Jackson hissed, leaning down so only I could hear. “We’re signing a ten-million-dollar deal. Tomorrow, I’m calling our legal team. I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life in a cell for harassment and extortion.” “Jackson,” I said, my voice carrying through the hushed hall. “You said you’d use Astra’s legal team against me?” “You’re damn right!” Just then, the massive gold-leaf doors of the ballroom were thrown open. A phalanx of security guards in black suits cleared a path. Victor Blackwell, the Executive Vice President of Astra Ventures—a man known as the “Executioner” in the business world—strode into the room. Jackson’s eyes lit up. He shoved Lexi aside and rushed forward, his face turning into a mask of pathetic sycophancy. “Mr. Blackwell! Sir! You’re here. Please, excuse the scene. Just a disgruntled former associate. I’ll have security clear her out so we can sign the documents—” Victor Blackwell didn’t even blink at Jackson. He walked right past the man, ignoring his outstretched hand. He stepped directly in front of me. Before the shocked eyes of every billionaire and socialite in San Francisco, the man who held the keys to the city’s kingdom—the man everyone in this room feared—bowed. A deep, ninety-degree bow. His voice was thick with genuine terror. “Miss Griffith.”

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