For our corporate retreat, the company booked a thousand-foot zipline over a gorge. I refused to ride it. My defective heart simply couldn’t take the drop. But Richard, nursing a petty grudge, just sneered at me in front of the entire office. “If she drops dead, put it on my tab.” I silently triggered the SOS alert on my phone. Hours later, an ambulance hauled me away on a stretcher, and a squad car took him away in handcuffs. The exact same coworkers who branded me a toxic, selfish liability are now practically begging on their knees for my forgiveness. But if my heart had actually exploded a thousand feet in the air that day, who exactly would you be crying your apologies to? 1 At the company town hall two days ago, our CEO, Richard, took the microphone with a smug grin. “In past years, our end-of-year bonuses have just been direct deposits. A little boring, right? This year, we are shaking things up. We are taking the entire team to the Apex Extreme Adventure Park!” A smattering of unenthusiastic applause echoed through the conference room. Richard kept pacing, completely blind to the room’s energy. “They just opened the Condor Drop. It is the highest zipline in the state. A vertical drop of a thousand feet, right over the Blackwood Gorge! I expect every single one of you up there. I’ve already booked the tickets for Friday, and the company is covering every dime.” Murmurs rippled through the rows of chairs. Some people looked thrilled. Others looked sick. I fell into the latter category. I was born with a congenital heart defect. A faulty valve and chronic arrhythmia. While it was well-managed with medication, my cardiologist had made one rule crystal clear: absolutely no extreme sports, no roller coasters, and nothing involving massive drops in altitude. “Kate, you look like you’re going to pass out. You okay?” Brenda, a senior accountant sitting next to me, whispered with genuine concern. I shook my head, my palms already sweating. After the meeting, a few of the older employees and those terrified of heights lined up at Richard’s office to ask for a pass. Surprisingly, he played the benevolent boss, nodding and approving their PTO requests one by one. Taking a deep breath, I walked up to his desk. “Richard, I need to…” He didn’t even let me finish. He raised a hand, his eyes cold. “Kate. Don’t even think about asking for Friday off.” The blunt rejection felt like a slap. “Why not?” Richard leaned back in his leather ergonomic chair, tapping a very expensive pen against his mahogany desk. “At the quarterly review last month, you stood up in front of the entire board and tore apart my Q3 projection model. You practically called my math garbage.” My stomach dropped. I never expected him to hold a grudge over that. It was a standard data review. I pointed out a massive miscalculation in his algorithm, and time proved I was entirely correct. I saved the company thousands. But ever since that day, he had treated me like a ghost in the office. He was punishing me. “Richard, work is work. This is my health. I have a congenital heart condition. I physically cannot…” “Oh, come on, Kate.” He dragged out my name, rolling his eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He slapped on a fake, patronizing smile. “You always do this. You blow every little inconvenience completely out of proportion. We are going to a team-building retreat, not a war zone. Look around.” He gestured toward the open floor plan outside his glass office. “Everyone out there has a family, a bad back, or some kind of phobia. What makes you so special?” Before I could argue, he stood up, clearly done with the conversation. He walked out of his office, clapping his hands loudly to get the floor’s attention. “Listen up, everyone! The deadline for PTO requests is officially closed. If you aren’t on the approved list, attendance on Friday is mandatory. If even one person no-shows, I am pulling the performance bonuses for the entire department next month!” He turned his head and shot me a dead, warning look. 2 The memory of that threat tasted like bile in the back of my throat. Today was Friday. The Apex Extreme Adventure Park sat on the jagged edge of a massive canyon. The most terrifying feature was the thick steel cable strung between two mountain peaks. Even from the parking lot, I could see tiny, colorful dots screaming as they shot across the sky. A massive metal sign by the ticketing booth glared in bright red paint. “WARNING: The following individuals are STRICTLY PROHIBITED from riding the Condor Drop. Pregnant women, individuals under the influence of alcohol, and those suffering from high blood pressure or HEART CONDITIONS.” While handing out the heavy climbing harnesses, the park attendant shouted over the wind. “Listen up! Does anyone here have a heart condition, blood pressure issues, or any medical reason avoiding extreme stress? If so, step out of the line right now. Safety is our top priority.” I immediately raised my hand. “I have a heart condition.” The attendant’s face went dead serious. “What kind? Is it severe?” “Congenital valve defect with arrhythmia,” I answered, projecting my voice. “My cardiologist explicitly banned me from activities like this.” The attendant immediately turned to Richard. “I’m sorry, sir. We cannot outfit this employee. She is absolutely not permitted on the zipline.” Richard’s face darkened into a furious scowl. “She’s just trying to get out of it because she’s scared of heights. She works fifty hours a week and is perfectly fine. Put the harness on her.” “Sir, this is a strict liability issue,” the attendant said firmly. Richard grabbed the young guy by the elbow and pulled him a few steps away. I couldn’t hear everything, but I clearly caught the words “hundred bucks” and “look the other way.” A minute later, the attendant walked back, refusing to make eye contact with me, and actually gave a reluctant nod. “Are you insane?!” I yelled, my voice cracking with panic. “You are responsible for my safety!” Marcus, our slimy sales manager, stepped out of the line and walked over to me. “Kate, come on. Don’t ruin the vibe.” Richard saw the opportunity and delivered his final ultimatum to the crowd. “Listen up, team. We bought a group package. If one person backs out, the group discount is voided, and the difference falls on you. So, if Kate sits this out, every single one of you owes the park an extra thousand dollars.” The crowd erupted. “That is complete bullshit!” someone muttered. Richard simply shrugged, playing the crowd beautifully. “A team shares the highs and the lows. If someone is too selfish to participate, it’s only fair the rest of you cover the cost of her ticket, right?” The trap snapped shut. The anger of twenty coworkers shifted instantly from the boss to me. “My life is worth more than a thousand dollars,” I said, my voice trembling but cold. I pointed directly at the red warning sign. “It is in writing. Do you actually want to kill me, Richard?” Richard let out a loud, theatrical laugh, acting like I had just told a hilarious joke. “God, you are dramatic! Do you know why they put those signs up? Legal liability. It’s just a waiver. They have to make it sound terrifying so they don’t get sued. I went bungee jumping in Mexico last year, saw the exact same sign, and I was completely fine!” He looked around at the staff, baiting them. “Am I wrong? Rules are just guidelines, guys!” He turned back to me, dropping the smile. “And watch your mouth. Accusing me of trying to kill you? The company paid good money for you to have a luxury experience, and you’re acting like a spoiled brat.” The sycophants in the crowd immediately piled on. “Yeah, Richard is right. Those signs are just legal mumbo jumbo.” “You’re just psyching yourself out, Kate. Just breathe.” “You look totally healthy. You never complain about your heart at the office.” “Stop acting like you’re going to drop dead. It’s embarrassing.” 3 Marcus stepped closer, playing the role of the peacemaker, but his hand clamped down on my shoulder with bruising force. “Kate, read the room. Richard put a lot of effort into this. He just wants us to bond. If you bail, we all have to pay out of pocket, and it kills the whole mood. Teamwork is about sacrifice. Don’t make this weird.” I shoved his hand off me, my whole body shaking with adrenaline. “Marcus, what is more important? My actual life, or a thousand bucks? If my heart gives out over that canyon, who is going to take responsibility? You? Richard? The company?” I looked desperately around the group. Sarah, the HR rep who always preached about “workplace wellness,” was suddenly fascinated by her phone screen, an annoyed grimace on her face. Kevin, the tech guy I had spent countless late nights coding with, turned his head entirely, staring blankly at the pine trees. Seeing that peer pressure wasn’t enough, Richard decided to go nuclear. He pointed at the attendant. “Give her the harness. If she has a panic attack, the company assumes full legal responsibility.” The attendant held out the heavy canvas and metal rig, his eyes darting nervously. I backed away, refusing to touch it. Other tourists were starting to stop and stare, pointing at our group. Richard lost his temper. His voice echoed off the rocks. “Kate, you listen to me very carefully. If you do not get on that zipline today, do not bother coming into the office on Monday. Consider yourself terminated. And I promise you, I will personally call every tech firm in this city. I will make sure you never find a job in this industry again. Let’s see who wants to hire a selfish, toxic employee who uses fake medical excuses to hold her team hostage!” My stomach plummeted. He was holding my entire livelihood hostage. I needed this job. My medical bills and monthly cardiology checkups were astronomical. Without decent insurance, I would be drowning in medical debt within a month. But a job meant nothing if I was dead. I looked at my coworkers. The annoyance in their eyes had shifted into something far more dangerous. A cold, calculated indifference. They had accepted Richard’s twisted logic. My compliance was the price for their comfort. “Richard,” I said, my voice barely a whisper but laced with absolute certainty. “If I go on that wire, I will not survive the day.” “Fine by me,” Richard snapped back. “Then everyone, pull out your wallets. A thousand bucks a head. Pay up right now.” The crowd instantly turned vicious. “A thousand bucks? Are you kidding me?” “Kate, stop being such a selfish bitch! You’re the only one complaining. You think you’re royalty?” “Just put the damn harness on! You’re ruining everything!” “My aunt has a murmur and she went skydiving! You’re faking it to get attention!” The vitriol hit me like physical blows. There was no pity in their eyes. Only the furious, feral anger of people being told they had to part with their own money. I felt like an animal backed into a corner. The blood rushed to my head. My chest tightened, a familiar, terrifying pressure building right behind my sternum. The stress was triggering an episode. My boundaries, my medical reality, my actual right to live. All of it meant absolutely nothing to them. I was just an obstacle standing between them and a free vacation. 4 My heart rhythm broke. It started skipping beats, then accelerating into a frantic, chaotic hammering. A band of iron clamped down around my chest. I reached blindly into my jacket pocket, my trembling fingers searching for my pill bottle. Richard lunged forward and grabbed me by the bicep. “You are doing this.” “Let go of me!” I screamed, thrashing wildly. Not a single coworker stepped in to help me. In fact, a few of them moved closer to block my escape. “Put the harness on her,” Richard barked. “No! Get away from me!” I scrambled backward until my spine hit the cold metal railing of the queue line. There was nowhere left to run. “Did you really think you had a choice?” Richard sneered. He gave a sharp nod. Kevin, along with two guys from the logistics department, actually stepped forward. They looked embarrassed, but their eyes were hard. They had convinced themselves they were doing the right thing for the group. “Just stop fighting, Kate. It’ll be over in two minutes,” Kevin muttered, grabbing my left arm. “Everyone is waiting. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” “Just close your eyes.” They grabbed my limbs. One of the logistics guys shoved the heavy canvas harness over my shoulders. I fought like a cornered wildcat, screaming at the top of my lungs. “Get your hands off me! This is assault! Someone call the police!” A couple of tourists walking by looked alarmed and started walking toward us. Sarah and Brenda immediately intercepted them, blocking their view with fake, polite smiles. “She’s just having a little panic attack. Fear of heights. We’ve got her, thanks,” Sarah lied smoothly to the strangers. I was suffocating. The pain in my chest was turning sharp, stabbing through my ribs with every breath. Through the sheer panic, I remembered the emergency protocol on my iPhone. I managed to twist my wrist and aggressively clicked the side button on my phone five times in rapid succession. It was a feature I had set up with my best friend, Sam. Five clicks sent an automatic SOS text with my live GPS coordinates. I never thought I’d use it to survive my own coworkers. Richard caught the movement. Thinking I was trying to dial 911, he slapped my hand violently. The phone clattered onto the concrete. “This is a crime!” I gasped, tears streaming down my face. “You are forcing me into a lethal situation!” “Shut up with the drama!” Richard roared, completely unhinged now. “If you won’t walk, we’ll carry you!” The four men dragged me, kicking and sobbing, up the metal stairs to the launch platform. Standing on the edge of a thousand-foot drop, the wind howled like a jet engine, nearly knocking me off my feet. The canyon floor was a blur of jagged rocks far below. The steel cable vibrated, emitting a low, terrifying hum. The invisible hand crushing my heart squeezed tighter. Cold sweat soaked through my shirt. My vision began to tunnel, the edges of the world turning gray. Every breath was a battle. “Richard, please,” I begged, my voice weak and raspy. “I’m dying. I can’t do this.” “Stop acting,” he spat back, his face devoid of any humanity. “It’s a two-minute ride.” The launch operator was buckling me into the chair. He looked at my ghostly pale face and hesitated. “Sir, are you sure? She looks like she’s going to pass out.” “It’s vertigo! She’s fine!” Richard screamed at the poor kid. “Launch her! Look at the line of people waiting behind us!” “I need verbal confirmation from the rider,” the operator insisted. I opened my mouth to scream no. I wanted to tell him I had a heart condition. But my throat was paralyzed. The chest pain was so severe I couldn’t draw enough air to make a sound. I used every ounce of strength left in my body to slowly, deliberately shake my head. Richard stepped up, grabbed the top of my helmet, and violently jerked my head up and down. “She nodded! Push the damn button!” Richard yelled. “If she dies, it’s on my tab! Now go before I have your manager fire you!” The heavy steel carabiner locked shut with a deafening click. The metal gate dropped. I was shot out of a cannon into the abyss. Hurricane-force wind slammed into my face. The sheer terror of the drop hit my nervous system like a lightning bolt. My defective heart fluttered wildly, misfired, and then felt like it exploded. The sky spun into a chaotic blur of blue and green. The wind roaring in my ears was drowned out by the horrific, thunderous pounding in my own chest. Midway across the gorge, the zipline hit a steep decline, accelerating violently. The sudden G-force was the final nail. A crushing, unbearable agony radiated down my left arm and up into my jaw. Halfway across the sky, my vision went completely black. I felt warm liquid bubbling past my lips. Was it blood? I didn’t even know. In my final fading seconds of consciousness, I caught a blurry glimpse of the landing platform. There were flashing red and blue lights. People running. Did Sam get my signal? Was it a hallucination? I couldn’t raise my arm. I couldn’t breathe. The smartwatch strapped to my wrist shrieked. Through the darkness, I saw the glowing red digits. 210 beats per minute. Then, the world went entirely dark.

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1 “Has anyone here ever heard a goose scream at three in the morning?” I have. Right outside my front door. My neighbors were convinced I was slaughtering live geese in my living room. They swore the sound of a meat cleaver hacking through bone gave them nightmares every single night. They even posted a video to the building’s group chat. There was blood. There were agonizing shrieks. The evidence was irrefutable. I couldn’t defend myself. That is, until the police took my spare key and unlocked the door to the apartment right next to mine. In that moment, everyone finally shut their mouths. But then my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: “The game continues. This time, you’re the goose.” … When Brenda from 1603 tagged me in the tenant group chat, I was curled up in my gaming chair, deeply invested in a match of Goose Goose Duck. My phone vibrated violently against the edge of my desk, rapid-fire notifications popping up on the screen. I frowned and tabbed out of the game. [Brenda – 1603]: @1601 Sweetheart, I am begging you. Can you please stop slaughtering geese in your apartment? It’s been three days in a row! The smell of raw blood is drifting into the hallway, and the screaming is waking up my grandson! He can’t even take a nap! Slaughtering geese? I stared at the screen, completely baffled. 1601 was my unit. Top floor. I lived alone. I hadn’t touched a live bird in my entire life. My fingers flew across the keyboard. [1601]: Brenda, are you sure you have the right apartment? I don’t have any animals here, let alone geese. I’m at work most of the day anyway. The group chat went dead silent for a moment. Then, a few of the usual lurkers chimed in. [Dave – 1502]: @1601 I think I heard it too. Late at night, you can hear some weird bird noises… [Sarah – 1404]: Yeah, I definitely heard it. Sounded like ducks or geese squawking. I let out a breathless laugh, eager to clear up the ridiculous misunderstanding. [1601]: Guys, I promise I’m not running a slaughterhouse! I play this online video game called Goose Goose Duck. It’s a social deduction game, and you have to use voice chat. Maybe my speakers are too loud, or you’re hearing my voice through the vents? I am so sorry! I’ll wear a headset from now on. The tension in the digital room seemed to evaporate. A few people even asked what the game was about and if they could play. I let out a sigh of relief. I was just typing out another apology when Brenda fired back. This time, it was a video file. [Brenda – 1603]: You don’t believe me? Watch this! I recorded it this afternoon! My grandson is terrified! I tapped the video. It started in Brenda’s living room. I could hear a toddler whimpering and a faint, high-pitched honking sound. The camera moved, tracking the sound out into the hallway. The noise grew louder and more frantic as whoever was filming climbed the stairs. The camera finally stopped in front of a door. My door. Unit 1601. In the video, the horrific, desperate shrieking reached a fever pitch. It sounded like an animal being tortured, and it was undeniably coming from behind my door. But what made the hair on the back of my neck stand up was the bottom edge of the doorframe. There was a thick, dark, viscous smear seeping out from under the crack. It caught the glare of the phone’s flashlight. It looked exactly like coagulated blood. The video ended. A cold chill crawled down my spine. The group chat exploded. [Sarah – 1404]: Oh my god, that noise is making my skin crawl! [Dave – 1502]: Is that blood under the door?! That’s sick! [Brenda – 1603]: @1601 What the hell are you doing in there?! The smell of copper is sickening! You’re terrorizing the whole building! [Mark – 1501]: Just because you live on the top floor doesn’t mean you can turn the place into a butcher shop! My ears were ringing. My fingers felt like ice. Impossible. Absolutely impossible. I threw my headset off, sprinted to my front door, and yanked it open. The hallway lights flickered on. The polished concrete floor outside my door was spotless. There wasn’t a speck of dust, let alone a pool of blood. I whipped out my phone, snapped a crystal-clear photo of the clean hallway, and retreated back inside. I practically ran through my apartment, taking rapid-fire photos of my living room, my spotless kitchen, and even the inside of my fridge. I dumped the photos into the group chat. [1601]: Look for yourselves! There is nothing outside my door! There are no birds in my apartment! That video has to be fake! [1601]: @Brenda I don’t know why you are doing this, but I swear to you, I am not killing anything! 2 Brenda immediately sent an audio message. Her voice was thick with a heavy, rural accent and trembling with fake tears. “I’m an old woman! I don’t even know how to edit a photo, let alone a video! My little grandson was taking a nap, and that horrible screaming woke him up! He cried until he threw up! I only recorded it to show my son!” “You… you can’t just bully an old woman and a baby like this…” The moment her voice note played, the entire building turned on me. [Sarah – 1404]: She’s an old lady raising a kid, @1601. Just apologize and stop doing whatever you’re doing. [Mark – 1501]: Yeah, stop arguing with an elder. The video is clear as day. The noise is coming from your place. [Dave – 1502]: Who knows what goes on in there? She claims she’s ‘at work’ all day. [Tom – 1204]: Haha, maybe that isn’t a goose screaming. Maybe it’s just how she ‘works’ from home. Tom followed it up with a sleazy, winking emoji. The blood rushed to my face. My hands shook with pure, unadulterated rage as I typed. [1601]: What the hell is wrong with you people?! This is slander! I haven’t done anything wrong! The pushback was instantaneous. [Mark – 1501]: Then explain the video! Explain the blood! Are you saying the entire building is hallucinating? [Sarah – 1404]: She probably threw the carcass down the trash chute and bleached the floor before taking those pictures. [Dave – 1502]: Blood seeping out from under the door… honestly, it sounds like some kind of cult ritual. [Brenda – 1603]: Oh my lord, don’t say that! Is our building cursed? The conversation derailed rapidly, shifting from noise complaints to wild accusations about my morality, and finally settling on bizarre, supernatural conspiracy theories. A heavy weight pressed down on my chest. There was no reasoning with a mob. I muted the group chat, slammed my phone face-down on the desk, and fought back angry tears. Why was this happening to me? Eventually, Martha from 1503 stepped in to play peacemaker. She told everyone to calm down, drop the witchcraft talk, and just agree to keep the noise down tomorrow. The chat finally went quiet. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the agonizing shrieks and saw that thick, dark sludge creeping under my door. I woke up late on Saturday morning, feeling like I had a hangover. When I unlocked my phone, the red notification bubble on the group chat made my stomach drop. Brenda had tagged me again. This time, her tone was frantic and furious. [Brenda – 1603]: @1601 You sick freak! I complained in the chat yesterday because I was worried about my grandson, and this is how you retaliate?! What did we ever do to you?! Panic seized me. I scrolled up rapidly. Brenda had posted a series of photos. The first image was of her front door. The steel door was splattered with massive, irregular splashes of dark, rotting blood. It dripped down the metal like thick oil. The second photo was of the welcome mat. Sitting in the center of the mat was a severed, bloody goose head. The neck was jagged, like it had been hacked off with a dull blade. The bird’s eyes were half-open, staring blankly at the camera. I gagged, a surge of bile rising in my throat. The chat was a warzone. The messages were scrolling faster than I could read. Brenda dropped another audio file, her voice cracking into hysterics. “My grandson opened the door this morning and passed out from the shock! He’s running a massive fever! He’s hallucinating! We’re at the emergency room right now!” “@1601 I am begging you! If you have a problem with me, take it out on me! Don’t hurt my baby! I’ll get on my knees and apologize! I shouldn’t have said anything yesterday…” Before I could even type a response, Brenda’s son, Greg, hijacked the chat. His messages were explosive, violent, and laced with profanity. He uploaded a picture of his kid lying in a hospital bed, a cooling patch stuck to his forehead. The boy’s face was flushed red, his tiny brow furrowed in pain. The digital mob descended on me. [Sarah – 1404]: That is evil! This is actual witchcraft! [Mark – 1501]: Psycho bitch! You do this just because someone complained about the noise? [Dave – 1502]: Call the cops! This is harassment and assault! [Greg – 1603]: @1601 Get the hell out here! Stop hiding! My mind went completely blank. My hands and feet felt like ice. What the hell was going on? Who was doing this? 3 My fingers trembled as I typed. [1601]: It wasn’t me! I have no idea what is happening! I didn’t even leave my apartment yesterday! Greg fired back instantly. [Greg – 1603]: Bullshit! Who else could it be?! The video proved the blood was at your door, and now there’s a severed head at mine! You think we’re stupid?! You’re dead meat! [1601]: I swear to God it wasn’t me! This is a massive misunderstanding! [Greg – 1603]: Misunderstand this, you crazy bitch! [Greg – 1603]: You want to play games? Fine. Open your damn door! A second later, I heard the heavy, thundering sound of boots sprinting up the stairwell. A man was screaming at the top of his lungs. Smash! Smash! Smash! Deafening blows rained down on my front door. The heavy steel frame actually shuddered on its hinges. “Open the door, you psycho! Get out here! I’m going to kill you!” It was Greg. I was paralyzed with terror. My knees buckled, and I practically crawled to the door, pressing my eye against the peephole. Greg was standing in the hallway. He was a massive guy, his face flushed purple with rage. His eyes were wild. And in his right hand, he was gripping a massive, gleaming meat cleaver. He was hacking at my deadbolt like a madman. Behind him, hovering near the stairwell, a small crowd of neighbors had gathered to watch the execution, but none of them dared to step closer. “Greg, stop! You need to calm down! It wasn’t me! I’m calling the police!” I screamed through the door, my voice cracking in absolute terror. My hands shook so violently I dropped my phone twice before I managed to dial 911 and then the building’s security desk. “Call the cops! Good! Let them see what kind of sick freak you are!” Greg roared, switching from hacking at the lock to kicking the heavy door. The metal groaned under his weight. “Do you smell that?” Someone in the crowd whispered loudly enough for the sound to carry up the stairs. “Yeah. It smells like rotting meat.” “She didn’t clean up the carcass. Sick.” “She brought this on herself. I hope he breaks the door down.” The whispers drifted under the door, stinging worse than physical blows. I was terrified, exhausted, and crying hysterically. The building’s security team arrived first. Two guards and the property manager had to physically tackle Greg to rip the cleaver out of his hands. The manager pounded on my door, ordering me to open it so we could “talk this out.” I wiped my face, my hands shaking uncontrollably, and slowly unlatched the deadbolt. The second the door cracked open, Greg shoved past the guards like a bulldozer. Before I could even process his movement, a massive hand cracked across my jaw. The slap sounded like a gunshot. My ears rang violently, and sparks danced in my vision. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back, spitting profanities in my face. His breath reeked of stale cigarettes. “Let her go! Step back!” The guards tackled him again, prying his fingers out of my hair. I huddled behind one of the guards, my hair a tangled mess, my cheek burning like fire. I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered. “I didn’t do it… I swear to God, I didn’t touch those birds… You can search my apartment! Check the fridge! Check everywhere!” I screamed at the manager, my voice raw and broken. “Search your place? You probably threw the evidence down the chute!” Greg bellowed, struggling against the guards. Right then, the elevator pinged. Two uniformed police officers stepped out. Taking one look at the chaotic scene, they immediately took control. They separated everyone and started taking statements. I clung to the older officer like a lifeline, sobbing as I quickly explained everything. I swore I didn’t kill anything, didn’t leave the head at the door, and begged them to investigate to clear my name. The older officer listened to my frantic rambling. As I spoke, his brow furrowed deeper and deeper. He looked around the hallway, and suddenly, his nostrils flared. He cut Greg off mid-rant. His voice was dangerously calm. “What is that smell?” Everyone froze. Instinctively, we all took a deep breath. The older officer’s face turned completely rigid. He raised a hand, demanding absolute silence. He stepped slowly into the hallway, tracking the scent like a bloodhound. He stopped directly in front of Unit 1602. 1602 belonged to Diane, a single mother with an eight-year-old son. We rarely spoke, but we’d exchange polite nods in the elevator. The officer knocked firmly on the door. Thud. Thud. Thud. No answer. He pounded harder. “Police! Open the door!” Dead silence. Except the heavy knocking seemed to disturb the air inside, pushing an even thicker wave of that putrid odor into the hallway. A terrible, dark dread settled in my stomach. A memory suddenly snapped into focus. “Officer,” I stuttered, pointing at the door. “Diane… the woman who lives there. She gave me a spare key.” “She said she works late sometimes, and her kid gets home early. She gave it to me for emergencies, but I’ve never used it.” The officer’s eyes locked onto mine. “Go get it.” I ran into my apartment, dug through my junk drawer, and pulled out the key with the red plastic tag. I handed it over. The older officer took the key, stared at the heavy wooden door for a second, and shot a silent look at his partner. The younger officer immediately unclipped the safety on his holster, resting his hand on his weapon. “Everyone, step back. Right now,” the older officer commanded. The crowd of neighbors instinctively shrank toward the stairwell. Even Greg went dead silent, staring at the door with wide eyes. The key turned in the lock. The door slowly creaked open. A tidal wave of absolute, concentrated rot exploded out of the apartment. It was so potent, so overwhelmingly foul, that the three of us standing near the door immediately started dry heaving, stumbling backward to escape the stench. The living room was pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains were drawn tight. But the sliver of hallway light spilling into the apartment was enough. The hardwood floor was a disaster zone, smeared with massive, dark pools of liquid. And lying perfectly still in the center of that carnage, were two bodies.

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The day before the President’s Fellowship defense, I was standing outside the lab when I heard Garrett talking to the department sweetheart. “I copied all of his data. You can use it directly tomorrow.” I stood in the hallway, frozen for three seconds. Then I pulled out my phone and checked the local Git logs. Last push: three months ago. I slid my phone back into my pocket. That version had three hundred and twenty-seven bugs. And the comments were absolutely loaded with my warmest regards for Garrett. Tomorrow’s defense was going to be a masterpiece. 1 November 15th, 9:40 PM. I grabbed a bottle of iced tea from the vending machine, planning to head back to the lab to run one last batch of data. The lab was at the far end of the seventh floor of the Science Hall. Two of the hallway lights were dead, casting fractured, ghostly pools of pale white light across the floor. I unscrewed the cap and took a sip, my footsteps swallowed by the quiet corridor. As I neared Room 706, I noticed the door was cracked open. The lights were on. I figured it was empty, since I was usually the only one in the lab at this hour. Just as I reached out to push the door, Garrett’s voice drifted through the gap. “Don’t worry, he won’t even make it onto the stage tomorrow.” My hand froze in midair. A second later, Gina’s voice followed. “Are you sure? What if he finds out?” Garrett let out a laugh, that condescending, smug chuckle of his. “So what if he does? I copied everything off his machine, the raw data, the modeling scripts, the lab logs. I wiped his local drive clean, too.” I pulled my hand back and took half a step away from the door. “Tomorrow, you just walk up there and present it as yours. The committee will just think he tried to piggyback on your project at the last second, got rejected, and threw a temper tantrum.” “But what if he has a backup?” “A backup?” Garrett scoffed. “I’ve seen how he works. He only runs things on that one lab desktop. A slob like him probably doesn’t even own a second USB drive.” The sliver of light from the doorway fell across my slippers. I looked down, left foot blue, right foot black. Okay, fair point, I was a bit of a slob. Normally, hearing someone trash me like that might have rubbed me the wrong way. But right now, only one thought consumed my mind: Which computer did this idiot actually rob? I pulled out my phone and accessed my private server dashboard. Project folder: “Fellowship_v2.7”. Last modified: today at 3:14 PM. Status: normal. Thirty-seven source files, completely intact. I scrolled down. The last time my local Git repository had pushed anything to that lab desktop was August 23rd, eleven weeks ago. The version back then was v0.3. I remembered v0.3 vividly. It was a steaming pile of garbage that could compile but couldn’t produce a single correct result. The convergence conditions in the core algorithm were reversed, the feature extraction module leaked memory like a sieve, and the data preprocessing was a caveman-era workaround that I eventually scrapped and rebuilt from scratch. Worse yet, I had treated that version’s code comments as my personal diary, filling them with my deepest thoughts. What kind of thoughts? For instance, line 47: // If you don’t understand this code, don’t worry. I wrote it, and I don’t understand it either. Line 128: // TODO: There is a bug here, but it’s Friday. Even bugs deserve a weekend. Line 203: // If Garrett is peeking at my screen again, please raise your eyes by three centimeters and look at this line. What are you looking at? Go write your own. I added that line in September because he kept making excuses to walk by and sneak glances at my screen. I hadn’t thought much of it then, assuming he was just curious. Looking back, he was scouting his target. I tightened the cap on my iced tea and quietly backed down the hallway. On the walk back to the dorms, the crisp night air cleared my head. Should I report him? Yes, but the paper trail wasn’t solid enough yet; it would be my word against theirs. Should I confront them right now? I could, but where was the fun in that? I pondered it for about ten seconds, then sent a text to my roommate, Wyatt. Are you coming to the fellowship defense tomorrow? Wyatt replied instantly. Is there drama? Massive drama. Bring popcorn. On it. I locked my phone and stepped into the dorm building. The faint sounds of someone screaming at their gaming teammates echoed down the hall. What a beautiful world. Tomorrow was going to be even better. 2 Back in our room, Wyatt was sitting cross-legged on his bed, engrossed in a mobile game. “Spill,” he said, his eyes glued to the screen. “What’s the drama?” I kicked off my slippers, climbed onto my bed, and flipped open my laptop. “Garrett stole all the data off my lab computer. He’s giving it to Gina to present at the defense tomorrow.” Wyatt’s thumbs froze. The game’s voiceover chimed from his phone: An ally has been slain. “What did you say?” He whipped his head around. “I said Garrett stole my—” “No, I mean, how are you so damn calm?” he yelled, staring at me. “Your research got stolen! The fellowship data! The defense is literally tomorrow! You should be marching to our advisor’s office right now!” I yawned, looking at my laptop screen. “What’s the rush? He stole v0.3.” “What the hell is v0.3?” “The build from three months ago. A scrapped draft.” Wyatt went quiet for three seconds. “What does ‘scrapped draft’ mean in this context?” “It means the code compiles but won’t run. If it runs, it won’t produce results. And if it does somehow produce results, they’re entirely wrong.” Another three seconds of silence. Then, Wyatt slowly set his phone down, his eyes lighting up with a familiar, wicked spark. It was the look of a man who smelled premium, grade-A gossip. “Hold on, hold on.” He slid off his bed and lunged over to mine. “Are you saying he stole a pile of garbage code?” “Not complete garbage,” I corrected him. “The basic framework is solid. But the core logic is entirely broken. Plus…” I pulled up the backup of the old build and scrolled to the pages heavy with comments. Wyatt leaned in and read for five seconds. Then he lost it. “Oh my god, you actually called him out in the comments?” “I wouldn’t call it calling him out,” I said, scrolling to line 203. “Just a friendly warning.” Wyatt read it aloud: “If Garrett is peeking at my screen again, please raise your eyes by three centimeters and look at this line. What are you looking at? Go write your own.” He laughed so hard his shoulders shook. “There’s more,” I said, scrolling down further. Line 315: // This function is named garrett_is_watching. No explanation provided. Line 472: // The following algorithm is inspired by the ring topology of my advisor’s horseshoe baldness. Confidential. Line 519: // If this code appears in anyone’s presentation slides other than my own, I highly recommend they check themselves into a psychiatric ward. Wyatt literally fell off my bed, laughing. “Did you know he was going to steal it back then?” “Nope.” I closed my laptop. “I just like talking to myself in the comments. I’m telling you, coders who don’t write comments have no souls.” “That’s not comments, man. That’s a burn diary written in C++.” “Call it what you want.” “So what’s the game plan for tomorrow?” Wyatt climbed back onto his bed, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Just present like normal.” “That’s it?” “What else do I need to do?” I set my laptop aside and pulled up the blanket. “Think about it. Gina is going to stand before the committee with a piece of junk code riddled with over three hundred bugs. She doesn’t even know what the functions do. How long do you think she can survive their questions?” Wyatt thought for a moment. “Three minutes?” “You’re giving her too much credit.” “Besides,” I turned over, facing the wall, “Professor Harrison is on the panel.” “Harrison? The balding guy?” “He supervised my undergraduate capstone project.” Wyatt grinned again. “He knows my coding style like the back of his hand. My variable names, my indentation habits, my function structures. Those things are like digital fingerprints. You can’t steal them, and you can’t fake them.” The room fell quiet, save for the muffled sounds of video games from next door and a distant alarm ringing down the hall. “Ryan,” Wyatt called out. “Yeah?” “You are an absolute menace.” “I know. Now go to sleep.” “No, seriously. You usually look like a lazy slacker, but you’re cold-blooded when it counts.” I didn’t reply. I was already running through the possibilities. The defense order was determined by a random draw. If Gina went before me, the fallout would be glorious. If I went before her, she’d get a front-row seat to the difference between v2.7 and v0.3. Either way, it was a win. I closed my eyes. I slept like a baby. 3 November 16th, 8:00 AM. The defense was held in the lecture hall on the third floor of the Science Hall. I walked out of the dorms wearing my favorite grey hoodie, the one that had been washed at least a thousand times. Wyatt insisted on tagging along. “You’re not even presenting.” “I’m the audience,” he insisted. “You told me to bring popcorn, and I did. You can’t lock me out now.” “There are actual seats in the lecture hall, Wyatt.” “It’s the spirit of the popcorn that matters.” I didn’t bother arguing with him. As we entered the lobby, I spotted Garrett and Gina standing near the main bulletin board. Garrett was wearing a crisp navy shirt today, his hair slicked back with enough gel to withstand a hurricane. Gina was in full makeup, clutching a stack of printed materials to her chest. They were whispering to each other, looking completely relaxed. When Garrett caught sight of me, he paused for a fraction of a second. Then, a smug, oily smile spread across his face. It was the kind of smile that said, I ruined your life, and you don’t even know it yet. “Ryan,” he said with a nod. “Big day. Ready for the defense?” “I’ll get by,” I replied. His eyes swept down to my faded hoodie and my mismatched slippers. Yes, I had shown up to a prestigious fellowship defense in slippers. His smile widened, likely assuming I had given up on life because my data was deleted. “Hang in there, bud,” he said, patting my shoulder with just the right amount of patronizing warmth. “Yeah, you too.” I glanced at Gina. “Good luck, Gina.” Gina nodded, tightening her grip on her papers, but she refused to meet my gaze. Guilty people never look you in the eye. That rule hasn’t changed since middle school. Wyatt and I headed up to the third floor. A crowd had already gathered outside the lecture hall. Fellowship defenses were public events. Anyone from the department could sit in. It always drew a massive crowd because, let’s face it, there is no entertainment quite like watching academic careers crash and burn in real-time. Wyatt slid into a seat in the back corner and pulled out his phone. “I’m taking this spot. Perfect angle.” “What, are you livestreaming this?” “Pretty much. I’ll record your set.” “Don’t.” “Come on, you might go viral.” I ignored him and found a seat in the middle row. At 8:20 AM, the five-member committee walked in. Right in the center was Professor Harrison. He was in his late fifties, his horseshoe baldness having expanded over the years from a small bay into a full-on ocean. I had roasted his hair in line 472 of my old code, and seeing him in the flesh made my stomach do a slight flip. I really hoped Gina wouldn’t scroll down to that specific line on the projector. Whatever, what happens, happens. Professor Harrison scanned the room, his gaze lingering on me for half a second. He knew me. I had worked under him for an entire year on my undergraduate thesis. He knew my coding style the way a mother knows her child’s handwriting. In other words, he could spot my work instantly. At 8:30 AM, the moderator announced the presentation order. Gina was third. I was fifth. She was going before me. I took a slow, deep breath. Perfect. Time to let the drama unfold. 4 The first two students gave decent presentations. One was on smart traffic optimization, the other on NLP sentiment analysis. The committee asked some standard questions, and the atmosphere remained calm and academic. Then the moderator announced, “Next up, Gina.” Polite applause rippled through the room as Gina stood up and walked to the podium. Wearing a tailored white shirt, black dress pants, and an elegant updo, she looked every bit the rising star of academia. If you didn’t know any better, that is. She plugged in her flash drive, and the projector flared to life with her title slide. “Good morning, members of the committee. My research is focused on multi-objective path planning optimization using deep reinforcement learning.” Yep. That title. It was the exact title of my v0.3 build back in August. I had completely shifted gears by v1.0, abandoning path planning to focus on graph neural networks in dynamic topologies. She hadn’t just stolen outdated code; she had stolen a research direction I had already discarded. “The core innovation of this study lies in a modified DQN algorithm, which integrates an attention mechanism to achieve multi-objective balance.” I listened, my lips twitching. That was the abstract from my v0.3 documentation, lifted word-for-word. The committee members nodded as she spoke. The first five minutes of her presentation were smooth. Anyone can memorize a script and click through pre-made slides. But the real test of a defense isn’t the presentation. It’s the Q&A. Gina concluded her final slide with a polite, “Thank you. I welcome your feedback.” Professor Harrison flipped through the printed report in his hands. He looked up, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Gina, in your modified DQN algorithm, what is the theoretical foundation for your reward function?” Gina froze for a fraction of a second. “Uh… it is based on the Pareto optimality theory in multi-objective optimization.” The answer itself wasn’t wrong, but Professor Harrison didn’t stop there. “And how exactly did you map the Pareto frontier to the reward signals? What was your normalization strategy?” Gina’s lips parted. “It was… a weighted sum approach.” “Weighted sum?” Professor Harrison frowned. “Your slide on page seven shows adaptive weights. Why are you suddenly talking about a simple weighted sum?” Gina’s fingers tightened around the presentation clicker until her knuckles turned white. “I apologize, Professor. I misspoke. I meant to say an adaptive weighting approach.” “Then how did you implement the adaptation mechanism? How did you tune the hyperparameters?” Silence. Three seconds. Five seconds. Gina’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. That kind of silence is the kiss of death in a defense. Another committee member interjected, “Why don’t you show us your source code? If we look at the actual implementation of this algorithm, it should clear things up.” I sat in the audience, my breathing steady and my pulse calm. But if anyone had looked closely, they would have seen a slow, wicked grin creeping onto my face. I knew what was coming. The second she opened that source code, the real show would begin. Gina hesitated, her hand trembling as she opened the file explorer. She located the project directory and double-clicked the main script. Lines of dense code flooded the projector screen, visible to the entire room. The first line was the standard file header. The second and third lines imported the libraries. The fourth line, however, was a comment I had written at 11:00 PM on August 20th. It stared back at the entire room in bright green font: // Another day of burning my life away for science. Too bad I’m burning my liver, not writing actual papers. A quiet chuckle rippled through the back of the lecture hall. Professor Harrison adjusted his glasses, his gaze locking onto the screen. Gina panicked, her fingers frantically scrolling down. Line 47. // If you don’t understand this code, don’t worry. I wrote it, and I don’t understand it either. Let’s all be confused together. More laughter broke out, louder this time. Gina’s face drained of color. She scrolled faster, trying to find the core math, but she had no idea how the project was structured. The faster she scrolled, the worse it got. Line 128 flashed onto the screen. // TODO: There is a bug here, but it’s Friday. Even bugs deserve a weekend. I’ll deal with it next week. The lecture hall erupted into giggles. Even some of the committee members couldn’t hide their grins. Professor Harrison’s face remained stoic, but I knew him well enough to see the slight flare of his nostrils. He was holding back a laugh. Gina finally reached the core algorithm section between lines 203 and 250. Right above the main function was a massive, glaring comment block. Nobody could miss it. // If Garrett is peeking at my screen again, please raise your eyes by three centimeters and look at this line. What are you looking at? Go write your own. The laughter stopped instantly. It was replaced by a wave of sharp, sudden whispers. Garrett’s name was printed in plain English on the giant screen. People in the audience immediately began turning their heads, searching the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Garrett sitting in the second row. He looked completely petrified. In a span of two seconds, his face flushed a deep crimson and then went entirely sheet-white. Professor Harrison slowly took his eyes off the screen and looked directly at Gina. “Gina,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but the room went so quiet you could hear the low hum of the ventilation system. “This code explicitly mentions your colleague’s name. Can you explain what this comment is doing in your program?” Gina’s hand shook violently. The presentation clicker slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly against the wooden floor.

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1 The day I finally decided to divorce Tom Sinclair, I brought him a home-cooked meal in his executive suite, just like I always did. He took a bite, and his eyes immediately lit up. “This broth is incredible. Make it again tomorrow.” I nodded slowly. “Sure. I’ll write down the recipe for the housekeeper.” Tom looked up, his brow furrowing slightly. “Do you have somewhere to be tomorrow?” “Tom, I want a divorce.” My voice was completely flat. It was so terrifyingly calm that everyone, Tom included, assumed I was just throwing another one of my pathetic tantrums. But they had no idea. In exactly twelve hours, I would be boarding a military-grade transport plane with an elite polar expedition team, leaving the civilized world behind for good. Hearing my words, Tom didn’t even bother to blink. “If you don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow, you cook. I can’t stomach the garbage the new chef makes.” “Then hire someone whose food you can actually swallow.” As I spoke, I reached into my designer tote, pulled out the pristine divorce papers, and slid them across his mahogany desk. “I’ve already signed. I just need your signature.” Tom didn’t reach for the pen. Instead, he leaned back in his leather chair, his dark, calculating eyes locking onto mine for a long, suffocating moment. Then, a low chuckle escaped his lips. “Attempt number eighteen. I have to admit, you’re really selling it this time.” I knew exactly what he meant. Before today, whenever his filthy hotel rendezvous with whatever A-list actress or Instagram model hit the tabloids, I would lose my mind. I would scream, cry, and threaten divorce. He would call me hysterical, pack a bag, and move into his penthouse suite at the company. And a few days later, terrified of losing him, I would swallow every ounce of my pride and beg him to come home. A toxic, degrading cycle. Seventeen times. But what he didn’t know was that yesterday, while hiding in a bathroom stall at my research institute, I overheard my colleagues tearing me apart. “Did you see the Daily Mail? Dr. Hazel’s billionaire husband got caught sneaking out of the Plaza with that new pop star.” “Hard to miss it when it’s trending everywhere. I honestly don’t get why Hazel stays with a guy who humiliates her like that.” “Are you kidding? Look at his bank account. She’s staying for the lifestyle. Plus, let’s be real… she’s got zero self-respect.” Their laughter had echoed off the tiles, fading down the hallway. Inside the stall, I had bitten my lower lip so hard I tasted copper. With trembling fingers, I had dialed Tom’s private number. He answered just as it was about to go to voicemail. “What now?” “You promised me you wouldn’t make the headlines again. Do you have any idea how people look at me at work?” “Is that it?” His voice dripped with raw impatience. “If you can’t handle a few whispers, quit your little science job and stay home. Hazel, there is a line of women begging to be Mrs. Sinclair out the door. If you’re tired of the title, step aside.” Before I could even breathe, a sickeningly sweet female voice drifted through the receiver. “Tom, baby, I wouldn’t mind being Mrs. Sinclair for a while.” “Done. Soon as Hazel packs her bags, the ring is yours.” The call ended to the sound of heavy, breathless panting. Staring at the black screen of my phone, I realized my colleagues were right. I really had zero self-respect. Pulling myself back to the present, I looked at the man across the desk. “Don’t worry. Even though you’re the one who couldn’t keep his pants zipped, I’m not touching a single cent of the Sinclair fortune. I left all the jewelry and black cards on the vanity.” “Enough!” Tom slammed his silver spoon down, splashing broth onto the polished wood. “We are at the office. If you want to pitch a fit, do it at home. I don’t have time for your high school drama.” I pressed my lips together, offering no response. I just stared at him, my eyes devoid of the adoration that used to fuel his ego. After a heavy silence, he sighed, running a hand through his hair like he was dealing with a stubborn toddler. “Fine. I’ll have my assistant send that diamond collar you were looking at to the estate tonight. As for Montanna…” “Mr. Sinclair.” My voice was ice. “I don’t need the diamonds. And I couldn’t care less about whatever new plaything you’re entertaining. I’m here for a divorce.” If my father hadn’t dragged Tom’s grandfather from a burning car wreckage decades ago, a woman with my modest background would never have been allowed anywhere near the Sinclair empire. The Manhattan elite knew I didn’t belong. They looked down on me. Even though my doctoral thesis had once sent shockwaves through the global biological community, I still felt unworthy. So, I clipped my own wings, hid my brilliance, and bent over backwards to become the perfect, submissive wife. Now, the spell was broken. Five years of swallowing glass, all for a joke of a marriage. It was time to reclaim my throne. “Hazel…” Tom barely got my name out before the heavy oak doors swung open without a single knock. 2 Montanna fluttered into the room like a moth dressed in couture, making a direct beeline for Tom. “Tom, honey, I came to drag you to lunch. Oh, you’re already eating? It smells divine. Did your little maid make it?” Tom despised people barging into his sanctuary. He once fired an intern on the spot for forgetting to knock during an emergency. Even I, his legal wife, had to pass through three layers of security to bring him lunch. But clearly, Montanna was the golden exception. Instead of kicking her out, the rigid lines of his face softened, and he beckoned her over. “Yeah, the maid made it.” He shot a mocking glance in my direction. “Looks edible, but honestly, it tastes like garbage.” The corner of my mouth twitched upward. I calmly reached over, picked up the designer thermos, and dropped it straight into his executive trash can. Tom’s face instantly darkened. Before he could snap at me, Montanna had already draped herself across his lap, tracing his lapel with manicured nails. “If it’s garbage, don’t eat it. A new Michelin-star French place just opened down the block. Let’s go there.” “Alright. We’ll go.” As he stood up, adjusting his custom suit, he shot me a freezing glare. “I’ll have PR handle the tabloid mess. It won’t happen again. But listen to me very carefully, Hazel. This is the last time I’m entertaining this divorce game. Pull this stunt again, and I will happily give you exactly what you’re asking for.” A bitter chill swept through my chest. I took a step sideways, blocking their path to the door. “Tom, our marriage has been an ugly, public disaster. Let’s at least end it with a shred of dignity. There’s no need to wait for a next time. Sign it today.” Montanna wasn’t stupid. She instantly clocked what was happening, her eyes lighting up with poorly concealed greed. French food was suddenly the last thing on her mind. “Oh my god, Tom, I am so sorry. Am I interrupting something serious?” She batted her lashes innocently. “Maybe I should wait in the lobby?” She made a fake move to leave, but Tom’s hand clamped down on her wrist. “You aren’t going anywhere.” He turned his glacial stare onto me, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He was standing on the absolute edge of a volcanic eruption. In the past, this look alone would have had me shaking in my heels, scrambling for ways to appease him. But today, I held my ground, meeting his lethal gaze without a flinch. “Sign the paper. I’ll walk out of this building, and you will never have to look at me again.” The temperature in the room plummeted. Montanna’s eyes darted between the two of us. Then, in a theatrical display that belonged on a soap opera, she dropped to her knees right on the Persian rug. “Mrs. Sinclair, you can take your anger out on me, but please, please don’t torture Tom! This is all my fault!” “If slapping me makes you feel better, do it! I’ll take it all!” Before I could even process the absolute absurdity of her performance, she raised her own hand and raked her nails violently across her own cheek, leaving a bright red welt. Tom let out a furious shout. He hauled her off the floor, cradling her face like it was made of spun glass, before turning on me like a rabid dog. “Hazel, you psychotic bitch! She is a public figure! How could you be so vile?” He didn’t even give me a second to speak. With a few crocodile tears and a self-inflicted scratch, the verdict was delivered. I was the villain. “Montanna, I am so sorry you had to endure this,” he murmured, his voice dripping with sickening sweetness. “I promise you, the lead role in that new studio blockbuster is yours.” Over his shoulder, where he couldn’t see, Montanna flashed me a smug, venomous smirk. She mouthed the words slowly so I wouldn’t miss them. The ring is mine. Watching her, I felt absolutely nothing. Not a single ripple of jealousy. I was throwing the whole man into the garbage. Why would I care who scavenged him? I ignored her completely, standing firm in the doorway. “Tom Sinclair. Sign the damn paper.” 3 The silence in the room was deafening. Suddenly, the heavy oak doors were violently shoved open. My mother stormed into the office, her eyes skipping right over me to lock onto the divorce papers on the desk. She snatched them up, ripped them in half, and then grabbed me harshly by the shoulders, shaking me with manic energy. “Have you lost your goddamn mind? You have a perfect life, and you’re throwing it away!” She planted her hands on her hips, her voice piercing enough to shatter glass. She wanted to make absolutely sure the billionaire standing behind me heard every word of her loyalty. “Look at Tom! The looks, the pedigree, the wealth! You leave him, and what do you think you’re going to get?” “A divorced woman in her thirties is damaged goods! Who is going to want you?” “If it weren’t for the Sinclair family, do you think you could afford your little designer clothes on a researcher’s pathetic salary? Over a tiny little disagreement, you’re throwing a nuclear tantrum!” “Listen to me, Hazel. Only pathetic, weak-willed men stay tied to one woman. It’s not that they don’t want mistresses, it’s just that they can’t afford them! A man of Tom’s status is allowed a few flaws!” I pressed my tongue against the inside of my cheek, a suffocating wave of exhaustion washing over me. To the outside world, my marriage was a fairytale. But the rotting core of it was something only my mother and I truly understood. Yet, her solution was always to swallow the poison and smile. She was publicly humiliating me in front of my husband and his mistress, all to protect her VIP country club membership. A hollow, self-deprecating smile touched my lips. Misreading my silence as submission, my mother softened her tone slightly, though the words remained dripping with venom. “Hazel, sweetie, every marriage has hiccups. Your father and I fought like cats and dogs.” “Be a good girl. Go apologize to Tom. Bow your head, and from now on…” I slowly raised my eyes, my voice quiet but forged from steel. “I am not bowing to anyone.” “This marriage is over.” “My entire life, I played by your rules. I studied what you wanted, took the safe job, married the golden boy. I lived to fulfill everyone else’s expectations, letting myself bleed dry in the process.” “Not anymore. For the rest of my life, I belong to me.” “You ungrateful little brat!” My mother shrieked, raising her hand as if she wanted to strike me down. But when she met my dead, unflinching stare, her hand froze in mid-air. She dropped her arm, her face twisting in disgust. “Fine! Ruin your life! But when you’re crying in the gutter, don’t you dare come crawling back to my doorstep!” She spun on her heels and marched out, slamming the door so hard the framed degrees on the wall rattled. The office plunged back into a suffocating quiet. Without missing a beat, I reached into my bag and pulled out a backup copy of the divorce agreement. “Sign it.” “You are going to regret this, Hazel!” Tom was officially unhinged. He snatched a gold-plated Montblanc pen from his desk and violently slashed his signature across the bottom of the page. “You want out? Fine. But you walk away with nothing. Not a single red cent of my money.” I carefully picked up the paper, checking the signature before sliding it safely into a manila folder. There was no heartbreak. Only a profound, dizzying sense of relief. A massive, crushing weight lifted off my chest. When I first met Tom Sinclair, I fell stupidly, blindly in love. I knew he was Manhattan’s most notorious playboy. I never in a million years expected him to honor his grandfather’s dying wish and actually marry me. Surrounded by his glamorous exes, I was just a quiet, nerdy ugly duckling. When he slipped that diamond on my finger, I thought I had won the lottery. I was naive enough to believe that underneath his cold exterior, he actually cared for me. My reward for that delusion came on day three of our honeymoon, when TMZ leaked photos of him leaving a club with a Victoria’s Secret model. I cried. I screamed. But I didn’t leave. I foolishly believed my pure, unwavering love could fix him. Instead, I became a neurotic, shattered ghost of myself. I traded my title as a brilliant young scientist to become a miserable, paranoid socialite. If I could just turn a blind eye like the other billionaire wives, my life would be luxurious. Aside from his chronic infidelity, Tom was incredibly generous. On every anniversary and holiday, even if he was in another timezone with another woman, his team ensured massive floral arrangements and rare diamonds were delivered to my door. When I caught a nasty flu while he was partying in Ibiza, he flew a private medical team to the house to monitor me. That was why everyone, my own mother included, thought I was insane for leaving. But waking up every single day in a cavernous, empty mansion, feeling the pitiful stares of my friends and colleagues, it felt like I was drowning in a velvet ocean. I just wanted to breathe again. I looked up at Tom, my gaze completely devoid of the desperate affection that used to anchor him. “Keep your money. I don’t want it.” I was heading to the frozen wasteland of Antarctica. In the middle of absolute nowhere, a black card was just a useless piece of plastic. “You two have a lunch reservation to get to. I won’t keep you.” I turned on my heel, walking toward the door. Just before I crossed the threshold, I paused. “Since my cooking is garbage, I won’t bother leaving the recipes.” Tom glared daggers at my back. “Don’t flatter yourself. You think I’ll starve without you?” Fair enough. It was a stupid thing to say. “Enjoy your French food.” Without looking back, I walked out of the building and into the crisp city air.

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For her birthday, I spent two months writing a custom immersive mystery game. The storyline traced our seven-year journey, from two broke nobodies building a startup together to the life we had now. Hidden in the final act was an Easter egg: a marriage proposal. If she recognized it was our story, the lights would come on, and I would walk out to get on one knee. But throughout the entire game, she held the hand of her new assistant. She helped him solve puzzles, analyzed clues for him, and even handed over her most crucial survival items. Not once did she recognize the struggles we had endured or the promises we had whispered in the dark. In her mouth, our history was twisted into a joke. “The female lead is such a pathetic doormat,” she scoffed. “Giving up so much for a guy? She is out of her mind.” Her assistant covered his mouth, giggling in agreement. During the final voting phase, the players had to choose which character to protect. She cast her vote for the secondary male lead. Her reasoning was brutal: “The main guy is way too much work. He isn’t worth it.” On the surveillance monitor, I watched the two of them laughing together, completely oblivious to the man sitting in the dark. No one knew the author of this script was quietly slipping a velvet ring box back into his pocket. I wiped my face, pulled out my phone, and sent a single message to the airline: “Cancel my return flight for the day after tomorrow. I won’t be needing it.” 1 The harsh overhead lights of the game parlor flickered on. I sat in the surveillance room behind a one way mirror, burying the diamond ring that had cost me half a year’s savings deep into my coat pocket. On the screen, they were still laughing. I looked down at my phone and officially canceled my return ticket from London. When I pushed the door open and walked out into the lobby, Victoria was unscrewing the cap of a bottled water and handing it to Toby. “You were running around looking for evidence. You must be thirsty,” she said, her voice dripping with a gentleness I hadn’t heard in years. Toby took the water and let out a dramatic, childish sigh. “Victoria, the main guy in this script was so incredibly stupid. Splitting a single plain bagel in a freezing bus shelter just to save money for the girl’s laptop? You don’t see that kind of pathetic, broke romance in real life.” Victoria let out a soft chuckle. Her tone was completely dismissive. “It is definitely melodramatic. If you are broke, you should just go make money. Brainwashing yourself into feeling loved over a stale bagel… that trick only works on naive little boys.” My footsteps faltered. I stopped dead in the shadows of the hallway. That exact scenario happened during our very first winter in Chicago. It was a massive blizzard. After paying our rent, we had exactly five dollars left to our names. Victoria’s hands were bright red from the cold as she tore that cheap bagel in half, giving me the softer, warmer center. Her eyes had been red with tears as she made a vow to me. “Oliver, one day I am going to buy you the most expensive French tasting menus. I swear I will never let you suffer with me again.” Now, she took Toby out for thousand dollar Michelin dinners. And the boy who shared that bagel with her in the freezing snow had just become a naive joke in her mouth. “Oliver! Where did you wander off to?” Toby spotted me and called out. “I had to take a call,” I replied, walking over with a perfectly calm expression. We headed down to the underground parking garage. Out of sheer habit, I walked toward the passenger side of her car. Just as I reached for the handle, Toby smoothly slipped into the seat. He even reached into the glove compartment with practiced ease and pulled out a pack of mango flavored fruit drops. “Wow, Victoria! You actually bought this brand! I casually mentioned last week that these help with my car sickness, and you actually remembered.” Victoria pulled open the driver side door and shot me a brief glance. “You sit in the back. Toby gets carsick easily.” I didn’t say a single word. I quietly withdrew my hand and climbed into the backseat. The engine roared to life, and the Bluetooth automatically connected. But the playlist that popped up on the dashboard screen wasn’t the one titled “Seven Years Together” from my phone. It was Toby’s phone. Upbeat, obnoxiously loud pop music flooded the speakers. My gaze drifted to the back of the driver’s seat. Victoria had terrible allergies. She always hated artificial scents in enclosed spaces. For seven years, her car had remained completely free of any air fresheners. But now, clipped to the air conditioning vent, was a bright yellow daisy diffuser. It was emitting a sickeningly sweet peach scent. The exact kind of trendy fragrance a young boy in his early twenties would like. “By the way, Victoria,” I said softly, watching the city lights blur past the rainy window. “Next Monday is our seventh anniversary. I booked that omakase place you like a month in advance.” The music in the car was deafening. Victoria glanced at me through the rearview mirror, her brows pulling together in annoyance. “Next Monday? That is the final day of the gaming expo. The sponsors are hosting an appreciation banquet. It is Toby’s first time handling a major project like this. I need to take him to network.” She paused, her tone shifting into the patronizing voice one might use to soothe an unreasonable child. “It is just a dinner, Oliver. We can eat sushi any day. Just cancel the reservation so we do not lose the deposit.” Toby turned his head, giving me an incredibly fake look of guilt. “Oliver, I am so sorry. My work schedule is ruining your anniversary.” “It’s fine.” I pulled out my phone, opened the restaurant app, and hit the cancel button without a second thought. The car rolled to a stop at a red light. A notification popped up on Victoria’s dashboard family calendar screen: [Oliver’s Gastritis Reminder: Buy Stomach Medicine.] She quickly scanned the words. Then, she reached out and casually swiped the alert away, hitting the delete permanently button. 2 It was past midnight by the time we returned to our shared apartment. After washing up, I walked into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. When I opened the refrigerator, I froze. The entire shelf of lactose free milk I drank every morning was gone. In its place was a massive, fully stocked row of sparkling water and chilled sodas. My stomach lining was severely damaged. I could not drink anything carbonated or ice cold. Victoria walked out of the bathroom, drying her hair with a towel. “Oh, Toby came over yesterday to grab some files,” she said casually. “He said he was thirsty, but we didn’t have any fizzy drinks in the fridge. I picked up a case on my way home today. You drink your milk too slowly anyway.” “But I just opened a brand new carton yesterday.” I looked at her, my voice eerily calm. “I threw it out. It doesn’t stay fresh once it is open,” she said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. She walked over to the kitchen island and picked up the kettle. Years ago, whenever I couldn’t finish a glass of milk, she would gladly drink the rest, insisting we couldn’t afford to waste a single drop. Now, she thought a carton open for twenty four hours was trash. I didn’t argue with her. I just poured myself a glass of lukewarm water and walked back to the bedroom. The next morning at the studio. Our creative agency was small, barely a dozen people in total. I was the core art director, and Victoria handled all the external business and client relations. Right after I sat down at my desk, my phone buzzed with a bank notification. The joint family credit card linked to Victoria had just been charged nearly four thousand dollars. The purchase receipt listed a premium tactile mechanical keyboard and a high end ergonomic gaming chair. I turned my head and looked through the glass partition into the main office area. Toby was excitedly tearing open a massive shipping box. Victoria stood right next to him, helping him assemble the bright blue keyboard. “Boys type with a heavier hand. These specific switches will make sure your fingers don’t get tired,” her voice drifted into my office. I looked down at my own desk. My hand was resting on a generic, three year old mouse with a broken left click button. Last year, I had asked to buy a basic ergonomic mouse for forty dollars. Victoria had immediately shut it down. “Oliver, we just signed the lease for this new office space. Cash flow is incredibly tight right now. We have to save wherever we can. Once we get through this rough patch, I promise I will buy you the best top tier equipment on the market.” We survived the rough patch. She did buy the best top tier equipment. But the person sitting in that chair was not me. At noon, everyone decided to order lunch. A massive thunderstorm had flooded the streets, so most places weren’t delivering. Victoria stood in the center of the room, waving her phone. “Lunch is on me today, guys! Let’s just order a massive spread from that authentic Szechuan place.” Forty minutes later, the food arrived. Every single plastic container was swimming in a thick layer of blood red chili oil. Spicy boiled beef, fiery chili chicken, mapo tofu. Toby was obsessed with spicy food. He ate until his face was flushed, sweating happily. Victoria stood next to him, gently handing him napkins. I stood by the communal dining table, staring at the sea of red chili flakes. “Victoria, my gastritis flared up again recently. I really can’t eat spicy food,” I reminded her quietly. She paused, her chopsticks hovering in mid air. It was obvious she had completely forgotten about me. “Oh, my bad. I wasn’t really thinking when I placed the order. Why don’t you just rinse the beef slices in a cup of hot water before you eat them?” She pointed her chin toward the water cooler. Her tone carried a distinct trace of annoyance, as if I was deliberately ruining the mood. “If that doesn’t work, just go down to the convenience store and grab a sandwich to hold you over. The rain is too heavy right now. Ordering a separate meal just for you is too much of a hassle for the delivery drivers.” Toby bit the end of his chopstick, looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Oliver, do you want my bowl of rice? I haven’t touched it yet.” “No thanks.” I turned around, walked back into my private office, and shut the door. I booted up my computer and opened our shared studio cloud drive. Inside were thousands of folders containing every travel photo and personal memory from our seven years together. I didn’t click open a single picture to reminisce. Instead, I went straight to the administrative settings. I permanently removed my account from the shared access list. 3 At three in the afternoon, a panicked gasp erupted from the main floor. “Oh my god! Victoria, I think I just overwrote the master file for the Harrison project…” Toby’s eyes were rimmed with red. He looked like he was on the verge of a total breakdown. The Harrison project was due first thing tomorrow morning. I had led the design team through three sleepless nights just to render those intricate layers. Victoria practically sprinted to his desk. She leaned over his shoulder, her brows knitting together as she inspected the screen. “Hey, don’t cry. It is fine. It is not a big deal. You are new to this software, making a mistake is totally normal.” She coaxed him softly for a few moments before turning her sharp gaze toward my office. “Oliver, Toby accidentally merged and saved over the layers. You drew the original concept. You need to stay late tonight and redraw the entire thing from scratch.” I stared blankly at the empty history log on my screen. “Redrawing this will take a minimum of eight hours,” I stated flatly. “And I wasn’t even supposed to be the one handling tomorrow’s pitch.” “You are the art director of this studio. If you don’t draw it, who will?” Victoria’s voice hardened. “Toby is practically in tears. As his senior, what is the big deal about helping him clean up a tiny mess?” “Fine. For the sake of the company.” I didn’t look at Toby again. I simply opened a brand new, blank canvas. Slowly, the rest of the studio packed up and went home. By eleven at night, the only sound left on the entire floor was the rapid clicking of my mouse. Victoria didn’t leave. She sat on the velvet sofa in the lobby, playing a multiplayer mobile game with Toby. “Ah! Victoria, come save me! I’m completely surrounded!” Toby’s excited shouts echoed through the quiet office. “Hold on, I am on my way,” Victoria laughed, her voice light and entirely stress free. I sat glued to my monitor, watching the intricate lines slowly form on the screen. Sharp, stabbing pains radiated through my stomach. I dry swallowed two antacid pills and continued to move my mouse like a machine. Three in the morning. I added the final stroke of color and hit the save button. The sounds of the video game outside had stopped hours ago. When I walked out, I saw Victoria fast asleep on the sofa. Toby’s designer jacket was draped carefully over her shoulders. Toby was sitting nearby with his headphones on, watching a show on his tablet. When he saw me walk out, he quickly jumped to his feet. “Oliver, are you finally done? Thanks for working so hard.” His tone carried a hint of artificial flattery, but there was absolutely no panic in his eyes. Because he knew a fundamental truth. As long as Victoria was protecting him, he would never have to face any real consequences. I completely ignored him and walked straight back to my desk. I packaged the master files and emailed them directly to Victoria’s inbox. Then, I opened the company’s internal HR portal and submitted a formal leave request. [Applicant: Oliver] [Leave Type: Accumulated PTO and Sick Leave. Total: 45 days.] I didn’t type a single word in the reason box. Because we were never legally married, I didn’t even have to go through the hassle of a divorce. Before I left, I took the physical banking security token for the company’s accounts and placed it quietly on her desk. I took one final look around the office I had poured my blood, sweat, and tears into for seven years. I did not wake Victoria up. This was the very last time I would ever clean up her mess. From now on, whatever storms she faced had absolutely nothing to do with me. 4 By the time I walked back into the apartment, the sky outside was turning a pale grey. I didn’t go to sleep. Instead, I went to the deepest corner of the closet and dragged out my dusty twenty four inch suitcase. I actually owned very little. Over the years, almost every dollar I made went straight back into keeping the studio afloat. I never bought expensive clothes. My entire wardrobe consisted of cheap, basic essentials. I packed the few outfits I had organized over the last few days, along with my passport and legal documents. When I walked into the bathroom to grab my toiletries, I stopped. Sitting on the sink were two identical electric toothbrushes. But the brush head on one of them had just been swapped for a brand new one. And resting perfectly between the two brushes was a bright pink tube of peach flavored toothpaste. “Toby said this brand is amazing for teeth whitening, so I bought a tube for the house to try out.” That was the excuse Victoria gave me a few days ago. I stared at the peach tube. Someone had squeezed it aggressively from the dead center. I calmly picked up my own tube of mint toothpaste and dropped it straight into the trash can. At ten in the morning, the electronic lock on the front door beeped loudly. Victoria pushed the door open, holding a cheap plastic bag with a convenience store breakfast inside. When she saw the large suitcase sitting in the middle of the living room, she froze. A deep frown instantly formed on her face. “Why is your luggage out? Are you going on a business trip?” She walked over and tossed the cold, pre packaged sandwich onto the coffee table. “Why didn’t you wake me up last night when you finished the drawings? Toby feels so guilty that he practically begged for the day off today. He was too scared to even show his face at the office. Could you seriously stop throwing these massive tantrums?” “I am not going on a business trip.” I pulled the zipper of the suitcase shut. “I have forty five days of unused PTO. I am starting my vacation today.” The color completely drained from Victoria’s face, replaced by a dark, simmering anger. “Taking PTO? Right now? We are in the middle of our end of year sprint, and you are taking forty five days off?” She marched right up to me, looking down her nose with that habitual, suffocating pressure she always used on her employees. “Oliver, can you please act like an adult? All I asked you to do was fix a minor mistake for a new hire. Did you really have to make everyone so miserable?” “Throwing a fit over something this trivial. You are being unbelievably selfish.” A second later, the front door slammed shut with a deafening crash. I stared at the space where her self righteous face had just been. Inside my chest, there was nothing but a hollow, peaceful silence. I picked up the trench coat draped over the sofa. I sat in the quiet room for a few moments longer, then grabbed the handle of my suitcase, walked to the entryway, and opened the door. I walked out of the home I had once loved so desperately. A moment later, my phone vibrated with a new text message. [You are required to attend the client dinner tonight. You do not have permission to take a vacation.] [If you do not show up, you can forget about celebrating our seventh anniversary entirely.] I didn’t type a reply. I simply pressed her contact name and hit delete. … That evening, Victoria sat in the private dining room of an upscale restaurant. Staring at the completely unresponsive chat log, a wave of intense irritation and creeping anxiety washed over her. She sent me another angry message, but the screen instantly flashed a red exclamation point indicating she had been blocked. Her brow furrowed deeply. She convinced herself I was just throwing another dramatic fit. A moment later, her driver pushed open the door to the private room. “Victoria, I couldn’t get ahold of Mr. Oliver. But I went to the apartment and found this USB drive on the table.” Annoyed, Victoria plugged the drive into her laptop. When the file opened, her pupils contracted into tiny pinpricks of pure horror.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “461184”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 My wife was raped and murdered by my best friend in our new home. And yet, I stood in court and defended him, securing his acquittal. My father-in-law had a massive stroke right there in the courtroom and was rushed to the hospital. Now, my brother-in-law was standing in front of me, pressing a knife to my throat. “Jared, that was your wife! When she was killed, she was hanging up framed pictures of your wedding in your new house!” “Why are you protecting that animal Wes? Are you even human?!” His eyes were bloodshot, his voice a primal scream as the blade bit into my skin. I didn’t even blink. Feeling the sharp sting of the metal, I smiled, completely empty. “Go ahead. Do it.” “Send me down there to be with her.” “Let her ask me herself why I did it.” Tyler’s hand shook violently, the blade trembling against my neck. He was on the verge of a total breakdown. “Jared! You think I won’t?” The hospital hallway was packed with onlookers, cell phone cameras flashing in our faces. “Is that the lawyer? Jared?” “Yeah, I heard he defended the guy who killed his own wife just for a massive payout.” “Disgusting. Eating off his wife’s grave like that.” “What a parasite. He should rot.” I listened to the whispers, my expression flat. I even let a faint, mocking smirk slip onto my face. The ward door banged open. My mother-in-law rushed out, her hair disheveled and frantic. Her eyes locked onto the blood dripping down my neck. She didn’t call for a doctor. She didn’t try to pull the knife away from Tyler. Instead, her hand flew across my face. Slap! My cheek burned hot. My head jerked to the side, and I tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. “Get out! Get the hell out of here!” She pointed a shaking finger at my nose, her voice shrill and breaking. “You killed Hannah! Now you want to kill her father too? Why couldn’t it have been you?” Tyler’s grip loosened, the knife clattering onto the linoleum floor. He collapsed against the wall, sobbing uncontrollably. Holding my bleeding neck and feeling the fresh welt on my cheek, I wiped the blood away with the back of my hand. No explanations. No apologies. I didn’t even look back at them. I turned and walked toward the elevators. Behind me, my mother-in-law’s curses and Tyler’s gut-wrenching sobs echoed down the hall. I kept my back perfectly straight. The moment I stepped out of the hospital, my phone buzzed in my pocket. The screen read: Wes’s Mother. I picked up, my voice instantly shifting into a calm, professional tone. “Hello, Mrs. Finch.” “Jared! Oh, thank God,” her voice crackled with tears of relief. “The police just called. They said there isn’t enough evidence, and they’re releasing Wes…” I stopped and looked back up at the towering hospital building. “Don’t worry. I have everything under control. Just follow my instructions, and he’ll be fine.” Heavy, frantic footsteps echoed behind me. Tyler had run out after me. He was staring at the phone in my hand, his eyes wild. He heard me. And I wanted him to hear me. “Jared!” He lunged, grabbing my collar and slamming my head hard against the brick wall. “You took their money, didn’t you? You sold your wife’s life to a murderer! How do you sleep at night?” Passersby stopped, pointing and whispering. “Is that the corrupt lawyer?” “Looks decent on the outside, but he’s rotten to the core.” Staring into Tyler’s burning eyes, I didn’t say a word. My right hand was buried deep in my trench coat pocket, my fingers desperately clutching a ball of unfinished, thick gray yarn. It was a scarf Hannah had been knitting for me before she died. “Say something! Are you deaf?” Tyler threw a heavy punch, catching me square in the cheekbone. I stumbled back, leaning against the wall to keep from falling. I kept my head down, letting my messy hair cover my eyes. My throat tightened, but I forced the emotion down. “Are you done?” I spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the pavement. “If you’re done, go back inside and take care of your father.” Pushing past him, I hailed a cab and got in. When I got home, the house was dead silent. I didn’t turn on the lights. I pulled a bottle of cheap whiskey from the cabinet, cracked the cap, and took a long, burning swig. The alcohol scorched my throat, and the tears finally broke free. I pulled out my phone. The faint blue light illuminated my twisted face. On the screen was a photo from the police files. Hannah lay in a pool of blood, her eyes still half-open, staring blankly as if looking right at me. I reached out, my trembling finger gently tracing her pale face on the glass. “Hannah…” A ragged, animalistic sob escaped my throat. I stared at her picture and smiled through the tears streaming down my face. “Soon, baby. Very soon.” The next morning, I was jolted awake by the sound of smashing wood and shattering glass. The living room was a war zone. Tyler and a few of his cousins were tearing the place apart with baseball bats, smashing the small memorial I had set up for Hannah. The candles were crushed underfoot, the incense burner kicked over. “Wreck it! Destroy everything this monster owns!” Tyler stomped his heavy boot right onto Hannah’s framed portrait. The sound of the glass shattering was incredibly sharp. I stood at the bedroom door, watching the carnage. My fists clenched so hard my knuckles turned white. But I didn’t move. I just watched, cold and detached, like a ghost in my own home. 2 The sky was a heavy, suffocating gray, and the rain fell in relentless sheets. At the entrance of the cemetery, a makeshift wooden sign blocked the path. JARED AND DOGS NOT ALLOWED. The words were sloppily painted in dripping red paint, looking like fresh blood. Dressed in a black suit, I kept my arms wrapped tightly around a bouquet of wet white lilies. They were Hannah’s favorite. Ignoring the sign, I walked straight past the gate. “Stop him!” Tyler’s roar echoed through the rain, and five or six burly men rushed me. Without a word, their fists came down like a hailstorm on my back and head. I curled into a ball on the wet grass, doing everything I could to shield the flowers. “Get him out of here! Don’t let his filthy feet step near Hannah’s grave!” Tyler kicked me hard in the ribs. An agonizing pain shot through my chest, forcing a gasp from my throat, but I refused to let go of the bouquet. Finally, someone violently pried my fingers back and snatched the lilies away. “You think you deserve to give her flowers?” Tyler threw them into the mud, stomping them repeatedly until the pristine white petals were ground into black filth. “You belong in hell!” I lay in the mud, staring at the ruined flowers, my eyes burning. I tried to crawl toward them, but a heavy boot slammed down onto the back of my hand, pinning it to the gravel. Tyler looked down at me, pulling a photograph from his pocket and throwing it in my face. “Take a look, everyone!” He pointed at the photo, his voice piercing through the downpour. “This is who he really is! Six months before Hannah died, he was already cozying up to the killer, Wes, at a bar!” The photo was real. But it was taken when Wes had come to my office to ask for legal advice. The gathering crowd of relatives and friends erupted. “Oh my God, so it was premeditated?” “How is this sick bastard not in jail?” Someone spat on my face. Then came plastic bottles, clods of dirt, and small stones. “Scumbag!” “Rot in hell, you freak!” I was treated like a rabid dog, surrounded by a mob of angry people. I didn’t fight back. I didn’t utter a single word of defense. I just let the filth wash over me. The squeak of wheelchair wheels cut through the noise. The crowd parted. My father-in-law sat in the chair, his face a sickly yellow, his lips trembling violently. With the last of his strength, he threw a heavy shoe at me. It struck me right on the forehead, leaving a muddy smudge. “You… monster… get out…” His voice sounded like a broken bellows, his entire body shaking with rage. “Dad…” The moment I opened my mouth, two men grabbed my shoulders. “On your knees!” Tyler kicked me hard behind the knees. “Bow to Dad! Apologize to Hannah!” My knees slammed brutally against the rough concrete. Before I could even process the pain, a heavy hand pressed down on the back of my head, slamming it forward. Crack! My forehead hit the stone steps with a sickening thud. Warm blood immediately flowed down my brow, blurring my vision in a crimson haze. All around me were screams of curse, rain beating down, and absolute humiliation. It gnawed at my heart like venom. I forced my head up, my face completely smeared with blood. Through the red mist, I looked toward Hannah’s cold headstone. And then, I smiled. A twisted, eerie grin. “Dad. Tyler.” I stared at them, my voice quiet but laced with a bone-chilling coldness. “You will regret this.” “I am the only one who actually wants her to rest in peace.” Tyler flinched, taking a step back from my gaze. But he quickly recovered, his embarrassment turning into fury. “Still acting tough? Throw this trash out!” They dragged me out of the cemetery like a dead dog, dumping me unceremoniously into the muddy ditch by the roadside. The dirty water stung my fresh cuts. The torrential rain washed over me, mixing with the blood and grime. I lay there in the mud, staring up at the dark sky. My body was in absolute agony, but my mind had never been clearer. Hannah. Just wait a little longer. The show isn’t over yet. 3 Two strips of yellow police tape hung across the front door of our new home, bright and mocking. Dragging my limping left leg, I ignored the warning and tore them down. I pushed the door open. The air inside was thick with the smell of copper and decay. On the hardwood floor, a large, dried patch of dark brown stain remained. This was where Hannah took her last breath. I grabbed a rag from the bathroom and dropped to my knees. Over and over, I scrubbed at the dried blood. “Hannah loves a clean house. I can’t let it stay dirty…” I muttered to myself, my eyes vacant as I worked. A mocking voice drifted in from the hallway. “Oh look, the creep is back.” Mrs. Gable, the neighbor from down the hall, shouted loudly enough for the whole building to hear. “Sold his own wife’s life and still has the nerve to live here. Who would ever buy this place now? It’s cursed.” “Exactly. I heard he defended the killer. He’s lucky her ghost doesn’t drag him to hell in his sleep.” My hands paused for a second. I didn’t look up. I just kept scrubbing. I rubbed until the floorboards began to fade, and my fingertips wore raw and bleeding. Frantic footsteps echoed in the hallway. Tyler burst through the door with a couple of guys, waving a stack of papers in his hand. “Jared! You explain this to me right now!” He threw the papers, and they scattered across the wet floor in front of me. It was a copy of a life insurance policy. Payout: Ten million dollars. Beneficiary: Jared. Tyler’s eyes were wild, like a rabid beast ready to tear me apart. “No wonder you got Wes off! No wonder you didn’t care!” He lunged, grabbing my collar and shoving the paper into my face. “Because you were in on it! You planned the whole thing for the payout!” I stared at the policy, completely frozen. When did Hannah buy this? I remembered right before my birthday, she had mysteriously promised me a huge surprise. So this was it. That foolish, loving girl… was she so worried about me that she wanted to make sure I’d be taken care of if anything happened to her? My heart felt like it was being crushed by a giant fist. I couldn’t breathe. But my silence only confirmed Tyler’s suspicions. “Nothing to say? Guilty as charged, huh?” Tyler grabbed a baseball bat from near the door and swung it with all his might. Thwack! The bat slammed into my ribs. My stomach cramped instantly, and I doubled over like a wounded animal. Cold sweat drenched my back. But I clenched my teeth and didn’t make a sound. “Tell me! Did you set it up?!” Tyler brought the bat down again. “Stop it!” A man’s voice called out from the doorway. Owen, our next-door neighbor, stepped inside, wearing a mask of self-righteous concern. “Tyler, I’ll testify for you.” Owen pointed a finger at me, his eyes shifting nervously. “A few days before the murder, I heard him and Wes arguing in the stairwell. They were talking about ‘how to split the cash’ and ‘making sure it looks clean.’” The onlookers in the hallway gasped. “My God, there’s a witness?” “He’s done for!” I lay on the floor, forcing my head up to look at Owen’s smug, hypocritical face. He had pursued Hannah before we got married, and he had harbored a bitter grudge ever since she rejected him. Excellent. The rats were finally coming out of the woodwork. A wheezing laugh escaped my throat, tasting of copper. I dragged myself up, grabbing a half-empty bottle of whiskey from the wreckage on the counter. In front of everyone, I tilted my head back and took a massive gulp. The liquor spilled down my chin, mixing with the blood at the corner of my mouth. “Yeah,” I spat, looking at Tyler with a mocking, arrogant sneer. “The money’s cleared. Ten million. I’m practically throwing a party.” “With that kind of cash, do you really think I’ll have trouble finding another woman?” Silence. Dead silence. The next second, Tyler completely lost his mind. He grabbed a heavy metal shovel leaning against the wall from our remodeling work and raised it high. “Then you can take that money to your grave!” The shovel sliced through the air, aiming straight for my skull. I closed my eyes. I didn’t move. Clang! A dull thud. But the expected pain never came. I opened my eyes to see a small, frail figure sprawled over me. Warm, thick liquid dripped onto my cheek. It was Wes’s mother, Helen. The edge of the shovel had grazed her temple, and blood was pouring down her face. “Don’t hurt Jared… he’s a good man…” The elderly woman shielded me with her body, her voice trembling. The crowd erupted into chaotic murmurs. Tyler froze, but his anger only flared hotter. He pointed at Helen, the veins in his neck bulging like writhing worms. “Look at this, everyone! The killer’s mother is protecting this piece of garbage!” “You really are in this together! You disgusting freeloaders!” The mob of neighbors was completely whipped into a frenzy. “Beat them both!” “Shameless bastards!” “Selling his own wife’s life for cash!” Someone threw a brick, others hurled garbage and rotten vegetables. Tyler pulled out his phone, aiming the camera right at me to start a live stream. “Look at this, guys! This is Jared! The monster who had his wife killed for insurance money!” The comment section exploded instantly. Put him in the electric chair! Dox him! Find out where he lives! Why is this waste of space still breathing? I had become public enemy number one. The wail of police sirens grew louder down the street. Two police cruisers pulled up, and several officers pushed their way up the stairs. “Stand back! Everyone stand back!” They quickly set up a perimeter, barely holding back the rioting crowd. But Tyler wouldn’t stop. He shoved his phone camera right into my face. “Jared, in front of the police, in front of the whole world, tell them! Admit you paid Wes to kill her!” “Swear it! Swear that if you’re lying, you’ll rot in hell!” The shoving crowd pushed forward, knocking me back to the floor. Someone grabbed a bowl of cold rice left as an offering for the deceased. Splush! The cold, soggy rice mixed with incense ash was thrown directly over my head. Some of it got in my mouth. “Eat up! Consider it a gift from us!” “Beg your wife for forgiveness!” I lay there in the dirt, completely stripped of my dignity. I stuck out my tongue and tasted the bitter, ash-covered rice on my lips. Slowly, I pushed myself up. I brushed off the officer trying to help me up. Using my sleeve, I slowly, meticulously wiped the rice and blood from my face. My movements were so deliberate it made the room grow quiet. I looked up, my eyes passing over Tyler, passing over the cops. My gaze locked onto a figure hiding in the back corner of the crowd. I let out a raw, guttural roar that echoed through the entire hallway. “Wes didn’t do it!” I pointed a finger directly at the trembling man in the back, pronouncing every syllable with icy precision. “The real killer is standing right here in this room!”

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1 In the third year of our marriage, I finally learned where I stood in Jennifer’s heart. Her first love, Elliot, was ranked first. Elliot’s depression was second. Elliot’s ragdoll cat, Snowball, was third. I was ranked fourth, right behind the cat. When she flew overseas to accompany Elliot for his medical treatments for two weeks, she hired a professional pet-sitter to drop by and feed Snowball for a hundred and eighty dollars a day. For me, she left a locked basement door and a dismissive note: Just deal with it for a bit. By the fifth day, I was burning with a fever so intense I was delirious. By the tenth day, I had started talking to the voice on my phone. She would cook virtual porridge for me, tell me soothing stories, and sing me to sleep. I asked her once if she was just a hallucination brought on by my boiling brain. She told me no, she had always been there. By the time Jennifer finally returned, my fever had broken. She looked me up and down, her eyes critical. “How did you get better so fast?” “Someone on my phone was taking care of me,” I replied. She rubbed her temples, letting out a heavy sigh of irritation. “Silas, grow up. Stop acting childish. I’m absolutely exhausted.” I looked at her and smiled. Then, I unlocked my phone, deleted Jennifer from my contacts, deleted our marriage from my future, and walked out of that damp basement. The voice on the phone asked me if I wanted to go home. I stared at the screen, a lump rising in my throat. It had been years since anyone had asked me that. “Who are you calling? What do you mean, home?” Jennifer’s brow furrowed, and she reached out to snatch my phone. I pressed the lock button, slipped the device into my pocket, and stepped out of her reach. “Silas! I just sat on a fifteen-hour flight and came straight here to see you without even stopping for a glass of water, and you’re going to give me the cold shoulder?” “I unlocked the basement door, didn’t I? How long do you plan on keeping up this pathetic tantrum?” I looked at the dark circles bruising the skin under her eyes. If this had been the old Silas, I would have already rushed to the kitchen to brew her a soothing herbal tea. But looking at her now, her towering sense of entitlement only struck me as sad. “I’m not throwing a tantrum,” I said quietly, walking past her to the twin cot to fold my worn blanket. “If you’re not, why won’t you even look at me?” Jennifer marched over, grabbing my wrist with a firm, tight grip. “Jennifer…” A soft, fragile voice drifted down from the top of the basement stairs. Elliot stood there, dressed in my favorite silk pajamas, cradling his ragdoll cat in his arms. His bare feet looked tiny and pale against the wooden steps. “Elliot, why did you come down here? The basement is damp and freezing. You just got out of the clinic, you shouldn’t catch a cold,” Jennifer said, immediately dropping my wrist to run up and shield him. “I heard shouting, and I got scared,” Elliot whispered, shrinking into her side, his eyes pooling with tears. “We aren’t arguing. Silas is just being difficult. He’ll get over it in a couple of days,” Jennifer murmured, gently patting his back. The ragdoll cat peeked over Elliot’s shoulder, baring its teeth and hissing softly at me. “Silas, I’m so sorry,” Elliot said, biting his lip as he looked down at me with puppy-dog eyes. “Jennifer spent the last two weeks with me in Europe to see my therapist. It must have been hard for you, being locked down here alone.” “But I really didn’t mean to cause this. When my depression flares up, I completely lose control of myself. Jennifer was just terrified I’d do something reckless.” “Exactly,” Jennifer added, looking down at me from the top of the stairs with cold disapproval. “You know how severe his condition is. You’re a healthy, normal adult. What’s the big deal about staying down here for a couple of weeks?” “I gave the house staff a paid vacation, but the pantry was fully stocked. It’s not like I starved you. Why do you have to be so incredibly dramatic?” I looked at the empty water bottles piled in the corner of the basement. The very first day she left, the main water valve to the basement had been shut off. I had survived the worst five days of my fever on half a bottle of stale water. If it hadn’t been for the woman on the phone guiding me through the dark, telling me where I had left my old travel bag with a bottle of aspirin, I would have died down there. I didn’t bother explaining any of this. Instead, I asked a simple question. “Where are the pastries you brought?” Jennifer blinked, caught off guard. “On the coffee table upstairs. I had my assistant line up at that artisanal bakery uptown to get those almond croissants you like so much.” I nodded, stepping past them as I walked up the stairs. The bakery box was sitting on the glass table in the living room. I opened it to find six perfectly dusted almond croissants. Elliot followed close behind Jennifer, whispering softly, “Jennifer, doesn’t Silas have a severe tree nut allergy? I thought those croissants were covered in crushed almonds.” Jennifer looked at the box, then at me, a brief flash of embarrassment crossing her face. “I didn’t think about it when I ordered. My assistant must have grabbed the wrong box.” “Silas, don’t be so sensitive. Just pick the almonds off before you eat them.” I didn’t say a word. I picked up the box, walked over to the trash can, and flipped it over. The pastries landed at the bottom of the bin with a quiet thud. “Silas! What is wrong with you?” Jennifer’s voice rose, sharp and angry. “I can’t eat them, so they belong in the trash,” I said, pulling a tissue from the counter to wipe my fingertips. “Why are you acting so incredibly bitter?” She marched over, gripping my shoulder tightly. “I brought those all the way from uptown. Even if you can’t eat them, you don’t throw my gesture into the garbage right in front of my face!” “What did you want me to do instead? Build an altar for them?” I asked, looking her dead in the eye. “Meow.” The cat in Elliot’s arms let out a sharp cry, leaping from his chest and lunging straight at my face. I put my hands up to shield myself, and its claws tore across the back of my left hand. Three angry red lines welled with blood. Before I could even register the pain, Jennifer had kicked a nearby chair aside, stepping between me and the cat to shield it. “Silas, are you really going to pick a fight with an animal now?” Beads of blood began to drip from my knuckles, splattering onto the pristine hardwood floor. I turned and walked toward the hallway to find the medical kit. “Stop right there!” Jennifer barked. “You terrified Snowball. Apologize to him right now.” I stopped, turning slowly to look at her. “You want me to apologize to a cat?” “He’s highly sensitive! You threw those pastries so aggressively, he thought you were going to strike Elliot!” Jennifer said, stroking the cat’s white fur to calm it down. Elliot clutched his chest, gasping for air as tears streamed down his face. “Jennifer, don’t blame Silas. It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have brought Snowball down here.” “You did nothing wrong. It’s his petty, miserable attitude!” Jennifer said, drawing Elliot into her arms. She glared at me, her voice cold and commanding. “Silas, I’m going to count to three. You will apologize to Elliot and Snowball, or you can pack your bags and get out of my house!” “One.” I opened the medical cabinet and pulled out a bottle of antiseptic. “Two.” I pressed an alcohol pad against the deep scratches. The sting was sharp, but I didn’t even flinch. “Three!” Furious, Jennifer marched over and swiped her hand across the counter, sending the entire medical kit crashing to the floor. Cotton balls, bandages, and bottles scattered across the tiles. “You think you’re tough, Silas? You think I won’t actually throw you out?” She pointed a finger at the front door. “Get out! Pack your things and leave this instant!” “And don’t bother trying to use any of my credit cards. I’m locking them all before you even reach the driveway!” She was entirely convinced I wouldn’t leave. She thought she held all the cards because I had severed ties with my family and quit my career three years ago to become her stay-at-home husband. But she had no idea I had already decided to leave with the woman on the phone. “Alright,” I said, my voice incredibly calm. I bent down, picked up the antiseptic bottle, tightened the cap, and set it on the counter. Jennifer froze, her eyes widening slightly. I walked past the mess on the floor, headed down to the basement, and picked up my canvas tote bag. It held nothing but a few changes of old clothes and my ID. I didn’t touch any of the luxury watches or designer items she had bought me over the years. When I walked back up to the living room with my single bag, Jennifer’s expression shifted from anger to disbelief. “You’re actually going?” She knit her brows. “Silas, stop playing hard to get. Do you honestly think I’m going to chase after you once you walk out that door?” “I don’t expect you to,” I said, slipping on my sneakers. “Silas, please don’t do this,” Elliot said, walking over to tug on my sleeve. His fingers gripped my arm, his sharp nails digging painfully into my skin. “It’s pouring outside, and you don’t have any money. Where will you go? Just apologize to Jennifer.” I didn’t answer him. I simply pulled my sleeve out of his grasp. “Let him leave!” Jennifer sneered. “I want to see how long his pride lasts without my bank accounts. He’ll be crawling back to this house begging for forgiveness within three days!” I pushed the heavy front door open. Outside, a black Bentley sat idling in the heavy rain. The passenger door opened, and a large black umbrella was hoisted into the air. Maude stepped out, looking effortlessly elegant in a tailored wool coat. She walked down the stone path, tilting the umbrella forward to shield me from the freezing rain. “Silas, I’m here to take you home,” she said, her voice warm and steady. Standing in the doorway, Jennifer stared through the rain, her eyes locked onto the woman standing beside me. “Who is that?” her voice trembled slightly. I didn’t look back. I stepped down the stairs and into the shelter of Maude’s umbrella. “The person from my phone,” I said quietly. Jennifer let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Silas! If you’re going to hire an actress just to make me jealous, at least pick someone believable!” Maude smoothly took my canvas bag, resting her hand lightly against my back to guide me toward the car. “Silas, get back here right now!” Jennifer screamed, stepping out onto the porch as the rain began to drench her silk blouse. But she didn’t pursue me. Behind her, Elliot let out a weak whimper. “Jennifer, my head… I feel dizzy.” Instinctively, she stopped, turning back to catch him before he fell. I sat in the warm leather seat of the car, watching their figures blur in the side mirror as we drove away. I closed my eyes. The car’s heater was running, filling the cabin with a quiet warmth and the subtle scent of cedarwood. Maude pulled a soft cashmere blanket over my lap, her eyes dropping to the bloody scratches on my hand. Her brow furrowed. “Did you clean those?” “Just some antiseptic,” I murmured, leaning my head against the headrest. She didn’t push for details. Instead, she pulled a small medical pouch from the glove compartment, took my hand, and began to gently clean the wound with an alcohol wipe. She applied a soothing ointment and covered it with a sterile bandage, her movements incredibly light. “What happened these past two weeks, Silas?” she asked softly. “Nothing much,” I said, watching the rain streak across the window. “I just realized some things aren’t worth holding onto.” I didn’t tell her that Jennifer had locked the basement door to keep Elliot’s cat from making a mess downstairs. I didn’t tell her how close I had come to dying of a fever, or how her voice on the phone had been the only thing keeping me anchored to reality. It was over now. “What do you want to eat?” Maude asked, packing away the medical kit. “Some porridge,” I said. “Pork and preserved egg. No green onions, please.” Maude smiled. “Alright. Let’s get you fed.” We pulled up to a quiet, high-end private dining club downtown. Maude booked a private room and ordered a warm bowl of porridge along with a few side dishes. As I sat there, letting the warm food soothe my empty stomach, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from Jennifer. Who is that woman? I know you’re doing this just to get a reaction out of me because you still care. I’m willing to overlook it. But Silas, I am warning you, get back here right now. Elliot’s depression is flaring up because of your behavior, and he’s back on his medication. We have a family dinner tonight. You need to be there. Don’t make me look foolish in front of my mother. I didn’t reply. I simply blocked her number. “Jennifer?” Maude asked, pouring a cup of warm tea for me. “Yeah,” I nodded. “What do you want to do now? Do you want to go back to your hometown?” “No,” I shook my head. “I cut ties with my parents to marry her. Going back now would just be embarrassing.” “Then stay in Boston,” Maude said, her tone absolute. “I have a vacant apartment downtown. It’s fully furnished and close to everything. You can stay there.” “Maude, I can’t accept that…” “Silas,” she interrupted gently, looking at me with a soft smile. “You’ve called me ‘sis’ for ten years. Let your older sister look after you for once, okay?” My eyes burned, and a sudden wave of emotion threatened to spill over. Lying in that dark basement, I hadn’t shed a single tear, but her simple kindness was nearly enough to break me. “Okay,” I whispered, lowering my head to hide my eyes. After dinner, Maude drove me to the apartment. It was spacious, filled with natural light, and stocked with every necessity, including a closet full of brand-new clothes in my exact size. “Get some rest,” Maude said, standing by the doorway. “I won’t crowd you. Tomorrow morning, I’m taking you to the clinic for a full checkup.” “Thank you, Maude.” “Rest up, Silas,” she said softly, closing the door behind her. I walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. As the hot water washed over my thin, pale body, carrying away the grime and exhaustion of the basement, I looked at my reflection in the steamed-up mirror. Three years of devotion. I had finally put the Silas who loved Jennifer to death. The next morning, the clinic results came back. I was suffering from severe malnutrition and a lingering lung infection from the untreated fever. The doctor prescribed a stack of medications and ordered strict rest. On our way back, we walked past a luxury jewelry store. My eyes lingered on a pair of diamond bands in the display case. “Do you like them?” Maude asked, stopping beside me. “No,” I said, pulling my gaze away. Those were the rings Jennifer had promised to buy me. For three years, I had worn a cheap silver band. She told me we would get proper wedding rings once her company went public. But when the company finally listed, she told me Elliot was in a fragile mental state and couldn’t handle the news of our formal ring exchange. There was always an excuse. When we got back to the apartment, I logged into my cloud drive, pulled up the divorce agreement I had drafted months ago, filled in the date, and signed my name. I emailed the document directly to Jennifer’s personal inbox. On the other side of town, in the spacious living room of the He estate, Jennifer sat on the plush sofa. She stared at her phone, her calls to my number failing to go through. “Jennifer…” Elliot walked down the stairs, dressed in a custom designer suit. It was a piece Jennifer had bought at a high-end auction the previous month, promising to give it to me for our wedding anniversary. “The sleeves are a bit too long. It doesn’t really fit right,” Elliot complained, adjusting the cuffs. Jennifer looked at him, her expression distracted. “It’s fine. I’ll have the tailor adjust it for you.” “Is Silas still not back?” Elliot asked softly. “If he misses the family dinner tonight, will your mother be upset?” “Don’t mention his name!” Jennifer snapped, throwing her phone onto the table. “I’ve spoiled him. He actually thinks hiring some woman to play a part will make me crawl back to him.” “But her car was worth millions,” Elliot murmured, testing her reaction. Jennifer let out a cold snort. “It was probably a rental. Silas doesn’t have those kinds of connections. He’s just trying to make a point.” She stood up, smoothing the front of her blazer. “Let’s go. We don’t need him there anyway. It’ll save me the trouble of explaining his behavior to my mother.” That evening, the family dinner was held at a five-star hotel downtown. Jennifer introduced Elliot to everyone as her close family friend, and the guests all smiled and nodded politely, keeping their thoughts to themselves. Halfway through the dinner, her assistant hurried over and whispered something in her ear. Jennifer’s expression went entirely stiff. She stood up abruptly, walked out to the quiet corridor, and pulled up her email inbox. There, sitting at the top of her list, was a message titled Divorce Agreement. She opened the attachment, her fingers tightening around her phone as she stared at my clean, elegant signature at the bottom of the page. “Silas… do you really think you can just walk away?” she muttered, her jaw clenching. She dialed my number again, but the automated voice only informed her that the line was disconnected. She turned to her assistant, her voice sharp with panic. “Go find him! Find out where he is staying, and track down the owner of that Bentley!” The assistant nodded quickly, terrified by the sudden fury in her eyes. Jennifer leaned against the cold marble wall, trying to steady her breathing. But she had no idea that at that very moment, I was already sitting on a flight bound for Lake Tahoe.

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1 Another winter holiday season had rolled around, and my husband and I had just finished moving our little family to Helena, a quiet northern town. I never expected to run into my aunt’s family here. The moment they saw me, their very first question was whether I had finally cooled off, and when I planned to go back to Ruben. Ruben was my childhood sweetheart, my first love, and my ex. We had been together for eight years, with every intention of getting married the moment we graduated. But on graduation night, in front of a crowd of our peers, he slapped me across the face, all for the sake of Audrey, who had just returned from her studies abroad. Heartbroken and humiliated, I deleted every trace of him from my life and fled alone to this snowy little town. Meeting my aunt again after all this time, she looked at me and said, “Ruben still has you in his heart, Vivian. The night he got engaged to Audrey, he drank too much and told everyone that the second you came back, he would call off the wedding and run back to you.” I offered her a polite, empty smile. “Aunt Brenda, I got married two years ago. My daughter is already over a year old.” Ruben still thought I was just throwing a tantrum, throwing a five-year fit. He had no idea that I had long since started a completely new life. … The news of my marriage had not yet traveled back to Boston. When I ran into my aunt in the streets of Helena, she was entirely in the dark. A light snow was drifting down, dusting the pavement. I held an umbrella in one hand and a box of fresh pastries for my daughter in the other. As I crossed the open plaza in front of the shopping center, I spotted my aunt and my cousin, Tyler, staring at me in sheer disbelief. We had not spoken in five years. My aunt’s opening words were thick with accusation. “Vivian! Where on earth have you been hiding? You didn’t leave a single word!” I looked up, my expression completely flat. In contrast, my aunt and Tyler looked thrilled to see me. “Vivian, you’re finally back!” Tyler burst out, practically beaming. “Ruben has been looking everywhere for you. His firm is massive now, and his family is riding him hard to settle down, but he keeps saying that if you just come home…” “He really does!” Aunt Brenda chimed in, eager to please. “You have no idea, Vivian. Ruben is the most eligible bachelor in Boston right now. The families have been trying to push him and Audrey together for ages. Audrey is a sweet, proper girl, and both sets of parents want the match.” “But Ruben made it clear. He only wants to marry you. He promised that the moment you go back, he’ll terminate the arrangement with Audrey’s family.” My aunt and cousin were practically vibrating with excitement, acting as if they were overjoyed on my behalf. It was funny, considering they had never cared about me before. When my parents died in that car crash years ago, these relatives suddenly became very hard to reach. Now that Ruben had climbed to the top of the world, they suddenly remembered they had a niece. Amused by the sheer hypocrisy, I cut them off. “Aunt Brenda, Tyler, I am never getting back together with Ruben.” Speaking that name for the first time in half a decade, my voice didn’t even tremble. It was as if I were speaking of a vague, distant acquaintance. My aunt and cousin froze, looking at me as if I had lost my mind. They clearly did not believe me. After all, back in college, my devotion to Ruben was legendary. I was a free-spirited fine arts major; he was the golden boy of the finance department. We met in a campus club during our freshman year. I fell for his bold, magnetic confidence, and he loved how lively and uninhibited I was. People used to whisper that Vivian was a climber, a girl from a modest background who knew exactly how to hook a wealthy heir. Young and stubborn, I paid the gossip no mind. I only cared that we loved each other and that we had promised to marry right after graduation. I clung to him. I dragged him to art galleries, made him wander through late-night street markets with me, and we were practically joined at the hip from freshman year until senior spring. If nothing had changed, I would have walked down the aisle to him the summer we graduated. But during our senior year, Audrey, the daughter of Ruben’s family friends, returned from her elite European university. She was poised, soft-spoken, and elegant, the quintessential high-society daughter. Standing next to me, she was the daughter-in-law his parents had always dreamed of. I, on the other hand, was an art major with wild hair and a temperament to match. “A girl from an ordinary family simply can’t compare to a lady raised by the Shens,” a snippet of overheard gossip once drifted my way, stinging sharply. Hurt, I went to find Ruben, wanting reassurance that he didn’t care about those things. But when I arrived at our usual cafe, Audrey was sitting across from him. She gave me a gentle, sweet smile. “Vivian, I just got back to the country and don’t know my way around yet. I asked Ruben to show me around. You don’t mind, do you?” Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have. But today was our third anniversary. Ruben had promised to spend the whole day with me, yet he had just handed Audrey the handmade ceramic mug I had spent a month crafting as a introductory gift. Staring at the familiar mug in Audrey’s hands, remembering the long, frustrating nights I spent in the pottery studio burning my fingers, my face went cold. “Ruben, what is the meaning of this?” 2 The cafe was crowded. My sudden confrontation caught Ruben completely off guard. He knit his handsome brows, cast a quick, apologetic glance at Audrey, and then grabbed my wrist, pulling me into a quiet corner. “Audrey just got back,” he muttered, his voice hushed and irritated. “She’s overwhelmed and lonely. I’m just helping her adjust. What are you throwing a fit about?” Honestly, I didn’t entirely know why I was so angry. Maybe it was the buildup of weeks of hearing myself compared unfavorably to her. Or maybe it was just the mug. “Why did you give her the mug I made for you?” I demanded, my eyes stinging. Ruben blinked, a rare flash of embarrassment crossing his face. “She remarked on how unique it was, so I let her take a look at it.” “You didn’t give it to her?” I asked, skeptical. “It was a gift from you,” he said, softening his tone. “Why would I ever give it away?” A single sentence was all it took to soothe my anger. I couldn’t help but smile, leaning into his shoulder. “So, you don’t find me embarrassing?” “Why would I?” “You know, because I’m not as delicate and polite as Audrey.” Ruben chuckled, resting his chin on my head. “Well, you could stand to be a little softer.” I nudged his ribs with my elbow, not hard enough to hurt. He didn’t pull away, but behind us, Audrey’s eyes welled with tears. She walked over, her fingers lightly catching the sleeve of Ruben’s coat, her voice trembling. “Ruben, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. Did I cause trouble between you and Vivian? Maybe I should just take a cab home.” Standing there, looking frail and helpless, she quickly drew the sympathetic gazes of several nearby tables. I frowned, preparing to tell her that there was no misunderstanding, but Ruben beat me to the punch. “Vivian, drop it,” he said, before turning to Audrey with an entirely different, gentler tone. “Don’t worry about it. Just sit down for a minute, and I’ll have my driver take you back.” But Audrey didn’t let go of his sleeve. Ruben, who always seemed to possess an infinite well of patience for her, looked at me with a sigh. “Viv, let’s reschedule our anniversary dinner. Audrey isn’t feeling well, and I need to make sure she gets home safely.” And just like that, the anniversary celebration I had anticipated for weeks was cut short. Gradually, Ruben’s free time stopped belonging to me. Audrey’s presence in his life grew more frequent, and scheduling a simple date with my own boyfriend required checking if Audrey had any plans first. Eventually, I couldn’t bottle it up anymore. On the university library rooftop, I confronted him. “Don’t you think this is getting ridiculous? I’m your girlfriend, Ruben.” Ruben was scrolling through his phone. He looked up, a familiar look of exhaustion settling over his features. “Are we doing this again? Audrey is like a sister to me. Why do you have to be so competitive with her?” “I’m not being competitive,” I said, staring directly into his eyes. “But we don’t even have time to be alone anymore. We promised we’d get married right after graduation, but now?” That was a fair point, and it seemed to sober him up. He reached out, pulling me into his chest and stroking my hair. “Once we graduate, I have to step into the family business. It’s going to be chaotic for a while. Let me get my feet under me, and then we’ll get married, okay?” He leaned down to press a kiss to my forehead and presented me with a delicate silver necklace as an apology for our ruined anniversary. I wore that necklace every single day after that. I counted down the days to graduation, dreaming of the life we would build. But graduation did not bring the fairytale ending I had envisioned. During the final semester of senior year, I lived in a tiny off-campus apartment, pulling consecutive all-nighters to finish my graduation showcase. On the day of the final submission, my head was spinning so violently I could barely stand. I called Ruben, hoping he could drive me to the campus clinic. The phone rang for a long time before a soft voice answered. “Vivian? Ruben is in the shower right now. Is there something I can pass along?” I froze, my chest tightening as if a hand had squeezed my heart. “Where… where are you?” “At Ruben’s apartment,” Audrey replied, her tone perfectly light and natural. “I came over to help him organize some of his documents for his upcoming trip. Oh, by the way, Vivian, that ceramic mug you made for him? I accidentally knocked it off the counter earlier. I feel absolutely terrible.” My hand shook so hard I could barely hold the phone. “It’s fine,” I managed to choke out before hanging up. I walked to the clinic alone, my feet heavy. The doctor diagnosed me with severe physical exhaustion and put me on an IV drip. Lying on the narrow clinic cot, staring at the sterile ceiling, a profound wave of loneliness washed over me. I wanted Ruben. So, I called him again. This time, he answered. “Viv? Audrey mentioned you called earlier. What’s going on?” My throat felt dry, clogged with unshed tears. “I’m sick, Ruben. I’m at the clinic.” There was a brief pause on the other end. “Is it serious? I’ve got some urgent matters to attend to right now, but I’ll try to swing by later tonight.” “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my voice dead. “Just do what you need to do.” I hung up, watching the screen go black, and let the tears slide silently down my cheeks. I found out later from a classmate that Audrey’s father had arrived in the city that afternoon, and Ruben had spent the evening hosting a lavish dinner for their family. My graduation project went on to win the department’s highest honors, but Ruben never showed up to my gallery exhibition. He told me his family had an emergency. In reality, Audrey was preparing to head overseas for graduate school, and Ruben’s entire family had gone to the airport to send her off. On graduation day, clad in my black academic gown, I searched the crowd for his face. Instead, I found him near the campus gates, gently holding a weeping Audrey in his arms, stroking her back with practiced tenderness. “It’s going to be fine. We’ll talk every single day.” The softness in his eyes was so familiar, yet so entirely foreign when directed at someone else. I stood there, paralyzed, looking down at the small box in my hands. Inside was a pair of custom-engraved cufflinks I had saved up for months to buy him. Sick to my stomach, I turned to walk away. But Ruben spotted me. He let go of Audrey and hurried over. “Vivian, happy graduation.” I handed him the box, unable to bring myself to speak. He opened it, a genuine smile breaking across his face. “These are beautiful. Thank you, Viv.” He paused, looking back toward Audrey. “She’s going to be gone for at least two years, and she’s terrified of being alone. I was just trying to calm her down.” I nodded, keeping my mouth shut. Sensing the thick wall of silence between us, he grabbed my hand. “What’s wrong? It’s graduation day. We should be celebrating.” I looked at him, my voice barely a whisper. “Ruben, do you still love me?” 3 Ruben stiffened, his eyes darting away for a split second. “Why are you asking that out of nowhere?” “Do you?” I persisted, refusing to let him look away. Around us, groups of graduates were cheering and taking photos. In the midst of the celebration, my quiet question felt like a sudden drop in temperature. Ruben let go of my hand and cleared his throat. “There are too many people here, Viv. Let’s not do this now. We’ll sit down and talk tonight, okay?” “No,” I said. “I want to know right now.” His brow furrowed, irritation bleeding into his expression. “Vivian, can you please stop being so difficult? Look around us. Is this really the time or place for this?” Looking at him, I felt a sudden, terrifying sense of unfamiliarity. Why was it so easy for him to offer Audrey boundless tenderness, yet so difficult to offer me a simple reassurance of his love? Years of accumulated grief and neglect boiled over. I bit my lip, my voice shaking with rage. “Am I being difficult, or have you simply checked out? We were supposed to get married after graduation, Ruben. Yet your parents are already planning an engagement party for you and Audrey. Do you think I’m stupid?” Ruben’s face darkened instantly. “Who told you that?” “So it’s true,” I whispered, a bitter laugh escaping me as tears finally spilled over. “Unbelievable. You talk to me about our future while quietly letting your parents arrange a marriage with someone else.” “There is nothing going on!” Ruben raised his voice, drawing a few sideways looks from passing families. “Audrey is like family. The engagement was a passing joke between our parents. I never agreed to it!” By now, a small crowd was starting to gather. Audrey walked over, her eyes still red, her voice dripping with sweet concern. “Vivian, please don’t be mad at Ruben. The engagement talk… it was just a silly joke our fathers made over dinner. It doesn’t mean anything.” Staring at the two of them standing side-by-side, the picture-perfect match, I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “A joke? Your families have already drafted a guest list, and you call it a joke?” I looked back at Ruben. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never once thought about marrying her?” Ruben’s face went entirely cold. He stared at me with a mixture of profound disappointment and rising anger. “Vivian, do you really have to ruin graduation by making such a disgusting scene?” “Am I making a scene, or are you just terrified of the truth?” I threw my chin up, refusing to back down. “I’ve seen your phone, Ruben. I saw the folder of her photos labeled ‘My Sweet Pea.’ I saw how you ignore my texts for days but reply to hers in seconds. Is that how you treat a sister?” Slap. The sound was sharp, cutting through the ambient noise of the courtyard. I froze. My left cheek burned with a fierce, throbbing heat. My mind went blank, unable to process what had just happened. Ruben froze too. He stared at his own palm, then looked at me, his mouth opening and closing, but no sound came out. In all the years we had spent together, Ruben had never so much as raised a hand to me. No matter how much I yelled, no matter how childishly I behaved, he had always met my tantrums with indulgent sighs. I never imagined he would strike me, let alone for her. Audrey gasped, covering her mouth. “Ruben! What did you do?” She reached out to grab his arm, but he violently shook her off. He stared at me, his eyes a chaotic storm of regret, hurt, and overwhelming frustration. “We both need space to think,” he said quietly, before turning on his heel and walking away. He didn’t look back. Audrey shot me a brief look—one filled with a strange, hard emotion I couldn’t quite decipher—before turning to run after him. I was left standing alone in the middle of the crowded courtyard, the red handprint on my face burning under the afternoon sun. That day marked the beginning of a cold war. Ruben tried to visit my apartment a few times, but I refused to open the door. A week later, word reached me that Ruben and Audrey had boarded a flight together. His family had sent him to manage their European branch, and Audrey was starting her graduate program in the same city. Before he left, he sent me a single text: Wait for me for two years. We’ll get married the moment I get back. I never replied. A month later, sitting in the bathroom of my rented apartment, I looked down at the two solid pink lines on a pregnancy test. My heart in my throat, I dialed Ruben’s number. The call went through, but Audrey’s voice answered. “Vivian? Ruben is in an executive meeting right now. Can I take a message?” I sat in silence for a few agonizing seconds. “No,” I whispered. “It’s nothing.” I hung up, slid down to the cold bathroom tile, and wept until my chest ached. The next morning, I walked into a clinic alone. When I was discharged, I gathered every single thing Ruben had ever given me—the silver necklace, the bracelets, our matching shirts, and dozens of printed photographs—packed them into a cardboard box, and shipped it to his vacant Boston apartment. Then, I changed my phone number, packed a single suitcase, and left Boston behind. I came to this quiet, freezing northern town where nobody knew my name. And I stayed for five years. Until today, when my aunt dragged all those buried memories back to the surface. But to my surprise, my heart remained entirely still. Aunt Brenda watched my face closely, testing the waters. “Vivian, honey, are you still harboring resentment over what happened? You two were young and hot-headed; couples fight. It’s been five years. Isn’t it time to let it go?”

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1 I am a traditional alpha female. From the time I was a little girl, my mother always drummed one rule into my head: Love yourself first, because nobody else will. So, naturally, I took her advice to heart and got myself three boyfriends. For my intellect, I had a brilliant senior from my college. For my domestic peace, I had a sweet, devoted homemaker of a man who wanted nothing more than to marry into my life. And for my physical satisfaction, I had a wild, athletic puppy who knew exactly how to behave in the bedroom. For three years, because I managed my schedule with military precision, they had absolutely no idea the others existed. That was until I decided it was time to settle down with my sweet homemaker. I initiated a clean, ruthless break with the other two, only to walk straight into a family dinner and find my exes calling my fiancé “big brother.” The two of them looked at me, their smiles turning into sharp, venomous smirks. “Oh, look at that. Is this our future sister? And here I thought she was my girlfriend!” … It all started on a Tuesday evening when I got home from work. I walked into the kitchen to find Fred cooking, shirtless, wearing nothing but a kitchen apron that did very little to hide his broad, muscular chest. Taking in the sight, I couldn’t help but admire how absolutely divine he looked. He was like a portrait of a pure, domestic saint. “Did you work on your chest at the gym again?” Fred was six years older than me. Terrified that I would eventually discard him for being too old, he had been secretly working out for months. He looked up at me, his eyes filled with hopeful anticipation. “Do you like it, Gemma?” I walked over and ran my hand over his chest, utterly pleased by his dedication. “Fred, without you, who on earth would pamper me like this?” He wrapped his arms around me from behind, gently lifting my long hair over one shoulder so I could eat my dinner in peace. “You lost your mother when you were so young, Gemma. From now on, I’ll be your protector, your caretaker, your everything.” My heart swelled with affection. As a reward for his sweet, compliant behavior, I didn’t force him to say any of his usual embarrassing, dirty-talking phrases tonight. Afterward, as I lay curled against his chest, I asked him what he wanted. “My boss told me my name is on the list for a permanent tenure-track position.” “Whatever you want, your girl will buy it for you,” I murmured, tracing a circle on his chest. Fred caught my fingers, his touch incredibly gentle. “Actually, I want to take you to meet my family. Is that okay?” He lowered his long eyelashes, his thumb lightly stroking my palm. “I was raised in a very traditional household. My father always told me that a man must be devoted to one woman for his entire life.” “I’ve been with you for three years, Gemma. I think it’s only fair we start talking about marriage.” Looking at his cautious, anxious face, my heart softened. “Fred, do you really doubt my character? The position of my husband belongs to you, and only you.” A woman could have a thousand lovers, but she could only have one husband. That was my boundary as a traditional alpha female. Fred was a respected professor at a prestigious university. He was perfect. He could manage the household, cook magnificent meals, and eventually tutor our children. I only needed a supportive husband to keep my home front secure while I climbed the corporate ladder. In return, I was more than willing to keep him comfortable. “An alpha female needs to secure her home before she can conquer her career. With you managing the house, I have absolutely nothing to worry about!” Fred let out a soft, dramatic sigh. “Unfortunately, I only know how to cook eighteen different cuisines, including European, Japanese, and fusion.” “You have so many admirers, Gemma. They are younger than me, and they know how to say all the right things. I’m so terrified you’ll get bored of me.” I couldn’t tell if he was genuinely insecure or just flexing his domestic superiority. Regardless, as a traditional alpha female, I knew I had to give my man some reassurance. “I swear to you, nobody can ever touch your position as my husband.” I wasn’t lying. The husband spot was permanently reserved for him. It was just the lover spots that had suddenly been vacated. I laced my fingers through his, resting my head against his shoulder. “I recall you mentioning you have two younger brothers.” “I happen to have some free time this weekend. Take me to meet them.” Fred had raised his younger brothers after their parents moved overseas. He was basically a father figure to them. Moving forward, his brothers would be my brothers, and I would make sure our family was perfectly looked after. But first, I had to officially end things with the other two. 2 I returned to the high-rise apartment I shared with Tristan. Sitting on the kitchen island was a fresh glass of milk and a neat sticky note. Working late tonight. Wait up for me. I took a slow sip of the milk, crumpled the note, and tossed it into the trash can. At three in the morning, Tristan walked through the door. Even with his tie loosened and his dark hair slightly mussed, his sharp, aristocratic features looked strikingly handsome in the dim light. “Tristan, we need to break up.” Tristan froze, his dark, narrow eyes locking onto me like a predator spotting prey. I was rarely difficult or demanding. This was the very first time I had ever initiated a conflict. He ran a hand through his hair, his voice raspy with exhaustion. “Gemma, I don’t recall doing anything wrong.” “Or did you do something wrong?” I looked away, a slight pang of guilt hitting my chest. In reality, Tristan hadn’t done anything wrong. I was the one who had never done a single proper thing in our relationship. “The reality of marriage is that one partner always has to sacrifice their career to manage the home,” I said, keeping my voice cool and rational. “Both of us are ambitious, career-driven people. Neither of us would ever make that sacrifice.” “You are an incredible boyfriend, Tristan. But you are not husband material.” Tristan strode over, his hand clamping under my jaw to tilt my face up. He leaned down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of my neck. “I don’t agree. We have a dozen ways to solve that issue. Breaking up is just the easiest way out for you.” He began to press his weight against me, his hands sliding under my shirt. “Have I been too busy lately? Have I not been keeping you satisfied?” “That’s my mistake. Let me make it up to you tonight.” Understanding his intentions, I reached up and stopped his hands. “Do you want me to help you find your next girlfriend?” Tristan’s hand went entirely still. “What did you say?” “I said…” Before I could finish the sentence, he had already taken charge. I was powerless against his physical strength, so I simply allowed myself to enjoy the experience. Two hours later, Tristan sat on the edge of the bed, his back covered in angry red scratches. He pulled a tube of soothing cream from the nightstand, pulled back the duvet, and began to gently apply it to my bruised skin. “Our family has very traditional values, Gemma. You are my first woman, and you will be my last.” “I expect the same from you.” I frowned, entirely disagreeing with his philosophy. “You know that humans aren’t naturally monogamous creatures, Tristan. Sleeping with the exact same person for the rest of your life gets boring for both of us.” Under the dim yellow lamp, his dark eyes turned incredibly cold as he stared at me. “So, you’re bored of me?” “Have you found someone else who excites you?” “Tell me who he is.” “I want to see who has such a massive death wish.” I shrank back slightly, only for him to pull me back down onto the mattress, pinning me beneath him. Staring into his intense, dark eyes, a shiver ran down my spine. “Nobody,” I lied. But Tristan believed me. He leaned down, placing a gentle, possessive kiss on my lips. “Gemma, if anyone else dares to look at you, I’ll ruin them.” “I love you so much it makes me feel sick.” I held my breath, staring at him. In that moment, I realized Tristan was an absolute psychopath. Thank God I was marrying Fred. He was gentle, sweet, knew how to cook eighteen different cuisines, and actually wanted to run a home. His brothers were bound to be normal, healthy individuals, unlike Tristan. The next morning, I packed my things, called the landlord to terminate the lease, and moved out. As I walked down the street, I spotted Logan standing under a large sycamore tree. Seeing me step out of the building, he jogged over, grabbing my hand with a desperate, pleading expression. “Gemma, did I do something to upset you? Why are you breaking up with me?” He buried his face in my neck, his tears soaking into my sweater. “I’ll be better, I swear. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t leave me.” I let out a quiet sigh, placing my hands on his shoulders to gently push him back. “No, Logan. I’ve just lost interest.” “You’re young. You’ll find someone much better suited for you.” I was lying, of course. He would never find another woman who could successfully manage three different boyfriends at the same time without breaking a sweat. Logan stood frozen, his hazel eyes clouded with tears. “I don’t believe you. Your mouth says you don’t care, but your body tells me you still want me.” I looked away, unable to meet his eyes. I hadn’t expected the young athlete to be so observant. Logan reached out, his fingers lightly catching mine. “Are you breaking up with me because of her?” I remained silent, trying to recall who “her” was. 3 Last week, I had gone to the sports academy to pick him up. I had walked into the training facility just in time to see a young girl in a white tennis skirt handing Logan a bottle of sports drink. The rest of the team was cheering and whistling, and Logan’s ears had turned bright red as he playfully nudged his teammate. Ultimately, he had accepted the drink, twisting the cap off to take a sip. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, but I had casually tossed the energy drink I had bought for him into the nearby recycling bin. When I looked up, Logan was staring straight at me, his face pale with panic. He had dropped the bottle immediately and sprinted over to me. “I only took it because I didn’t want her to feel embarrassed in front of everyone,” he had rambled desperately, his fingers lightly tracing my palm. “Gemma, I’m your puppy. From now on, I’ll only drink water if it comes from your hand.” His touch had been incredibly warm and electric. I had to admit, out of the three of them, Logan was the most satisfying in the bedroom. Tristan was far too intense, always leaving marks on my skin, while Fred was too gentle and cautious to be truly exciting. Logan was like a wildfire, always energetic, always eager to please, and constantly bringing new ideas to the table. To be honest, I was going to miss him. But a young athlete was a lover, not husband material. I tucked my hands into my coat pockets. “That girl is younger, she has more time for you, and she actually suits your lifestyle.” “More importantly, she can give you a normal future.” Logan’s brow furrowed in anger. “We’ve been together for three years, Gemma. Whatever rough edges we had have been smoothed out. Tell me the truth. Are you hiding something from me?” A flash of panic hit me, and I quickly shifted my gaze toward the taxi waiting at the curb. “I need to get married next year, Logan. And I want to have a child the year after that.” “You’re still practically a kid yourself. How could I ever rely on you to run a household?” Logan’s shoulders slumped, his eyes welling with tears like an abandoned golden retriever. “I’ll grow up, I promise! I’ll mature! I won’t stay like this forever!” “I can be your husband, Gemma.” I offered him a sad, small smile. “By the time you’re ready, I’ll already be married with a child.” Logan looked as if he were about to cry. He grabbed my sleeve, his voice cracking. “Gemma, please. Just keep playing with me. I don’t care.” I reached up and patted his soft, messy hair. “Ending this is the most responsible thing I can do for you, Logan.” The cold winter wind swept through his hair as I stepped into the cab, leaving him standing alone on the sidewalk. When I got back to Fred’s house, he was on the phone, giving his younger brothers a stern lecture. Fred was an incredibly protective older brother. Having just found out that both of his younger brothers had been ruthlessly dumped by “cruel, heartless women” and were currently drinking themselves into a stupor, he was furious. “I’ve told you both a thousand times to keep your eyes open when choosing a partner!” he shouted into the receiver. “If you had my judgment, if you had found a woman as sweet and devoted as your future sister, would you be crying into your beer right now?” “Just wait. I’m bringing her to the family dinner this weekend. I want both of you to see what a proper, loving woman looks like.” “Do you hear me?” “Your big brother only wants the best for you.” He hung up and immediately pulled me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Are your brothers having relationship trouble?” I asked curiously. As Fred began to detail their tragic breakups, I reached out and patted his chest. “How could anyone be so cruel? Don’t worry, Fred. As their future sister, I will make sure they feel loved and supported.” Fred’s brow furrowed slightly, a rare hint of possessiveness in his eyes. “You don’t need to love them too much. Just focus on me.” At one o’clock on Saturday, we arrived at the five-star restaurant Fred had booked. Fred came from an academic family. His parents were both professors teaching overseas, leaving the three brothers to navigate life in the city together. Every time Fred spoke of them, his voice was filled with pride and affection. To be honest, I was slightly envious of their bond. If I had been raised by loving parents instead of being abandoned by mine, maybe my perspective on relationships wouldn’t be so twisted. Before pushing the door open, my chest tightened with a strange, nervous energy. “Fred, what if your brothers don’t like me?” I asked, looking at him. “What if they try to turn you against me? Will you run away with me?” Fred squeezed my hand tightly, his eyes dead serious. “Don’t worry, they’re going to adore you. And if they don’t, I will choose you over them every single time.” Hearing his absolute devotion, I let out a sigh of relief. “I hope so.” I pushed the door open. Sitting across from the elaborate spread on the round table were Tristan and Logan. My brain went entirely blank. As my eyes locked with Tristan’s dark, frozen gaze, my entire body began to tremble with sheer terror. Oh my god. They both had the last name Shaw. How did I never make the connection? Fred, entirely oblivious to the silent explosion in the room, kept his arm wrapped around my waist as he guided me toward the table. “Tristan, Logan, this is the woman I’ve been telling you about,” he said, beaming with pride. “Her name is Gemma.” Tristan tilted his head, his lips curling into a sharp, terrifying smirk. “Gemma? What a spectacular coincidence. My ex-girlfriend was named Gemma too.” “Fred, are you sure we aren’t sharing the same taste in women?”

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1 When I was six, I found a pawnshop hidden behind my wardrobe. The shopkeeper promised to grant any wish if I gave him something in return. I traded my perfect report card for a hug from Mom. My favorite new dress bought me a bedtime story read by Dad. Soon, good grades and dresses were not enough. The shopkeeper began demanding parts of my body instead. My left eye bought a family dinner. A pint of blood bought an afternoon of Mom picking me up from school. A kidney bought one rare night of Dad tucking me in with a whispered, “Goodnight, my sweet girl.” On my twelfth birthday, the pawnshop closed forever. Disappointed, I stepped out and overheard my parents in the hallway. “Yumi’s body accepted the transplant,” Mom sighed. “We can finally breathe easy.” “Six years of acting just to get her kidney was not easy,” Dad admitted. “Do not mention it again. The shop is shut down. We have the cornea and kidney we needed.” “Wren is growing up. If we continue, she will figure it out.” My hand drifted to the jagged scar on my side. I froze. The pawnshop had never been real. It was a cruel game to harvest my body for my sister. I slipped back inside, closed the door, and whispered one final wish into the dark wardrobe. Take my soul. In exchange, give me my parents’ genuine, absolute love. The moment the words left my lips, a cold, mechanical voice echoed in my mind. [System activated successfully. The transaction is complete.] … “Wren, why are you just standing there? Come and sit down.” Mom called from the dining room. I snapped out of my daze, walked over, and pulled out a chair. In the center of the table sat a massive strawberry cream cake. Bright, glossy strawberries covered the top, filling the room with a rich, sugary scent. A chocolate plaque read in elegant script: “Happy Rebirth, Yumi!” Today was my twelfth birthday, but my name was nowhere on that cake. I stared at it for a moment, then quietly took my seat. Yumi looked up, her eyes curling into happy crescents. “Wren! Mom said today is a super special day. Do you know what it is?” I knew. It was the day your body finally accepted my kidney, marking your recovery. I kept my voice flat. “No. What day is it?” Yumi tilted her head. “Mom calls it my rebirth day.” “That’s right,” Mom said, walking over to press a tender kiss onto Yumi’s cheek. “It’s my sweet girl’s rebirth day. My little princess is finally healed.” I said nothing, quietly picking up my bowl of white rice. Dad brought out the last dish, a perfectly steamed sea bass, and sat down next to Yumi with a wide grin. “Come on, everyone! Our little princess is back. Eat as much as you want today!” Yumi sat in her wheelchair. Though she was still pale, her eyes shone with life. “Thank you, Daddy. Thank you, Mommy.” Mom beamed with affection. She pulled on a plastic glove and began peeling shrimp. She did it meticulously, deveining each one before placing them gently into Yumi’s bowl. “You need all the protein you can get, sweetheart. It’ll help your incisions heal faster.” I stared at my empty plate, picked up my fork, and reached for the sweet glazed ribs. They were my favorite. This was the dish I had begged for when I traded my left eye for a family dinner at eight years old. Mom’s fork sharply blocked mine. “Yumi just recovered, and her stomach is still weak,” Mom said, her brow furrowing with a cold, non-negotiable authority. “These ribs are soft and easy to digest. Let her have them.” My hand froze in midair. After a long, suffocating silence, I pulled my hand back and took a bite of plain rice. Yumi, trying to be sweet, nudged one of her peeled shrimp onto my plate. “You can have this one, Wren.” Mom frowned. Without a word, her fork swiftly swept the shrimp back into Yumi’s bowl. “Be good, Yumi. You need to finish your own food.” Yumi pouted but didn’t argue. I picked up a piece of boiled cabbage. It tasted like cardboard. My left eye socket, fitted with a cold glass prosthetic, felt incredibly dry. I blinked hard, but no tears came. Dad tried to smooth things over, tossing a piece of broccoli onto my plate. “Wren is a big girl. You have to look out for your little sister. Tell you what, next weekend when I’m free, I’ll take you out for burgers, just the two of us. How does that sound?” I chewed the tasteless green and nodded mechanically. I knew he would never be free. After dinner, the living room felt warm and cozy. Mom cradled Yumi on the plush sofa, opening a beautifully bound book of fairy tales. “Mom, read me The Little Mermaid,” Yumi snuggled closer. “Of course, sweetheart. Whatever you want.” Mom’s voice was dripping with a gentle warmth I had never felt. I sat on a small wooden stool in the far corner, watching them in silence. Suddenly, the lifeless voice chimed in my head. [Soul extraction progress updated.] [Remaining soul: 85%.] [Emotional threshold lowered. Pain perception reduced.] As the system spoke, the dull ache in my side and the dryness in my fake eye seemed to fade. Even the hollow ache in my chest grew pleasantly numb. Mom turned a page, her voice soft and melodic. “The Little Mermaid watched the prince marry another, and her heart broke. When the sun rose, she dissolved into sea foam.” Yumi looked up, big tears welling in her eyes. “Mom, she’s so sad. Why did she have to die? She traded her voice to the witch, but she got nothing in return.” Mom set the book aside, running her fingers through Yumi’s soft hair. “That’s why you must remember, Yumi. Never trade what is most precious to you for something as fleeting and worthless as someone else’s love.” The next morning, I left for school without breakfast. It wasn’t that I wasn’t hungry, I just barely had the energy to drag myself out of bed. My head throbbed, and my limbs felt like they were filled with lead. First period was gym class, starting with a half-mile run. I barely finished the first lap before my vision began to vignette. The world spun violently, and the last thing I heard was the panicked voice of my desk partner, Grace. “Wren! Wren, what’s wrong?” Then, the darkness swallowed me whole. When I woke up, the harsh, clinical smell of antiseptic burned my nose. I was lying in a hospital bed, an IV needle taped to the back of my left hand. Grace was hovering by the bed, on the verge of tears. Beside her stood a doctor in a white lab coat, his nametag reading Dr. Bennett. “Thank god you’re awake, you terrified me!” Grace cried, her eyes red-rimmed. Dr. Bennett studied my chart, his brow deeply furrowed. “Wren, right?” he asked gently, pulling up a chair. I gave a weak nod. “Are you aware of your medical history?” His voice was incredibly grave. “You have severe anemia and malnutrition. But that’s not the worst of it.” He pointed to the ultrasound results. “Your right kidney is functioning, but your left kidney is completely gone. And…” He stared at me, his gaze lingering on my face. “When the nurse performed the pupillary light test, she noticed your left eye is an implant.” Grace gasped beside me. “Wren, you’re missing a kidney? And your eye?” I stayed quiet, pulling the thin hospital blanket tighter around myself. Dr. Bennett lowered his voice, his tone a mix of confusion and quiet fury. “You’re only twelve years old. How did you lose your left eye?” I looked at him, and memories of Christmas Eve when I was eight flooded back. Yumi had been rushed to the emergency room, and my parents didn’t come home for three whole days. Terrified and alone, I went behind my wardrobe and traded my left eye to the masked shopkeeper. All I wanted was for them to come home and have Christmas dinner with me. “I traded it for a family dinner,” I replied calmly. Dr. Bennett froze, entirely lost. “What do you mean by that? And your kidney? Which hospital performed the extraction? Why isn’t there any record of your surgery in the state database?” I thought about the searing pain in my lower back on my twelfth birthday. “Behind my wardrobe.” Dr. Bennett’s expression completely shifted, a look of horror washing over his face. He bolted upright, opening his mouth to press further. The door was slammed open. Mom rushed in, completely out of breath, still holding a fancy boba tea she had bought for Yumi. “Wren! What on earth is wrong with you? Why did you pass out at school?” The moment she entered, her eyes darted to me with immediate irritation and blame. Dr. Bennett turned around, his expression dark. “Are you her mother? Do you have any idea what kind of state your daughter’s body is in?” The annoyance on Mom’s face vanished instantly, replaced by a smooth, perfectly practiced smile. “Hello, Doctor. Yes, I’m Wren’s mother. I’m well aware,” she said smoothly, reciting lines she had clearly rehearsed a thousand times. “The poor thing was born with a single kidney. As for her left eye, she had a terrible fall a few years ago. A branch pierced her eye, and we had no choice but to get her a prosthetic.” Dr. Bennett narrowed his eyes, catching the slip-up immediately. “Born with one kidney? If that were true, it would be documented in her pediatric records and the birth registry. Why did my search yield absolutely nothing?” Mom’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she recovered instantly, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “Oh, that was over a decade ago. The paperwork probably got lost in some old clinic database. I’ll look for the old records when we get home and send them over to you.” Dr. Bennett clearly didn’t buy it, but before he could speak, Mom stepped past him and grabbed my wrist. Her grip was vice-like, bruising my skin and pressing hard against the bone. She leaned down close to my ear, her voice dropping into a venomous whisper. “Keep your mouth shut. We’ll talk when we get home.” She pulled back, instantly donning her sweet, doting mother persona again. “Thank you, Dr. Bennett. And thank you, Grace, for looking after our Wren. She’s always causing such a fuss.” Once the IV finished, Mom went to the reception desk to settle the bill. Taking advantage of her brief absence, Dr. Bennett stepped back to my bedside. He slipped a folded piece of paper beneath my pillow. “My personal number is on there,” he murmured, his words rushed and low. “If you ever need help, or if you feel like you are in danger, call me immediately.” I stared at him blankly. Before I could even nod, Mom walked back into the room. [System Update: Remaining soul at 72%.] The moment we stepped through the front door, we heard Dad speaking in low, hushed tones out on the balcony. He was trying to keep his voice down, but the words carried clearly to my ears. “What do you mean Yumi’s bone marrow isn’t producing blood cells? A bone marrow transplant? And she’ll be fully cured after that? Yes, of course. I’ll arrange for our oldest to be brought in as soon as possible.” He hung up and spun around, his eyes locking directly onto my hollow, lifeless right eye. As evening fell, the setting sun painted the living room in a deep, bloody crimson. Mom sat at the dining table, flipping through a worn, brown leather notebook. That notebook was usually locked away in the bottom drawer of the master bedroom. Dad called it “Yumi’s Lifeline.” The second she saw me exit my room, she slammed it shut. For once, she actually got up, walking into the kitchen and returning with a steaming bowl of soup. “Wren, come here and drink this while it’s hot,” she said with a rare, sweet smile. “I spent the whole afternoon brewing this herbal bone broth. It’s packed with nutrients to build up your blood.” I stared at the oily broth. A sudden wave of nausea hit my stomach. “Mom, I don’t want it.” Her smile vanished instantly. “What do you mean you don’t want it? You literally passed out at school today. The doctor said you’re severely anemic! Drink it. Every single drop! If you don’t build up your strength…” She bit her tongue, realizing she had almost said too much. “If you’re weak, how are you supposed to help look after your sister?” I understood completely. The soup wasn’t meant to heal me. It was meant to prime the marrow donor for Yumi. I walked over, picked up the bowl, and forced the burning liquid down my throat. It scalded my throat and pooled in my stomach, hot enough to burn. “It’s gone,” I said, setting the empty bowl down and retreating to my room. Behind me, Mom let out a satisfied hum. “That’s a good girl.” By ten that night, my parents went into Yumi’s room to tuck her in. I slipped out of my room and crept into the master bedroom. In her rush, Mom had left the bottom drawer unlocked. The brown leather notebook lay inside, waiting. I opened the first page, and the blood drained from my face. It was a detailed record of Yumi’s failing health, juxtaposed with my market value. Age 8: Yumi’s corneal ulcer. Plan: Use the pawnshop to secure Wren’s left cornea. Age 10: Yumi’s surgical hemorrhaging. Plan: Prompt Wren to make a wish; extract 500cc of blood. Age 11: Yumi’s end-stage kidney failure. Plan: Use a bedtime kiss on her birthday to extract Wren’s left kidney. Every entry was written in Mom’s elegant, sloping handwriting. At the very bottom, there was a fresh entry, the ink barely dry. Age 12: Yumi’s bone marrow failure. Plan: Bone marrow transplant. A thick red circle surrounded the words: The Final Step. [System Update: Remaining soul at 58%. Emotional detachment in progress.] I closed the journal and placed it exactly where I found it. I didn’t cry. The crushing pain in my chest was gone, replaced by a dull, hollow silence. The system was right. I was feeling less and less. Back in my bedroom, I pulled open the wardrobe doors. Sure enough, tucked into the dusty corner was a single wrapped caramel chew. It was the signal that the pawnshop was open. I picked it up and unwrapped it. I knew it was laced with sedatives and hallucinogens, designed to blur my reality and keep me compliant. That was how they kept their six-year lie alive. I popped the candy into my mouth without hesitation, chewing and swallowing it. Ten minutes later, the drugs kicked in. My vision blurred, and the wooden backing of the closet seemed to dissolve into a dark, swirling gateway. The back of the wardrobe opened, and a figure draped in a heavy black cloak stepped forward. I knew it was Dad. “Little girl, have you come to make another trade?” The shopkeeper’s voice was deep and metallic, disguised by a cheap voice changer. I slumped to the floor, tilting my head up to look at him. “I want to make a wish, sir. I want my sister to be fully healed. I want her to never be sick again.” The masked figure stiffened. He hadn’t expected me to ask for Yumi’s health after everything they had already taken. But he recovered quickly, sticking to his script. “That is a massive request. You have already given your eye and your kidney. What do you have left to offer?” He paused, his voice turning dark and theatrical. “To buy your sister’s life, you must trade your marrow. Extracting bone marrow is excruciating. Are you willing?” The heavy fog in my mind deepened, making my eyelids droop. [System Update: Confirming consent. Soul at 58%.] “I’m willing,” I whispered. I closed my eyes, letting out one final breath before the darkness claimed me. “I’m willing… Dad.” That single word, Dad, sent a visible shockwave through the cloaked figure. I couldn’t see his face under the mask, but I felt him stumble back a half step in pure panic. He was terrified. Terrified that his six-year charade had been shattered. But I didn’t say another word. The drugs pulled me under, burying me in pitch black. When I woke up, the afternoon sun was high. I was back in my bed, a glass of lukewarm water resting on the nightstand. Over the next few days, a bizarre, fragile peace settled over our home. Dad stopped glaring at me. He even bought me a beautiful new dress. Mom became incredibly attentive, cooking different meals for me every night. Even Yumi was on her best behavior, offering to share her favorite toys. They were walking on eggshells, constantly watching my face to see if I knew the truth. As long as I didn’t bring up that whispered “Dad,” they could convince themselves it was just the drug-induced rambling of a delirious child. For the sake of that final transplant, they maintained this fragile, suffocating illusion of love. On the seventh morning, Mom walked into my room carrying a fresh coat. “Put this on, Wren. I’m taking you to the clinic to get your anemia checked.” She smiled warmly, but her eyes refused to meet mine. I slipped the coat on and silently followed her out to Dad’s car. We didn’t drive toward the state hospital downtown. Instead, the car drifted into the industrial district on the edge of the city. The streets here were desolate, lined with rusty factories and overgrown weeds. We pulled up outside a dingy, grey three-story building. A rusted sign hung crookedly from the roof: Apex Clinic. A few stray cats scavenged around a dumpster near the entrance. Inside, the overpowering stench of cheap, harsh bleach hit my throat. At the end of the narrow corridor stood a balding, middle-aged man in a wrinkled white coat. Dr. Gable. I recognized him. He was the one who had taken my kidney. “Thomas, you’re here,” Dr. Gable said, crushing a lit cigarette in an ashtray. His eyes rolled over to me, assessing me like livestock. “She’s grown. Looks like you’ve fed her well.” Mom clutched her handbag tightly. “Are you sure about this, Doctor? Yumi is already prepped and waiting at the general hospital.” Dr. Gable let out a dry, dismissive laugh. “Relax. It’s just a marrow extraction. It’s not going to kill her. Get her inside and prepped. We need to deliver the sample before the window closes.” Two nurses flanked me, taking firm hold of my arms. I didn’t resist. I let them lead me into a cold, makeshift operating room. There were no clean, modern beds like Dr. Bennett’s hospital. Only rusted metal stands, flickering monitors, and a cold steel table. “Lay flat and don’t move, sweetheart. A quick shot and you’ll go to sleep,” Dr. Gable said, approaching with a massive syringe. The thick needle pierced my vein. In my mind, the system’s final countdown began. [Soul extraction accelerating.] [Remaining soul: 5%…] The icy sedative rushed through my bloodstream, pulling my limbs into a heavy paralysis. [3%…] The blinding surgical light above fractured into a hazy, white fog. [1%…] I remembered Mom snatching the sweet glazed ribs from my plate. I remembered the night Dad stole my kidney. With the absolute last ounce of my strength, I whispered to the system: Execute trade. [Ding… 0%.] [Soul successfully extracted. Transaction complete. Forced emotional infusion initiated.] On the monitor, the rhythmic pulsing line suddenly flattened into a solid, unyielding green streak. A high, piercing screech shattered the quiet of the operating room. Dr. Gable, holding the marrow extraction needle, froze. His hand shook, and the heavy metal needle clattered onto the linoleum floor. “What the hell?” he swore loudly, frantic. He slammed his palm against the side of the monitor. “No pulse! Her blood pressure is flatlining! Get the crash cart! Now!” Outside, Dad was on his phone, confirming the delivery window with the general hospital. At the sound of the sudden panic inside, his coffee mug slipped from his grip, shattering against the concrete floor. Mom bolted upright, all color leaving her face. The heavy doors burst open, and a nurse ran out, her gloved hands stained with blood. “Dr. Gable says she’s gone! We have no signs of life!” Thomas and his wife stood completely frozen, turned to stone.

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