By the eighth year of being in love with Sebastian, he still refused to acknowledge me as his fiancée. He stripped me of my red carpet qualification just to please his little kept woman. And in front of the media, using the exact same mouth that had kissed me thousands of times, he claimed that we were “just ordinary friends.” Later, I looked at him and said with absolute seriousness: “Don’t pull away. If you do, we won’t look like ordinary friends.” The corners of his eyes turned red, his voice trembling violently: “An ordinary friend? Is that all I am to you?” 01 When I was notified that my red carpet walk had been canceled, I was in the middle of interacting with my fans online. My hands froze on the keyboard. I looked up at my manager, Sarah, in absolute disbelief. “Why?” She sighed heavily, gently rubbing my wrist to comfort me. “Because some people have powerful backers. I asked around. They said it was Sebastian’s little girlfriend.” My fingers instinctively curled into my palms. Sebastian… was my fiancé. I had been in love with him for exactly eight years. Even his notoriously difficult, aristocratic mother had officially accepted me. But to him, I was still a secret. A woman with no title, no public acknowledgment. Even Sarah didn’t know the truth. 02 When I saw Chloe walking into the venue, her arm securely linked through Sebastian’s, a suffocating, near-death sensation crushed my chest. I knew Sebastian had a childhood sweetheart. She grew up in his elite social circle and was basically treated as the pampered princess of their group. She had gone abroad for high school, but whenever I had dinner with Sebastian’s friends, someone would always bring her up. I opened a WeChat message to one of Sebastian’s friends and sent a photo of him and Chloe walking the carpet. [Is this the girl you guys were talking about?] The person on the other end was clearly panicking. The [Typing…] bubble appeared and disappeared for a full five minutes before a reply finally came through. [Yeah, haha. But I was just talking nonsense back then, don’t read into it! Sebastian probably just thought you’d be too tired to walk the carpet, so he didn’t ask you to come with him. Don’t overthink it, Sister-in-law. Do you want me to ask him for you?] I pressed my lips together and typed back. [Thank you, but there’s no need. I already asked him. It’s fine.] After ending the conversation, I looked toward the front row where the two of them were sitting. If Sebastian turned his head even once, he would see me. He would see his deeply humiliated fiancée. The fiancée he had stripped of a red carpet walk with a single sentence. But he didn’t look back. Not even once. On stage, the host smiled warmly and announced: “And the nominees for Best Supporting Actress of the Year are—” The massive screen behind them cycled through several clips, finally stopping on me, Chloe, and two other actresses. I nervously grabbed Sarah’s hand. Sarah glanced at me and leaned in to whisper: “Let it go. The award is rigged for Chloe. It’s completely meaningless now. It’s a total sham.” My heart gave a violent lurch. The exact second she finished her sentence, the name [CHLOE] exploded across the giant screen. Even the seasoned, professional hosts couldn’t completely hide the brief flash of shock on their faces. Chloe looked around in feigned surprise, until the man sitting next to her leaned in and said something to her. Reading his lips, his first sentence was: “Why aren’t you going up?” His second sentence was: “Didn’t you really want this award?” He used to ask me that exact same question, countless times. Didn’t you really want to win an award? I would always tell him I was going to work incredibly hard for it. And Sebastian would always smile and say: “Okay. I’ll wait for you.” “Keep working hard.” He didn’t wait. As Chloe stood up, the camera swept past the man beside her. Sebastian was clapping, his expression perfectly calm and composed. The hushed murmurs of confusion in the venue instantly died down. He was publicly protecting her. 03 I didn’t even know what expression to put on my face. A brief moment of my composure slipping was instantly captured and launched onto the trending page. #ChloeBestSupportingActress #MayaReaction I clicked on the live feed. It was an absolute warzone. [Her fans are hilarious. They were hyping her up like crazy before the announcement, and now that she lost, they call it rigged? What, does your queen just not want the award?] [Honestly, it’s so hard to watch. She lied to her fans saying she was walking the red carpet, but she wasn’t even invited to walk. Then she looks like she’s attending a funeral when someone else wins.] [She worked so hard for this, is she not allowed to be sad for a second? Leave Maya alone, she didn’t do anything wrong.] [We all know exactly how Chloe got that award. Everyone can see how good Maya’s acting is.] [Don’t make me laugh. Yeah, yeah, our Chloe is just a god. The great CEO Sebastian personally makes soup for our Chloe and stays on set with her all day. Unlike your irrelevant idol, who isn’t even fit to carry Chloe’s shoes.] [Chloe deserves it! She’s skyrocketing straight into high society! Maya will never reach her level in this lifetime.] I stared at the comments, my eyes burning. It felt like something foundational inside my heart was slowly, quietly collapsing. I searched for videos of Sebastian and Chloe together. September 23rd: Chloe on set filming. Sebastian by her side the entire day. On September 23rd, I sent him five messages. He didn’t reply to a single one. The next day, Sebastian replied: [I was busy yesterday.] August 17th: Sebastian photographed carrying a thermos, delivering homemade soup to Chloe. I had practiced making that soup for two months. I had burned my hands countless times. I tasted it over and over, carefully preparing a pot of soup for him, filled with nothing but love. My heart was pounding when I gave it to him. He said: [It’s delicious.] I was ecstatic for an entire day. It turns out… he just handed it straight to Chloe. He could have just told me. Why did he let me feel so incredibly happy for so many days? July 25th: The two of them photographed on a private vacation. That was the day Sebastian gave me a bracelet. I gripped my wrist, squeezing tightly. The freezing, metallic texture bit into my palm. The physical pain stopped my tears from falling. Sarah frowned, looking at me, and suddenly said: “Smile. Don’t look so miserable.” “If you lose this award, you lose it. Your career is still long. You’ll have other chances.” I forced a smile, my eyes blurred with unshed tears. The tears glinting in my eyes startled her. She quickly raised her hand to cover my eyes. She said gently: “It’s okay. You’re still so young. Today isn’t the end of your life.” 04 Sarah arranged for a driver to take me home. Sitting in the car, watching the city lights blur past the window, I couldn’t help but think about the past few years. I had been secretly in love with Sebastian for years, but he had absolutely no idea. He thought our very first meeting was in college. “Oh, you went to Lincoln High too? What a coincidence.” “Yeah, what a coincidence.” Just to manufacture those two short lines of dialogue, I had studied obsessively, burning the midnight oil for three grueling years, over a thousand days and nights. But to him, I was just a junior in his program. One of countless juniors. I manufactured dozens of “coincidences” just to barely earn the title of “friend.” After graduation, he took over his family’s corporate empire. I stubbornly insisted on entering the entertainment industry. The next time we met was at a networking dinner. He was the billionaire investor; I was the third-string supporting actress. “Long time no see. Why did you decide to become an actress?” I said: “Because I love it.” At the wrap party, I found Sebastian smoking alone on a balcony. Separated by a single glass door, the crowd inside was cheering and celebrating. Out here, it was just him. “Are you not having fun?” He was leaning lazily against the railing, resting one arm on the metal. When he turned his face to look at me, he casually crushed the glowing ember of his cigarette into the ashtray. He asked me: “Maya. Are you in love with me?” Love is like a cough. You can’t hide it. I instantly lost my voice. In the eerie, suffocating silence, his gaze burned, sweeping over my face and my body. He let out a scoffing laugh. “Seriously, Maya. You aren’t my type.” Hearing him use my old college nickname instantly dragged me back to that bitter, agonizing period of my youth. A desperate, echoing unrequited love that never received a response. The person I had chased for my entire youth was standing right in front of me. And in a tone that was both incredibly gentle and unbelievably cruel, he told me: “We are never going to happen.” I said: “Oh.” I blinked rapidly, fighting desperately to hold back my tears.

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My husband was known as the untouchable, ascetic billionaire of New York’s old-money elite. For three years of our secret marriage, he was cold, distant, and never spared me a second thought. Until a video of him passionately kissing his “first love” inside his car was leaked. That was when I realized he also had a side that couldn’t control his passions. It just wasn’t for me. Later, that first love came to my door to provoke me. During the scuffle, I fell down the stairs, resulting in a premature birth and severe hemorrhage. That night, rumors spread through elite circles that the untouchable heir had stepped down from his pedestal, standing in an endless blizzard, bowing with every step to a secluded monastery to beg for my safety. But I only handed him a divorce decree. Dark red blood seeped from his forehead, his voice trembling: “Don’t divorce me, the child needs a father.” I slowly pulled my hand from his grip: “There’s no need. I can raise this child perfectly fine without a father.” 01 Ten minutes before the video of Arthur Vance and Bianca Sterling passionately kissing in his car was exposed, I was holding a press conference. Announcing my temporary hiatus from acting. I had just won Best Actress last month. To suddenly step away at the peak of my career sent the room into an uproar. Countless microphones were shoved in my face. “Olivia, could you tell us why you’re stepping away from the industry?” “Paparazzi caught you at an OB-GYN clinic recently. Are the pregnancy rumors true?” “Who is the father of the child?” I tilted my head, smiling for the cameras. Resting a hand on my slightly rounded stomach, I was just about to answer them one by one. Suddenly, someone gasped. “Look at the trending topics! Bianca Sterling’s new romance is exposed!” My eyelid twitched. The room erupted into chaos. The interview was abruptly cut short as my manager, Jessica, pulled me backstage and shoved her phone into my hands. The trending topic was a video, only a few seconds long. A rainy night. The window of a Maybach rolled halfway down. Bianca, wearing a vintage silk slip dress, was nestled softly in a man’s embrace, eagerly offering up her red lips. A hand, wrapped with a string of wooden prayer beads, was possessively resting on her slender waist. The atmosphere was intimate and deeply romantic. #SilkFairyAndAsceticBillionaireCarKiss# #BiancaAndArthurSoSweet# #HeIsUntouchableButBreaksHisVowsForHer# These hashtags completely crushed the news of my hiatus, rocketing to the top three spots on the entertainment charts. Jessica’s face was livid. “This Bianca bitch. It wasn’t enough for her to steal your endorsements and roles, now she has to steal your spotlight too.” She lit a cigarette, speaking without thinking in her sheer rage. “Olivia, your husband is an elite billionaire too, right? Tell him to step up and warn Bianca. I highly doubt she’d dare to be this arrogant if he put her in her place.” I kept my head down, remaining silent. It wasn’t until the phone screen automatically went dark, reflecting my own pale, ghost-like face. Only then did I manage to force a sentence out of my dry throat. “My husband… is Arthur Vance.” Drop. The cigarette slipped from Jessica’s trembling fingers and hit the floor. 02 Very few people in the industry knew I was Arthur’s wife. The Vance family firmly believed I was a shameless gold digger who had actively seduced Arthur, so they strictly locked down the news of our marriage. But that wasn’t the truth. Three years ago, I attended a gala event. Afterward, an investor came over for a toast. Completely off guard, I drank a glass of champagne laced with a powerful aphrodisiac. As I was being dragged to a hotel room, I dug my nails into my palms, using every ounce of my strength to break free from the investor’s grip. Stumbling and dizzy, I pushed open the ajar door of the room next door. “Help… help me.” I curled up in the corner, soft whimpers escaping my lips. A man walked out of the bathroom, heavily intoxicated. He looked me up and down. Then, he suddenly pulled me into a fierce embrace. “Finally willing to come back to me?” His burning breath brushed against my ear. Before I could even speak, his lips crashed down on mine. … The next morning, the room was bathed in bright daylight. I finally saw the man’s face clearly—Arthur Vance. The heir to the Vance Empire, hailed as New York’s ascetic billionaire. He was inherently cold, famously disciplined, and untouchable. Yet last night, he was practically feral. I grabbed my scattered clothes and fled as if my life depended on it. I thought it was just a one-night stand, a mistake that would never cross my path again. But that very afternoon, Arthur appeared at my front door. “Miss Olivia Hayes. I apologize, I had too much to drink last night.” He asked for my bank account number and transferred five million dollars into it. “I can take responsibility for you. Consider this your dowry.” On the day we signed the marriage papers, I asked him why he decided to marry me. He said the Vance family had strict morals. He took a girl’s innocence, so it was only right that he took responsibility. I smiled slightly, thinking Arthur must be a decent man. Marrying him seemed like a good choice. Sadly, it wasn’t until this very moment that I finally understood. Arthur married me because of guilt. Bianca and I looked strikingly similar. Drunk and heartbroken, he had mistaken me for her. That was the only reason that absurd night ever happened. 03 Pulling myself out of my memories, I blinked my stinging eyes. I picked up Jessica’s dropped cigarette and threw it into the trash can, along with the pregnancy ultrasound report in my pocket. Jessica hastily tried to stop me. “What are you doing? Aren’t you going to tell Arthur you’re pregnant?” I didn’t answer. My gaze shifted to the phone screen that had lit up again. Bianca was giving a live media interview. Still wearing that vintage silk dress, there was now a string of sandalwood prayer beads wrapped around her pale wrist. I recognized them. They were Arthur’s. I had heard they were a relic left behind by his late mother, meant to be given to the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. I had half-jokingly asked him for them once, only to be ruthlessly rejected. Now, they were resting on Bianca’s wrist. I curled my lips in a self-deprecating smirk. Bianca smiled sweetly at the cameras, intentionally playing with the wooden beads. A reporter asked the obvious question: “Miss Sterling, were those gifted by Mr. Vance?” “Yes, it was him.” Bianca bit her lip, putting on the shy demeanor of a schoolgirl in love. “But Arthur and I are just friends right now.” “Friends who kiss?” She nodded, her eyes welling with tears. “It’s my fault for being young and impulsive back then. After an argument, I left to study acting in Europe without even saying goodbye. Please, media friends, help me persuade Arthur. Tell him not to be mad at me anymore… I mean, we already kissed…” Bianca’s voice grew softer, her eyes turning red like a wronged little rabbit. Incredibly endearing. Naturally, fans and media alike began pleading on her behalf: “Mr. Vance, please forgive Bianca! You two are perfect for each other.” Jessica was so furious she was cursing up a storm right next to my ear. “Damn it, she is shameless!” “Does she not know Arthur is already married?” Of course Bianca knew. The very first movie she shot after returning to the States was a co-starring role with me. One night after filming, she stopped me in the hotel hallway. “Mrs. Vance, are you enjoying married life?” I didn’t understand and was about to ask her what she meant. She just gave me a meaningful smile and walked away. That was also the night Arthur—who was always cold, distant, and never cared about me—unexpectedly showed up at the set to see me. The soundproofing in the hotel was terrible, so I bit my lip tightly. Arthur ran his fingers through my hair, his voice hoarse and coaxing: “Wife, be good… open your mouth…” In our three years of secret marriage, it was the first time he had ever called me “wife.” I was so dizzy with joy, thinking he was finally starting to accept me. But I didn’t realize that Bianca was staying in the room right next to ours. He only came to me to make her jealous. Arthur never loved me. By the time I realized this, I was already three months pregnant. I had originally planned to tell Arthur he was going to be a father right after the press conference ended. But that video beat me to the punch, completely ripping the veil off this sham of a marriage. I used to think Arthur was just naturally cold. When he faced me, it seemed like he was utterly incapable of having emotions. Today I learned he too had moments of uncontrollable passion. Just not for me. Suddenly, these past three years felt like a massive joke. Tears forced their way out, ruining my pristine makeup. Through my blurred vision, a pair of polished leather shoes appeared. Arthur stood there, hands in his pockets, looking down at me from above. His voice didn’t carry a single ripple of emotion: “Olivia, you know everything now.” I knew the real reason he married me. And I knew the real reason he was so cold to me. I wiped my tears, stood up, and slapped him hard across the face. “Arthur Vance, you are a complete bastard.” 04 I booked an abortion for a week later. Aside from Jessica, I didn’t tell a single soul. Not even Arthur. Yet, on the day of the surgery, I was blocked by him in the hallway of the clinic. Arthur stared at me intently for a few seconds. His gaze slowly shifted down to my stomach. “Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?” he asked coldly. I found it hilarious. “Why should I tell you?” “I am the child’s father.” Still that same indifferent tone. No emotion, just stating a fact. A sudden surge of anger hit me, and I snapped back: “Does a cheating husband even deserve to be a father?” That sentence successfully infuriated Arthur. He warned darkly: “Olivia, stop throwing a tantrum.” How was I throwing a tantrum? The private hospital had intense security, so there were no bystanders, but our argument still drew the attention of the nurses. Not wanting to cause a scene, I pulled my mask up higher. The next second, my name was called. It was my turn. I pushed past Arthur and walked into the consultation room. I had barely taken two steps when my body suddenly felt light. I was scooped up into his arms. “Have you made enough of a scene?” Arthur looked down at me. “If you’re mad at me, take it out on me. The child is innocent.” He was holding me with immense strength. I couldn’t break free. Frustrated and desperate, I pounded on his chest. “Arthur, are you sick in the head?! If you want a child, divorce me and go have one with Bianca! What right do you have to interfere with my decision… Ah!” Arthur suddenly let go, tossing me into the back seat of the Maybach. Remembering that in that video, he and Bianca had kissed in this exact spot, my stomach violently churned with nausea. Ignoring my pale, disgusted expression, he gripped my chin and crashed his lips onto mine. A faint metallic taste of blood filled the air. Arthur had bitten my lip. For the first time, he lost control of his emotions because of me. He sneered, “Divorce? Olivia, don’t even dream about it.” I frowned, looking up at him. I completely failed to understand his thought process. He clearly didn’t love me. Why was he still trying to trap me? 05 We sat in a tense, silent standoff. Neither of us spoke. It was early autumn. A cold rain began to fall unexpectedly. Arthur glanced out the window, a flicker of worry passing through his eyes. I followed his gaze and, sure enough, saw a figure in a vintage silk dress standing under a tree not far away. It was Bianca. She had come too. A bitter smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. It seemed Arthur truly, deeply loved Bianca. Loved her so much that even when coming to the hospital to confront me, he couldn’t bear to be apart from her. Through the misty rain, Bianca stared at me stubbornly, her eyes practically dripping with poison. But when she looked at Arthur, she instantly reverted to a pitiful, helpless look, even perfectly timing a delicate sneeze. And Arthur’s heart immediately ached for her. Just as he was about to step out of the car, I deliberately called out to him. “It’s me or Bianca. You can only choose one.” “If you truly don’t want a divorce, then make her hold a press conference right now. Have her publicly apologize to me and admit to intruding on our marriage.” The air went dead silent. Arthur delayed his response, and Bianca stared at him nervously. After three years apart, she knew Arthur still harbored feelings for her, but she wasn’t entirely sure of my place in his heart. She was terrified. Terrified he would agree to my demands. Terrified he wouldn’t want her anymore. I rushed Arthur. “Have you decided?” Bianca panicked. Like a rabbit baring its fangs, she glared at me with pure hatred. “Why should I apologize to you? Haven’t you heard the saying: The one who isn’t loved is the real third wheel.” “So what if you married Arthur? In the last three years, he hasn’t forgotten me for a single day.” As if to prove her point, she raised her hand and waved it in front of me, showing off that string of prayer beads. “You’ve never even worn his family heirloom once. You are truly a failure of a Mrs. Vance.” Her mockery was piercing. In the past, I probably would have fainted from anger. But now, I just looked at her calmly, my fingers quietly tightening inside my pocket. I wanted her to keep talking. The more she said, the better. Bianca noticed my subtle movement and pointed at me, screaming: “Arthur, she’s recording! She’s recording us!” Arthur looked up at me, and I met his gaze. We stared at each other, leaving only silence between us. He hesitated for a long time. Finally, he held his hand out to me. “The phone. Give it to me.”

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By the hospital window, I stared down at the street below with a single, liberating thought: If I just jumped, it would all be over. This was my 28th hospital stay in three years, all thanks to him. The evidence was written across my body—three cracked ribs, a patchwork of angry burns, and a constellation of deep bruises—a brutal testament to a nightmare that had no end. It wasn’t that I hadn’t fought back. He’d torn up my divorce filings. Every escape attempt ended with me being dragged back to a beating more savage than the last. Hope had been beaten out of me, leaving only a hollow, desolate ache. Then, just as I was about to give in, a package arrived from a friend overseas. Inside were two dolls, one crafted to look like me, the other like him. Tucked beside them was a thin sheet of paper titled, “Instructions for the Shared Pain Dolls.” 1 That single sheet of paper held just a few simple rules. “Pathetic,” I muttered to myself. “Thinking a couple of dolls could save me.” I tossed them aside and started for the door, my mind set on the hospital roof. Then my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. [You’ll never know if you don’t try.] [Besides, things can’t get any worse, can they?] It was from my friend, the one who sent the package. We hadn’t spoken in years. I’d changed my number a dozen times since then. Yet, she knew exactly which hospital, which room I was in. A flicker of something I hadn’t felt in a long time—hope—ignited in my chest. “Maybe,” I whispered, “maybe this could actually work.” I snatched the instructions and read them again. 1. The dolls require a binding of blood, hair, and nail clippings from the intended subjects. 2. The first doll bound becomes the Primary. The second becomes the Secondary. 3. Once bound, the Secondary will experience all pain inflicted upon the Primary. The dolls require a binding. My hands moved with a sudden urgency. I plucked a strand of hair from my head and clipped a sliver from my fingernail. For the blood, I just had to press my thumb against a wound that hadn’t quite healed. The moment the three items touched the doll that looked like me, they vanished, absorbed into the fabric. The doll’s posture seemed to shift, its vacant expression mirroring my own exhaustion. I could feel it—a faint, thrumming connection between us. It was real. It actually worked. My mind, once a barren wasteland of despair, was now racing with possibilities. But first things first: I had to bind my husband, Victor, to the other doll. Ignoring the doctor’s protests, I checked myself out and went home. The house was just as I’d left it—a sprawling, modern mansion decorated entirely to Victor’s taste. A cold, sterile palette of black, white, and grey that suffocated the air and pressed down on my soul. Victor’s family was obscenely wealthy. It was their money and influence that made divorce impossible, escape a fantasy. I was a prisoner in a gilded cage. But now, I had the dolls. I had a chance to tear this cage apart. Victor was already home from work. He looked up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes when he saw me. “I thought you’d stay in the hospital until you were fully recovered.” A cruel smirk played on his lips. “You know, I love it when you’re broken. It’s so beautiful.” At thirty-five, he was the picture of a successful executive, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. But beneath that polished veneer was a monster. A sadist. “Come here,” he purred. “Be a good girl.” I fought the tremor that ran through me, a Pavlovian response to his voice, and walked toward him. His fingers were like ice as they traced the line of my jaw, raising a carpet of goosebumps on my skin. I didn’t dare move. “See? If you were always this obedient, why would I ever have to hurt you?” His grip tightened, his fingers digging into my cheeks, squeezing my face. A phantom pain, a memory of a thousand other moments just like this, shot through my entire body. “Honey, would you like some fruit?” I blinked, forcing tears to well in my eyes and spill down my cheeks, dripping onto his hand. My tears always pleased him. He released me and sat on the sofa, a silent assent. I went to the kitchen, my movements stiff and sore. The fruit was already washed and sliced, just the way he liked it. My barely-healed injuries screamed in protest, but I pushed through, carrying the platter to him. “Your nails are getting long. Should I trim them for you?” “Hm,” he grunted, spearing a piece of watermelon with a fork. He popped it into his mouth, the bright red flesh a stark contrast to his pale skin. It looked like a piece of my own heart. Fighting the urge to shrink away, I knelt at his feet and gently took his hand, the nail clippers cold in my other palm. “Ava, why are you so tense?” His voice was a low murmur, laced with amusement. “Look at you, sweating already.” He leaned in closer. “Are you hiding something from me?” His voice was a snake coiling around my neck. My breath hitched. I froze. 2 I struggled to keep my voice even. “I’m just… not fully recovered yet.” It was his favorite game, a relentless campaign of questions and accusations designed to break me down, to make me so terrified of him that my body betrayed me with shakes and stutters. It didn’t matter if I’d done anything or not; his suspicion was its own conviction. “Are you blaming me, then? Did I hit you too hard?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft. “It was just a little punishment for your disobedience.” A little punishment? Three cracked ribs were the mark of his foot. The tapestry of bruises was the art of his fists and open palms. The burns covering my back were the answer to his question of whether I was faking unconsciousness, tested with a full kettle of boiling water. I wanted to scream. To fight back. To make him feel every ounce of the agony he’d inflicted on me. Instead, I let my trembling hand guide the clippers, intentionally cutting a fraction too deep, drawing a speck of blood from under his nail. “I’m so sorry, I…” I started to apologize, instinctively clenching the nail clipping in my fist. The slap came so fast I didn’t see it. The force of it sent me sprawling to the floor. Before I could recover, he grabbed a fistful of my hair and hauled me up, his other hand striking my face again and again. The warm, metallic tang of blood filled my mouth, a taste I knew better than any other. He dragged me closer by my hair, forcing me to look at him, a predator admiring his broken prey. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he hissed, his face inches from mine. “This is your pathetic little revenge, isn’t it?” I squeezed my hand tighter, protecting the precious clipping. Does he know about the dolls? How could he? How do I get out of this? Do I have another chance? Should I run? A storm of panic raged in my mind. He stared into my wide, terrified eyes, and then a horrible, slow smile spread across his face. “This is your grand rebellion? Nicking my finger with a nail clipper?” He let out a sharp, ugly laugh. “You’re like a kitten, Ava. So adorable.” He tugged on my hair, sending a fresh spike of pain through my scalp. “This is what I love. This is what makes it fun.” He straightened up, releasing me. I crumpled to the floor in a heap. “The more you fight, the more interesting it gets,” he said, his voice a low growl. “So go on. Run. Fight back. Let’s have some fun, Kitten.” He turned and strolled out of the room, humming a cheerful tune, completely unconcerned by the blood welling on his fingertip. This was my chance. After a particularly bad beating, he always gave me time to recover. He wouldn’t kill me outright; he preferred the game of cat and mouse, of breaking me, letting me heal, and then breaking me all over again. The slaps were the end of it, for now. I scrambled back to the bedroom, half-crawling, and slammed the door shut. I pulled the dolls from my bag. I found one of his hairs on the bedsheet. Then, with shaking hands, I placed the hair and the bloodied nail clipping onto the second doll. A crimson light flashed, and a new connection sparked to life, linking me to this second doll, to him. Finally. The binding is complete. I sagged against the floor, my body limp with relief. Knock. Knock. Knock. The sound made me jump. It was Victor. “Ava, I seem to recall telling you not to lock your door.” His voice was dangerously calm. “Are you being disobedient again?” 3 My hands fumbled, trying to hide the dolls behind my back. But before I could, I heard the click of a key in the lock. The door swung open. Victor stepped inside, his eyes immediately landing on the dolls I was so clumsily trying to conceal. He strode over and snatched the one that looked like me. He held it up, examining it with a critical eye. “Not bad. The resemblance is uncanny.” His gaze flicked to me. “What are you up to? Why so jumpy? Don’t tell me you’re playing with voodoo dolls.” He roared with laughter, carelessly swinging my doll by its leg. “I have to admit, it even captures your current, broken-down state. Who knew you had such a talent for crafts?” His fingers tightened around the doll, twisting its limbs, crushing its fabric body. A jolt of pain, faint but real, shot through me from the doll. An idea, brilliant and terrifying, sparked in my mind. If I feel what happens to the doll… does that mean the damage works both ways? I glanced at the doll in my hand—his doll. It was already beginning to reflect the state of the Primary. It would work. I flicked the switch. Instruction #4: The Primary can turn the pain-sharing connection on or off at will. A strangled scream ripped through the room. Victor collapsed, his body hitting the floor with a heavy thud. The sudden, alien agony that flooded his system was so overwhelming he couldn’t even process it. “Call an ambulance! Call a damn ambulance!” he shrieked. The intense pain forced his hand open, and my doll dropped to the carpet. He curled into a tight ball, his towering 6’2” frame crumpled in a desperate attempt to lessen the torment. “So this is what you look like when you’re in pain,” I murmured, a strange sense of calm washing over me. For the first time, he didn’t seem like an invincible monster. I ignored his pleas and picked up my doll, the Primary. I needed to know: was the pain he felt just a reflection of my own injuries, or could I inflict new pain through the doll itself? The doll was mangled from his abuse. I looked at its face, so much like my own, and without a shred of pity, I bent its leg backward until it snapped. A sickening crack echoed in the quiet room. “Aaargh!” Victor clutched his knee, letting out another piercing, agonized howl. “It works,” I whispered. “What works? What the hell are you talking about?” he gasped between screams. “Ava, I told you to call an ambulance! Did you hear me? Do you want another beating?” His voice, usually a tool of terror, was now music to my ears. No wonder he loved to hear me scream and beg. It was a beautiful sound. “You want me to call an ambulance?” I stepped closer, looking down at him. “Then beg me, Victor. Beg me, and maybe I’ll make the call.” My face was still swollen, the burn dressing on my back a constant, throbbing reminder of his cruelty. But in this moment, I held all the power. I held his pain in the palm of my hand. “You bitch! You’re dead—AGHH!” He didn’t finish his threat. I pressed down hard on the doll’s chest, and Victor immediately began to choke, his breath catching in his throat. “Ava… please,” he wheezed, his voice cracking. “Call an ambulance. I’m begging you.” The pain had broken him. Tears and snot streamed down his face, painting a pathetic picture. I pulled out my phone and dialed for an ambulance. Just like Victor said, the game is only fun when there’s resistance. Besides, I needed to know if a hospital could find any physical cause for his injuries. The paramedics arrived quickly, loading the still-screaming Victor onto a stretcher. The staff at the local hospital knew me by sight; they must have assumed I was the patient again. They were in for a surprise. From now on, the ambulance would only be for Victor. 4 After they wheeled Victor away, I slept. For the first time in three years, I slept through the entire night without waking up in a cold sweat. The wounds on my body still ached, but for once, my mind was at peace. I woke the next morning to a strange sensation. The connection to the dolls felt stronger. They had leveled up. Instruction #5: When the Secondary’s pain reaches a certain threshold, the Primary may upgrade. An upgraded Primary can amplify the pain felt by the Secondary. The sustained agony from the night before must have triggered it. My control over the dolls felt sharper, more intuitive. The hospital, predictably, had found nothing wrong with Victor. Painkillers hadn’t touched the phantom agony. He came home that afternoon. The moment he walked through the door, he roared my name. He sounded unhinged. I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down on him. “Was this you?” he snarled, his face contorted with rage. “Some kind of trick? It’s those dolls, isn’t it?” “They ran every test imaginable and found nothing. Nothing! The doctors think I’m having a psychotic break.” He pointed a shaking finger at me. “Ava, I underestimated you.” I said nothing, letting him burn himself out with his impotent fury. Constant, unexplained pain can shatter a man’s composure. He was already losing his mind. But this was the pain I had lived with for three years. “Does it hurt?” My voice was as cold as the marble beneath his feet. “Good. So do I.” “And the painkillers don’t work, do they?” Instruction #6: The shared pain cannot be mitigated by external means, such as medication. “So it was you,” he seethed, his teeth grinding together. “Fine. If it hurts, it hurts. But now, I’m not just going to make you hurt. I’m going to kill you.” The calm, controlled mask he always wore was gone, replaced by a terrifying, wild-eyed madness. I activated the upgrade. A 130% pain amplification surged through the connection. He gasped, his strength instantly draining away, and staggered against the wall. But even through the agony, he lunged for me, his hand closing around my wrist like a vice. A corresponding jolt of pain shot through his own wrist. “What the hell did you do?” he growled through gritted teeth. I just stared back at him, my silence a wall he couldn’t break. “Go on then,” I challenged him. “Kill me. Let’s see who dies first. You from the pain, or me from the beating.” He let go, his mind racing. Then, a look of realization. “The dolls! It’s the dolls. Where did you hide them?” he yelled, tearing the house apart. “You tried to hide them yesterday, I knew it!” I tried to stop him, but even in agony, he was stronger than my injured body. My attempts to create new pain by digging my nails into my own skin only seemed to fuel his desperation. He was willing to endure anything to find the source. Finally, he found them, tucked away in my closet. He snatched up his doll, the Secondary, and a triumphant, cruel smile returned to his face. “I have to admit, Ava, that was a clever little trick. You taught me a lesson.” He held the doll up. “But now that I have this, let’s see how you fight back!” He stormed into the kitchen, turned on the gas stove, and without a moment’s hesitation, tossed the doll into the open flame. The fire roared to life, engulfing the small figure. Victor turned to me, a look of pure, malevolent victory on his face. He cracked his knuckles, already planning his retribution. But in the next instant, his triumphant expression twisted into a mask of pure horror. The searing, blistering agony of being burned alive consumed him. The doll, made of what looked like simple cloth, was completely unharmed by the flames. He collapsed, screaming, his face turning a blotchy red as the phantom burns spread across his body. I started to laugh. It was a beautiful thing, wasn’t it? To give someone a flicker of hope, only to snatch it away and plunge them into absolute despair. It was the exact same feeling I had every time I thought I’d escaped, only to see his car pull up in front of me. Instruction #7: The bond can only be broken by death.

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Ever since I was little, I’ve been called a human ledger. I never let anyone take a dime of advantage. When the neighbor’s kid ruined my new sundress with a firecracker, I made sure his family couldn’t cook a peaceful meal for a week — they had to eat the overpriced delivery food I sent, complete with an “emotional distress” bill. When a college group project fell apart, I calmly showed the receipts, pinning the blame so precisely on our slacking team leader that he ended up begging the professor not to fail him. My parents called me a cold-blooded shark, worried I’d never find a husband. We fought badly. I moved out and didn’t look back for eight years. Then, as a senior corporate mediator, I got a call from my mother, sobbing hysterically. “Tiana, come home! Your sister’s going to prison! Her boss is making her take the fall for three million in missing funds, and he and his mistress are suing her for harassment!” Reading through my sister’s messy documents, a cold smile spread on my face. The next morning, I slipped into their company conference room, stood before her bosses and colleagues, and opened my phone’s calculator with a bright smile. “Hold on, everyone. Let’s settle the tab first — starting with the first artisanal latte my sister ever bought you.” 1 When I kicked the conference room door wide open, I saw my sister surrounded by a pack of wolves. Sophie had her head bowed. Her shoulders were trembling uncontrollably, looking like a little bird left out in a freezing storm. A slicked-back, greasy looking man in a tailored suit was pointing a finger right in her face, spitting venom with every word. “Sophie! You tanked this project yourself, and now you want to cry about it? This company isn’t a charity! Nobody here is going to baby you!” This charming guy was my sister’s department manager, Marcus. He caught sight of me and furrowed his brow. For a split second, he froze, clearly thrown off by how identical my face was to Sophie’s. Then, he waved his hand with sheer disgust. “You her family or something? Grab her and get out. Stop making a scene in my office.” I did not even look at him. I walked straight past the executives, grabbed Sophie by the arm, and pulled her safely behind my back. Then, under the glaring eyes of the entire room, I pulled out my phone and slowly tapped open my calculator app. “Let’s crunch some numbers, shall we?” My voice was not loud, but it carried a razor sharp edge that instantly silenced the chaotic room. I turned the screen toward Marcus, letting a mocking smirk play on my lips. “Manager Marcus. Let’s start with you.” “Last month, you complained about wrist pain and ‘borrowed’ a forty dollar ergonomic mousepad from my sister. You said you’d return it in two days.” “Assuming eight hours of heavy daily use with a standard depreciation rate, across twenty two working days, that comes out to exactly fifty cents in wear and tear.” “Oh, and you also hijacked the premium Costa Rican coffee beans my sister brought back from her vacation, claiming you just wanted a ‘quick taste’.” “At thirty grams of beans per cup, factoring in the specialty filter paper and the Evian water you insisted on using, that is three bucks a cup.” “You drank it every single morning for three months. Sixty six working days. That brings your coffee tab to one hundred and ninety eight dollars.” “Right, almost forgot. When your girl had her birthday last month, you swiped a bottle of Baccarat Rouge 540 from my sister’s desk. A bottle she hadn’t even dared to open for herself. You called it a ‘workplace emergency’.” “That perfume runs three hundred and twenty dollars at Saks Fifth Avenue. I’ll be generous and waive the interest.” The room was dead silent. Marcus’s face morphed from cherry red to a sickly gray, and finally to a furious purple. It was a spectacular color show. He let out a low, guttural growl. “Why the hell are you calculating all this! It is just petty office stuff. Are you insane!” “Oh, it matters.” My smile grew blindingly sweet. “Even the best of friends need clear ledgers.” I dismissed him entirely and shifted my gaze to a female colleague who had been snickering in the corner just moments ago. “Jessica, right?” “Last week, my sister fronted the bill for the department’s afternoon pastry run. You specifically requested the artisanal matcha crepe cake. Twelve bucks.” “When my sister dropped her Venmo link in the group chat, did your finger ‘accidentally’ slip? Because you only sent her two dollars.” Jessica’s smug smile froze on her perfectly contoured face. She stammered, unable to form a single word. “You owe her ten bucks. Are you Venmoing her right now, or should I call the cops and report petty fraud?” Under the amused and judging eyes of the entire room, Jessica’s face burned crimson. She frantically pulled out her phone and sent the remaining ten dollars. A crisp notification chime echoed in the room. Like a queen inspecting her conquered territory, I paraded around the conference table with my phone raised high. “Dave, my sister printed your quarterly report. Over three hundred pages. She used her own premium copy paper. Paper and ink costs come to five bucks. Pay up.” “And you, Sarah. My sister picked up your sweetgreen salads for six straight months. You covered the food cost occasionally, but the wear and tear on her insulated delivery bags is about twenty cents a day. Thirty six dollars total. Not unreasonable, right?” Within ten minutes, my sister’s phone was pinging like a slot machine hitting the jackpot. Over a dozen transactions flowed in, ranging from a few bucks to a couple hundred. The entire department, aside from Sophie, had their heads glued to the floor. Nobody dared to meet my eyes, and nobody dared to look at Marcus, who was now utterly isolated in the center of the room, shaking with pure rage. Just then, Jessica suddenly stepped forward. She gently touched my arm, her face painting a picture of pure, heartfelt concern. “Oh honey, you must be Sophie’s sister. Please don’t be so angry. We are all a work family here. We see each other every single day. Let’s not ruin our lovely dynamic over some silly little pennies.” 2 Jessica had a flawless face full of expensive makeup. Her big doe eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and her voice was so sickly sweet it could cause a cavity. She looked like the absolute textbook definition of a supportive, empathetic work bestie. This was exactly the mask that had fooled my sister into sharing all her deepest insecurities with her. I glanced at her manicured hand on my arm and let out a short laugh. “Of course you don’t want to ruin the dynamic.” “After all, your dynamic with Manager Marcus is so lovely it practically melted the hotel bedsheets, didn’t it?” You could hear a pin drop in that conference room. Every single pair of eyes aggressively ping-ponged between Marcus and Jessica. The drama was intoxicating. “You psychotic bitch!” Marcus was the first to explode, pointing a shaking finger right between my eyes. Jessica, however, was a far superior actress. Her eyes instantly flooded with genuine tears. She swayed slightly on her high heels, looking like a fragile flower about to wilt under a harsh winter wind. “Sophie… she is your sister. How can she say such vile things about me… We are best friends…” “Best friends? You mean the kind of best friend who steals her client roster, sleeps with her boss, and then helps frame her for a multi million dollar fraud?” I ignored her Oscar worthy performance. I simply grabbed the HDMI cable from the table and plugged it straight into my phone. A second later, a massive, ultra high definition photo splashed across the projector screen. It was a beach photo Marcus had posted on his Instagram last week. The caption read, “Team building retreat. Grinding for the next quarter.” “What the hell is wrong with that picture!” Marcus bellowed, though his voice cracked with a terrifying hint of panic. “Patience is a virtue, Marcus.” I tapped my screen, zooming in on the image. Deeper, closer, until the reflection in his mirrored aviator sunglasses took up the entire wall. In the reflection, Jessica was wearing a tiny, string bikini. She was clinging to Marcus’s bare arm, laughing like a woman deeply in love. And right behind them, clearly visible in the background, was the glowing neon logo of the Eros Boutique Hotel, the city’s most notorious adult playground. I spoke with a slow, agonizing drawl. “Manager Marcus. You took your ‘team’ to a love hotel last Friday. And you expensed it under the corporate account, didn’t you?” “You categorized it as ‘Client Entertainment’. The bill was quite hefty. Eight hundred and fifty dollars.” “I am just dying to know. Which high-profile client required that level of specialized entertainment?” My voice bounced off the soundproof walls, dripping with icy sarcasm. “Did this client require the velvet handcuffs from the bedside drawer? Or was the french maid lingerie absolutely vital to closing the deal?” The room erupted. The executives and colleagues were looking at the two of them with naked disgust. Their so-called corporate retreat was just a dirty weekend getaway funded by company money. “Ahhh!” Jessica snapped. She shrieked like a banshee and lunged at me, clawing wildly to rip the phone out of my hands. Marcus completely lost his mind as well. His face twisted into a demonic snarl as he charged forward, raising his heavy hand to slap the life out of me. I was more than ready. The second he entered my strike zone, I casually sidestepped his swinging palm. I planted my stiletto firmly into the carpet, raised my knee, and drove the pointed toe of my designer heel directly into his groin with everything I had. “Oooogh!” Marcus let out a sound that resembled a dying walrus. He clutched his crotch and dropped straight to his knees, his face scrunching up like a dried walnut. Right at that beautiful moment, the heavy double doors swung open again. The Director of HR, flanked by three burly security guards, stormed into the room. Seeing the absolute carnage, the Director’s face turned the color of week old concrete. 3 The immediate aftermath was entirely predictable. Marcus was suspended on the spot pending a full investigation for “misappropriation of company funds” and “attempted workplace violence.” Jessica was strongly advised to clear out her desk by the end of the day due to “complicity in financial misconduct” and “blatant ethical violations.” I thought the battle was won. I packed up my shell shocked sister and drove her home. I had no idea the real war was just beginning. The very next morning, a massive thread blew up on the company’s internal Blind forum, quickly spilling over to local Reddit pages and industry networking groups. Title: The Truth About My Social Climbing Coworker and Her Psychotic Sister. It was posted anonymously. But the pathetic, victim blaming tone practically had Jessica’s signature stamped all over it. In the post, she tearfully claimed that Sophie was desperate to land a massive tech client and had set her sights on their male executive. She accused my sister of encouraging and even initiating inappropriate sexual banter with the client to secure the contract. She painted Marcus as a tragic hero. He was just a good man who couldn’t stand seeing Jessica bullied by Sophie. He tried to protect her, only to be violently assaulted and framed by the manipulative sisters. The most venomous part of the post was aimed directly at me. “…her mediator sister is even worse. To help Sophie secure her promotion, she actually sent Manager Marcus explicit photos of herself to seduce him! When he firmly rejected her advances, she completely lost her mind and photoshopped those fake reflections to ruin his life out of pure spite…” Attached at the bottom of the post was a heavily blurred, highly suggestive photograph of a woman. The woman in the picture was wearing completely sheer lingerie, posed provocatively on a bed. The face was completely pixelated, but the body type and hair color were an exact match to mine. The smear campaign was ruthless and brutally effective. It perfectly weaponized society’s deep rooted misogyny, twisting a clear cut case of corporate corruption into a trashy soap opera about two aggressive tramps framing an honest, hardworking man. Overnight, the post went viral across multiple platforms. The comment sections were absolute toxic waste. “Takes two to tango. Good girls don’t end up in these situations.” “That sister looked like a total homewrecker anyway. Look at the way she dresses.” “Anyone got the unblurred pics? Asking for a friend.” “Found the sister’s phone number! Let’s ruin these bitches!” Sophie’s phone didn’t stop ringing. Every call was a barrage of disgusting, violent threats. Someone actually drove by her apartment and threw a garbage bag at her front door, writing “Whore” on her mailbox with a sharpie. It took exactly forty eight hours for my sister to completely break down. She locked herself in her bedroom, sobbing into her pillow, refusing to eat or speak. I realized then that Marcus and Jessica were burning the house down with them. Even if they were going down for embezzlement, they were determined to drag our reputations through the mud so we could never show our faces in this city again. They knew the game too well. For a woman, slut shaming is the deadliest weapon in the arsenal. It is the one accusation that is almost impossible to wash off. 4 Under immense pressure from the online fallout, the company executives called an emergency internal disciplinary hearing. Inside the sterile boardroom, Marcus and Jessica had completely dropped their previous arrogance. They were dressed in cheap, drab clothing, looking exhausted and deeply traumatized. “Every word we said is the god’s honest truth!” Marcus pounded his chest, looking pleadingly at the HR Director and the rest of the board. “I have bled for this company for eight years! Why would I throw away my career for a cheap thrill?” “It was Sophie! She wanted the commission so badly she tried to force Jessica to sleep with the client! When I stepped in, she swore she would destroy me!” Jessica immediately provided the backup vocals, sobbing violently and pointing a trembling finger at my sister. “Sophie… I loved you like a sister. How could you feed me to the wolves like that…” “And your sister sending those disgusting photos to my Marcus… Have you no shame at all!” Our legal counsel calmly interjected, stating that the opposition had presented zero factual evidence and was relying entirely on defamation. The opposing lawyer scoffed and fired back immediately. “Evidence? Public opinion is the evidence!” “Your client, Tiana, physically assaulted my client in front of dozens of witnesses. She then produced heavily manipulated, digitally altered images to destroy his career!” “My clients are seeking psychiatric help for severe emotional trauma. What more do you people want?” The senior executives shifted uncomfortably in their expensive leather chairs, exchanging tired glances. I knew exactly what they were thinking. They did not care about the truth. They just wanted the PR nightmare to vanish. Throwing a mid level employee like Sophie under the bus was the cheapest, cleanest way to make the headlines disappear. Sophie sat next to me, her face pale as a ghost. She looked at me with total despair, her lips trembling so violently she couldn’t make a sound. Marcus and Jessica shared a fleeting, triumphant look. The entire room thought I was out of ammo. Marcus even had the audacity to stand up and walk over to my side of the table. He stared down at me, his face twisted in an arrogant, victorious sneer. “What’s wrong, Madam Mediator? Cat got your tongue?” He leaned in close, whispering so only the two of us could hear his toxic gloating. “Let me teach you a lesson, sweetheart. Once the mud is on you, you can never wash it off.” “You and your sister are going to stink for the rest of your pathetic lives.” I didn’t flinch at his threat. I didn’t even look at the pitying eyes of the lawyers around me. I simply stood up, smooth and slow. I reached over and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind my sister’s ear. Then, I tilted my head up, looked right into Marcus’s smug little eyes, and smiled. “Are you quite done performing, Marcus?” “Because if you’re done, it’s my turn.” Before he could react, I looked him dead in the eye and silently mouthed two words. Every single drop of blood drained from Marcus and Jessica’s faces in a fraction of a second.

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1 The night I accepted his proposal, a message flashed from an unknown number. The sender’s name chilled me: “Samuel, from the future.” I brushed it off as a joke, texting back, asking with a laugh if he’d finally married me, and whether we’d had a cute baby. There was a long pause before the reply came. He said we did marry, becoming the envy of everyone. Then the messages turned dark. He admitted to cheating—with my own sister, Victoria. On the night of our engagement, they’d gotten drunk, and he confused her for me. It became an “unforgettable night.” He described her wild passion, so unlike my reserve. He claimed his heart was mine, but he craved her body. They continued the affair in secret—until Victoria became pregnant. The day I went into labor, he bribed the doctor to swap my stillborn baby with Victoria’s healthy one. My mind said it was a prank, but my heart felt pierced by ice. As I tried to close the chat, a new link appeared: If you don’t believe me, click to see the truth. … Some unseen force guided my thumb, and I clicked. My world plunged into darkness. When I opened my eyes again, I was in a hospital. A flood of unfamiliar memories was forced into my mind. I was in labor. The baby was coming. Samuel was holding my hand, his grip tight. He leaned in and whispered, his words a venomous secret meant only for me. “Victoria’s child is mine. I promised her I’d give the baby my name.” “Be a good girl, Amelia. Our next baby, I’ll let you keep that one.” I thought the pain was making me hallucinate. Then, the doctor pulled a lifeless bundle of flesh from between my legs and shook his head. “What a shame, it was a boy. If we try to resuscitate now… there might still be a chance.” Samuel’s voice was as cold as a morgue slab. “Don’t. Just save my wife.” And then, I passed out. I fumbled for my phone. The screen displayed the date: October 11th, 2029. Had I really traveled three years into the future? The deep, aching soreness in my body confirmed it. This was no dream. Suddenly, an address materialized in my thoughts. It was the house Samuel and I would share in this future. The dream home we’d always talked about, now a physical reality. A pathetic flicker of joy ignited within me, and I hailed a cab. The moment I pushed open the front door, that flicker was extinguished, and my world shattered. A pair of scarlet stilettos. A rumpled dress shirt. A creased tie. A trail of debauchery led from the foyer, through the living room, and up the stairs to the master bedroom. Through the slightly ajar door, every sound was a new twist of the knife in my heart. “Vicky, I swear, you’re even better after giving birth…” “You’re so soft… God, I just want to hold you like this every single day.” Victoria’s voice was a sugary purr. “Oh, stop. Aren’t you afraid Amelia will find out and lose her mind?” “Baby, can you please focus on me? Don’t mention other people…” My hand shook as I pushed the door open. The scene inside was even more heated than I’d imagined. They were a tangle of limbs, moving from the bed to the floor and back again, completely lost in each other. They hadn’t noticed me. Bile rose in my throat. I grabbed a picture frame from the nightstand and hurled it at them. The sound of shattering glass sliced through the air. A sharp fragment flew back and cut my cheek. Samuel instinctively pulled Victoria into his arms, shielding her. He looked at me, a flash of surprise in his eyes, before he quickened his pace, finished, and then gently laid the now-sleeping Victoria on the bed. He lit a cigarette, his expression indifferent as he watched the blood trickle down my face. “Vicky’s exhausted. If you’re going to have a meltdown, get the hell out and do it somewhere else.” He kicked at a piece of broken glass on the floor, his eyes filled with contempt. “And take this trash with you. I don’t want her to get hurt.” My gaze fell to the debris on the floor. A shattered photograph of us glinted up at me. It was the only picture of the two of us in the entire house. On the day of our wedding photoshoot, I had been in the hospital, trying to prevent a miscarriage. So Victoria had stood in for me, wearing my gown, for the entire session. “AI is so advanced now, we’ll just swap her face with yours later,” he’d said. “Besides, Vicky has a better figure. The dress looks better on her anyway.” On our wedding night, not only had the photos not been changed, but Victoria had also taken my place in the marriage bed. My vision blurred as tears streamed silently down my face. Seeing me cry, Samuel seemed to soften for a moment. He offered me a tissue. “Don’t cry. After all these years, I still can’t stand to see you cry.” I flinched away from his hand. “Samuel,” I said, my voice quiet but firm, “I want a divorce.” He froze. His expression shifted from shock to disbelief, then to something close to horror. “So… you really are the Amelia from three years ago?” he whispered. “You actually clicked that link?” I was just as stunned. “How did you know?” He let out a low, bitter laugh, the mockery in his eyes undisguised. “Because the Amelia of this time would never look at me like that,” he said. “And she would never, ever ask for a divorce.” He was right. The Amelia of this time had her heart ground to dust by years of betrayal. She had chosen to let her marriage fester into a toxic swamp, determined to drag him down into the muck with her. She wanted Victoria forever branded as a home-wrecker. She wanted the cheating husband to be reviled by the world until the day he died. But the Amelia from three years ago… she just wanted out. More memories flooded in, connecting to that night on the beach, three years ago. Under a sky full of stars, Samuel knelt and proposed. But halfway through, his phone rang. He took the call and vanished for the entire night. I later found out it was Victoria who had called. He’d told me, “Wait for me, I’ll be right back.” I waited all night, the cold sea breeze chilling me to the bone. By morning, I was sick. When I woke up, both Samuel and Victoria were by my bedside, their eyes red-rimmed. Victoria’s lips were slightly swollen, her neck covered in angry, red marks. Samuel’s hair was a mess, his arms crisscrossed with scratches. The evidence was everywhere, screaming at me. But then Victoria burst into tears, claiming she’d been tricked and beaten by a scumbag boyfriend, and that Samuel had saved her life. And because of that, I let my suspicions go. To make up for abandoning me, Samuel bought me a one-of-a-kind wedding gown, a breathtaking creation covered entirely in diamonds. It was a fairy tale. But as I was basking in my happiness, I got the call. My father had died of a sudden heart attack. I collapsed. After my mother passed, my father was all I had. His condition had been stable for years. Something must have triggered it. I searched every inch of our security footage but found nothing. Then, in a box of his old things, I found his camera. He’d taken up photography after he retired. A sixth sense made my hands tremble as I turned it on and pressed play. The scene that unfolded on the small screen shattered my soul. Samuel was pinning Victoria to the living room sofa, both of them naked. Victoria’s red bra was hanging from Samuel’s neck, swinging back and forth like a triumphant flag. The camera shook violently. Then came the sound of my father hitting the floor. A sharp pain lanced through my chest, and the world spun. I coughed up a mouthful of blood and collapsed. When I woke up, the doctor told me I was pregnant. I was only two months along, but I was already showing signs of a miscarriage. Samuel knelt by my bed, slapping himself across the face, over and over. “I’m so sorry. Vicky was in a bad place and asked me to stay with her.” “We both had too much to drink, and we… we crossed a line.” “But we didn’t… we didn’t go all the way before…” Before my father caught you. I started laughing, a wild, unhinged sound, and began to beat my own stomach. “You killed my father, Samuel! Now I’m going to kill your child!” He just held me, letting my fists and nails rain down on his face and chest. It was only when Victoria came in to “apologize” that he reacted. I lunged at her, ready to tear her apart, but Samuel shoved me. Hard. My stomach slammed into the corner of a table. I crumpled to the ground as blood poured down my thighs. “Vicky’s pregnant,” he said, his voice flat. “I can’t let you hurt her.” I laughed, the sound cold and broken. So Victoria’s child was precious. But mine was disposable. The doctors rushed in and gave me a sedative. As my consciousness faded, I saw him lift Victoria into his arms and walk away without a backward glance. After that, Samuel kept me in a private VIP hospital room. A prisoner, force-fed medications, subjected to endless treatments to save a pregnancy he never wanted. He refused to let me lose the baby, but not because he loved it. He needed my child as a cover, a way to legitimize the one Victoria was carrying. He married me, giving me a title and a ring, but our marriage was a sham. Then he turned around and gave Victoria the wedding of the century. Everyone thought she was Mrs. Price. I was just the crazy woman locked away in a hospital, dependent on drugs to survive. The agonizing memories flashed through my mind, one after another. Samuel leaned down and gently kissed the tears from my eyes. “Amelia, I’m so sorry you have to remember all of that.” “But it’s in the past. We can start over now. Okay?” Just then, Victoria stirred. She saw Samuel holding me, and a flash of hatred crossed her face. Then, she threw herself at my feet, sobbing. “Sister, please, for the sake of our childhood, you have to forgive me!” “Samuel and I talked. This was the last time. We’re done.” “You two can be happy together. Don’t worry about me. Just… just pretend I’m dead!” I sneered. “Then why don’t you go die?” Samuel pulled her to her feet and roared at me. “That’s enough! Vicky has been through hell with her own husband. I was just comforting her. Don’t you dare push your luck!” “If it weren’t for her, you would have died years ago! What’s the big deal about giving her one child?” He was right. When I was five, I was diagnosed with a rare blood disease. My father found Victoria in an orphanage and adopted her so she could be my bone marrow donor. She saved my life. A debt of life should be repaid. But our family raised her for eighteen years. My father treated her like his own flesh and blood, showering her with affection and even giving her half of the family inheritance. But she knew about my father’s weak heart. She knew any shock could kill him. And she brought Samuel into our home and had sex with him anyway. She was my mortal enemy. I wanted to see her suffer. Victoria grabbed my hand again. “Amelia, I’m sorry. I’ll do anything, just please forgive me.” A wave of pure hatred washed over me. I seized her by the hair and slammed her head against the wall. “Then die,” I hissed. “Die, and then I’ll forgive you.” Samuel rushed over and threw me to the ground. “Amelia, are you insane? That’s your sister!” Victoria continued her act, weeping pitifully. She took the baby from the nanny and held him out to me. “Sister, this is my son with Samuel.” “I’m putting him under your name on the birth certificate. Consider it my apology.” She leaned in close, her voice a venomous whisper only I could hear. “Oh, and I forgot to tell you. Samuel was worried you might have another child of your own one day and mistreat my precious baby.” “So while you were unconscious, he had you sterilized.” “You’ll never be a mother, Amelia. Everything you have now will belong to my son. Doesn’t that just eat you alive?” “Get away from me!” I screamed, shoving her away. The baby let out a piercing wail. Victoria immediately started crying. “Sister, I know you’re angry, but take it out on me! The baby is so small, why would you pinch him?!” Before she even finished the sentence, a hand cracked across my face. “You venomous bitch,” Samuel spat, his eyes blazing. “You’d even harm a newborn?” “If I had known you were this vile, I would have locked you in that hospital and thrown away the key!” He gathered Victoria and the baby into his arms and delivered his cold command. “Drag her to the basement. Don’t let her out until I say so.” He knew. He knew I’d had severe claustrophobia since I was a child, that I was terrified of the dark. But he let them drag me away, ignoring my desperate, broken sobs as he locked the door, sealing me in the darkness. That night, I cried until I had no tears left. I watched the video my father had left behind, over and over again. And a plan, a seed of pure vengeance, began to grow in my mind. At dawn, Samuel came down with a bowl of porridge. He looked exhausted. “I was wrong yesterday,” he said. “But you shouldn’t have hit Vicky.” “She did nothing wrong. It was all my fault.” “Tomorrow is the baby’s christening. I want you to be there.” “I’ve broken things off with her. From now on, things will be good between us. Please, stop fighting, okay?” I clutched my phone. Tomorrow? Good. At the christening, I will give you and Victoria a surprise you’ll never forget.

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My arranged marriage husband suddenly lost his memory. Every ounce of his past obsession and ruthless pursuit of me vanished from his mind. Now, he looks at me like I am a total stranger. Furious, I slapped divorce papers onto his desk. Then, I packed my bags and dragged my best friend on a singles cruise to let loose. But on the night of the party, a tall figure stepped out of the shadows, backing me into a corner. In a tone that left zero room for argument, he whispered. Isla, there is no divorce in this marriage. Only widowhood. 1 When I rushed into the hospital corridor, Victor’s assistant was already waiting by the door. I practically jumped out of the elevator, my voice laced with a frantic edge I didn’t even recognize. “How is he? Is it serious?” Simon offered a brief glance, his tone as steady and practiced as ever. “Please do not worry, Mrs. Sinclair. Mr. Sinclair is fine physically, but…” “But what?” “He forgot a few things.” Pushing open the heavy door, I saw Victor sitting up in the hospital bed. He turned his head at the sound of my entrance. A square of white gauze covered his temple, and a few shallow scrapes marred his sharp jawline. He lifted his heavy eyelids. His gaze washed over me, perfectly calm and terrifyingly cold. I froze in my tracks. Victor Sinclair had never looked at me like that. Whenever his eyes found mine, he looked like a starving wolf locking onto its prey, burning with an intense, suffocating possessiveness. This was the first time I had ever seen such absolute indifference in his expression. That was the exact moment I realized I was part of the “few things” he had forgotten. The neurologist explained that Victor’s amnesia was a result of the trauma to his head during the car crash. It was fragmented memory loss. It would not affect his daily routine or his ability to run his corporate empire. However, the recovery timeline was entirely unpredictable. It could take days, months, or years. He might never remember. And in a twist of cruel irony, every single memory of me had been completely wiped clean. When I stepped back into the private suite, Victor was alone, casually leaning against the pillows while flipping through a stack of legal documents. I took a hesitant step closer. “The doctor said they need to keep you for a few days of observation. If you need anything from home, I can bring it by.” Victor studied me in silence for a long moment before asking a question. “Are we happily married?” I looked down, pouring a glass of water from the pitcher. “It is terrible.” The room plunged into a deafening silence. “Why is it terrible?” His face remained expressionless, asking the question with the genuine curiosity of a man who truly did not know the answer. A sudden, inexplicable spike of irritation flared in my chest. I set the water glass down onto the bedside table with a sharp thud. “A forced match is never sweet.” Victor held my gaze, one dark eyebrow slowly arching upward. “How fortunate. I despise sweet things.” 2 I almost forgot. Delivering the most shameless remarks with an utterly straight face had always been Victor’s greatest talent. Back then, the Sinclair Enterprise’s sole condition for bailing out my family’s failing gallery was my hand in marriage. Even knowing I was deeply in love with my boyfriend, he refused to back down an inch. “Leave him. I am a much better fit for you.” Victor and I were virtually strangers. As the youngest heir and ruthless CEO of his family’s empire, he was notoriously unpredictable and fiercely guarded. I had only seen him once from a distance at a charity gala. We had never even shared a conversation. “With your wealth and status, you could have anyone you want. Why force a woman who does not love you?” He had leaned back in his leather chair, staring at me until a slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. “That sounds like a personal problem, Miss Isla. Am I truly that impossible to love?” He played the perfect gentleman that day. When I rejected him, he did not lose his temper. He even put on a flawless mask of understanding, claiming he respected my choice. It wasn’t until our family’s debt spiraled out of control, and not a single bank in Boston dared to offer us a loan, that I understood the reality. Victor held the city in his palm. The moment he extended an olive branch to my family, he silently banned anyone else from stepping in. He made it look like I had a choice, but he systematically burned down every other bridge until his path was the only one left. I had no choice but to surrender. The day I broke up with my boyfriend, the rain was pouring in sheets. I sat in the passenger seat of Victor’s Maybach, sobbing until my chest ached. Victor lowered his dark eyes, patiently using his expensive silk handkerchief to wipe the muddy water off my bare calves. “There is actually another way you can be with him.” “After we get married, you can slip a slow acting poison into my morning coffee. Once I am dead, your lovely boyfriend can take my place.” His tone was thick with dark humor, but his eyes were completely serious. For a terrifying second, I couldn’t tell if he was joking. I just stared at him, paralyzed. Then, a low chuckle rumbled in his chest, genuine amusement dancing in his eyes. “You really want to kill me, don’t you?” “I suppose I would allow it.” I glared at him through my tears. “You are despicable.” The smile never left his face. He simply reached over, intertwining his long fingers with mine, completely ignoring my resistance. He looked incredibly satisfied. “You can think whatever you want about me. It does not matter.” “All that matters, Isla, is that you are going to be my wife.” Victor leaned back against the hospital pillows, that exact same half smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It was the exact same arrogant smirk from three years ago. I took a deep breath, swallowing down the curse words burning on my tongue. I could not yell at him. The man literally had brain damage. Grabbing my designer tote, I turned to leave, nearly colliding with Simon as he walked in. He held out a sleek, rectangular velvet box. “Mrs. Sinclair, Mr. Sinclair asked me to bring this for you.” Inside rested a vintage Italian sable watercolor brush. I had lingered on a picture of it in an art magazine for maybe two extra seconds last week. It was always like this. Whenever I showed the slightest flicker of interest in something, it miraculously appeared in my hands a few days later. I cast a sideways glance at the man in the bed. He was deeply engrossed in his paperwork, acting as if the entire exchange had nothing to do with him. That familiar, suffocating knot tightened in my throat again. I tossed the velvet box onto the edge of his mattress. “I do not accept gifts from strangers.” 3 The sky outside the studio window slowly bled into a bruised purple. I had been sitting at my easel all afternoon, ruining sketch after sketch. My mind was an absolute mess. Victor losing his memory should have felt like a massive victory. But instead, a heavy, suffocating weight pressed down on my chest. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t pity. It was a bizarre, irrational wave of anger. It felt like… I actually cared that he had forgotten me. When he asked about our marriage today, my answer wasn’t entirely a lie. In the beginning, it truly was terrible. For the first two months of our marriage, I refused to eat at the same table as him. I treated him like a ghost haunting my own house. Even when I caught a horrific fever in the middle of the night, and he scooped me out of bed to force medicine down my throat, I just slapped him across the face. He didn’t even flinch. He just took the hit, his expression completely blank, and muttered, “You have no strength left. Take the pills, then you can hit me again.” Victor seemed to possess an infinite threshold for my anger. And somewhere along the way, my bitter resentment slowly morphed into a quiet, reluctant reliance. When exactly did the shift happen? I couldn’t pinpoint the exact day. Maybe it was the night of that corporate gala, when he introduced me to his ruthless business partners as “Isla, the brilliant artist,” rather than “Mrs. Sinclair.” Maybe it was during the Autumn Art Expo, when a rival gallery intentionally moved my pieces to a dark, hidden corner. Victor canceled a multi million dollar board meeting just to show up and tear the organizers apart. Or maybe it was the time I went on a mountain retreat to paint and got caught in a massive mudslide. The roads collapsed, the bridges washed out, and he walked five miles through a torrential downpour just to find me. Three years. He moved into my life like water, silently seeping into every single crack and crevice. By the time I finally noticed, he was everywhere. But now, he had wiped the slate clean. We were right back at square one. I sat in the dark for a few more minutes before throwing my brushes into the sink and grabbing my coat. The crisp night air hit my face, carrying the sweet scent of blooming jasmine. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a familiar black luxury car idling near the curb. I froze. Simon quickly stepped out and opened the rear door for me. And there, sitting in the leather backseat instead of a hospital bed, was Victor. “What are you doing here?” The white gauze was still taped to his temple, though his color looked much better. “I was on my way.” I didn’t even have the energy to roll my eyes. “This road leads to a dead end. Where exactly were you heading?” Victor let out a low chuckle. “Who said it leads to nowhere? It led me straight to you, didn’t it?” I ignored his smooth talking and slid into the seat next to him. The amber glow of the streetlights flickered across the tinted windows, illuminating the sharp angles of his face in flashes. “What do you want for dinner?” I turned my head to stare out the window. “I am not hungry.” Victor gave a soft laugh. “Are you not hungry, or do you just not want to eat with me?” I couldn’t stop myself from shooting him a deadly glare. His eyes only crinkled with deeper amusement. “Well, that is a shame, because I really want to eat with you.” “You are just going to have to suffer through it.” Even with his memories completely wiped, his ability to get under my skin remained absolutely flawless. 4 The Maybach pulled up to an exclusive French bistro downtown. The hostess guided us to a private booth by the floor to ceiling windows. While we waited for our appetizers, we sat in total silence. The only sound was the soft, melancholic melody drifting from the grand piano in the center of the room. Victor studied my face for a long time before casually tilting his head. “Were our dinners always this quiet?” “I don’t remember.” “Have we eaten here before?” “I have no idea.” “Do we go out on dates often?” “I couldn’t tell you.” Victor let out a quiet sigh. “Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe I am the one with amnesia.” That single sentence acted like a match to gasoline. I fell silent for a heavy second before flipping my phone face down onto the marble table. “And? Do you want a medal for forgetting?” Victor clearly didn’t expect the raw hostility in my voice. His playful demeanor vanished, replaced by a serious intensity. “Isla, that is not what I meant.” “I don’t care what you meant.” “Victor, I am not obligated to tutor you on our past. If you want to remember, figure it out yourself. If you can’t, then just let it go.” The rest of the meal tasted like cardboard. I set down my silverware and pushed my chair back. “I am going to the restroom.” The restrooms were tucked away at the back of the restaurant, past a dimly lit corridor lined with towering monstera plants. I kept my head down as I washed my hands, the cold water splashing against my skin. I didn’t notice the quiet footsteps approaching until a tall figure stepped up beside me. He didn’t turn on the faucet. I instinctively glanced up, meeting a pair of eyes in the mirror that were both deeply familiar and completely foreign. He was dressed in a tailored, expensive suit, radiating a quiet, refined maturity. He looked absolutely nothing like the struggling, broke college student I used to know. “Isla?” The unexpected reunion clearly caught Oliver off guard. His voice wavered with a hint of disbelief. I hadn’t expected to run into him here either. After he left me three years ago, we cut all contact. I only heard through mutual friends that he had moved to Europe. “It has been a long time, Oliver.” “A very long time.” Oliver pressed his lips together. He looked like a man drowning in a thousand unspoken words. His gaze eventually drifted down, landing heavily on the diamond ring flashing on my left hand. He swallowed hard. “Have you… been doing well these past few years?” I offered a polite, distant smile and tossed my paper towel into the trash bin. “I have been great.” “That is good.” After those three words, the air between us completely died. I noticed a cigarette pinched between his fingers. He kept twirling it nervously, making no move to light it. “I should get back to my table.” Oliver blinked, snapping out of his daze, and nodded quickly. “Right. Take care.” When I returned to the booth, Victor was leaning back in his chair, slowly swirling the ice water in his crystal glass. Seeing me approach, he set the glass down, his dark eyes locking onto my face for a split second. He asked the question entirely too casually. “What took you so long?” “There was a line.” “Do you want to order dessert?” “No, I am full. Let’s go home.” He didn’t press the issue. He simply stood up, wrapped his warm hand around mine, and led me toward the exit. Deep in the shadows of the corridor we had just left, a solitary figure leaned against the textured wallpaper. A tiny spark flared in the dark as the cigarette finally ignited, the cherry glowing dull red through the leaves of the monstera plant. 5 The Boston Autumn Art Salon was the biggest event of the year, and I was honored to be featured among the invited artists. Usually, Victor would be hovering right over my shoulder at these events, but today, he was nowhere to be found. Halfway through the exhibition, the gallery curator approached me, whispering that a VIP collector was extremely interested in one of my pieces and requested a private chat. When I stepped into the viewing area, I immediately recognized the broad shoulders facing my canvas. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit, a Patek Philippe watch gleaming subtly on his wrist. He looked like the epitome of low key wealth. Hearing my footsteps, Oliver turned around, a soft, nostalgic smile playing on his lips. “We meet again.” We both turned our attention back to the canvas. It was an oil painting of an old, ivy covered gazebo on our college campus. I had painted it six months ago, right after being invited back to the university to give an alumni speech. Oliver’s eyes softened completely. “The rain was pouring so hard that day. I still remember your canvas shoes were completely soaked.” The memory hit me instantly. That gazebo was the exact spot where Oliver and I had first crossed paths. We had both sprinted under the wooden roof to escape a sudden thunderstorm. It was an impossibly cliché, ridiculously perfect coincidence. I stayed quiet for a long moment before offering a tight, polite smile. “That is all in the past now.” Oliver looked down at me, the corners of his mouth curving upward. “Is it in the past? Because I remember every single detail.” He knew exactly when to pull back. He dropped the heavy nostalgia and seamlessly transitioned into a professional discussion about purchasing the artwork. We had only exchanged a few sentences about pricing when a chilling voice drifted from behind us. “Isla.”

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1 Two hours ago, Josh was still wearing a frayed cotton t-shirt. He kissed my forehead, wearing a perfectly guilty look. “Babe, sorry—I have to work a shift at the site today, even on my birthday,” he whispered. “When I get paid, I’ll take you to a nice dinner,” he added with a tense smile. For his birthday, I’d spent six months of savings on the drone he’d always wanted. I took a bus to the suburbs to test it and film a birthday surprise. The drone rose, and the live feed showed a stunning multimillion-dollar mansion. Its backyard was set for a luxurious birthday party. A little boy ran and hugged a man tightly, shouting, “Daddy!” The man lifted the boy with adoration, kissing his cheek. Beside them, a woman in silk adjusted the man’s expensive tie. They shared a slow, intimate kiss. The perfect family looked like a movie scene. But miles away, sitting in the grass, I stared at the screen, feeling thrown into ice. Through the clear lens, the man’s profile was unmistakable. It was my husband, Josh. … I gripped the controller so hard my knuckles turned white. A massive, suffocating wave of absurdity crashed over me. My hands shook violently as I dialed Josh’s number. On the live feed, the man who had just been smiling like a loving father felt his pocket vibrate. His expression immediately shifted. He quickly walked behind a massive marble pillar on the patio, making absolutely sure the mother and son could not see him before pulling out his phone. “Hey baby, why are you calling me right now?” Through the speaker, he intentionally breathed heavily, making his voice sound exhausted and out of breath. I stared right at his relaxed, completely composed face on my screen. I bit down on my tongue so hard I tasted copper, forcing myself to stay calm. “Honey, it is your birthday today. Do you want me to bring you some food?” “No! Please don’t!” His tone grew urgent, dripping with fake, desperate apology. “The site manager is breathing down my neck. We are unloading cement right now. The dust is terrible, and I do not want you breathing it in. We will just have to skip my birthday this year. I am so sorry, babe.” On the screen, he was casually leaning against a cold marble pillar, lazily loosening the collar of his spotless, custom tailored suit. The second I hung up the phone, a heavy tear smashed onto my screen. Seven years of bleeding myself dry for this man had just morphed into a vicious slap across the face, shattering every single illusion I had ever built. I took a deep breath and pushed the joystick. The drone silently glided closer. I tapped the capture button, snapping crystal clear photos of the villa’s address plaque, the license plate of the Porsche parked in the driveway, and a front facing shot of the woman. After recalling the drone, I took another shaky breath and immediately sent the three photos to Riley, an old college friend who now worked in high-end real estate. I need you to look up the owner of this house and this car. It is an emergency. Less than five minutes later, Riley called me back. Her voice was thick with barely contained gossip. “Sienna, why are you digging into this? This is literally the most exclusive neighborhood in the city. Riverside Estates, Villa Eight. That is the marital home of Genevieve Kensington, the heiress to the Kensington Empire. The car is registered under her name too.” My hands and feet were freezing. My voice came out like cracked glass. “And her husband… what is his name?” “The heir to the Roth Group! Josh Roth!” Riley clicked her tongue through the speaker. “They had a massive corporate merger masquerading as a wedding five years ago. It was on the front page of every magazine. Hang on, I will send you a screenshot of the article right now.” My phone buzzed. A news clipping popped up on my screen. The bold headline read: Roth and Kensington Empires Unite. Josh Roth Spends Millions to Marry Genevieve Kensington. In the attached photo, the man wearing a bespoke tuxedo, smiling with aristocratic grace, was none other than the “broke” husband who ate cheap ramen with me in our tiny apartment every single night. I stared unblinkingly at the screen. The entire world started spinning. The heir to the Roth Group? Five years ago, he fell to his knees in front of me, covered in fake blood. He told me he made a catastrophic mistake at the construction site and destroyed a highly sensitive piece of equipment. He said if he did not pay them three hundred thousand dollars, he would rot in prison. To save him, I didn’t hesitate. I sold the only thing my dead parents left me, my childhood home, at a massive loss just to get him the cash. For the last seven years, he only gave me three hundred dollars a month for groceries. I was too terrified to even go to a doctor when I was sick. I worked three brutal jobs, burning my youth away to help him pay off a debt that never existed. He was never poor. He was a filthy rich heir playing a sick game. 2 I walked back into that claustrophobic, sunless, four hundred square foot apartment. I completely emptied the bottom drawer of my dresser to find our marriage certificate. I remembered the day we met seven years ago. He was just a “broke” college student working three jobs. But when I fell violently ill, he spent his last ten dollars to buy me fever medicine. I truly believed I had found the most genuine man on earth. I ate thousands of meals of plain pasta with him, believing I was supporting a struggling entrepreneur. I had no idea I was just a prop in his little game of house. I had cherished this little red booklet like a holy relic. I snapped a photo of the inside page and texted it to a friend who worked as a lawyer. Is this marriage license legally binding? The reply popped up in seconds. Your name is not in the system. This certificate is completely fake. It is the kind you buy off the street for twenty bucks. Those few words twisted in my chest like a rusted blade. Fake. I remembered the day we “signed” it. He was supposedly flat broke. He slipped the pull tab of an aluminum soda can onto my ring finger. With tears in his eyes, he swore to me. “Babe, I know you are suffering now. But one day, even if it kills me, I am going to make you the most envied Mrs. Roth in the entire world!” I was a sobbing mess back then. I thought that as long as we had love, this rotting apartment felt like a palace. For the last seven years, I worked three jobs a day for him. I ate boiled cabbage. I completely destroyed my physical health. From the very beginning, I was nothing but an illegal, non existent mistress. At eleven o’clock that night, the front door rattled. Josh walked in, wearing his dusty, cheap clothes. He even had realistic looking white drywall dust smeared on his pant legs. He was holding a tiny, five dollar grocery store cupcake. “Babe, I am home. The foreman absolutely refused to let me leave early. I am so sorry I put you through this life.” He walked toward me, his face painted with pure sorrow, opening his arms for a hug. Smelling the artificial dust he had deliberately rubbed on himself, I took a quiet half step back. I turned around, pulled the heavy box containing the DJI drone from the cabinet, and handed it to him. Josh froze. His eyes instantly welled up with tears. He grabbed my hands, his voice thick with emotion. “Babe, how much did this cost? We are still trying to save for a house down payment. You barely even eat meat to save pennies… Return it. I don’t deserve something this nice.” His acting was flawless. The guilt in his eyes was perfectly calibrated. But a split second later, without even opening the box to look at the drone, he casually tossed it onto the corner of our junk filled sofa. Of course he didn’t care. Why would a man who drove a Porsche to a luxury villa give a damn about a cheap, entry level toy? “I am going to take a shower. I am filthy.” He wiped a hand over his face and turned into our cramped bathroom. The shower water started running. My face was completely blank. I walked over to the table and picked up his backup phone, the one with the cracked screen. He guarded his passwords like his life depended on it, but I didn’t even try to unlock it. I woke the screen up and swiped right, pulling up the widget menu that didn’t require a passcode. The built-in health app displayed his step count for the day. 2105 steps. A manual laborer who spent the entire afternoon hauling cement only walked two thousand steps? I let out a cold laugh. My finger swiped further down, opening the smart travel widget cache. A navigation route that ended exactly two hours ago glared brightly on the screen. Destination: Riverside Estates, Villa Eight. From inside the bathroom, I could hear Josh happily humming a pop song over the running water. He was clearly in a fantastic mood. 3 The next morning, I put on a faded uniform and knocked on the grand front doors of Villa Eight in Riverside Estates, posing as a temp cleaner. The local domestic workers group chat had mentioned this house was desperately hiring extra hands for an upcoming fifth wedding anniversary party. With years of part time cleaning experience under my belt, I blended in perfectly. Genevieve had zero arrogance. When she saw me wiping down the jewelry cabinet in the master bedroom, she actually smiled and handed me a bottle of cold water. “Excuse me, could you please place that sapphire necklace back into the safe? I don’t want it gathering dust.” She looked at the blindingly bright necklace, her eyes softening with absolute adoration. “Three years ago, I had a massive hemorrhage after giving birth. My husband was terrified. He canceled a multi million dollar contract and stayed awake by my bed for half a month straight. He bought me this necklace as a blessing for my health.” Hearing the timeline of three years ago, the rag in my hand froze. My fingertips turned to ice. Three years ago, my appendix ruptured. I rolled around on the floor of our apartment, screaming in agony. Josh rushed me to the emergency room. He paid for the absolute cheapest bed available in the hallway. Right after, he answered his phone, sweating profusely. He held my hand, his eyes completely bloodshot. “Babe, the foreman says I have to lead the crew on this job, but he is offering double pay. I am going to grind for two weeks straight. When I get back, I will buy you all the meat you want to help you recover.” For those next two weeks, I dragged my unhealed, bleeding stitches out of bed to fetch my own hot water, crying from the sheer pain. But my heart ached entirely for him, thinking about him burning in the hot sun on a construction site. He was never hauling bricks. He was sitting in this perfectly air conditioned mansion, holding someone else’s hand, playing the deeply devoted husband. I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted hot blood, forcing a dry, hollow smile onto my face. “Your husband… is very generous to you.” Genevieve laughed softly, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. “Actually, he is incredibly frugal with himself. Aside from the fifteen thousand dollars he transfers to my account every month for household expenses, he refuses to even buy himself a nice watch. He always says having me is enough.” Fifteen thousand dollars a month. I stared blankly at that blinding sapphire necklace, feeling like a thousand arrows had just impaled my chest. On the first of every single month, Josh would transfer exactly three hundred dollars to my phone for living expenses. He would always say it with such deep affection. “Babe, I know it is hard, but please budget carefully. I am putting the rest of my wages into a locked savings account for our future house. Once we get through these tough years, we will never have to live in this dump again.” To make those three hundred dollars stretch, I ignored my illnesses. I never bought new clothes. I intentionally dug through the bruised, expired vegetables at the farmer’s market just to save cents. It was hilarious. The future I had sacrificed half my life to save for was nothing but the loose change he dropped while transferring thousands to this woman. After Genevieve walked downstairs to take a phone call, I swallowed the tears burning in my eyes and pushed open the door to the study. On the massive mahogany desk sat a professional portrait of their family of three. Josh was wearing a bespoke suit. His smile was refined and considerate. There was absolutely no trace of the pathetic, humble poor man he played in our apartment. And resting inside a half open drawer was a flash of bright crimson. My hands violently shook as I pulled the drawer open. Inside were two gold embossed marriage certificates. I flipped the cover open. The embossed steel seal was crystal clear. The red stamp from the civil affairs bureau was authentic. The names were written in black ink. Josh Roth and Genevieve Kensington. Date of registration: five years ago. So this is what a real marriage certificate looked like. I pulled out my phone and took high resolution photos of the family portrait and the real marriage license. When my phone screen went dark, the black glass reflected my own face. A body completely drained, withered, and yellowed by seven years of brutal poverty. I looked like a walking, talking joke. 4 Three days later, Josh’s fifth wedding anniversary party was held at a premier luxury estate on the outskirts of the city. At six in the morning, wearing his frayed t-shirt, he kissed my cheek. “Babe, I am heading to the site. Do not wait up for me for dinner tonight.” I looked at his disgusting, hypocritical face and smiled, handing him a bowl of cheap, plain noodles. “Okay. Be safe out there.” The second he walked out the door, I grabbed my coat and followed him. I watched with my own two eyes as he walked into the dark, second level basement of our apartment complex. He sneakily climbed into the backseat of a dust covered, beat up minivan. A few minutes later, the man who stepped out of that van had miraculously transformed. He was now President Roth, dressed in impeccable tailoring with perfectly styled hair. At eight o’clock that night, I stood at the entrance of the estate’s magnificent banquet hall. The room was filled with the scent of expensive perfume and the soft, elegant melody of live violins. Josh had changed into a custom Armani suit. Not a single hair was out of place. A fifty thousand dollar watch rested on his wrist. He was standing by a massive champagne tower, looking at Genevieve with profound, undeniable devotion. “These past five years, Genevieve has been the absolute light of my life. Without her, I would not be the man I am today.” He raised his crystal flute, delivering a flawless romantic confession. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause, showering the perfect billionaire couple with praise. I let out a cold laugh and walked straight into the room. I was wearing my cheap, mass produced windbreaker and faded jeans. The soles of my shoes were still stained with the muddy water from outside my apartment building. I wore zero makeup. In this room full of diamonds and silk, I looked like a feral animal crashing a royal ball. The loud, chaotic chatter of the hall instantly died. Every single pair of eyes locked onto me like I was a freak of nature. On the stage, Josh’s gaze swept over the crowd. The exact second he recognized my face, his perfect smile froze. All the blood drained from his cheeks. He instinctively took a massive step backward. His hand jerked so violently that champagne splashed all over his expensive lapel. “Where did this crazy woman come from!” Josh pointed a shaking finger at me, screaming into a nearby security radio with absolute panic. “Where is security! What am I paying you for! Drag this lunatic out of here!” Several men in sharp security uniforms immediately rushed toward me, reaching out to grab my arms. I didn’t try to run. Instead, I casually grabbed a heavy bottle of red wine from the nearest table and smashed it directly into the towering glass champagne pyramid. The deafening sound of shattering crystal echoed through the silent hall. Dark red wine bled into the pristine white carpet like fresh blood. The security guards were completely paralyzed by my sudden violence. They stopped in their tracks. The little three year old boy burst into terrified tears. He ran over and hugged Josh’s leg tightly, crying out for his daddy. Looking at that kid’s face, which shared a striking resemblance to Josh’s, I remembered the baby I had miscarried years ago from hauling heavy boxes at my second job. The hatred burning in my chest turned into an inferno. Genevieve furrowed her brows. She pushed past the frozen guards and walked right up to me. She was clearly unhappy, but her wealthy upbringing kept her tone relatively polite. “Miss, I believe you have the wrong venue. This is a private event.” “I am exactly where I need to be, Genevieve.” I looked right past her, locking my eyes entirely on the trembling man on the stage. I unzipped my cheap windbreaker, reached into my inner pocket, and pulled out a thick stack of photos along with that pathetic red booklet. I slammed them violently onto the nearest dining table. They were photos of us crammed into our four hundred square foot apartment, right next to the fake marriage certificate he had bought for me. “The man standing on that stage, the one who just swore he only loved you for his entire life, ate a bowl of plain boiled noodles I cooked for him just this morning!” My voice was shaking, but every word struck like a hammer. “I know he has a birthmark the size of a quarter on his lower left back! And this morning, I watched him crawl into a broken down minivan in my apartment’s basement, take off his dirty t-shirt, and change into the exact suit he is wearing right now!” The entire banquet hall was dead silent. You could clearly hear the sharp gasps of the wealthy guests. Genevieve whipped her head around, staring at Josh in absolute disbelief. Josh was shaking uncontrollably. Cold sweat rolled down his forehead, dripping onto the floor. His lips trembled, but he couldn’t force a single syllable out of his throat. Looking at him standing there like a pathetic, cornered rat, I felt an incredibly satisfying, yet deeply tragic rush of adrenaline. My eyes burned hot with tears. I took a massive step forward, staring right into his terrified eyes, and asked the question slowly, word by word. “Honey, you clearly married me seven years ago. So what exactly is this fifth anniversary you are celebrating today?!”

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Fiona, a friend of my mother’s, had run out of options. Fleeing a marriage filled with infidelity and domestic abuse, she brought her daughter to our estate to seek refuge. My mother had originally planned a romantic candlelight dinner with my father. To keep Fiona company and offer her comfort, my mother canceled those plans. My father was furious. He gave my mother the silent treatment for weeks. Fiona, playing the part of the perfect, unobtrusive guest, volunteered to stay in the smallest guest room on the ground floor, the only one without an en-suite bathroom. Because of this, she always waited until the dead of night to shower. One night, she stepped out of the communal bathroom just as my father returned late from the office. She was completely naked. Letting out a startled gasp, she covered herself and sprinted back to her room. My father didn’t say a word. A few days later, he returned from a business trip. Along with a bottle of imported perfume for my mother, he casually handed Fiona a designer lipstick. My mother just smiled, remarking on how generous and open-minded my father had become. That fleeting happiness didn’t last. Three months later, on the exact date of my parents’ wedding anniversary, my mother suffered a massive psychological break. She ended her own life. 01 My mother, Eleanor, was never a picky woman, but if there was one thing she despised with every fiber of her being, it was fennel. My father, Charlie Valmont, loved my mother. For years, fennel was practically banned from the Valmont estate simply because the smell made her nauseous. Yet, a month before her death, my father suddenly developed a massive craving for roasted beef with fennel. Eager to please him, my mother ordered bags of the stuff on their anniversary. She was going to cook him a feast. Fiona stood in the kitchen, offering a sickly sweet smile as she praised my mother for finally catching on to what a man truly wanted. I was only seven at the time. My memories from back then are hazy in places, but I was always more observant than my mother. I vaguely remember one undeniable fact. Fiona’s favorite dish in the world was roasted beef with fennel. When I pointed this out to my mother, she just stroked my cheek with a gentle hand. She told me I was such a thoughtful little girl, Serena, and that she would make sure to leave a large portion just for Auntie Fiona. My mother was hopelessly oblivious. Since the day she married my father, she was kept like a prized canary in a gilded cage. She never lifted a finger, spending her days shopping, traveling, and floating through life. She never cared about my report cards. Whenever she picked me up from school, she would be dressed to the nines, only asking if I had fun that day. When I handed her a test with a perfect score, pouting because she didn’t seem to care, she would just pull me into a tight hug and promise to take me out for ice cream. Her hugs always smelled like expensive vanilla. They were warm. Safe. After she died, I would squeeze my eyes shut, desperately trying to recall the warmth of her embrace. But all I could smell was the lingering, pungent stench of fennel coming from the kitchen. 02 My father was a capable, high-powered CEO. To the outside world, he was utterly devoted to his wife. When my mother died, he played the part of the grieving widower perfectly. At the funeral, he wept until his knees gave out, leaning on a tombstone as the cold rain fell. But a CEO is always busy. Once the tears dried, he washed his face and adjusted his tie. He had a multimillion-dollar acquisition dinner to attend that evening. Back at the sprawling estate, our head housekeeper held me as I cried. Fiona was busy hugging her own daughter, weeping softly. When Fiona finished crying, she knelt in front of me. She looked me in the eye and promised that Auntie Fiona would love me just as much as my mother did. The housekeeper glared at her, shoving her away with a protective arm. When my father returned that night, Fiona looked up at him with tear-filled, pitiful eyes. My father let out a heavy sigh, lifting a hand to brush a stray tear from her cheek. She took a step back, her voice barely a whisper. She told him they couldn’t keep making mistakes. My father’s expression darkened. He suddenly pulled her into a fierce embrace, his voice thick with authority. He asked if the living were supposed to spend the rest of their lives suffocating in guilt, insisting that she needed to stop putting everyone else first. Fiona buried her face in his chest, sobbing quietly. My father reached into his coat and pulled out a velvet-lined jewelry box. He murmured sweet nothings, telling her he had flown halfway across the country just to get this custom necklace for her. He asked if it made her happy. Fiona’s tears vanished, replaced by a radiant smile. She leaned up and kissed my father squarely on the lips. 03 Four months after my mother’s death, Fiona officially moved into the master bedroom. Her stomach was already showing a slight bump. At their intimate, lavish wedding, her smile outshone the diamond on her finger. When reading his vows, my father actually teared up. I heard the guests whispering. They said Fiona wasn’t a brainless trophy wife like Eleanor. They called her Charlie’s right-hand woman. Everyone agreed she was a force to be reckoned with. And just like that, she entered the Valmont family, carrying the male heir my father always wanted. Her daughter’s last name was legally changed. Little Lily was now the eldest young lady of the Valmont household. Without making a sound, Fiona systematically erased every trace of my mother. The clothes, the photos, the vanilla scented candles. All gone. I was too young to grasp the twisted games of adults. I only knew my mother was gone, and my chest physically ached from missing her. One night, unable to sleep, I sat at the top of the grand staircase, rolling my collection of glass marbles back and forth. They slipped from my fingers, scattering across the carpeted hallway and cascading down the polished wooden steps. The next morning, Fiona woke up early for her usual pregnancy stroll. She didn’t look down. Her foot caught a marble. She let out a blood-curdling scream as she tumbled down the entire flight of stairs. Fiona lost the baby. The doctors said she would never be able to conceive again. My father found me in the hallway. His eyes were bloodshot. He backhanded me so hard I tasted copper, pointing a trembling finger at my face. He screamed at me to go to hell and apologize to my unborn brother. I was terrified. I broke down sobbing, choking on my tears as I told him I just missed my mommy, and that mommy used to play marbles with me. The mention of her name acted like ice water. My father froze. Tears spilled from his eyes as he turned away, slamming his fist into the expensive wallpaper over and over again. 04 My father decided to ship me off to a boarding school in Europe. My grandmother was furious. She demanded to know how he could exile his own flesh and blood across the ocean at such a young age. My father’s voice was like frost. He told her that my very presence in the house was a trigger for Fiona’s trauma. He assured her I would have a trust fund and nannies, and that he had done his duty as a father. Grandmother just sighed, defeated. Lily had been eavesdropping. She trotted over, wrapping her little arms around my father’s leg. With a sugary sweet voice, she told him not to cry. She promised that even though the baby brother was gone, he still had his Lily. My father’s eyes softened. He patted her head, praising her for being such a good girl. He told her to start calling him Dad. I was outside in the courtyard, blindly kicking a soccer ball against the brick wall. The boy from the neighboring estate, Tristan Sinclair, hopped the wrought-iron fence. He walked up to me and held out a sparkling set of hair clips. He noticed that I hadn’t changed my hair accessories in days. He remembered that when Auntie Eleanor was around, I had a different ribbon for every day of the week. I pushed his hand away. I told him I didn’t want them because I couldn’t pay him back. He told me he didn’t care about being paid back. I still refused. When he asked why, I bit my lip and looked at my shoes. I told him I was being sent away, and that I was never coming back. Tristan stared at the grass for a long time. Then, he looked me dead in the eye and swore he was coming with me. He was a boy of his word. I have no idea what kind of war he waged with his wealthy parents, but a month later, he was on the same flight to London. Before we left, Lily cornered him in the driveway. Playing the polite, concerned angel, she warned him not to go. She called me a psycho who murdered her baby brother, asking if Tristan wanted to be the bad guy too. Tristan literally spat at her feet. He told her that her mother moved in with a fat belly while my mom’s grave was still fresh, and that they were the real monsters. Lily’s face turned beetroot red. 05 Tristan and I grew up in London together. Middle school, high school, and eventually university. He never left my side. One lazy afternoon, while he was watching me sketch in my studio, his phone buzzed. He took the call out in the hall. When he came back, he wouldn’t meet my eyes. He mumbled some excuse about a buddy needing a massive favor and said he had to leave. I gave him a perfectly understanding smile and told him to go do what he had to do. Later that evening, Lily’s Instagram feed, which she had blocked me from seeing for years, suddenly became public. There was a fresh post. The caption read: Received a runner-up prize for my painting and cried all night. Dad canceled all his meetings and flew out with Mom just to cheer me up! I’m the luckiest girl in the world! Attached was a photo of Lily, Fiona, and my father. A picture-perfect family standing in front of Big Ben. Lily was sticking her tongue out playfully while my father looked at her with pure adoration. I picked up my phone and dialed his number. Keeping my tone light, I asked if he was in London. There was a dead silence on the line. Several agonizing seconds passed before he cleared his throat. He claimed he didn’t want to distract me from my art projects, so he kept it quiet. What a remarkably considerate father. The Michelin-star restaurant they were dining at was exactly two blocks away from my flat. He crossed an ocean but couldn’t cross two streets to see his own flesh and blood. 06 Tristan came back to my flat hours past midnight. He reeked of expensive scotch. He slumped into a chair, staring blankly at me as I cleaned my brushes. After an eternity, the silence broke. He told me he couldn’t stay by my side anymore. I just looked at him. He swallowed hard, confessing that he was flying back to the States with Lily. As if terrified I would scream or beg, he rushed through his speech. He apologized for breaking his promise to marry me, claiming that it would break Lily’s heart if we stayed together. The studio window had blown open at some point. The London night air seeped in. It was freezing. I walked over to latch the window. Tristan was still sitting there, waiting for the explosion. Instead, I gave him a soft smile. I simply said okay, and told him he should pack his things. He froze. He clearly hadn’t expected me to let him off the hook so easily. His brain short-circuited. He nervously asked if I was planning some kind of revenge. I shook my head, my smile never wavering. I thanked him for keeping me company all these years and wished him nothing but happiness. Tristan studied my face. Seeing no trace of malice, he finally nodded. A flicker of pity crossed his eyes as he grabbed his coat. He told me that if I ever ran into trouble, his door was always open. I said sure. And then he was gone. I quietly took the two VIP concert tickets for his favorite indie band, the ones I had waited in the rain to buy for his birthday, and tossed them in the trash. My heart rate remained perfectly steady. It was the exact same feeling I had the day I accidentally saw the secret folder on his phone, the one filled with candid photos of Lily sleeping. Like absolutely nothing had happened. 07 But things do happen. Memories don’t just vanish. I still remembered the image of Fiona slipping out of the bathroom, moonlight casting a translucent glow over her bare skin. I remembered my father staring at her, completely captivated. I remembered how he stood in the hallway for a long time before marching into my mother’s bedroom. My mother had groaned in her sleep, sleepily asking him why he was so riled up in the middle of the night. He hadn’t answered. The only sound that followed was the heavy, animalistic panting echoing through the walls. Why did I remember that night so vividly? Because earlier that day, Lily had thrown a tantrum over my favorite porcelain doll. My mother, being the peacemaker, bought her an identical one. But Lily didn’t want the new one. She wanted mine. That night, I woke up to find my doll missing. I padded down the hall to Lily’s room and saw my doll tucked under her arm. Her bedroom door was wide open. That was when Fiona stepped out of the bathroom, putting on her little show of panic before scurrying back. I was just a kid. My mother was too pure for her own good. Pure to the point of sheer stupidity. When I babbled the story to her the next morning, trying to explain what I saw, she just laughed and ruffled my hair. She said it was no big deal, and that she would just move Auntie Fiona to a room with a private bath. I stammered, insisting that Fiona hadn’t been wearing any clothes. My mother shrugged it off, assuming Fiona had just run out of body wash and didn’t bother grabbing a robe since it was late and the house was asleep. Before I could argue, my mother spun her laptop around, pointing at designer dresses. She asked which one I wanted her to order for me. She was always smiling. Her eyes would crinkle at the corners. The maids would slack off right in front of her, gossiping in the kitchen about how clueless the madam was. She had a low tolerance for pain. If she nicked her finger slicing an apple, she would make a huge fuss. The staff would roll their eyes and call her a spoiled princess. But on the day she died, those same maids cried genuine tears. She was so obsessed with looking pretty. If she had known how grotesque a body looks after death, it would have broken her heart. 08 Six months ago, Tristan took a solo trip back to the States. He attended a high-profile charity gala and ran into a very sophisticated, elegant Lily. She was no longer the annoying brat from our childhood. She had been molded by obscene wealth and unconditional love. She went to Ivy League schools, could hold her own in conversations about modern art or hedge funds, and oozed confidence. When she saw Tristan, she didn’t flinch. She simply held out a manicured hand with a dazzling smile, suggesting they reintroduce themselves. Tristan was mesmerized. During his time back home, they stayed up late talking about their dreams, their passions, their futures. Lily played the role of the ultimate empath. She told him that I was fragile, that I needed him more than she did. She urged him to fly back to London to take care of me. Tristan’s throat tightened. Under the pale moonlight, he looked into her perfectly crafted, tragically beautiful eyes. For a long time, he couldn’t speak. Eventually, he gave a slow nod. When my private investigator sent me the surveillance photos of them that night, I casually texted Tristan, asking where he was. He replied that he was just chilling at home. He lied without missing a beat. He was walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Lily under the blooming magnolias. They were soulmates crossing paths at the wrong time. Half an hour later, Lily would fall asleep against the passenger window of his sports car. And he would pull out his phone, open his camera app, and take the only portrait photo he had ever taken in his life. 09 I learned at a very young age that absolutely no one in this world is reliable. The mother who called me her everything abandoned me because she couldn’t handle her own demons. The father who used to carry me on his shoulders abandoned me for a shinier, more obedient daughter. Who was left to trust? Over the years, my father practically pretended I didn’t exist. But I was a smart girl. I played the part of the dutiful, invisible daughter. If he didn’t want to see me, I stayed out of sight. But staying out of sight still required funding. I wasn’t like my mother. I didn’t throw tantrums or cry when I was wronged. I was perfectly content with the scraps I was given. If my father couldn’t give me love, I made sure he gave me cash. The quieter and more compliant I became, the more his underlying guilt gnawed at him. By the time I graduated, my bank accounts were incredibly healthy. Shortly after Tristan moved back to the States, I booked a flight home too. I brought back carefully selected gifts. A limited-edition watch for my father, a seasonal Birkin for Fiona, and a silk Hermès scarf for Lily. And for my mother’s memorial altar in the living room, I laid down a fresh bundle of fennel. My father’s face drained of color when he saw the pungent greens. I ignored his shock, turning to him with a bright smile. I cheerfully mentioned that since mom was in heaven, her allergies were probably gone, and she should finally get to taste the dish he loved so much. At dinner that night, Lily walked in with her arm looped through Tristan’s. Tristan immediately shifted, putting himself slightly in front of her like a human shield. Lily looked at me with a perfectly calculated expression of guilt. She softly reminded me that since Tristan and I had broken up, he was free to date whoever he wanted. She asked if I was mad at her. I offered a polite nod and a warm smile. I told her of course not. To ensure they bought it, I let out a self-deprecating sigh, asking if they really thought I was that petty. A shadow passed over Lily’s eyes. Tristan looked visibly relieved, but heavily burdened with guilt. He told me he was glad I was being mature about it, adding that Lily was totally innocent in all this. I chuckled. I agreed with him, stating I never blamed her. Then, I turned to Tristan and told him I had a gift for him too. I pulled out a beautifully framed, sealed canvas and handed it to him. I told him it was the painting I promised him. Tristan’s breath hitched. I took half a step closer, lowering my voice so only he could hear. I whispered that he didn’t have to worry—I left it completely unsigned, just like he wanted. Tristan gripped the frame tightly. For some reason, he couldn’t look me in the eye. 10 After dinner, my father called me into his private study. He wanted a one-on-one. He paced the Persian rug, clearing his throat. He said that since I was back, he wanted to finalize his will. He admitted that the bulk of his shares in the Valmont Corporation rightfully belonged to me. I put on a mask of hesitation. I asked about Fiona and Lily, reminding him that Fiona had helped build the company and had been by his side for over a decade. My father frowned, waving his hand dismissively. He acknowledged Fiona’s hard work and promised they would have trust funds to keep them comfortable. But at the end of the day, he looked at me and said I was his actual blood. His eyes were filled with a sudden, overwhelming paternal warmth as he told me I was the only one he truly trusted. When I had walked into the study, I deliberately left the heavy oak door slightly ajar. Right on cue, there was the faintest clink of fine china rattling against a saucer out in the hallway. I ducked my head, hiding a smirk, and let out a reluctant sigh. I told him that if that was what he wanted, I would accept it. Men are incredibly pragmatic creatures. He could spoil Fiona and Lily rotten, showering them with diamonds and affection. But when it came to his empire, the core of his power, blood was the only currency that mattered. It was only in matters of inheritance that he suddenly remembered the daughter he had tossed aside. A gentle knock interrupted us. Fiona glided into the room, carrying a tray of chamomile tea. She looked my father dead in the eye and smiled. She announced she was pregnant. 11 My father bolted out of his leather chair. The sheer joy on his face was blinding. He rushed over, practically shoving me out of the way, and scooped Fiona into his arms. He spun her around. The aging billionaire suddenly looked like a teenager who had just won the lottery. He demanded to know why she kept such miraculous news a secret. Fiona swatted his chest playfully. She claimed the pregnancy was early and she wanted to surprise him. Then, she let her gaze drift toward me. My father caught the look. The joy in the room plummeted into an icy tension. Fiona quickly smoothed things over. She mentioned she was two months along, and with Serena back home, it was a double celebration. My father kissed her forehead, declaring that she and the baby were the only celebration that mattered. Fiona then brought up Lily. She casually mentioned that Lily had submitted a piece to a prestigious international art competition. If she won, she expected my father to give her a massive reward. My father pinched Fiona’s nose affectionately, teasing that Lily’s art was just a cute hobby and she was just playing around. Fiona pouted, demanding to know what he would give her if she actually won. My father pretended to think about it. Then, as if finally remembering I was still standing there, his tone went flat. He turned to me and ordered me to leave, saying he had private matters to discuss with his wife. As my hand touched the brass doorknob, he called out to me one last time. His voice was devoid of any of the warmth from five minutes ago. He told me to forget everything he had said about the will, blaming it on the scotch. 12 I have an internal ledger. I remember everything people say, carefully weighing the value of their words to see how I can use them. Six months ago, when Tristan was packing his bags to leave London, he stopped by the door and asked for a birthday present. He asked for one of my paintings. I had always been an introvert, bordering on socially dead. I practically lived in my studio, which used to drive Tristan crazy. He used to hate my art. He constantly complained that my canvases stole the attention that rightfully belonged to him. But on that specific day, he begged for a piece. He explicitly asked me not to sign it. He claimed he wanted to appreciate the raw art without a signature distracting from the composition. I had looked at him, flashing a bright, innocent smile, and agreed. Tristan had whipped his head away like he’d been slapped. His words carried heavy weight on my ledger. So, I kept them locked in my memory. I delivered exactly what I promised. My father’s words carried weight, too. I wouldn’t forget them. I always keep my promises to others. And I make damn sure they reap what they sow.

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I stared at the two plane tickets on my phone screen, a cold dread prickling my scalp. It was a post from my ex boyfriend, who’d vanished years ago. When our college acceptances arrived, we learned we’d be a thousand miles apart. The distance felt unbridgeable. He asked to meet on the school rooftop one last time. His voice was eerily calm. “Have a good life. I don’t want to hold you back.” After that, he turned and left. I wanted to chase him, to scream and ask why we couldn’t face it together. But the words died in my throat. Heartbreak buckled my knees. I collapsed on the concrete, and he never looked back. I sent countless texts afterward. Every one went unanswered. His silence was more brutal than any explanation. Three years of love, erased by a single goodbye. I couldn’t accept it. I spent every day staring at my phone, praying for a reply. Now, seeing those two tickets on his feed, a sickening thought took root. My fingers shook violently as I dialed 911. “911, what’s your emergency?” “I need to report a murder,” I whispered, trembling. “The victim… is my ex boyfriend.” 01 “Okay, miss, please stay calm. Can you tell me exactly where this happened? And what is the victim’s name?” The dispatcher’s voice was steady and highly professional. My palms were sweating profusely. I couldn’t stop my voice from trembling. “His name is Noah. Noah Lawson. I… I don’t know where it happened. But the last time I saw him was three days ago.” The line went quiet for a brief second. Her tone shifted, becoming slightly more serious. “Why do you believe he has been murdered? Do you have any evidence?” I didn’t register the doubt in her voice. I was too frantic, my words stumbling over each other, a sob building in my throat. “I saw a post he just made online. I’ve called him a million times and he won’t pick up. Something terrible happened to him. That has to be why he broke up with me out of nowhere…” A moment later, I was transferred to an actual police officer. Her voice was much gentler. “It’s going to be okay, honey. Just take a deep breath. Give me your address. We’ll send officers over to take your statement, and we’ll reach out to Noah to perform a welfare check.” I hung up and slumped onto my living room sofa. My entire body felt like it was made of ice. My mind kept replaying that last moment on the rooftop. His eyes constantly darting away from mine. His unnaturally pale face. His rigid posture. At the time, I thought it was just the guilt of dumping me. But looking back, he looked like a man who was already trapped in a living nightmare. Less than twenty minutes later, a sharp knock echoed through my house. I opened the door to find two uniformed officers and a man in plainclothes. The detective in charge had sharp, piercing eyes and a grim expression. “I’m Detective Harrison. Are you Pamela?” I wiped my face and stepped aside to let them in, immediately shoving my phone into his hands. “Look at this. This is the photo of the plane tickets he posted yesterday. Noah hates flying. He gets violently airsick. This is completely wrong. And the day we broke up, he was acting so strange. None of this adds up.” Detective Harrison took the phone, squinting at the photo. He nodded to the uniformed officer to write down the flight details. He was just about to ask me another question when his own phone rang. “What? Are you absolutely certain?” Harrison ended the call. His brow furrowed deeply as he looked at me, his gaze entirely unreadable. “Pamela, do you know that filing a false police report and wasting emergency resources is a crime?” “Having a bad breakup doesn’t give you the right to…” I froze. Fresh tears spilled over my eyelashes. “A false report? What are you talking about?” “I swear to God, I am telling the truth! Something happened to him! You have to find out who did this!” Seeing me start to hyperventilate, Detective Harrison sighed, his tone hardening. “My colleagues just visited the Lawson residence. Noah’s parents confirmed that he is perfectly fine. He just packed a bag and left for a graduation road trip.” My stomach plummeted. I stared at him with wide, bloodshot eyes, grabbing his jacket sleeve. “That is just what his parents are telling you! You didn’t actually see him, did you? I’m telling you, this isn’t a normal disappearance!” Harrison pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a heavy sigh. “His parents literally watched him get into a cab. He is fine. You are just obsessing over a breakup and letting your imagination run wild.” I shook my head frantically, backing away from his outstretched hand. “No. Absolutely not. I know him too well…” Before I could finish, someone started pounding violently on my front door. “Pamela! Open this damn door! It’s Martha!” The moment the door swung open, Noah’s mother lunged inside. Her hand whipped across the air, slapping me hard across the cheek. She was practically foaming at the mouth, her face flushed with pure rage. Noah’s father, Freddy, stood right behind her, his expression dark and thunderous. The uniformed officers quickly stepped in, physically dragging Martha away from me. But she kept glaring at me, spitting venom. I cradled my stinging cheek. Swallowing the humiliation, I looked right past her and focused on the detective. “He has been missing for days. How can you not see the red flags? This is a human life we are talking about. You have to investigate!” Hearing this, Martha actually let out a shrill, mocking laugh. “Oh, drop the act, you manipulative little brat! My son is alive and well. His phone is on. You are just bitter he dumped you, so you’re trying to turn our lives upside down!” “You thought because your parents have money, you could just buy my son’s affection. Now that he’s done with you, you’re literally wishing him dead. What kind of sick psychopath are you?” “You are obsessed! You need to be locked up in a psych ward!” She turned to the police, her voice suddenly dripping with fake innocence. “Officers, I swear on my life, my boy is totally fine. This little stalker is just trying to cause drama!” “You don’t believe me? I’ll prove it right now!” Rolling her eyes dramatically, she pulled out her phone and initiated a FaceTime call. A few rings later, Noah’s voice echoed through the speaker. “Mom? What’s going on? It’s late.” 02 The screen lit up. A deeply familiar face appeared on the display. Looking at that face, my brain completely short-circuited. I snatched the phone right out of Martha’s hands. I stared dead into the screen, my fingertips trembling uncontrollably. Martha exploded. She pointed a manicured finger at my face and shrieked. “That’s it! I am pressing charges! Get your parents on the phone right now!” On the screen, Noah’s face twisted into a harsh, impatient scowl. His voice was freezing cold. “So I don’t answer your texts, and you pull a stunt like this?” “I told you it’s over. We are done. Are you really going to be this pathetic?” “You’re not just harassing me. You’re terrorizing my parents. You dragged the cops into this. You are out of your mind!” “Have some damn self-respect. Leave me and my family alone!” I stared at his furious expression. The fog in my brain instantly vanished, replaced by a terrifying, razor-sharp clarity. The real Noah was gentle. He was soft-spoken. He would never, ever speak to me with such brutal venom. We had survived the hell of finals together. We had mapped out our entire college lives on sticky notes. He knew my favorite coffee orders by heart. He used to hold me for hours when I had anxiety attacks. He had never even raised his voice at me. Not once. A human being doesn’t fundamentally change their entire personality in three days. And there was something else. Freddy and Martha had never cared for Noah. They treated him like a burden. There was absolutely no way they would rush over here to defend his honor just because a classmate thought he was in danger. I snapped my head up. I glared directly at his parents, my voice turning into a lethal whisper. “You two are hiding something. Are you the killers? Or just the accomplices?” “That guy on the screen is not Noah! Why are you helping an imposter? Where is he?!” Detective Harrison’s face turned to stone. He signaled the officers. “Call Pamela’s parents. Have them come down here immediately.” He paused, giving me a stern, unforgiving look. “Your behavior is officially crossing the line into harassment. You cannot weaponize the police department just because you got dumped.” “Especially when the guy is sitting right there on video. This murder theory is completely fabricated.” I couldn’t hold back anymore. I screamed at the top of my lungs. “That is not him! Something happened to him! You are letting them get away with it!” Freddy and Martha exchanged a lightning-fast look. For a fraction of a second, I saw sheer, naked panic flash in their eyes. But they quickly covered it up with loud, obnoxious outrage. “You absolute lunatic! You belong in a straitjacket! How dare you accuse us of murder!” “We were trying to be nice because you’re just a kid. But this is too far. Wait until your parents get here. They’re going to pay for this!” Harrison watched the circus unfold, his jaw clenching in frustration. “Take her down to the precinct to cool off. We’ll wait for her parents there.” A female officer approached, gently trying to guide me toward the door. I fought back, digging my heels into the carpet, keeping my eyes locked on the Lawsons. “He is in danger! You cannot just walk away from this!” “Look at their faces! They are terrified! They know exactly where he is, and they might be the ones who hurt him!” “This is a potential homicide. You can’t just brush it under the rug. You need to search their house right now! You need to prove that he is actually safe!” “A video call proves nothing! Deepfakes exist! Actors exist! If you don’t search that house, I will never stop fighting this!” Detective Harrison went silent. He looked at my desperate, unwavering expression. Then he glanced at Freddy and Martha, noticing how unnaturally stiff they had become. Finally, he gave in. Freddy and Martha went pale. They immediately started to protest. But under Harrison’s sharp, authoritative gaze, they eventually had to grit their teeth and agree. Harrison grabbed his police radio, barking out orders. “Get a crime scene unit and a couple of detectives over to the Lawson residence. I want a full sweep. Do not miss a single detail.” I took a massive, shuddering breath, forcing myself to swallow the panic, and followed the police to Noah’s house. The short drive felt like an eternity. It felt like an invisible hand was crushing my lungs. Every second was pure agony. When we arrived, the house was already crawling with cops. They were checking every room, dusting surfaces, shining flashlights into closets. Noah’s bedroom was perfectly organized. It was almost too clean. There wasn’t a single thing out of place. Soon, the lead CSI approached Harrison. “Detective, the sweep is complete. No blood trace, no signs of a struggle, nothing suspicious whatsoever. The girl’s homicide theory is a bust.” Martha crossed her arms, sneering at me with absolute triumph. “See? What did I tell you? You are a delusional psycho! Do you believe us now?” “When your parents show up, I am going to have a long talk with them. I’m going to make sure they discipline you so you never pull a stunt like this again!” A loud ringing started in my ears. But my gut instinct hadn’t wavered for a single second. I turned to the detective, my voice cracking with desperation. “Detective Harrison, what if the crime scene isn’t here? What if it’s somewhere else? Please, you have to keep looking!” 03 Harrison let out an exhausted sigh. He shook his head and ordered an officer to escort me to the cruiser. My heart was hammering against my ribs. If no one believed me, whatever nightmare Noah was living through would be buried forever. When we pulled into the precinct, my parents were already rushing up the steps. My mother looked terrified. She ran over and pulled me into a tight embrace. “Pamela, baby, what happened to your face?” My father looked deadly serious. He stood by quietly as the officers explained the absolute mess of a situation. Freddy and Martha stood off to the side, looking incredibly smug, tossing in snide comments whenever they could. My father listened to the entire story. He went quiet for a moment, then looked directly at Harrison. “Detective, my daughter is a deeply rational and grounded young woman. She doesn’t invent drama. If she says this boy is acting out of character, it is not a delusion. I am asking you to look into this one more time.” Freddy and Martha froze. Their smugness evaporated, replaced by frantic anger. “Is this how you raise your kid?” Freddy yelled. “My son just wanted to take a vacation after finals, and we have to deal with your psychotic family?!” Even the other cops in the precinct were whispering, clearly assuming I was suffering from some kind of psychotic break. I was shivering violently. I pulled away from my mother’s chest and looked up at the officers, pleading. “Technology is terrifyingly advanced now. What if the guy on the screen is an AI deepfake?” “Can you please contact the local police wherever he claims to be? Ask them to pull the security footage. Ask them to verify it’s actually him in person.” Harrison rubbed his temples, looking like he was about to lose his mind. “Are you ever going to stop?” Martha shrieked, lunging forward. The officers quickly shoved her back, looking highly annoyed. My mother stepped in front of me like a shield, begging the police. “Pamela is our daughter. We know her better than anyone.” “She has known Noah for years. She wouldn’t fabricate a murder just because of a breakup. Please, just do this one check to put this to rest.” Under my parents’ relentless, polite pressure, Harrison finally relented. He agreed to contact the local precinct in the city Noah claimed to be visiting and have them verify his identity. Freddy and Martha looked incredibly pissed off. They fought it every step of the way, but eventually had to cooperate to ‘clear their son’s name.’ My heart was beating so fast it physically hurt. I kept my eyes glued to the police monitor. A few minutes later, the video feed connected again. Noah’s face popped up, crystal clear. His mannerisms, his expressions, they were completely flawless. On the screen, he let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “What the hell is your problem?” He aggressively yanked down the collar of his t-shirt, exposing the distinct tattoo on his collarbone. “You need to stop this obsessive stalking. Stop making up these insane conspiracy theories and torturing my parents.” The precinct erupted in murmurs. Countless eyes turned to me, heavy with judgment and pity. My mind was a swirling mess of static. I completely tuned out the whispers. “I don’t accept this! A tattoo and a pixelated video mean absolutely nothing!” “Until I see him in person, this is all just a beautifully orchestrated lie!” Martha’s face turned a violent shade of purple. She stepped forward, practically snarling. “I’ve tried to be patient because you’re young! Did you stop taking your medication or something?!” “If you don’t back off right now, we are filing a massive civil suit for defamation. We will ruin your life.” Harrison walked over, looking utterly drained. “Enough. We are taking your statement, and then this circus is over.” “You’re an adult now, Pamela. You know there are legal consequences for this, right?” Everyone in the room had decided the case was closed. They had fully categorized me as a delusional, hysterical ex-girlfriend. But the terrible feeling in my gut hadn’t faded. In fact, it was screaming louder than ever. I threw my head back and stared Harrison dead in the eye. My voice shook, but the words were made of steel. “Tattoos can be copied. Videos can be faked.” “I demand that the local police take his live fingerprints right now. Run them through the federal database and match them against his DMV records.” “If the fingerprints are a one-hundred-percent match, I will walk away.” 04 The temperature in the precinct seemed to drop below freezing. Harrison just wanted this nightmare to end. He wanted to shut me up permanently. So, he nodded. “Contact the local department. Have them fingerprint the subject on-site. Pull his state ID records and run a live digital comparison.” Harrison’s voice was flat and commanding. The inter-departmental request was processed instantly. Minutes later, the two sets of fingerprint data were uploaded to the precinct’s system. The matching algorithm began to run. Waiting for those results was pure psychological torture. I curled up on the hard plastic waiting room chair, my entire body ice cold. My fingernails dug so hard into my palms they almost drew blood. My parents stood right beside me, their faces lined with deep worry. On the video feed, the imposter and the Lawsons looked completely bored and indifferent. Everyone was just waiting for the final proof that I was insane. A sharp electronic chime echoed through the room. The system generated the final biometric report. A junior officer printed it out and handed it to Harrison. Harrison scanned the document. His expression grew incredibly dark. He walked over and shoved the paper directly into my face. “Read it, Pamela.” “A flawless match. The kid in the video is Noah Lawson.” I froze. The blood in my veins turned to slush. My trembling hand reached out to take the paper. The black-and-white text was agonizingly clear. A perfect biometric match. How was this possible? A fingerprint is entirely unique. How could it match? “Are you finally done playing games?” Harrison sounded completely exhausted. He waved a hand at a uniformed officer, preparing to book me for filing a false police report and wasting municipal resources. Freddy and Martha looked incredibly relieved. The smug, vicious mockery returned to their eyes. “We told you she was crazy. Now you can finally give it a rest. Once the cops are done with you, our lawyers are going to have a field day.” An officer grabbed my arm, pulling me up from the chair. My legs felt like lead. But the screaming in my gut refused to stop. No. Something was wrong. Every single detail of this felt completely unnatural. I violently yanked my arm out of the officer’s grip and yelled out. “Which finger did you scan?!” The entire precinct went dead silent. Harrison frowned, looking genuinely confused. “The system defaults to the right index finger. Why?” My heart felt like it was going to explode. I scrambled to pull my phone out of my pocket, opened the photo gallery, and shoved the screen an inch from Harrison’s nose. “Look at this!” My voice was raw and completely unhinged. Harrison casually glanced at the screen. A split second later, his entire body went rigid. He stared at the photo of the hand holding the plane tickets. A tidal wave of absolute horror washed over his eyes. The air in the room completely vaporized. The junior officer noticed his captain’s reaction and tried to ask what was wrong, but Harrison silenced him with a vicious hand gesture. He snapped his head up, his eyes locking onto Freddy and Martha, who were currently walking toward the exit. “Lock the doors! Nobody leaves this building!” Harrison roared the order. He grabbed his radio, his words firing off like bullets. “Contact the local department! Arrest the suspect in the video immediately!” “They are lying!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “443075”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 I opened my eyes and found myself thrown back in time—exactly one year before Olivia’s affair. This time, she was ruthless. She cut all ties with Liam and fired him in front of me. She replaced all her male assistants with married women and refused to bring any male escorts to corporate events. Everyone in our circle marveled at how deeply Olivia loved me, saying her devotion was carved in her bones. And I believed it—until the night before our wedding, when I accidentally heard her thoughts: [In this life, he’ll be mine forever.] [I have to hide Liam perfectly. He can never find out.] Then my memory surged back. In my past life, I caught her cheating and left for good. To clear my head, I joined an Arctic tour, but we were hit by a blizzard. I was trapped in a glacier at thirty below. As my core dropped to lethal levels, Olivia found me—she’d trekked through the storm on foot. She stripped off all her thermal layers and wrapped them around me. “Don’t sleep, Arthur. I don’t need you to forgive me, I just need you to live. If there’s a next life, I swear I’ll never betray you.” When rescuers arrived, she was still clinging to me, her body frozen solid. They had to cut her hands with a scalpel to pry us apart. She died in the snow. I lived to eighty, suffocated by an insurmountable guilt. … Olivia was currently kneeling on the plush carpet, tying the laces of my Oxford shoes, gently rubbing my ankle. “You’re going to be standing all day tomorrow. If these pinch at all, we’ll switch them out right now.” Just as I thought I was hallucinating, her voice echoed in my head again. [Liam’s arches are so beautiful. I could hold his feet all day and never get bored. Not like Arthur’s flat feet. No curve at all. Touching them is a total turn-off.] My stomach violently heaved. The memories of catching them in the act hit me like a freight train. The dimly lit luxury hotel suite. The designer clothes scattered across the floor. Liam’s ankle gripped tightly in Olivia’s hand. Her turning her head to press a wet, lingering kiss against his skin. “Arthur?” Olivia’s fingers tightened slightly. “Why are your feet so cold?” I jerked my foot back instinctively. The heel of the leather shoe scraped against the carpet with a dull thud. “What’s wrong?” I forced myself to maintain a calm exterior. “Nothing. Just a chill.” Olivia took off her cashmere blazer and draped it over my shoulders. It smelled faintly of an icy, sharp cologne. A scent that definitely didn’t belong to her. “What do you honestly think of Liam?” I asked out of nowhere. Olivia’s hand, which had been smoothing my hair, froze. A look of undisguised disgust crossed her face. “He’s a useless pretty boy. He throws himself at me like he has no self-respect. Honestly, looking at him makes me sick.” She grabbed my hand, desperately trying to prove her loyalty. “Arthur, I already fired him. I have absolutely zero contact with him.” “Even if he stripped naked and stood right in front of me, I wouldn’t look twice!” It was true. In this life, whenever Liam tried to approach her, she would violently shove him away. She played the part of hating him even more than I did. At my birthday banquet, Liam had recklessly crashed the party. He knocked over a champagne tower, and the shattered glass sliced my calf. Olivia was absolutely furious. She grabbed an unopened bottle of red wine and poured it over his head. “Get the hell out! If I ever see your face again, I will make sure you never work in this city again!” After screaming at him, she ordered the security guards to clear the room. Then, her voice instantly softened as she turned to me. “I’ll go handle that lunatic. Don’t let him ruin your birthday.” A flicker of panic flashed through Olivia’s eyes. “Honey, why are you bringing him up out of nowhere?” [Did he notice something? I showered twice before coming over today. There shouldn’t be any scent left.] [I’m much smarter this time. I’ve hidden it perfectly. Just one more day. Once we’re married, he’s officially mine forever.] I looked down at her upturned face. In the freezing tundra of my past life, this exact face had turned a sickly purple, her eyelashes caked in frost. When she wrapped her final coat around my shoulders, she had been coughing up blood. I had spent an entire lifetime trying to figure out how to repay her for saving my life. But she just wanted to use this life to play me for a fool again. She wasn’t remorseful that she cheated. She was just remorseful she got caught. Thinking about the wedding, her eyebrows furrowed slightly. [Last time at Arthur’s birthday, I poured that wine on Liam, and he threw a massive tantrum.] [I had to spend the whole night comforting him. I had to lick the wine off his chest drop by drop before he would even let me touch him. He’s definitely going to throw another fit tomorrow because of the wedding. I need to figure out a way to make it up to him.] Her thoughts slithered into my brain like venomous snakes. On the night of my birthday, after she rushed off to “handle” him, she never came back. I sat alone in the VIP lounge, using tweezers to pull bloody shards of glass out of my leg from dusk until dawn. While I bled, she was buried in Liam’s chest. An icy chill shot straight from my feet to my heart. I looked at her flawless, innocent mask and asked quietly, “Does he disgust you because he acts like a psycho?” She nodded without a second of hesitation. “Of course. He’s nothing compared to you.” I slowly pulled my hand out of her grip. “Did you forget the most important detail?” “Liam killed your father.” The muscles in Olivia’s face violently twitched. The horrific memory from five years ago flooded the space between us like freezing water. Olivia’s father had suffered from severe asthma for years. One day, out of the goodness of his heart, he sponsored a struggling student—Liam. He even invited him into their home. But Liam, consumed by jealousy over the affection Mr. Sterling showed me, played a sick prank. He replaced the emergency asthma medication on the nightstand with white vitamin pills. Late that night, Mr. Sterling suffered a massive asthma attack. He collapsed in the hallway, clutching his throat in absolute agony. And Liam stood just a few feet away, holding up his phone, grinning as he recorded the whole thing. “Come on, Mr. Sterling. Stop faking. You were perfectly fine a minute ago.” Amidst agonizing, desperate gasps, Mr. Sterling slowly suffocated to death. By the time Olivia rushed to the hospital, all she found was a body covered by a white sheet, and a viral video of the “prank” Liam had posted online to show off. Olivia collapsed outside the morgue. Her eyes were blood red as she violently vomited blood. She had been raised entirely by her father. He was the only source of warmth in her cold, ruthlessly calculating family. She clung to me, wailing like a child whose soul had been ripped out. “Arthur, I don’t have a dad anymore. I only have you.” For three straight months, she locked herself in a pitch-black basement. She starved herself. She mutilated her own arms. I was the one who spoon-fed her cold oatmeal. I was the one who held her emaciated body, shielding her from the nightmares that made her want to end it all. I was the one who dragged her out of the abyss. “I haven’t forgotten.” Olivia gritted her teeth. Her eyes instantly turned red, her voice dripping with venom. “A vicious monster like him deserves to die ten thousand times over for what he did to my father.” “Honey, if it wasn’t for you, I would be dead. To me, Liam is lower than an animal.” Her eyes were filled with tears, the veins on the back of her hands bulging with rage. But her inner voice slammed into me like a sledgehammer, obliterating every sacrifice I had made during those three months. [It’s been so long. Liam was only eighteen back then. He just wanted to play a prank. He didn’t know it was life-saving medication!] [He feels so guilty he’s slit his wrists twice already. His arms are covered in scars. Why does Arthur have to be so malicious? Why can’t he let the dead rest?] [Liam is so gentle, he wouldn’t even step on an ant. He wakes up crying from nightmares every single night. It breaks my heart.] [The dead aren’t as important as the living. The past isn’t as important as the future.] My fingernails dug into my palms so hard they left bloody crescent moons in my skin. How incredibly pathetic. To my face, she played the role of the unforgiving, grieving daughter. Behind my back, she agonized over her father’s murderer’s scars. Those three months of hell I walked through with her were worth less than a few fake tears from a killer. Assuming I was trapped in the grief of her father’s death, she reached out to comfort me. I flinched and pulled away. I stared intently at her ring finger. My eyes burned so badly it felt like they were going to rupture. That was not our wedding ring. Our wedding rings were designed by her personally. Simple, elegant platinum bands with our initials engraved on the inside. She used to say that the purest love required the least decoration. But the ring currently sitting on her finger was heavily ornamented. And it was very clearly a men’s band. Following my gaze, Olivia looked down. Her hand violently jerked back. She curled it into a tight fist and shoved it into her pocket. “Arthur.” She took a deep breath. When she looked back at me, her eyes were filled with a perfectly crafted, gentle apology. “I was going to surprise you tomorrow at the ceremony. I didn’t expect you to catch it early.” She pulled her hand back out, opening her palm. “I noticed you looking at that magazine a lot lately, so I secretly commissioned a French jeweler to make this for you. I just went to pick it up. The clerk said the sizing might be a bit off, so I tried it on to check, and it actually got stuck.” She even let out a frustrated, self-deprecating laugh. “I was just so eager to see what it would look like on you.” What a flawless, impenetrable lie. A second later, her true thoughts drilled into my skull. [Damn it! How did I put Liam’s ring on?!] [I was rushing out of the hotel bed too fast and grabbed the wrong one. He cannot find out I had matching rings made for Liam.] Three hours ago, she called me. With a soft, stressed voice, she told me there was an emergency with an overseas acquisition, and she had to jump on an international video conference. She told me to go to the tailor and try on my tuxedo alone. Her “international video conference” took place in a hotel bed. She had prepared two sets of wedding vows. Two sets of rings. She used the same hands that dug my frozen corpse out of the snow to caress Liam’s skin. She used the same lips that promised to “never betray me in the next life” to kiss away Liam’s tears. My fingers began to uncontrollably tremble. “Really?” I heard my own voice. Flat. Devoid of any emotion. “Because it looks like the name engraved inside isn’t mine.” Olivia’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. The color drained from her face so fast she looked like a ghost. Her breathing completely stopped for a full second. She clamped her hand over the ring. “It’s the French word for ‘Eternity’. The font is tiny, you probably misread it. Once it’s on your finger tomorrow, you can look at it as closely as you want.” Her phone buzzed. She shot me a look, gesturing that it was work. She walked quickly to the floor-to-ceiling windows, deliberately lowering her voice. “Didn’t I tell you not to call me right now?” Whatever the person on the other end said made her face drop. She hung up and immediately headed for the door. [Liam is getting so incredibly clingy lately. I guess it makes sense. My morning sickness is getting worse. He knows I need the baby’s father around right now.] [He’s right. I should let the baby spend more time with its dad. This is our first child. I can’t let anything go wrong!] During my sophomore year of college, Olivia got cornered in an alley by a gang of thugs. One of them pulled a knife. I didn’t hesitate. I threw myself in front of her, taking the blade. Her hands were covered in my blood. The doctors told me the internal damage was permanent. I would never be able to have children. She slapped herself across the face, twice, as hard as she could. “Arthur, I’m so sorry. I ruined you.” “It doesn’t matter if we can’t have kids. We can adopt if you want. If not, it’ll just be the two of us forever.” And now, she was pregnant with her father’s killer’s baby. The lies pulverized the past into dust, leaving behind nothing but a barren wasteland. She marched toward the door. “Honey, there’s a massive crisis with the investment portfolio. The supply chain is frozen. I have to go to the office immediately.” The moment the door clicked shut, I called a friend in healthcare data and asked him to pull Olivia’s medical records. Half an hour later, an electronic chart was sent to my phone. Six weeks pregnant. Counting back, the conception date was exactly the night of my birthday. A crushing sense of absurdity swallowed me whole. I wanted to call my father and cancel the wedding. My thumb hovered over the dial button. It was impossible. The invitations had been sent. The luxury hotel was booked. No one would believe me. Olivia was a master manipulator. She hadn’t just fooled me; she had fooled everyone in my life. In this reality, everyone worshipped Olivia’s undying devotion. They would all look at me like I was an ungrateful, paranoid lunatic trying to ruin a perfect relationship. I wiped my eyes aggressively. A cold smile spread across my face. Fine. If they wanted a show, I would give them a masterpiece. I forwarded an electronic wedding invitation to Liam with a simple message attached. “Come watch your woman swear her life to me.” The day of the wedding arrived. I sat at the head table, watching my mother dab at the joyful tears in her eyes. She held my hand, patting it gently. “Arthur, I am so incredibly happy today.” “Olivia is a rare find. Such a devoted, loyal girl. Your father and I have zero worries handing you over to her.” Across the table, Olivia’s mother sat with perfect posture. Mrs. Sterling was a stern woman who rarely smiled. Her brow was perpetually furrowed, but today, she actually raised a glass of champagne. She was deeply traditional. After her husband died, she never remarried. She looked at me, her voice steady and commanding. “Olivia takes after me. When the women in our family choose a man, it is for life.” “If she ever does you wrong, I will personally break her legs.” Laughter echoed through the opulent ballroom. I looked across the room at Olivia, who was currently mingling with the guests. She was wearing a custom-tailored, breathtaking gown. A perfectly calculated, warm smile rested on her lips. If I didn’t know that the slight discoloration on her neck was a hickey buried under heavy concealer, I might have actually believed this was a normal wedding. Suddenly, the heavy mahogany doors of the ballroom were violently shoved open. Liam stood in the entryway. He was wearing an aggressively inappropriate, bright crimson suit. The collar was unbuttoned all the way down to his sternum. It was a blinding, vulgar red, like a fresh slab of raw meat. The entire ballroom fell dead silent. Hundreds of eyes darted between him and me. He walked straight toward Olivia and grabbed her by the sleeve. In that split second of contact, I clearly saw Liam slip a crumpled piece of paper directly into the cuff of Olivia’s gown. “Ms. Sterling. I just came to see how handsome Arthur looks today.” “I don’t mean any harm. I just wanted to witness the most important day of your life.” The smile instantly vanished from Olivia’s face. She yanked her arm back like she had been burned with acid, stumbling backward. “Get the hell out! Where is security?! How did this stray dog get in here?!” She turned to me, her eyes filled with desperate panic. “Arthur, please don’t misunderstand! I didn’t invite him! He’s just a stalker who showed up uninvited.” Mrs. Sterling’s face turned to stone. “Olivia, have security dispose of this trash immediately. Do not let him ruin Arthur’s day.” Two massive security guards rushed over, grabbed Liam by the arms, and forcefully dragged him out of the ballroom. “Honey, he touched this dress. I literally feel like throwing up.” Olivia’s eyes were brimming with apologies. “The ceremony starts in twenty minutes. I have a backup gown in the bridal suite upstairs. I’ll change and be right back down.” Right before the elevator doors closed, her thoughts reached me. [Liam looked so incredibly sexy today. There was definitely nothing under that suit jacket.] [The note said Suite 8012. He’s demanding a final breakup fuck right now of all times.] [I have to make it fast. Doing it while I’m wearing a wedding dress will drive him crazy.] Liam had planned this. He slipped in through the service elevator and was already waiting for her upstairs. It seemed my text had hit a nerve. The only way he could salvage his ego was by screwing her right above my head on my wedding day. Ten minutes later, I switched on the micro-camera hidden in my collar pin. I looked at my parents and the elders sitting at the head table. “Mom, Dad, Olivia prepared the traditional tea ceremony gifts for you. They’re up in the suite. Why don’t we all go up together to get them? It’ll be a nice moment.” Dozens of relatives and close family friends trailed behind me. Mrs. Sterling led the group, a look of profound satisfaction on her face. Walking down the plush hallway carpet, my leather shoes didn’t make a sound. The closer I got, the louder the woman’s panting echoed in my brain. My mother reached out and adjusted the lapel of my tuxedo. “Arthur, I am just so relieved you two are finally tying the knot.” “Remember two years ago when you had that awful fever? Olivia dragged a cot into your hospital room and didn’t sleep for two days. Even the nurses said they had never seen a woman so devoted.” [Stop being mad. I don’t have a choice. I have to play the part for Arthur. Come here. Lift your leg a little higher.] My aunt chimed in, a warm smile on her face. “Oh, absolutely. Everyone in the city knows Olivia is hopelessly in love with you.” “Remember that winter she drove across town just to get you those chestnut pastries? Her car broke down, and she walked three miles in a blizzard. Her ears were frostbitten, but she kept the pastries warm inside her coat the whole time.” [You really didn’t wear anything underneath. When you were standing in the lobby looking at me like that, it was driving me insane.] [If the old lady and Arthur weren’t standing right there, I would have thrown you on top of the champagne tower.] Mrs. Sterling’s voice was firm, carrying absolute certainty. “I raised Olivia to be rigid. She isn’t very romantic, but she takes after me. Once she claims her husband, no other man exists.” “Don’t let that lunatic Liam bother you.” “You saw how Olivia reacted. Just him touching her made her sick.” I listened to their heartfelt blessings while the sickening, wet sounds in my head grew louder. Closer. Closer. I stopped right in front of the bridal suite. The massive crowd of relatives stopped behind me. Everyone was smiling, waiting for the door to open. I grabbed the cold brass handle and pushed down with every ounce of strength I had. Click. The door unlatched.

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