The night before we were supposed to get our marriage license, I discovered that my mother-in-law had secretly canceled the deposit on our future home. Instead, she used the money to put a down payment on a massive, luxury condo right next to my fiancé’s office. I kept my expression perfectly calm, indefinitely postponed getting the license, and told her I was going to hand over all the money my parents gave me for the house directly to her. 01 Four bedrooms, three bathrooms, with master suites facing north and south. Staring at the floor plan, my hands couldn’t stop shaking. The phone screen was still unlocked, displaying the text thread between me and Sarah, the sales agent at Riverbend Estates. My fiancé, Liam, and I had agreed: tomorrow morning we would get our marriage license, and tomorrow afternoon we would go sign the papers for our new home, putting both our names on the deed. I had been so excited I couldn’t sleep. I ironed the dress I was going to wear to City Hall and his suit multiple times. I even texted Sarah one last time to double-check what documents we needed for the down payment, terrified of messing anything up on our big day. I never expected her to call me back, sounding completely bewildered. “Chloe, didn’t your mother-in-law tell you guys weren’t buying the house anymore? She came and got the deposit refunded last week! Or did you guys talk it over and decide to stick with Riverbend…?” I barely heard the rest of her sentence. My brain completely short-circuited. In less than twelve hours, I was supposed to be a legally married woman. And my future mother-in-law had canceled the deposit on our house? If this had been the old me, I would have immediately called her to demand an explanation. But a deeper, much more terrifying anxiety gripped my heart. I needed to know. Did Liam know about this? Did he agree to it? Liam had gone out to dinner with his boss tonight and still wasn’t home. Driven by a desperate need for answers, I rushed into the home office. It didn’t take long. I found the brochures for a completely different luxury development. The receipt for the deposit was dated last Sunday. And the signature on the bottom… belonged to Liam. 02 Last Sunday was our five-year anniversary. We had originally planned to visit our old college campus to reminisce, and then take our old college friends out for dinner to celebrate before officially getting married. But that morning, Liam received a phone call, and his face instantly went pale. He told me that a massive VIP client had suddenly showed up at the office for an unannounced tour, and he absolutely had to go in. Left with no choice, I took the train to the neighboring city alone. During the dinner with our friends, Liam called me, sounding incredibly guilty. “Baby, once I close this massive deal, we’ll have so much extra cash to furnish the new house. Whatever you want, we’ll do it exactly your way!” Our college friends, who had watched our entire relationship unfold, laughed and teased him for being so whipped. Everyone believed that our love story—from college sweethearts to young professionals—was pure, flawless, and completely genuine. That it was free of any selfish calculation. Until today, I believed that too. The edges of the floor plan for “The Pinnacle Residences” I was clutching were already crumpled from my grip, but the total price printed at the bottom was glaringly clear. $1.2 million. I opened the desktop computer in the study. Liam used it for work all the time, and his iMessage was still logged in. I scrolled through his chat history with the sales agent from The Pinnacle. The minimum down payment was 15%, but they had been running the math on monthly mortgage payments based on a 30% down payment. Which meant he had put down exactly $360,000. A sudden, paralyzing wave of sheer terror washed over my back. Because that exact amount—$360,000—was the exact total price of the modest, two-bedroom condo Liam and I had originally agreed to buy in full. 03 The money for the house was primarily coming from my parents. Liam and I had been working for three years and managed to save up $60,000 together. His mother had given me a $30,000 engagement gift, but told us we needed to save it to pay for the wedding next year, claiming she had absolutely no money to help with a house. I understood how hard she had worked as a single mother, so I didn’t complain. That was exactly why, when we were house hunting, I strictly only looked at affordable, small starter homes. Liam’s office was on the north side of the city, and mine was on the south. Riverbend Estates was the only development that worked for us. It was right next to the highway, exactly a 30-minute commute for both of us, and the price was reasonable. When we paid the deposit, his mother came with us. She didn’t say a single word the entire time. My parents, on the other hand, called me later and said that on top of the $30,000 engagement gift, they were wiring me another $230,000. They were old-school and absolutely hated the idea of debt. They told us to just buy the two-bedroom condo in full with cash. They said we could consider it a zero-interest loan from them, and we could just pay them back slowly over time. Thinking back on it now. That day, when I was happily signing the deposit paperwork, I remember seeing his mother pull Liam outside for a private conversation. She had probably already made up her mind right then and there. Sitting on the floor of the study in the dead of night, a cold sneer involuntarily tugged at the corners of my mouth. Looking at the texts Sarah had sent me, the timeline became crystal clear. I paid the deposit for Riverbend on Saturday. On Sunday, his mother went back, canceled the deposit, and then took Liam to the north side of the city to put down a new deposit on The Pinnacle. Meanwhile, I was in a different city, completely oblivious to what was happening. Once you pay a deposit on a new build, you have exactly seven days to wire the full down payment. By that time, Liam and I would already be legally married. If we backed out then, the lost deposit money would legally be my financial loss as his spouse. What an absolutely flawless, psychopathic calculation. The warmth slowly returned to my fingertips. Even I was surprised by how incredibly calm I felt. There was only one question left. Why were Liam and his mother so absolutely certain that once I found out, I would just swallow my anger and accept it? I looked back down at the floor plan. Liam and I had absolutely zero need for a massive, four-bedroom, three-bathroom luxury condo. Years ago, in our college sociology class, after watching a brutal documentary on childbirth, Liam had tears in his eyes and swore he would never make me go through that. He swore he wanted to be child-free. My parents had their own house in our hometown. Liam was raised by a single mother, but she had always lived with his older brother to help raise her grandson. Liam had promised me that she would never live with us. At least, that’s what he told me. So who exactly was this massive luxury condo for? Right at that moment, I heard the lock click on the front door. Liam was home. 04 “Wifey! Look what I brought you! Barbecue and boba!” The same attentive, sweet face I had known for years appeared in front of me, but suddenly, the man named Liam felt like a complete stranger. From the day we started dating, he had taken care of me meticulously. He saved seats for me in lectures, walked me to the library, and picked me up from my late-night campus job. Combined with his passionate vows about never wanting me to suffer the pain of childbirth, all my friends constantly praised him as the absolute perfect boyfriend. But now, on the exact night before we were supposed to get married, I had discovered an entirely different side of him. I opened my mouth, my voice raspy. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” Liam froze for a second, then smiled and nodded. “Of course.” He set the food down on the coffee table, walked over, pulled me into his arms, and smiled with pure adoration. “Tomorrow we’re officially becoming husband and wife, so of course I have to tell you—” “I love you, wifey. I hope we hold hands and walk through the rest of our lives together.” The tiny, pathetic sliver of hope in my heart completely evaporated. Just a second ago, I had actually thought to myself: If he confesses to me right now, maybe I’ll try to forgive him. But he hid the fact that he completely changed our future home, and still had the audacity to look me in the eye and say he loved me. For the past few days, I hadn’t suspected a single thing. Being held in his arms, I felt physically nauseous. Using the excuse that I had to wake up early tomorrow, I pushed him away and rejected his attempts to be intimate. He didn’t suspect a thing. Probably because of the alcohol, he washed up and immediately passed out from exhaustion. And while he slept, I unlocked his phone and found the exact reason why he changed the house. 05 Even through the text messages, his mother’s ecstatic tone was glaringly obvious. [Your brother and sister-in-law have been eyeing those condos for ages, but they just couldn’t afford them.] [When the time comes, your brother’s family can take the master suites. I’ll take my precious grandson and sleep in the north bedroom, and we’ll still have a room left over for your future kids! Our whole family living under one roof! Mom is so incredibly happy!] [Plus, the complex is right next to your office! You won’t have a commute, and you can come home to Mom’s hot meals every night. It’s going to be a perfect life!] Liam’s responses were slightly more hesitant: [Mom, you need to help me smooth things over with Chloe when the time comes. I’m worried she’ll freak out when she finds out and we’ll get into a massive fight.] [What is there to fight about? It’s not like we aren’t letting her live there! Taking care of your mother and providing for your brother’s family is exactly what the younger generation is supposed to do. If she complains, everyone will think she’s a selfish brat.] Liam sent a voice memo, sighing heavily: “The place is massive, and it’s in a premium school district. My salary isn’t going to be enough to cover the mortgage and the renovations. We’re really going to have to butter Chloe up.” [Don’t you worry about a thing, son. Tomorrow she officially becomes part of our family. Every woman knows she has to prioritize her husband’s family once she’s married. She won’t dare say a word.] [As for the mortgage, let her worry about it! She has rich parents, there’s no way she won’t be able to pay it! From now on, your paycheck needs to be saved up to pay for little Leo’s college tuition!] Convinced by his mother’s logic, Liam felt much better, replying “You’re right” several times. Then, he sent a screenshot of a bank transfer. [I just paid Leo’s life insurance premium for this year.] His mother replied with a voice memo. When I clicked it, a little boy’s voice piped up sweetly: “Thank you, Uncle Liam!” I was so shocked I literally couldn’t find the words. Didn’t Liam constantly complain that his salary was too low, the cost of living was too high, and he could never save any money? Why was he paying his nephew’s insurance premiums?! I held my breath and systematically scrolled through his bank statements for the past three years. That’s when I realized: him not saving money was true, but his salary being low was a complete lie. He had been underreporting his income to me by $1,500 every single month, secretly funneling all of that extra cash to his mother and his brother’s family. Looking at the man sleeping soundly next to me. I suddenly felt completely numb. Scenes from our relationship flashed before my eyes like a movie. I finally realized that his version of “love” was incredibly cheap. Saving me a seat in class. Buying me late-night takeout. And I had been completely trapped by those cheap gestures, genuinely wanting to spend the rest of my life with him. I had never associated the word “hypocrite” with him. But now, it was the only word I could use to describe him. As I scrolled to the very bottom of the chat, an even more horrifying message caught my eye. His mother urged him repeatedly: [I told you to poke holes in the condoms with a needle. Did you do it yet?] The blood in my veins turned to absolute ice.

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My Bestie’s 16th Idol Got Canceled, So She Mad-Debuted Me Instead Bad news: A massive industry plant just dropped into Hollywood. Good news: The industry plant actually has top-tier talent. 01 I was just chilling and streaming a show when an ear-piercing screech erupted from my bestie next to me. “Ahhhh! I’m going to slap him so hard he’ll be peeled off the wall! Not even twenty and he can’t keep it in his pants, damn it!” On X, the hashtag #ZackeryHayesScandal was sitting boldly at number one on the trending page. Zackery was my bestie Harper’s ultimate idol. He used to be a nobody, which felt safe, but then Harper bombarded him with all sorts of industry resources until he actually got famous. And less than half a month after hitting the big time, he got canceled. I patted Harper’s head. “Don’t be sad. It’s not your first time dealing with a cancellation.” 02 Other people stan celebrities; Harper plays minesweeper. Every single star she has ever loved, regardless of age or gender, has had their career implode. The reasons range from dodging taxes to sleeping with people they definitely shouldn’t be sleeping with. I held back a laugh, feeling a little sympathetic, but not much. “Look, maybe you should just give up on the whole fangirl thing.” Harper’s eyes were bloodshot. “Impossible. My luck can’t be this bad forever!” As the daughter of a billionaire tech mogul, Harper had money, looks, and brains. Her life was smooth sailing in every aspect—except for this bizarrely cursed luck when it came to stanning celebrities. I couldn’t help it; I burst out laughing, flashing a wide, obnoxious grin right into my bestie’s murderous glare. Then I heard her grit her teeth and say, “Better to stan a bestie than a stranger. Chloe, pack your bags. You’re debuting.” I blanked out. “Huh???” 03 One week later, I officially debuted. Parachuted straight into the lead role of a massive AAA fantasy adaptation! I stayed silent, but the internet exploded. [Who is Chloe? Does Hollywood even know this person?] [Hahahaha, people always talk about nepo babies and industry plants, but THIS is the ultimate industry plant.] [Wasn’t the lead supposed to be Olivia Thorne? Did she get robbed?] [LMAO, I looked her up. Total nobody. Made her Instagram yesterday, less than 100 followers.] The drama-hungry netizens quickly migrated to my page. In just one hour, my follower count skyrocketed by fifty thousand. Compared to the casual mockery on the official studio’s post, the comments under my page were overwhelmingly toxic. [Girl, doesn’t that stolen role burn your hands?] [Your first role ever is the lead in a $100 million franchise. The audacity.] [Hey, drop your sugar daddy’s contact info.] [Industry plant. Disgusting.] [You’re the bitch who stole our Liv’s role. Just wait, karma’s a bitch. You won’t be arrogant for long.] Even knowing I’d get flamed, I was still pretty shocked. After mentally cursing Harper out eight hundred times, I started a keyboard war with the haters: [You know a lot about selling out. Speaking from experience?] [I’m just brave. What’s there to be afraid of?] [Hehe, not sharing.] [If you’re getting nauseous that easily, maybe go get a pregnancy test.] [Who is Liv?] My thumbs moved like lightning. In less than ten minutes, I scored three more trending hashtags. #MostArrogantIndustryPlantEver# #ChloeFightsWithHaters# #ChloeSaysSheDoesntKnowOliviaThorne# That third hashtag climbed to the number one spot at lightning speed. 04 Under the trending tag, Olivia Thorne’s fans were furious. [I’ve never seen anyone so disgusting in my life. Stole Liv’s role and now throwing shade? Shameless.] [Tagging Chloe, come out and apologize.] [They’re in the same industry, how could she not know her? Stop playing the innocent act.] [First time I’ve ever seen a studio announce a cast without dropping a single photo of the lead. Do they know their lead is too ugly to show? Tagging Aethelgard Official.] [Protecting our Liv. Can the industry plant please learn to walk on her own?] [Seriously, they’re just letting any random stray dog into the industry now.] 05 What pushed the whole thing to a boiling point was Olivia Thorne herself. She liked an article directly throwing shade at me. No, not shade—it was a full-on targeted attack! Even though she unliked it a second later, eagle-eyed fans had already screenshotted it. The news spread like wildfire, instantly topping the trending charts. The internet grabbed their popcorn. [Dying of laughter, the actual celebrity came down to confirm she got robbed?] [Hollywood is so messy. No talent, just pure scheming.] [I don’t even follow pop culture, but stealing a role someone worked so hard preparing for is actually sickening.] I clicked on the article. The whole thing boiled down to one strategy: “Playing the Victim.” Though I didn’t care much for showbiz, having a hardcore fangirl bestie meant I had absorbed all the PR playbooks via osmosis. Clearly, she didn’t get the part, so she was stepping on me to gain sympathy. Oh honey, you kicked the wrong steel plate today. 06 Giving her a taste of her own medicine, I immediately liked a post on X. [The lead for Aethelgard was never finalized. Olivia bought so many PR articles that she convinced herself it was hers? Fool others all you want, but don’t fool yourself.] Netizens caught my move instantly. [Oh my god, she’s fighting back directly!] [Woooow, fight! Fight! We love to see it!] [It’s been three minutes and she hasn’t unliked it. This girl is absolutely doing it on purpose.] [The actual stars fighting each other publicly, how low-class.] [She’s calling out Olivia for being desperate, right? Right?!] At first, it was just casual onlookers commenting. But soon, the comment section was hijacked and copy-pasted by Olivia’s fans. [Flop, stop clout chasing.] [Industry plant, stop tying your name to hers. Can you walk independently?] [Wow, an industry plant who loves liking hate posts. Producers, are you really going to use an actress this emotionally unstable?] [Stop directing your own little drama. Get lost.] [Our Liv has no background and no sugar daddy. She prepared for four months and lost to you just whispering in some producer’s ear. Leave her alone.] Looking at these comments, I wasn’t angry. I just found it hilarious. With a smirk, I unliked the post and tweeted: [Sorry, my hand slipped, just like Miss Thorne’s.] [Also, I’ve blockchain-timestamped all the rumors defaming me. Please wait patiently for your court summons.] I added a little pleading-puppy emoji at the end. Maximum passive-aggression. 07 My absolute savage behavior was like dropping a bomb into the stagnant waters of Hollywood. Smelling the drama, millions of users flooded in. Seeing the situation blow up, Olivia Thorne finally made an appearance. [Sorry for taking up public server space. My hand accidentally slipped earlier, I apologize if it caused anyone trouble.] [As for Aethelgard, I want to clarify something here. As a die-hard fan of the original books, I actively sought this out since the project was announced. I prepared extensively, went to auditions, did the stunt training, and was so happy to receive validation from the director and crew.] [The female lead is the absolute soul of Aethelgard, so it’s true that even over the last three months, the casting wasn’t finalized. I’m very regretful that I ultimately cannot participate.] [I believe the producers chose Miss Chloe because she surely has extraordinary talents. I trust she will bring a spectacular performance to the audience!] [Finally, I couldn’t become Aelynn for a short while, but I will forever be Aelynn’s biggest fan.] Attached was a photo of her dressed in Aelynn’s iconic teal robes, striking a pose with a prop sword. The photo was highly polished—polished to the point where every single strand of hair was edited. With the perfect lighting, her already pretty face looked even more stunning. The Aethelgard book fans immediately recognized it: it was the most iconic look of the protagonist, Aelynn! 08 [Holy crap! So accurate!] [Ahhhh! Why isn’t Olivia playing her?!] [It’s missing a little edge, but the accuracy is so high.] [I want to see what kind of person the director picked if they weren’t satisfied with THIS!] [So naive. Directors have no say nowadays. It’s all about what the investors want. Whoever the money wants, gets the part.] [Industry plant get out of Hollywood!] Reading through these, I almost gave her a standing ovation. Brilliant. Truly brilliant. It sounded like she was speaking up for me, but every sentence was a trap. Saying she prepared a lot implied I didn’t prepare at all. Saying I would give a “spectacular performance” and then dropping her own gorgeous character photo was subtly raising the audience’s expectations. As long as I was even slightly worse than her—or even just equally good—the internet would cry foul for her. Most people in the world are just ordinary people. We don’t want to see capital and privilege easily defeat hard work. But unfortunately, she miscalculated one thing. How did she know I didn’t work harder than her? 09 Half an hour later, the official Aethelgard account dropped an absolute bombshell. [Per @Chloe ‘s request, to provide a fair, just, and open competitive environment for talented, hardworking actors, Aethelgard will launch the ‘Aelynn Initiative’, opening up the lead role to a public audition.] [The audition will be fully live-streamed, evaluating actors on vocals, line delivery, physicality, and acting. The audience will vote to decide the best actor.] [June 2nd, streaming simultaneously on YouTube and Twitch. Stay tuned.] The internet was dumbfounded. [Wait, what? Is this actually the official account? Not a prank?] [I literally have goosebumps. Chloe plays hardball.] [Witnessing history. Always wanted to see a studio cast a role publicly. Didn’t think it would happen today.] Some people had a different takeaway. [Official account, you’re spoiling her! She told you to post this and you actually did?!] [Why does it feel like the whole production team are just Chloe’s simps?] [Put yourself in Chloe’s shoes: People say I don’t deserve it, so let’s just compete publicly. Producer, you know what to do. Producer: Understood, setting it up right now! Damn, that’s such a flex.] These comments made my toes curl in secondhand embarrassment. I am not. I did not. I just casually mentioned to my dearest bestie that I wanted a fair competition! Sure enough, whenever Harper’s eyes light up, it’s never anything normal.

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I saw a video of firefighters training online and couldn’t resist dropping a thirsty comment. “Nice waist, bro. I’d ride that.” The guy replied instantly: “? Don’t let me catch you.” Karma works fast. The next night, I rolled over in my sleep and somehow got completely wedged in the gap between my mattress and the wall, unable to escape. When the fire department broke down my door, my phone was still stuck on the comment section of his video. Our eyes met. The guy from the video was standing over me, holding a reciprocating saw, giving me a half-smile. “Wow, it’s you. Don’t remember me? You’re the one who ripped my underwear off while saving a cat.” Me: I am so dead! New grudges piled on top of old ones! 01 Stuck in the narrow gap between the bed and the wall, I tried to suck in my stomach and regulate my final, desperate breaths. The violent sound of my door being battered down echoed from outside, accompanied by the TikTok audio of a trending beat-drop song looping for the 800th time from my phone lying next to me. After what felt like an eternity, right as I was about to suffocate, I finally heard the sound of the deadbolt being popped. The door swung open, and a blast of freezing wind swept in. Along with the wind came several young, incredibly attractive firefighters. “I’m here… I’m down here…” A pathetic, weak voice squeaked from the gap like a dying kitten. The firefighters reacted quickly and tried to pull the bed away from the wall. I immediately let out a blood-curdling scream. “Whoa, relax! Don’t panic, we’ll get you out right now,” a firefighter reassured me patiently, while giving the bed a forceful heave. My vision went black, and I squealed like a slaughtered pig. By the time I recovered from the shock, I had been dragged out of the gap. The firefighters peeled back the six layers of blankets I was wrapped in, finally getting a clear look at my calf, which was still wedged tightly into the bed frame. It was covered in dried blood and swollen to twice its normal size. “Captain, the victim’s leg is trapped in the frame. We need tools to cut it.” Just as the firefighter spoke, the looping TikTok audio suddenly stopped. The man standing at the very back of the group had picked up my phone. With an icy, expressionless face, he crouched down by my feet to inspect the injury. I stared at his sharp, chiseled jawline and the name embroidered on his chest patch, instinctively gulping. Ethan Cole. God, he’s hot! “It’s wedged too tight. Go down to the truck and grab the reciprocating saw.” I closed my eyes in absolute agony. Great. Now I have to pay for a broken front door and a new bed. My poor bank account… Ethan, crouching beside me, seemed to sense my inner turmoil. He turned his head and patted my shoulder. “It’s okay. Just try to relax.” Looking at his devastatingly handsome face, a sudden realization clicked in my brain. He looks really familiar. I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before… The saw arrived quickly. Someone plugged it in, and the loud, buzzing roar of the motor filled the room. Ethan stood up, took off his heavy turnout coat, and grabbed the saw. I looked up at his olive-green t-shirt clinging tightly to his sculpted abs, and the veins popping on his forearms. My brain instantly short-circuited. Wait. Isn’t this the exact same guy doing pushups in the viral video I was just drooling over?! Which means… when he was holding my phone a minute ago… he definitely saw my comment. I got caught red-handed. My brain spun frantically, trying to figure out how to explain that I was just a keyboard warrior who was all talk and no action. But Ethan was already approaching me, holding the saw, a dark half-smile playing on his lips. “Hold still. I’m very fast.” My face drained of all color, my eyes darting around in panic. The next second, his deep, deliberately lowered voice reached my ears. “Well, well. Don’t remember me? You’re the one who ripped my underwear off while saving a cat.” My confused expression instantly shattered. My temples throbbed so hard I thought my head was going to explode. I am so dead! New grudges piled on top of old ones! Watching Ethan lower the spinning saw toward me, I burst into terrified tears and screamed in sheer panic: “I’M SORRY! I WAS WRONG! I’M SO SORRY, HUBBY…” 02 That single “Hubby” completely obliterated whatever dignity I had left. Under the shocked and highly amused stares of the entire fire squad… I was tossed over Ethan’s shoulder, my face burning brighter than a tomato, and carried out to the ambulance. Yes, carried like a sack of potatoes. To maintain professional boundaries, my 100-pound self didn’t get a romantic bridal carry. I got the “hauling a dead boar out of the woods” carry. At the hospital, my best friend finally arrived. She stared at my calf, which was currently swollen to the size of a tree trunk, and slapped her thigh, honking with laughter. “Chloe, you are incredible. You literally made the local news.” My brain was still buzzing, and my leg was throbbing in agony. I quickly pulled out my phone. “SHOCKING!!! Woman wrapped in six blankets gets stuck in bed frame, nearly assassinated by her own bedding!” “Girl stuck in bed carried into hospital by firefighter, weight currently incalculable!” Me: [Angry embarrassment.jpg] When my best friend wheeled me out of the hospital, she relentlessly interrogated me about how I managed to rip a firefighter’s underwear off. To avoid being dumped on the freezing street, I gritted my teeth and recounted the most humiliating moment of my life. It happened three months ago, late at night. I was walking home from working overtime when I heard meowing coming from the bushes by the sidewalk. After searching, I found a tiny calico kitten stuck high up in a tree, too terrified to climb down. The kitten looked like it had barely been weaned, shivering violently in the branches. My heart broke, and I decided to save it. But I couldn’t find anything to climb on. Right at that moment, Ethan happened to run past on his nightly jog. So, I aggressively recruited him for a rescue mission I would never forget for the rest of my life. The kitten, terrified by our commotion below, kept crying and climbing higher. Ethan didn’t hesitate. He tied his shoelaces tight and started climbing the tree. The tree was incredibly thin. Ethan swayed precariously as he climbed, looking like he was going to fall at any second. I stood at the base, grabbing his calves to help stabilize him. Just as he was inches away from grabbing the kitten… the branch he was standing on snapped under his weight. Ethan panicked, trying to jump down safely. Blind panic took over me, and I reached my hands up, desperately trying to catch him. In a split-second flash of absolute chaos… my hands accidentally grabbed onto his upper thigh… and I violently ripped the side of his tight athletic shorts wide open. With the loud RIIIIIIP of tearing fabric, Ethan scrambled to adjust his footing and somehow managed to wrap his arms around the trunk, hanging on for dear life. The kitten, however, was launched from the shaking tree, landed safely in the bushes a few yards away, and bolted into the night. Just as this happened, a city bus slowly pulled up to the stop right next to us. Illuminated perfectly by the bus headlights… was Ethan, clinging to a tree, wearing shredded athletic shorts that fully exposed a pair of bright crimson, Year of the Dragon novelty boxers. The golden dragon embroidered on his crotch literally sparkled under the headlights, gleaming in all its majestic glory. The sheer, apocalyptic embarrassment was too much. I instantly hit the deck and combat-crawled straight into the bushes to hide. Leaving Ethan and his golden dragon crotch to make awkward, agonizing eye contact with the men, women, and children staring out the windows of the passing bus… “Are… are you okay?” After the bus drove away, I poked my head out of the bushes, cautiously asking Ethan, who had just dropped down from the tree. His face was pitch black. One hand was covering his ass, and the other was clenched into a tight, trembling fist. “What do you think?” I was absolutely terrified. I took three huge steps back, took off my jacket, and handed it to him. “It’s fine! Everything’s fine! At least we saved the cat, right? The cat…” The cat was long gone. I was crying internally. Please don’t punch me! Thankfully, Ethan just looked pissed. He snatched my jacket and tied it tightly around his waist. But the violent yank of the fabric caused the torn piece of his athletic shorts—which I had unknowingly stuffed into my jacket pocket—to fall out and land directly at his feet. Oh my god! What sin did I commit in my past life to deserve this?! My hands were shaking violently as I pulled out my phone and opened my Venmo QR code. “Sir, I’ll pay you for the shorts. Please, just add me.” Ding… The second he accepted the request, I turned and sprinted away faster than Usain Bolt. 03 Sitting on the curb, my best friend ignored the strange looks from passersby, slapping my head and laughing until she couldn’t breathe. For a very long time after that, it became her favorite piece of ammunition to mock me. Recovering from my leg injury at home was agonizingly boring. I saw the viral video of Ethan carrying me into the hospital being turned into meme edits all over Twitter. I decided it was time to exact my revenge. I was going to harass Ethan late at night. “You asleep yet, babe?” He replied instantly: “? Are you paying me back?” The smug smile vanished from my face. My brain was instantly flooded with the image of his golden dragon boxers and his incredibly firm, sculpted thighs. I hesitated for a few seconds, then Venmoed him $52.00. He accepted the payment instantly. Me: ??? FUCK!!! People really shouldn’t stay up late. I tried to troll him, and ended up losing money instead. So unlucky. But looking at the algorithm pushing more videos of his abs onto my feed… I decided I wasn’t going to let that money go to waste. My official goal for this year: Touch Ethan’s abs! To achieve this goal, as soon as my leg healed, I bought several massive orders of boba tea and delivered them to the fire station. My excuse? Showing my deep gratitude to Ethan for saving my life. The atmosphere at the station was great. A bunch of young, grinning firefighters grabbed the drinks and immediately scattered, giving us space. In the middle of the massive training yard, it was just me and Ethan, staring at each other. I handed him the last cup of boba. “Here. This one’s yours. I secretly told them to add extra boba.” Ethan hesitated for a few seconds before finally taking the cup. “Thanks.” His lips parted slightly. The olive-green t-shirt he was wearing was soaked with sweat from training, clinging tightly to the sharp outline of his abs. My mouth moved faster than my brain, and I blurted out: “If you really want to thank me, let me feel your abs.” The moment the words left my mouth, Ethan’s cold, aloof expression shattered, replaced by sheer, unadulterated shock. I pressed my lips together, my face burning hot. Okay, maybe that was a little too direct. But since the elephant in the room was already tap-dancing, I decided to just go all in. “Ethan, I already asked around. You don’t have a girlfriend. Can I pursue you?” The guy standing across from me was clearly still buffering from the shock of my first sentence and definitely didn’t process the second one. I didn’t give him time to react. I kept going. “Not gonna answer? Then I’ll take that as a yes, boyfriend.” And just like that, based entirely on my own unilateral assumption, Ethan was officially my boyfriend. By the time I left the station, several of the younger firefighters were already calling me “Sister-in-law.” I didn’t hold back either. I answered them brightly and enthusiastically. “Bye, Sister-in-law! Come back soon!” I nodded, turned to Ethan, and smiled. “I’m heading out! Bye, hubby.” Ethan had been standing there with a dark expression for five minutes, opening his mouth several times to say something. But that final “hubby” completely short-circuited his brain, leaving him speechless. 04 For the next few weeks, I lived a life of aggressively, unilaterally dating Ethan. To win him over and speedrun my way to touching those abs, I started posting on Reddit asking for advice. Finally, a highly-rated comment gave me a revelation: “These guys who act like tough, stoic walls of iron usually have a super flamboyant inner self. Otherwise, why would he be wearing bright red novelty boxers?” “Trust me, girl. Be direct. If he’s secretly wild, you have to be overtly wild. If that doesn’t work, just sexually harass him! Go get ’em!!!” Armed with this divine knowledge, I began my practical application. “Good morning, babe. I didn’t sleep at all last night, because I spent the whole night thinking about you in my dreams…” “Baby, the wind is so strong today. It’s almost as strong as my desperate need for you!” “I can’t sleep. My bed feels so cold. It feels like something’s missing… Oh, right. It’s missing you.” After a full week of aggressively sending him thirsty texts, Ethan only replied to me exactly two times. “Morning.” “If you’re cold, turn on the heater…” I mentally cursed that Reddit user 800 times. After agonizing over my failure, I came to a painful conclusion. Texting creates too much distance. I needed to show up in person and force my existence onto his radar. So, when I found out the city was hosting a firefighter skills competition and livestreaming it, I woke up earlier than I ever had in my life. When I arrived at the training facility, it was already packed with a massive crowd. Official drones buzzed overhead, filming the event. I tied my hair up tight and aggressively elbowed my way to the very front of the crowd. When the whistle blew, my eyes locked onto Ethan’s figure. Watching him hurdle over obstacles, low-crawl through the dirt, and drag massive tires over towering walls… I let out a feral, groundhog-like scream. Hot! He is so fucking hot! When the competition ended, the livestream host announced they would pick one random audience member to interact with the first-place winner. Standing in the front row, I frantically blew kisses and shot heart hands at Ethan, completely shameless. My unhinged behavior successfully caught the host’s attention, and I was gloriously selected as the lucky winner. On the live broadcast, the host asked me what I wanted to say to the champion. I grabbed the mic and walked right up to Ethan. His clothes were soaked in sweat, his chest heaving as he chugged a bottle of water. Staring at his bobbing Adam’s apple and his incredibly sexy collarbones, I made my bold request. “I want to see you do pushups. 100 of them.” “Also… can I sit on your back?” The crowd erupted in cheers. I tilted my head up, raised an eyebrow at Ethan, and flashed a triumphant, wicked smile. His face darkened. He silently put down his water bottle, dropped to the ground, and assumed a flawless pushup position. His flexed muscles showcased perfect, fluid lines, and the veins popped on his arms, radiating pure masculine energy. A group of girls in the crowd gasped. He looked up at me, his voice slightly strained through gritted teeth. “Sit!” The late afternoon sun hit his back, bathing him in a golden glow. A single drop of sweat dripped from his bangs, catching the light perfectly. The sight struck my heart, sending ripples through me. I happily kicked off my shoes, grinning like an idiot as I climbed onto his back. As he moved up and down, I almost slipped, so I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around his neck. The very next second, his entire body went rigid. I secretly smiled, leaning close to his ear, and whispered. “Keep going, hubby. You got this.” Underneath me, doing incredibly stiff pushups, Ethan’s ears turned a violent shade of crimson. Hehehe. I definitely got a feast today. One step closer to my ultimate goal! 05 After the livestream ended, I relentlessly harassed Ethan until he agreed to walk me home. As we walked past a row of street food stalls, the smell of barbecue was overwhelmingly intoxicating. I was literally drooling. Ten minutes later, there was a case of beer and three plates of grilled meat on our table. “When exactly are you planning to go home?” Ethan sat across from me, gripping a grilled sausage, his brows furrowed deeply. I aggressively gnawed on a grilled chicken wing, my voice muffled. “When I finish eating. Once you finish eating with me, I’ll go home.” Swallowing the chicken, I popped open another beer for Ethan. A few beers later, I was violently throwing up. Next to a trash can by the sidewalk, I stared at Ethan—who currently had three blurry clones overlapping him—and stumbled directly into his chest. “You smell so good!” Ethan completely froze in place, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air, having no idea what to do. “You’re drunk. Let me take you home.” I shook my head, aggressively rubbing my face against his chest. It was rock hard, and my nose actually hurt. “No. No way. You’re so mean to me. So cold and ruthless.” A heavy sigh came from above me. It sounded faint, but I could feel Ethan trying to push me away. I quickly wrapped my arms around his waist like a vice, hanging my entire body weight onto him. “Don’t move. You are not allowed to push me away.” “I like you so much. Can’t you just like me back, even a little bit?” I heard the sound of Ethan swallowing hard. A heavy, ragged breath blew down my collar, brushing against the back of my neck. It sent a tingling, electric shock down my spine. I tilted my head up, staring hazily at his devastatingly handsome face, and asked, word by word: “Ethan, do you like me even a tiny little bit?” The only answer I got was the sound of the wind. Then, Ethan hoisted me up with one arm and pulled me tightly into his chest… I never got an answer to my question. But the text messages from Ethan started becoming a lot more frequent. I just kept casually harassing him. I’d randomly show up at the station to drop off boba, then force him to walk me home. Half a month later, while walking me home, Ethan received an emergency dispatch page. Watching him sprint back toward the station in a panic, my right eyelid started twitching violently. Soon after, fire trucks roared past me, their sirens echoing through the streets. A news alert popped up on my phone: “Gas explosion at Sunset Apartments in the historic district triggers massive fire… Casualties unknown!” The second I saw the notification, I dropped my half-empty boba cup on the pavement. I unlocked a rental bike and pedaled like a maniac. My parents lived in Sunset Apartments!

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The basement air was thick, damp, and tasted like copper. I slumped against the bottom step, the blood from my temple carving a slow, hot path down my neck and soaking into the collar of my shirt. Just minutes ago, my own parents had shoved me down these stairs. When the back of my skull cracked against the unforgiving concrete, the last thing I heard was my mother’s voice: “Paige, you need to stop being so selfish.” They said today was Caroline’s big day. If they could just get through this wedding, my older sister would finally be free of the prophecy. But Justin was supposed to be my fiancé. It all started when my parents began seeing the floating words. Phantom, glowing text suspended in the air that only they could read—a bizarre, digital omen they called the “Premonition.” It predicted that Caroline would sink into a severe depression out of jealousy over my being the favored child, and that on the day of my wedding, her heart would simply give out. The only way to cheat the prophecy is a total reversal of fates. My parents had clung to those spectral words like a lifeline. Overnight, the center of gravity in our house shifted entirely to Caroline. They went so far as to announce to the world that Justin was actually marrying her. Now, I weakly slapped my palm against the heavy, locked door at the top of the stairs. My voice was a shredded whisper. “Mom… Dad… I’m bleeding…” My mother’s muffled, impatient sigh bled through the wood. “Are you seriously making this about yourself right now? Do you really want your sister to die?” Her footsteps clipped away. I tried to lift my arm to pound on the door again, but it was made of lead. My consciousness was draining away, leaking out onto the floor right along with my blood. 1 When I woke up, I felt weightless. I looked down. My body was still crumpled on the bottom step, a dark, jagged pool of red staining the concrete around my head. I was dead. I drifted up through the basement door and stepped into the living room. It was an explosion of tulle and white roses. Joy radiated from the walls. Dad was on his knees, gently fussing with the hem of Caroline’s wedding gown, while Mom carefully adjusted her veil. “Mom, shouldn’t we let Paige out?” Caroline asked, chewing her bottom lip. “I still don’t completely buy that whole Premonition thing. Paige is younger; it’s normal that you guys spoiled her a bit. Why would I get so depressed over that?” Caroline started to stand, clearly intending to head for the basement, but Mom and Dad immediately pushed her gently back into her chair. “Caroline, focus,” Mom said, her eyes instantly welling with tears. “Do you have any idea what’s at stake today—” Her voice broke. “Nothing is more important than you today. We can deal with everything else tomorrow.” “But you guys favoring me because of that prophecy has already hurt Paige so much,” Caroline protested, her voice tight. “And now making Justin marry me? I—” “She knows exactly what the Premonition said!” Mom snapped, cutting her off. “She knows you’re in danger, yet she still throws tantrums out of sheer jealousy. Have you forgotten how she fought with you over the frosting on a cake and pushed you down the stairs, breaking your leg?” Caroline fell silent, but her eyes kept darting anxiously toward the hallway that led to the basement. I let out a bitter, hollow laugh. Ever since my parents figured out how to save my sister’s life, I had become entirely invisible. Yes, I had been jealous of Caroline. On the day of my eighteenth birthday, my parents decided to throw a massive “do-over” birthday for her instead of celebrating mine. I had cried, we had argued, and in the scuffle, she lost her balance and fell down the stairs. But I wanted my sister to live, too. Because that same night, when my dad was furious and ready to practically beat me senseless, it was Caroline who had dragged her broken leg across the floor, shielding me with her own body. She had sobbed, begging him to stop, and then stroked my bruised cheek, whispering I’m sorry, I’m so sorry over and over again. I understood why my parents had to tilt the scales to save her. I really did. But somewhere along the line, they hadn’t just leveled the playing field. They had turned me into the enemy. The sound of the front door opening pulled me back. “Justin’s here! Perfect timing,” Mom said, clapping her hands. “Take Caroline to the car.” She sniffled, looking at my former fiancé. “I’m so sorry, Justin. I know how much you and Paige love each other, but our hands are tied. Caroline has always been our rock. We can’t lose her.” As Mom choked on a sob, Justin gave a solemn, reassuring nod. “I know, Diane. I believe Paige will understand why we had to do this.” Justin walked toward the basement door and tapped on it lightly. “Paige, I know you’re furious,” he called out, his voice smooth and coaxing. “But we’re doing this so Caroline doesn’t die for nothing. Once midnight hits, everything goes back to normal. You know you’re the only one I love. Okay?” Silence. Mom’s face hardened. She marched over and banged her fist against the wood. “Paige Gallagher, who do you think you’re punishing in there? Is this how we raised you?” She reached for the handle and pulled. The door cracked open an inch. My phantom heart leaped into my throat. Is she going to see me? Is she going to see that I’m dead? But Justin gently caught her wrist. He sighed, the picture of exhausted patience. “Leave it, Diane. She’s just pouting. Nothing we say right now is going to get through to her.” He checked his watch. “We need to go, or we’ll be late.” He glanced back at the dark slit of the door. “Hang in there, Paige. Tomorrow, we’re coming back and we are going to make this up to you.” With that, he wrapped his arm around my sister’s waist and guided her out the door toward the waiting limousine. Even as a ghost, the ache in my chest was blinding. I touched my face. My fingertips came away wet. I was crying. Mom, Dad. Your premonition told you exactly when my sister was going to die. But what about me? 2 By the time the reception ended, it was late afternoon. Back in the hotel suite, Caroline immediately grabbed her phone, her brow furrowed in panic. I leaned over her shoulder. She was texting me. [Paige, do you have your phone? There’s a spare key under the mat by the basement door. Please come out.] [I left you a plate in the fridge. Please eat.] The bubbles remained grey. Unread. She dialed my number. It went straight to voicemail. Dropping the phone, she practically ran into the adjoining room to find Dad. “Dad, Paige isn’t answering. She must have dropped her phone upstairs before you locked her in. Can you please go back and check on her? She’s been down there all day, she hasn’t eaten a thing.” Mom groaned, poking Caroline in the forehead. “Why are you still worrying about her? Her skipping a meal is nothing compared to you dying!” “Mom!” Caroline pleaded. “Fine, fine. I’ll go let the brat out and bring her to the hotel so she can keep you company,” Mom huffed, grabbing her purse. Caroline shoved a Tupperware container into her hands. “It’s all her favorites. Please make sure she eats. You know she gets those awful stomach cramps.” My throat felt tight. I reached out to hug my sister, but my arms passed right through her shoulders. Thank you, Care. But I’m never going to eat again. Mom drove straight back to the house. When she walked in, the basement door was still shut. She sighed heavily and walked up to it. “Your sister said there’s a spare key under the mat. Open the door yourself,” Mom called out. “She packed you some food. Eat it, and then we’re going to the hotel.” No answer. Mom’s face darkened with rage. She slammed the Tupperware onto the entryway table. “Fine, Paige! You want to throw a pity party? We are doing all of this for your sister! Are you really so petty that you’d rather see her dead? How did you get so vicious?” She pounded on the door, then aggressively dug her own key out of her pocket and shoved it into the lock. The door clicked and swung open a few inches. The shadows of the basement shifted, the pale silhouette of my arm just barely catching the hallway light. Right at that exact second, her cell phone rang. It was Dad, sounding panicked. “Diane, get to a pharmacy! Caroline just slipped in the bathroom and cut her ankle, she’s bleeding!” Slam. Mom pulled the door shut, locking it in one swift motion. She didn’t even look back as she sprinted out the front door. I stood there in the quiet house, a bitter laugh tearing from my chest. She was an inch away. One inch from finding me dead. Back at the hotel, Mom carefully applied a bandage to Caroline’s ankle. Justin walked in, and the four of them huddled on the suite’s plush sofas, watching the clock on the wall. Usually, an hour flies by. Tonight, it felt like wading through molasses. At 11:59 PM, Mom started to whimper, gripping Dad’s hand. For the last thirty seconds, they pulled Caroline into a tight embrace, their eyes squeezed shut. Ten seconds… five seconds… one second. Midnight. The room was dead silent. “Is it over?” Mom whispered, her voice trembling. Dad pulled out his phone with shaking hands. “It’s past twelve. The text didn’t appear. The premonition… it’s broken.” They stared at each other for a long, suspended moment. And then, they broke down. Loud, ugly, joyous sobbing. “You’re safe! Caroline, my baby, you’re safe!” They held her like she had just been pulled from the wreckage of a plane crash. “We have to go back,” Caroline said urgently, wiping her face. “We have to tell Paige! She’s been locked in there all day, she must be starving and terrified.” They piled into the car. The mood was euphoric. Dad kept glancing at Caroline in the rearview mirror, grinning through his tears. “We really owe Paige an apology,” Dad admitted softly. “Once we get back, we should take her on a trip. Just the four of us.” “We haven’t celebrated her birthday properly since she turned eighteen,” Caroline said, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the silver pendant around her neck—a gift I had bought her. “I want to throw her a huge party.” “We will,” Mom sighed, leaning her head against the window. “We’ve neglected her for too long. It’s time to make it right.” Sitting in the backseat beside them, I just smiled a sad, broken smile. I wondered what they would look like when they saw my body. They arrived at the house quickly. But the moment they walked into the kitchen, they froze. The Tupperware Mom had left on the table was covered in a fuzzy layer of blue-green mold. I hadn’t come out of that basement in two days. 3 Dad finally snapped. He marched down the hall and kicked the basement door with the heel of his boot. “Paige, enough is enough! Get out here right now!” he roared. “Your sister literally just survived a death curse, and you can’t even come out to say congratulations? Who the hell are you punishing?” Justin frowned, stepping up to the door. “Paige, stop acting like a child,” Justin said, his tone dripping with disappointment. “Come out. Caroline is safe. I told you we’d make up for everything today. But acting like this? It’s just selfish. She’s your sister.” Silence. Justin, you’re an idiot, I thought, staring at his perfectly styled hair. No matter what you say, I literally cannot answer you. It was Caroline who realized something was wrong. “She wouldn’t do this. Her stomach cramps get so bad when she skips meals,” Caroline said, her voice rising in panic. “She must have dropped her phone out here!” She frantically searched the hallway, but my phone was nowhere to be found. I looked through the floorboards at my own corpse. My phone was lying inches from my lifeless head. “She has it on her. She’s just screening us,” Mom said, her face hardening. She grabbed Caroline’s arm. “Fine. If she wants to rot down there and prove a point, let her. Your sister literally cheats death and you’re still throwing a tantrum? Ungrateful little brat.” Mom turned to Dad. “Pack the bags. We’re taking Caroline to Carmel for the week to celebrate. I shouldn’t have ever had that second child; she’s been nothing but a headache!” Mom dragged Dad and Caroline toward the stairs to pack. Justin lingered by the basement door for a long moment. His eyes were unreadable. Finally, he let out an exasperated sigh, turned on his heel, and walked out the front door. I closed my ghostly eyes, the bitterness pooling in my mouth. There were two keys to that basement. One under the mat. One in my mother’s purse. She could have opened the door right then. But she chose not to. She missed me. Again. … They took Caroline and Justin to a luxury resort in Carmel-by-the-Sea. Like a tethered balloon, my soul was dragged along with them. I watched them toast to Caroline’s new lease on life with champagne on the beach. I watched them go shopping, buy her expensive gifts, and laugh in the California sun. Three days passed like this. In the hotel room, Caroline sat on the edge of her bed, staring at our text thread. Nothing. “Mom, I think we should go home,” Caroline said, pressing a hand to her chest. “I’ve had this awful feeling all day. My eye won’t stop twitching. Paige hasn’t opened my messages in almost a week. What if something happened to her down there?” Dad scoffed from the armchair. “Ignore her. She’s stubborn just to be stubborn.” But Mom slowly lowered the blouse she was holding. “She’s never held a grudge this long,” Mom murmured, a flicker of genuine uncertainty crossing her face. “If she has her phone… why wouldn’t she at least text to yell at us? By now, she usually gives up and demands we order her takeout…” A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the room. Then, Mom’s phone buzzed. It was our next-door neighbor.

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The piercing shriek of the ambulance siren shattered the quiet hum of the graveyard shift. A pregnant woman was being rushed through the double doors, hemorrhaging massively. The charge nurse’s frantic voice clipped my ears. I was already moving, reaching for my scrub cap, preparing to sprint into the operating room. But before my hand could even touch the fabric, the air in front of me warped. A barrage of jagged, glowing red text suddenly exploded across my vision. [Watch out! That’s your wife on the stretcher. She was out in the woods hooking up with her childhood best friend and things went wrong!] [She’s been planning to fake her death to get out of the marriage. They’re going to pin a medical malpractice suit on you so you rot in a cell forever!] [The baby isn’t even yours. Her parents already called the cops. They’re on their way to arrest you right now!] Line after line of spectral text scrolled rapidly in mid-air. I stopped dead in my tracks. The blood drained from my face, rushing back in a dizzying wave of cold panic, and my stomach plummeted into an endless freefall. … 01 “Dr. Wright! Her vitals are crashing. They’ve bypassed triage and are prepping the OR now. We need you in there!” The nurse’s voice was a desperate tether trying to pull me back to reality, but the glowing sentences suspended in the corridor held me captive. I was paralyzed by a sickening collision of duty and absolute terror. I had spoken to my wife, Corinne, not twenty minutes ago. She had told me she was rolling up her yoga mat, exhausted, heading to bed. How could she possibly be the woman bleeding out from a reckless, illicit encounter in the middle of nowhere? I took a trembling step toward the trauma bay. Instantly, new text slashed across the air. [No! If he goes in and comes back, they’re going to plant an empty vodka bottle covered in his fingerprints in his desk drawer. They’re going to frame him for operating under the influence!] [He gets fifteen years in a federal penitentiary for this! And the moment he makes parole, his ‘dead’ wife runs him over with a car!] My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I spun on my heel and bolted back into my private office. I threw open my desk drawer. It was completely empty. I stared at the pristine wood, the manic scrolling of the floating text reflecting in my wide eyes. It was impossible to ignore. A visceral, primal instinct flared to life inside me. I didn’t have time to question the impossibility of the floating words; I only knew I had to survive. I reached for my computer, brought up the webcam application, and hit record. I angled the lens perfectly so that the entire desk, the drawer, and the door were caught in a wide, indisputable frame. [Oh my god, he turned on the camera? Is he actually trying to secure an alibi?] [It won’t matter. The boyfriend is about to storm in and physically drag him to the OR. He won’t have time to check the footage!] Right on cue, the heavy oak door of my office was shoved open so violently the handle cracked against the drywall. Trevor. Corinne’s childhood best friend. He lunged across the room, his face a mask of manufactured hysteria, and grabbed me by the bicep, yanking me toward the hallway. “Corinne is dying on the table! What the hell are you doing standing around in here?” Trevor screamed, his grip bruising. “The nurses have been paging you for five minutes! Why aren’t you in there saving her?” “She’s carrying your child, Thomas!” I looked at Trevor. The man who had sat at my dining table, drinking my scotch, laughing at my jokes. Thousands of invisible needles pierced my chest. The hemorrhaging woman. It really is my wife. I forced my facial muscles into a mask of utter bewilderment. “What are you talking about, Trevor? I just got off the phone with Corinne. She’s asleep in our bed. Why would she be in the ER?” Seeing my genuine-looking confusion and my absolute lack of urgency, Trevor’s eyes widened. A flash of real panic broke through his performance. “Why would I lie about this?!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “Go to the OR and see for yourself! Thomas, this is a human life! If you waste another second, she is going to die!” He lunged for me again, trying to physically haul me out the door. I sidestepped him smoothly. I narrowed my eyes, injecting a heavy dose of suspicion into my voice. “Are you absolutely certain? You’re telling me the woman in the trauma bay is Corinne?” “Yes! Would I joke about her life?” My expression turned to ice. “Then tell me, Trevor, why do you know my wife was brought into my hospital before I did?” “Were you the reason she got hurt?” Trevor stammered, his eyes darting frantically to the door, but he quickly recovered, masking his slip with explosive, righteous anger. “She is bleeding out, and you’re standing here interrogating me?!” he roared. “She is your wife! You took an oath, Thomas! You’re supposed to save lives, but you’re so damn cold-blooded you’d let the mother of your unborn child die on the table!” His shouting had the desired effect. Doctors and nurses from the adjacent hallway began crowding around the open door, murmuring, their eyes wide with shock. Just then, a young triage nurse pushed through the crowd, breathless. “Dr. Wright… the John Doe… she had an ID in her coat. It really is Corinne. It’s your wife. You need to get in there.” She kept her voice low, but in the echoing silence of the office, Trevor caught every word. He puffed his chest out, a savior in the spotlight. “You hear that? Do you believe me now? Get your scrub cap on and save her!” Trevor’s face was a portrait of agony, but I didn’t miss the micro-expression that flickered through his eyes—a dark, triumphant gleam of pure contempt. He was desperate to get me into that room. He needed me away from my desk to set the trap. Fine, I thought. Let’s play. I cast a brief, imperceptible glance at the tiny green light of my webcam. I gave a slow, grave nod. “Alright,” I said, my voice deadpan. “I’ll go.” 02 By the time I pushed through the swinging doors of the OR, gowned and gloved, the trauma surgeon looked up at me like I was a ghost. “Thomas,” the surgeon breathed. “Massive pelvic hemorrhage. She’s deep into hypovolemic shock.” Simultaneously, the phantom text flared in the periphery of my vision. [She took a black-market beta-blocker to simulate cardiac arrest. Of course her pulse is thready. She’s going to flatline in three… two…] [I feel so sick for the husband. Getting cheated on is bad enough, but framing him for murder? Evil.] I stood over the operating table, looking down at Corinne’s ashen face. For a fractured second, a devastating ache ripped through me. I had loved her from the moment I met her. Since the day we married, I had treated her like royalty, bending over backward to give her the world. Every long shift, every sacrifice, had been for her. For our future. And she despised me enough to orchestrate her own death just to watch me burn. The grief calcified instantly into a cold, hard resolve. I pointed a gloved finger at the monitor. The green line was already staggering, dropping rapidly into a flat, continuous wail. “She was brought in too late,” I said, my voice projecting clearly over the frantic beeping. “The damage is irreversible. Cease compressions. Call it, and notify the family.” Without waiting for a response, I stripped off my gloves, threw them in the biohazard bin, and walked out of the room. I didn’t return to my office. I bypassed it entirely and walked straight into the main doctors’ lounge. [Wait, he didn’t operate? He didn’t even touch the instruments. They can’t pin the malpractice on him now!] [It doesn’t matter! The trap is already set! Ugh, I wish I could scream the truth at him through the screen!] [Trevor is going to bring a whole mob tomorrow morning. The truth won’t matter when they drag his reputation through the mud. The father-in-law is going to bring the cops, find the bottle, and it’s over!] I sank into a worn leather sofa in the corner of the lounge, my heart thudding against my ribs. Impossible. My office had a camera. I never laid a hand on her in the OR. How could they possibly make a DUI malpractice charge stick? Being a doctor wasn’t just my job. It was my identity. I had clawed my way through medical school on scholarships, working myself to the bone for over two decades to earn my place here. Was I really going to let my entire life be incinerated by a cheating wife and her parasitic lover? No. I clenched my fists so hard my knuckles turned white. Breathe, Thomas. Think. If it was a conspiracy, there had to be structural weaknesses. There had to be a flaw in their timeline. I closed my eyes, tuning out the hum of the vending machines, and ran a forensic sweep of my own memory. Every conversation over the last seventy-two hours. Every text. Every anomaly. Thirty minutes later, my eyes snapped open. The chill in my blood was replaced by a sharp, electric clarity. “So that’s how,” I whispered to the empty room. A dark, grim smile pulled at the corner of my mouth. I pulled out my phone and made three very specific phone calls. [Holy shit. The male lead just woke up. The counter-attack is coming!] 03 I stayed planted in the main doctors’ lounge. It was shift-change. Surgeries were wrapping up, and the room was packed with exhausted colleagues waiting for food delivery and nurses charting at the center tables. There was too much foot traffic here, too many witnesses. I dared Trevor to try something out in the open. I grabbed a stale cup of coffee and waited. It didn’t take long. “Where is he?! Get out here, Thomas!” Trevor’s furious roar echoed down the corridor before he burst through the double doors. He wasn’t alone. He had brought a dozen people with him—relatives, loud neighbors, and several people with their phone cameras already out, recording the ambush for the internet. The lounge descended into instant chaos. “You let your own wife die out of pure selfishness! You’re a butcher! You don’t deserve the white coat on your back!” Trevor screamed, playing to the lenses pointed at him. [Here we go! The lover boy brought the fake death certificate to start a riot!] [Thomas is ready for this, right? Please tell me he’s ready.] I glanced at the floating text and arched an eyebrow. A death certificate? I almost laughed. I certainly hadn’t signed one. Trevor clearly didn’t understand the bureaucratic ironclad walls of a hospital system. A random piece of paper held absolutely no weight here. Before I could speak, Trevor’s mob surged forward, screaming obscenities, hands outstretched, trying to grab my scrubs, trying to get a physical altercation on camera. I remained perfectly calm, stepping smoothly behind a burly trauma nurse and two very confused, very broad-shouldered paramedics who were waiting for their coffee. Seeing the physical aggression, my colleagues snapped to attention. Outrage flashed across the faces of the senior staff. A seasoned ER doctor stepped in front of me, pointing a stern finger at Trevor. “Who the hell are you people? This is a restricted area. If you take one more step, security is locking this wing down and the police will be here in three minutes.” He already had his phone to his ear, dialing hospital security. Trevor sneered, pointing a trembling, dramatic finger at the doctor. “You want to call this trespassing? Your golden boy Dr. Wright just used his position to murder his wife and his unborn baby! He’s a monster!” Trevor turned to the crowd of doctors. “Step aside! We are here to get justice. If you protect him, you’re complicit, and I promise you, the whole world is going to know it!” He expected them to scatter. He expected the fear of a viral PR nightmare to make my colleagues throw me to the wolves. Instead, three more doctors moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in front of me. I caught the fleeting, panicked disappointment in Trevor’s eyes. I couldn’t help the cold smirk that touched my lips. “Trevor,” I said, my voice cutting through the shouting, perfectly steady. “You’re accusing me of using my medical authority to murder my wife. I assume you have proof?” Trevor let out a manic, theatrical laugh. “You want proof? I’ll give you proof!” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a crisp sheet of paper. The death certificate. 04 I looked at the paper. I felt no fear. I stepped out from behind my colleagues, took the document from his hand, and scanned it. The flaw was glaringly obvious. I tapped the header of the paper. “Trevor. My wife was pronounced dead in this hospital. The certificate of death must be generated by our medical examiner’s office.” I looked up at him, my eyes narrowing. “Even if you had a vendetta against our staff, protocol dictates an independent autopsy at a state facility. What exactly is this document from a strip-mall urgent care clinic?” Before Trevor could sputter an excuse, I raised my voice, ensuring every phone camera recorded my words. “Furthermore, I was not the attending physician on her case last night.” “By the time I entered the OR, resuscitation had already proven futile. I never touched a surgical instrument. And every single second of that is time-stamped and recorded on the surgical bay cameras.” The trauma surgeon who had been in the room earlier stepped forward, snatching the paper from my hand. He took one look at it and scoffed loudly. “Failure to provide timely intervention resulting in death? This is utter fiction,” the surgeon barked. “The patient was in profound hemorrhagic shock upon arrival. I initiated the code. We pushed every protocol we had. It’s all on the tape. You’re trying to extort this hospital, you pathetic little man.” Trevor had clearly anticipated this roadblock. He barely blinked. He pivoted effortlessly, abandoning the fake certificate and pointing a trembling finger squarely at my chest. “You didn’t operate because you refused to!” Trevor yelled to the crowd. “When the charge nurse called his office, he refused to come down! I ran to his office myself, begging him on my hands and knees to save her, and he just sat there! The nurses can back me up!” He looked at the phone cameras, tears welling perfectly in his eyes. “He let two lives end because he couldn’t be bothered! Who here can look me in the eye and say Thomas didn’t intentionally delay his response?!” A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the lounge. It was a brilliant, manipulative twist. In the medical field, a delayed response to a code blue was a massive ethical gray area. No doctor in the room was willing to put their own license on the line to vouch for my minute-by-minute timeline without reviewing the charts. Sensing the hesitation, a sickeningly triumphant light returned to Trevor’s eyes. He turned to his mob. “He killed her! And he’s going to pay!” Trevor bellowed. “A doctor who refuses to save his own family shouldn’t have hands to practice with!” I didn’t flinch. “Hold on.” My voice was quiet, but it carried the absolute authority of a man who held all the cards. “Nothing you’ve said is evidence of a crime, Trevor. And since the police are on their way, as Corinne’s legal next of kin, I am formally requesting a full, state-mandated autopsy.” I took a slow step toward him. “By the way… who exactly gave you the authorization to remove my wife’s body from the morgue?” Before Trevor could formulate a lie, a frail, trembling voice broke through the crowd. “I did.” Richard and Martha Evans, my father and mother-in-law, walked into the lounge, flanked by two uniformed police officers. The moment Richard saw me, he tore himself away from the officer’s steadying grip. He marched up to me, raised his hand, and slapped me across the face with everything he had. The crack echoed like a gunshot. A hot, stinging red mark instantly bloomed across my cheek. “Thomas Wright!” Richard spat, tears of rage tracking down his wrinkled face. “We treated you like our own flesh and blood! Is this how you repay us?!” “The reason you didn’t save my little girl is because you were blind drunk!” He turned his grief-stricken face to the stunned crowd. “You’ve always had a drinking problem, but I never thought you’d be so reckless as to let your own wife and unborn child die because you couldn’t put the bottle down!” Richard turned back to the police officers, a picture of absolute, broken heartbreak. “Officers. I am formally reporting my son-in-law for practicing medicine while heavily intoxicated. If you check his private office… the bottles should still be in his bottom drawer.” I closed my eyes. I felt the sharp sting of the slap, but underneath it, a much deeper, colder pain hollowed out my chest. Richard. The man I spent my Sundays with. The man I golfed with, who I bought expensive fishing gear for. Martha, whose luxury skincare and spa retreats I funded without a second thought. I had no parents of my own. I had loved them as if they had raised me. And here they were, performing a flawless, premeditated execution of my life. I opened my eyes and let out a long, slow exhale. The tension that had been knotting my spine suddenly vanished. The grief was gone. Only the game remained. Everything was playing out exactly as I had deduced. The room was dead silent. My colleagues stared at me, their faces caught between horror and disbelief. The police officers, following Richard’s agonizing plea, left and returned moments later. One of them held up a clear evidence bag. Inside it was a completely empty vodka bottle. The atmosphere in the room shifted violently. The shock in my colleagues’ eyes morphed instantly into disgust and betrayal. The doctors who had stood in front of me slowly backed away, putting distance between us. Trevor stepped up, unable to suppress the vicious smirk playing on his lips. “Well, Thomas,” Trevor whispered, loud enough for the cameras. “There’s the proof. What do you have to say for yourself?” I looked at the bottle. Then I looked at Richard. Then at Trevor. And I laughed. It wasn’t a chuckle; it was a dark, echoing laugh that made Trevor flinch. I raised a finger, pointing first at my father-in-law, and then squarely between Trevor’s eyes. “Officers,” I said, my voice ringing with absolute, terrifying calm. “I would like to report a conspiracy to commit fraud, defamation, and the planting of false evidence. And unlike them… I brought receipts.”

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The agony in my stomach was a white-hot blade, twisting until I was on the verge of blacking out. I forced a single word through my gritted teeth: “Fine.” I wasn’t going back. I was done with her. I was done with everything. Years ago, to be with Madeline, I did the unthinkable. I severed ties with my own family—a family that had given me everything—just to marry into hers. I became the husband in the shadows, the one who took her name, the one who supported her while she built her empire. In just six months, Madeline’s career exploded. She became the face of modern American entrepreneurship, a titan of industry. Back then, everyone envied me. They said I’d played my cards right, that I was the luckiest man alive to be tethered to a woman like her. Nobody predicted that a year later, I’d be diagnosed with stage three stomach cancer. The night before my surgery, I lay in that sterile hospital bed, a roadmap of tubes and wires snaking out of my body. I waited for Madeline. I waited until my eyes ached from staring at the door. She never came. Instead, my phone buzzed late that evening. When I answered, her voice was light, rhythmic, and devastatingly happy. “I’m getting married today,” she said. “Don’t ruin this for me. Don’t call me, and don’t show up.” I sat there, frozen. The words felt like a physical blow to the chest. “Parker has been waiting for me for three years,” she continued, her tone matter-of-fact. “Now that the company is stable, I can finally give him what he deserves. I can finally be his wife.” “And what about me?” my voice came out as a ragged whisper. She let out a soft, indifferent sigh. “We’ll just all live together. I’ve already bought a new estate. Parker’s sweet—he won’t mind you being there. Besides, where else would you go? Your parents disowned you years ago. You have nothing without me.” … Almost simultaneously, a notification popped up. Madeline had shared a livestream link to her wedding reception on her private social media. In the video, she was radiant in a deep crimson gala dress, her face glowing with a kind of joy I hadn’t seen in years. She was glowing. Parker was holding her hand, leading her through a forest of champagne flutes and cheering guests. In the background, her friends were shouting toasts. “Finally, Maddie! You finally married the man you actually love!” “True love wins in the end!” “Look at them—the perfect couple. This is the real Mr. Sampson!” They were all celebrating their ‘happily ever after.’ Meanwhile, I was breathing in the scent of industrial-grade disinfectant, my stomach cramping in waves that made me want to scream. The contrast was a cruel joke. In their world of silk and top-shelf bourbon, I didn’t exist. Not a single person asked where I was. The pain intensified. Beads of cold sweat rolled down my temples. Shaking, I typed a comment into the livestream: Congratulations. But I’m going into surgery in ten minutes. Can someone—anyone—please come help me? Seconds later, the stream cut to black. My phone rang instantly. It was Madeline, and she sounded livid. “Oliver, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you seriously trying to pull this pathetic stunt right now? You’re trying to make us look bad?” The pain was so sharp I could barely catch my breath. “I’m not… I’m not playing, Madeline. I’m in the hospital. I’m scared. I need someone here.” She didn’t hear the tremors in my voice. She had already decided I was the villain. “Enough. You’re just trying to ruin Parker’s night because you’re jealous. Listen to me: Parker is a better person than you’ll ever be. He’s willing to let you stay in our lives. If you can just keep your head down and behave, we’ll take care of you. We won’t let you starve.” She sighed, a sound of heavy, martyred patience. I stared at the ceiling, a bitter laugh dying in my throat. Was I supposed to thank her? Thank her for marrying another man? Thank her for letting me live in the guest house of her new life like a stray dog? I used to think the legalities didn’t matter. I thought as long as we were together, as long as she loved me, I could handle being the “trophy husband” who gave up his pride. But the reality was a bloody mess on the floor. She never intended for it to be us. I was just a placeholder. A footnote. The grief finally broke through the pain, and the tears started to fall. “Madeline, why? You told me you loved me. That’s why I gave up my family name for yours!” There was a pause on the other end. Then, she laughed. It was a sharp, mocking sound. “Oh, Oliver. You actually believed what I said in bed? You really have no self-awareness. Why would I ever truly want a man who was so desperate he’d cut off his own blood just to crawl into my shadow? Look, I like you well enough. I’ll keep you around, but don’t confuse that with marriage.” Her voice turned sharp. “I have to go. My husband is calling me.” The line went dead. A moment later, a doctor walked in. She looked at me with a sneer that made my skin crawl. She must have overheard the call. In her eyes, I wasn’t a patient; I was a homewrecker. She reached down and grabbed the gastric tube inserted into me, tugging it with a brutal, unnecessary force. “Still haven’t adjusted to the tube? Stop whining,” she snapped. “I’ve seen your type before. Making a scene like a jilted mistress…” “It hurts!” I gasped, my whole body convulsing. “Then endure it. You wanted to marry into money so bad you’re faking a crisis to get attention. You deserve exactly what you’re getting.” She dropped the tube and slammed the door behind her. I gripped my phone, staring at the screen. I didn’t even know who to call. I looked at the medical equipment surrounding me and for a fleeting second, I wondered if it was even worth fighting to stay alive. I checked our chat history. A long string of red exclamation points. Blocked. She was so afraid I’d “interrupt” her wedding that she’d erased my existence. I curled into a ball, clutching my stomach. I looked at the engagement ring she’d placed on my finger last year. I remembered her getting down on one knee, her eyes seemingly full of tenderness. “Oliver, I know how much you’ve sacrificed. I’m going to work so hard to give you the life you deserve. Once you’re healthy, I’ll give you the most beautiful wedding the world has ever seen. Even if you took my name, I’m going to make you the happiest man on earth.” She had been my North Star. My safe harbor. It was all a lie. The man she wanted at the altar was never me. The next morning, the pain woke me again. When I opened my eyes, a young man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit was standing at the foot of my bed. I flinched. “Who are you?” He met my gaze, a bright, chilling smile spreading across his face. “Sorry to drop in. My wife couldn’t make it, so she sent me to check on you.” My heart hammered against my ribs. “Your… wife?” He nodded, his smile growing even more dazzling, more predatory. “Yeah. Madeline. She had a bit too much to drink last night, and well… she was pretty exhausted after we finally got to bed. I felt bad waking her, so I figured I’d come see how the ‘guest’ was doing.” He looked me up and down with blatant disgust. “Honestly, man to man? This is pathetic. Look at you.” He pointed at my emaciated frame, hidden beneath the thin hospital gown. “You’re skin and bones. You’re hunched over like a gargoyle. You’re repulsive. No wonder Maddie doesn’t want to see you. She told me she used to gag just thinking about eating the food you cooked for her.” A cold realization sank into my gut. So that was it. That was why Madeline had been “too busy” to visit me after my chemo sessions. That was why, a month ago, when I’d spent all morning making her favorite lunch and drove to her office, the security guard wouldn’t let me in. He’d taken the containers and tossed them directly into the trash while I watched. Madeline had called me later, sounding outraged. “That guard is an idiot, Oliver. I’ll fire him tomorrow.” But a week later, when I passed the building, the same guard was still there. He’d smirked at me. It hadn’t been a mistake. It had been an order. “I don’t need your help,” I said, trying to claw back some shred of dignity. “Get out.” I tried to push myself up, but then Madeline walked in. She saw Parker’s “hurt” expression and immediately rushed to his side, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Hey, baby,” she murmured, her voice dripping with a concern she had never shown me. “What’s wrong? Did he say something to you? You’re too kind for your own good, coming here…” Parker squeezed out a fake tear, playing the martyr. “It’s okay, Maddie. People get bitter when they’re sick. I just… I’m scared. What if I ever get sick like this?” Madeline kissed his forehead, her eyes lingering on him with worshipful intensity. “You won’t, my love. You’re not like him. You have a good soul. The universe wouldn’t be that cruel to you.” Cruel. The word felt like acid. “Get out!” I screamed, the rage finally eclipsing the pain. “Both of you! Get the hell out!” I grabbed the pillow, a water cup, anything within reach, and hurled them at them. Parker let out a startled cry, and Madeline instantly stepped in front of him, shielding him with her body. “Oliver!” I had never seen her look so murderous. “If you so much as scratch him, I will make sure you regret ever being born!” I tried to stand up to confront her, but a spike of agony shot through my abdomen, and my knees hit the floor. Madeline’s eyes flickered with a momentary, fleeting panic. “What is it? Is it the stomach again?” I was gasping, the world spinning into gray. It felt like my internal organs were being shredded. “Call… call the doctor…” “Okay, okay,” she said, looking flustered. She started hitting the nurse’s call button repeatedly. The same doctor from before walked in, her brow furrowed in irritation. She didn’t even look at my chart. She just stared at me on the floor with contempt. “Every other patient manages their pre-op just fine. Why are you always the one causing a scene?” She sighed and looked at Madeline. “We’ll take him back to surgery when it’s time. Honestly, if I were you, I’d spend this time with your real husband.” Parker chimed in then, his voice soft and manipulative. “Maddie, the doctor says he’s fine. And he was throwing things pretty hard a second ago—he’s clearly got plenty of energy. Let’s not worry ourselves over nothing. You haven’t eaten all day. Let’s go grab some lunch downstairs, and we can bring Oliver something back later.” Madeline’s expression hardened as she looked at me. “Parker came here out of the goodness of his heart, and you treated him like garbage. When are you going to stop being so damn jealous?” She let Parker take her hand. They turned and walked out, leaving me collapsed on the freezing linoleum. I reached up, my fingers trembling, and kept pressing the call button. I wasn’t being dramatic. I was dying. I could feel it. The pain reached a crescendo. I managed to grab my phone and dial Madeline. One. Two. Three. She declined seven calls in a row. On the eighth attempt, she picked up, her voice sharp with annoyance. “What now? What could you possibly want?” Before I could speak, I heard Parker’s snickering in the background. “Maybe he’s just hungry, Maddie. Poor guys are always so greedy when they don’t have their own money…” “Enough,” Madeline snapped into the phone. “We’re coming up. Stop the theatrics.” Half an hour later, she returned with a small army of nurses and the same doctor. “Check him,” Madeline ordered, her eyes sweeping over the room. “I want to know if he’s actually in pain or just faking it. If he’s truly unwell and you missed it, I’ll pull my funding from this entire wing.” The doctor paled slightly but maintained her stance. “It’s early-stage gastric cancer, Mrs. Sampson. In my experience, ‘patients’ like this—mistresses and hangers-on—exaggerate their symptoms to keep their providers close. We see it all the time.” A nurse added, “His vitals were stable this morning. There’s no clinical reason for this level of distress. It’s psychological.” The doctor stepped forward to check my tube. I recoiled, shaking my head in terror, looking at Madeline. “No… please. Get a different doctor. Anyone else. Please.” Madeline’s jaw tightened. “Maybe we should—” Parker leaned in, rubbing her arm. “Maddie, I hand-picked this doctor myself. She’s one of the top specialists in the city. People wait months to see her. If he doesn’t trust the best, who will he trust? You know I only want what’s best for him.” I tried to protest, but Madeline’s eyes went cold. Her voice was an icy command. “Oliver, I am losing my patience. Shut up and let her do the exam.” My heart plummeted. She didn’t trust me. She didn’t even see me. They stripped me, pinning my legs down. The doctor’s hands, cold and smelling of cheap sanitizer, grabbed the tube again. She twisted it. I screamed. The sound was raw, primal. “It hurts! God, it hurts! Madeline, stop the surgery! I want to go home! Just let me go home!” I was incoherent, sobbing, but Madeline looked at me like I was a stranger. “Oliver, is it because I’m here? Is that why you’re being so theatrical? You’re perfectly fine when I’m gone.” She stepped back, her voice chillingly calm as she addressed the doctor. “Can we just take him to the OR now?” “Not yet. He’s not stabilized,” the doctor said. She let go of the tube, but then, with a hidden, vicious intensity, she pinched the skin over my ribs and twisted until I saw stars. “Mrs. Sampson, his issue is purely behavioral. He’s too agitated for the procedure. I recommend physical restraints. We need to keep him still so he doesn’t hurt himself—or the equipment.” I thrashed, pleading with my eyes, but Madeline didn’t stop them. She walked over and wiped the sweat from my forehead, a gesture that felt more like an insult than comfort. “Just be a good boy. Do what the doctor says. I know it’s hard, but once you’re better, I’ll make it up to you. This is for your own good.” She turned to the doctor and nodded. “Do what you have to do.” Fear, sharper than the cancer, washed over me. I began to wail as they buckled the leather straps around my wrists and ankles. Then, they pulled a wide restraint across my midsection—right over my stomach. The pressure was unbearable. I knew right then that if I stayed like this, I wouldn’t make it to the morning. I lunged forward, grabbing Madeline’s hand as she tried to pull away. I let go of every ounce of pride I had left. “Please… please help me. You said you loved me. I’ll do anything. I’ll be the ‘guest.’ I’ll be the servant. I’ll stay in the shadows. Just make them stop. It hurts so much.” For a second, Madeline hesitated. She had never seen me like this. In her mind, I was always the poised, silent shadow who took her hits and kept smiling. But Parker leaned down, his voice a demonic whisper in my ear. “Hurts, doesn’t it, Oliver? Good. I thought you were too ‘noble’ to be the other man. Look at you now, begging for a crumb.” I stopped fighting. A single tear rolled onto the pillow. I understood then. It didn’t matter what I said. Parker didn’t want me marginalized; he wanted me dead. The adrenaline of pure survival took over. With a strength I didn’t know I had, I ripped my hand free from the loosened strap. I lunged for the bedside table, grabbing a paring knife from the fruit basket. I held it to my own throat. “Stay back! Get away from me!” I rasped. “Let me go! I’m leaving this hospital right now!” Madeline’s voice failed her for a moment. “Oliver, you’ve lost your mind! Put that down!” She turned to the medical staff. “Are you deaf? Unbuckle him! Now!” The doctor tried to argue, but Madeline slapped her across the face so hard she hit the floor. “You said this would calm him down! Look at him!” The nurses scrambled to release the restraints. I didn’t even stop to find my shoes. I bolted for the door, driven by a primal need to escape this house of horrors. Parker tried to block my path, but I shoved him with everything I had, sending him sprawling. Behind me, Madeline’s voice was a scream of fury. “Oliver! Don’t you dare walk out that door! You’re being selfish! You’re throwing away your life because you can’t handle a little competition!” I ignored her. I reached the elevators and fumbled for my phone, dialing 911. I needed a different hospital. I needed to live. The elevator doors slid open, and I nearly collided with a man in a white lab coat. He looked at me, his eyes widening with instant professional alarm. “Sir? Sir, wait. If I’m not mistaken… your gastric tube is misplaced. It’s hemorrhaging. You are in critical danger. Where are you going?” Suddenly, a woman behind him gasped. “Oh my god! Look at his gown! There’s blood everywhere!” I looked down. A dark, crimson stain was spreading across my midsection, dripping onto the floor. By the time Madeline stepped out of the room, having comforted Parker, she didn’t see me standing there. She saw a team of medics lifting me onto a gurney, my body limp, as they sprinted toward the emergency OR. As the world faded to black, I saw Madeline’s face. For the first time, the mask of indifference had shattered. She tried to grab a doctor, tried to ask what was happening, but he shoved her aside. “Get out of the way! We’re losing him! This is a life-or-death emergency—move!”

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I suffer from clinical prosopagnosia. Face blindness. Even after months of marriage, I couldn’t pick my husband—a notoriously lethal black mamba shifter—out of a police lineup. That night, I was waiting for him to get home from work, just like always, when it started. A bizarre, glowing stream of text began scrolling horizontally across my field of vision, like a spectral ticker tape. At first, I thought I was having a stroke. But the words were too coherent. [God, the wife is so pathetic. Her husband is totally exploiting her face-blindness. He sent his best friend to play house with her while he’s out hooking up with his golden-girl first love!] Another line of text materialized, hovering near the ceiling: [Honestly, how oblivious can she be? She hasn’t even noticed the guy in front of her isn’t her husband. Her husband is a snake. This guy is a wolf. The anatomy doesn’t even line up!] I stared at the floating words, a cold knot forming in my stomach. Doubt is a creeping vine; once planted, it takes over. I looked up at the man standing before me. Stripped down to just his face, I truly couldn’t tell if it was the man I’d said vows to. Later, after my shower, I sat on the edge of the bed. I stared at my “husband,” who was wearing nothing but a loosely tied bathrobe. I tilted my head, letting a perfect mask of innocent confusion slide over my features. “Honey,” I murmured, “why is there only one of you down there today?” 1 He froze. The stillness was absolute. A violent rush of red flooded his cheeks—whether from sheer mortification or panic, I couldn’t tell. “Nothing is missing,” he choked out. “You’re seeing things.” His voice was a low, resonant baritone. He was trying to pitch it perfectly to match my husband’s cadence, and to his credit, it was terrifyingly close. I narrowed my eyes slightly, rising from the bed and closing the distance between us. “Don’t be silly,” I whispered. I pressed my palm flat against his chest, tracing the rigid topography of his muscles, trailing downward. “Your pecs feel great,” I observed softly. “Abs are sharp. The V-line is practically carved out of marble. But…” My fingers dipped lower, resting brazenly against his lower abdomen. I gave a light, deliberate flick. “But, sweetheart, you’re a little… sparse right here today. You usually fill out your slacks quite differently.” Shifters, despite their flawless human facades, always retain certain biological blueprints of their animal halves. Snakes, you see, are doubly equipped. At my touch, the man gave a violent shudder. He grabbed my wrist, his grip iron-tight but trembling. “No,” he stammered, his voice fracturing. “It’s—it’s just that I bought this robe a size too big. It’s not fitting right.” “Is that so…” I stared at the frantic pulse beating against his throat, at the tips of his ears burning crimson. I offered him a soft, sympathetic smile, stepping into his space and looping my arms around his neck like a devoted wife. “Honey, listen to me. Even if you’re experiencing some… performance issues, you shouldn’t hide it from me. We can see a doctor.” The man gritted his teeth, a strained “Okay” ripping from his throat. He reached up, physically peeling my arms off him. “It’s late. We should just go to sleep.” I wasn’t about to let him off the hook. I snagged him by the lapels, dragging him down onto the mattress with me. “No way. I need to inspect the merchandise. Just to be sure you’re healthy.” The spectral text flared to life again, buzzing with digital anxiety: [Wait, why is she acting so out of character? Did she figure it out?] [No way. Jax has played the stand-in half a dozen times already and she never noticed a thing.] [Yeah, but they’ve never actually gotten into bed together before! This is their first time sharing the mattress. And let’s be real, Jax is packing a single barrel—he can’t compete with the snake’s double-barrel shotgun!] Jax. So that was his name. So he really wasn’t my husband. I narrowed my eyes, a dangerous thrill humming in my veins. I slid my palm down the curve of his waist. “Come on, sweetie… let me just check.” Before he could protest, I slipped my hand under his shirt. Jax violently jolted. A stifled, guttural groan tore from his throat. A split second later, a pair of plush, snow-white animal ears popped out of the top of his head. 2 It was so incredibly blatant, I couldn’t even pretend to be blind to it. The bedroom plunged into a suffocating silence. Jax was as rigid as a corpse. Biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, I reached up and gave one of the ears a squeeze. “Honey? What are these?” Jax swallowed hard, forcing a breathless, desperate chuckle. “It’s… it’s a surprise. For you.” I blinked. “A what?” “You know, the animal ear trend,” Jax babbled, his eyes darting everywhere but my face. “I read online that women are into this kind of thing. So, I… I bought props.” He was a terrible liar, but I admired the hustle. I kneaded the ear again. It was warm, twitching under my touch, the fur impossibly soft. No prop on earth felt like a living pulse. I feigned total gullibility, leaning over to peek behind him. “Oh! Well, if you got the ears, did you remember to buy the tail?” Jax’s face turned ashen. “Y-Yes.” He didn’t need to tell me. I could see the heavy, telltale bulge threatening to tear through the back of his sweatpants. He might not be filling out the front the way my husband did, but he was certainly making up for it in the back. [Tsk, tsk. The wife knows exactly what she’s doing. Three seconds of touching and she forced this virgin pup right into a partial shift.] [Ugh, she’s so shameless! How can she just flirt with any man she sees?] [Are you guys stupid? She literally thinks that’s her husband! If anyone deserves to be dragged, it’s the cheating husband and his gross little proxy. Taking advantage of a disabled woman’s condition? They deserve whatever she dishes out!] Oh, I agreed. They definitely needed to be taught a lesson. Looking at Jax’s flushed, panicked face, a wicked idea bloomed in my chest. “Oh, honey! You remembered how much I love surprises. I’m so happy!” I sprang off the bed, marching to the darkest corner of my closet. I rummaged around until I found a specific box. I popped the lid, pulling out a scrap of sheer, skintight lingerie. Attached to the plunging neckline were two delicate, silver nipple clamps. “I bet you didn’t forget about this, either,” I said brightly, holding it up. “Put it on! It’s going to look absolutely stunning with the ears.” Jax stared at the fabric like it was made of radioactive waste. “You want me to wear that?!” “Of course.” I tilted my head, weaponizing my innocence. “Did you forget? You promised me.” Jax clenched his jaw. “You’re misremembering. I never—” “No backing out, husband!” I lowered my voice, letting it drop into a smoky purr. “Or… do you want me to dress you myself?” 3 Jax looked like he was about to pass out. After three agonizing seconds, he snatched the lingerie from my hands and practically sprinted into the bathroom, slamming the door. I heard a lot of rustling, followed by a muffled complaint. “This thing is way too small. It’s cutting off my circulation.” “That’s impossible,” I called back smoothly. “I bought it to your exact measurements. Though… maybe your workouts have been paying off. I did think your chest felt a bit fuller just now.” Silence stretched from the bathroom for a full beat. “…You really think my body looks better than before?” “Oh, absolutely,” I lied. Jax went quiet again. Two minutes later, the door clicked open. Jax stepped out. The sheer fabric clung to his muscular frame in a way that was both utterly humiliating and objectively fantastic. He looked everywhere but at me. I immediately whipped out my phone and snapped a photo. The camera flashed. Jax flinched, lunging forward to grab my wrist. “Don’t take pictures!” I easily dodged him, snapping two more. “Why not? My husband is gorgeous. His body is amazing. What’s wrong with wanting to keep a few photos?” He froze, his hand dropping to his side. “You… you really mean that?” I nodded earnestly. Some of the mortification drained from his face, replaced by a bashful, confusing sort of pride. “Even so… you shouldn’t…” “I only take pictures of you because I miss you so much,” I said, letting a trace of genuine melancholy slip into my voice. “You’re always away on missions. I never see you. Sometimes, looking at your pictures is the only way I remember you’re mine.” Jax’s expression completely shattered, melting into something agonizingly soft. “I’ll… I’ll stay home more. To keep you company.” I raised an eyebrow. Keep me company? Who is keeping me company? You? I mean, I wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea… I smiled, reaching out to hook my index finger under the silver chain connecting the clamps on his chest. I gave it a sharp, testing tug, pulling him down to my eye level. “You promise?” Jax hissed at the pinch, but his tail thumped rhythmically against the floorboards. “I promise.” I let out a soft laugh, gazing up at him with half-lidded, adoring eyes. Jax stared back, his breath hitching. Drawn by some invisible gravity, he began to lean down. His lips parted. The kiss was a millimeter away— BRRRING. A shrill ringtone shattered the moment. Jax scrambled backward like he’d been electrocuted, frantically swiping for his phone on the nightstand. “I—I have to take this…” As the screen flashed past my line of sight, I caught the caller ID. Declan. My actual husband. 4 I didn’t know what transpired during that phone call, but when Jax returned, the playful energy was dead. His face was thunderous, and the sheer lingerie was gone, replaced by a baggy t-shirt. Feeling my gaze on him, he climbed into bed, his back stiff. “Go to sleep,” he muttered harshly. “I’m not in the mood tonight.” He switched off the lamp. The room plunged into darkness. A long time passed. Just as I closed my eyes, I heard Jax whisper a vicious, muffled curse into his pillow. [Ooooh, the fake got caught slipping by the real husband! Didn’t even get the kiss, just got a screaming match over the phone. Serves the dog right.] [He usually plays it so safe. Why did he fold tonight? Ugh, it’s the wife’s fault. She’s too seductive.] [Okay, but can we talk about how unhinged the actual husband is? He literally has hidden cameras in his own bedroom to spy on his disabled wife! Typical creepy snake behavior…] Cameras?! My heart slammed against my ribs. A wave of ice-cold shock washed over me, followed instantly by a tidal wave of fury. Declan and I were bound together by a state-mandated, high-compatibility shifter marriage. I had fully planned to endure the probationary period, sign the paperwork, and part ways amicably. But I never imagined I was married to a voyeuristic psychopath. Yet, as the anger settled into a cold, hard clarity, a realization dawned on me. This blatant violation of my civil rights was the perfect ammunition. I could use this to petition the authorities for an immediate annulment. But if Declan liked watching so much… I rolled onto my side in the dark, staring at Jax’s broad, tense back. A dark, vindictive smile touched my lips. If he wanted a show, I’d give him a blockbuster. The next morning, I woke up the picture of domestic bliss. Downstairs, Jax was already at the stove. The apron strings pulled taut over his broad chest. “You’re up,” he said, voice tight. “Breakfast is ready.” Nothing like starting the day with both a nutritional and a visual feast. I hummed happily, walking right up to him and planting a loud, affectionate kiss on his jaw. “Thanks, honey!” [The husband is watching this on the feed right now and he just shattered a coffee mug with his bare hands.] [Honestly, the husband is so weird. He’s the one who ditched her to go see another woman. Why does he care what she does with the proxy?] [Stop the presses—the husband just booked a red-eye flight back. He’s abandoning the girl. He’s coming home for blood!] 5 Coming home for blood? I watched Jax’s bushy tail inadvertently wag behind the counter and scoffed inwardly. Let him come. We’d see whose blood ended up on the floor. “Why are you still wearing the ears and tail?” I reached up and pinched his ear again, adopting a careless tone. “I’m having a hard time getting used to these little dog ears.” Jax clicked his tongue in offense. “Wolf.” I nearly choked on my coffee. Right. Wolf. I cleared my throat. “Well, take them off.” Jax’s face fell. He looked a mix of offended and genuinely heartbroken. “You said you liked them last night. Are you already bored of them?” “Because snakes don’t have furry little ears.” I met his gaze, offering a soft, devastating smile. “Unless… you keep them out all the time. So I can get used to them. So I can look at them until the idea of you without them feels wrong.” “Do you think you can do that for me, honey?” Jax stared at me, swallowing hard. “Maybe. I could try.” I let the hook sink in, then stood up, leaving my plate half-finished. “You do that. I need to get ready for work.” “I’ll go warm up the car,” Jax said eagerly. “Wait.” I paused on the bottom step of the staircase, curling my finger at him. “Come help me with something first.” Upstairs, in the walk-in closet, I stood before the full-length mirror, buttoning a silk blouse. “I have a presentation for the board today. Tell me which outfit looks better.” The skirt I was wearing was a new arrival—a high-waisted pencil skirt with an intricate silk ribbon corset back that cinched the waist tight. Jax stood in the doorway, his eyes dark and heavy, tracking the line of my throat down to the curve of my hips. “That one. That one is perfect.” “You think so?” I smiled faintly, turning my back to him and swaying my hips just a fraction. “Then be a good husband and tie the back for me.” Jax’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He had to take a visible, steadying breath before he crossed the room. His calloused, slightly rough fingers brushed mine as he took the silk ribbons, slowly pulling them taut against the small of my back. “Honey,” I breathed. Jax looked up, meeting my eyes in the mirror. The fire in his gaze was barely contained. “Yeah?” My eyes dropped to a specific reflection in the glass. I kept my voice feather-light. “The pants you’re wearing today… they fit much better.” “Not sparse at all.” 6 Jax dropped the ribbons like they were on fire and bolted from the room. I sighed, a little disappointed. I was curious to see the differences in canine shifter anatomy up close. A girl can wonder. When I finally walked out the front door, Jax was waiting by the SUV. His ears were still flushed pink. Honestly, compared to Declan’s dark, obsessive lurking, Jax’s flustered golden-retriever energy was vastly superior. He drove me to the Institute. As the car shifted into park, I leaned over the console and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for the ride, honey.” Jax’s ears burned brighter, but his arm snaked out, pulling me flush against him for a tight, possessive squeeze. “I’ll pick you up tonight.” I nodded, my mind already calculating how long it would take for Declan to land. I needed them both in the same room when the bomb dropped. Preoccupied, my heel caught on an uneven paving stone. I stumbled forward, bracing for impact, when a strong hand caught my elbow, steadying me perfectly. “Thank—Elliott?!” I stared up at the man, a genuine wave of surprise and warmth hitting me. “It’s been so long!” Elliott was one of the very few people in the world I could consistently recognize. He was my senior from university, a brilliant mind. Though he was a shifter, his intellect vastly outclassed his physical prowess, steering him away from the military and into advanced genetics at the Institute. I hadn’t seen him in two years, but he looked exactly the same. The sharp tailoring of his suit, the wire-rimmed glasses, the faint, crisp scent of cedar—and pinned to his lapel was the silver wolf-head brooch I had given him for graduation. “It’s good to see you, Gemma.” Elliott looked down at me, the habitual coldness in his eyes melting into something incredibly warm, like morning sun on snow. “We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other. I just transferred back to the local branch.” I was shocked. Elliott had been recruited by the most prestigious lab in the capital. Why would he come back to our mid-level city? He seemed to read my mind. His lips parted to explain— “Wife!” The shout came from behind me. I turned. I couldn’t see the face clearly, but the frantic bounding energy was unmistakable. Jax was running toward us. “Wife, you forgot your thermos. I made your tea—” Jax ground to a halt, the thermos dangling from his hand. He stared at the man standing next to me. “Bro?! What are you doing here?” Elliott. Jax. Brothers. Well, isn’t that a small world. While Jax looked like he’d seen a ghost, Elliott’s face darkened like a thunderhead. His eyes darted between Jax and me, his jaw setting into a brutal, sharp line. “Who,” Elliott asked, his voice lethally quiet, “are you calling wife?” “And since when the hell are you married?!”

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My temperature was hovering at 103.6 degrees. I lay pinned beneath the heavy duvet, stripped of the strength to even lift my head from the sweat-dampened pillows. My newlywed husband, Theodore, stood in the doorway of our bedroom. His face was a mask of cold detachment as he informed me he was about to board a thirteen-hour flight to London to bring Melody back. He told me he had waited five years for that woman, and now, finally, the opportunity had arrived—she was getting a divorce and bringing her kids back to the States. He told me to be reasonable. To act my age. Just take some Tylenol, sleep off the fever, and don’t cause trouble. Trembling, I pushed myself up on one elbow, my eyelashes fluttering uncontrollably against the burning heat in my eyes. I looked at him and said that yes, it must be terribly hard for Melody to raise three children all by herself. I told him he should go. His knuckles whitened around the handle of his carry-on. The tight knot between his brows seemed to loosen just a fraction, a fleeting flicker of something resembling guilt crossing his features. But it vanished instantly, replaced by a stern warning. As long as I behaved from now on—as long as I stopped trying to snoop through his phone and stopped calling Melody—he would graciously fulfill his marital obligations with me once every three months. Snoop through his phone? That happened exactly once, three years ago, right before our engagement. I had accidentally seen a text he sent her: I will wait five years for you. The sheer betrayal of it had made me physically ill, to the point of throwing up. For the past two years, I hadn’t so much as glanced at his screen. And as for my supposed “constant calls” to the ghost of his past? I had stopped reaching out to Melody eighteen months ago. 1 The second the bedroom door clicked shut, the blankets beneath me were abruptly thrown back. Wyatt’s damp, fever-warm lips pressed directly against the pulse point of my neck. “Cece,” he murmured, his voice a low, raspy purr against my skin. “Am I not keeping you satisfied enough? Why do you even care about the scraps that guy throws you?” Panting softly, I pushed against his chest. “You’re burning up with a fever too. We need to stop for today.” Wyatt wasn’t having it. He caught my hand, pressing it back down, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. “Don’t you want to see what 103 degrees feels like, Cece? I read online that sweating it out with a little cardio is the best cure for a cold.” I pulled my hand back. His eyes dropped. He looked exactly like a kicked puppy as he slowly released me and slipped out of the bed. Right at that moment, my phone chimed on the nightstand. It was a text from Theodore. Cecilia, Melody’s foreign husband was physically abusive. I’m terrified that animal is going to hurt her and the three kids again. I have to go get her this time, but I swear on my life, this is the last time. Wait for me. Staring at the glowing screen, a hollow laugh caught in my throat. The last time? How many “last times” had there been? I had lost count. I only vaguely remembered the very first time. It was raining sideways. I was shivering violently from a fever, begging him to run to the pharmacy. He was in such a panic to help me that he rushed out into the downpour without an umbrella. But halfway there, he got a call from Melody. She said her morning sickness had finally passed, and she was desperately craving a specific tiramisu. At one in the morning, my fiancé drove across every borough of the city, hunting down a pastry for the woman who sat upon a pedestal in his mind, pregnant with another man’s child. He completely forgot about the woman he was supposed to marry, who was passing out from a fever in his home, waiting for her medicine. Thank God the housekeeper found me and called an ambulance. The doctor said if I had arrived a minute later, the fever would have caused permanent brain damage. Afterward, Theodore came to the hospital to apologize. He pleaded with me to understand—Melody was pregnant, her husband was awful to her, her life was a tragedy. He needed me to be empathetic. From that day on, whether it was a designer bag I had my eye on, a dinner reservation, or a vacation spot, Theodore always asked me to be empathetic. To give it up for Melody, because her life was so hard. Back then, I reasoned that ours was an arranged marriage to merge our families’ assets anyway. If my husband’s heart belonged to someone else, I would just focus on having a child of my own to anchor me. On our wedding night, I swallowed my pride. I even took a little something to lower my inhibitions and set the mood. I managed to draw Theodore in; his eyes darkened with desire as he pinned me to the mattress. But the universe has a cruel sense of humor. His phone, discarded on the rug, began to ring. It was the custom ringtone he had set exclusively for her. I clung to his arm, my voice thick with desperation. “Please. I took something… don’t leave.” He let out a soft chuckle, his breath hot against my ear. “I wouldn’t leave you. Tonight is our wedding night. I’m just going to check the message.” He wasn’t lying about the first part. He only looked at the screen for a second. But then he pulled away from me without a shred of hesitation. “Melody’s triplets are crying and refuse to sleep. If I don’t get on a flight to London to sing them to sleep, her husband is going to get angry and hit her again! Cecilia, please, just pity her this one last time. Let me go.” That night, my heart felt like it was caught in a vice, slowly crushed into dust. But now… I stared at the words last time on my screen, the corner of my mouth curling up. I locked the phone and tossed it onto the mattress. I was about to get up to wash my face when the phone buzzed again. A video file from Melody. In the video, three identical little boys were swarming Theodore, calling him “Daddy.” He scooped all three of them into his arms, his laughter echoing brightly. On the sofa behind them sat his parents, his sister, and even his family’s golden retriever, tail wagging against the floorboards. A picture-perfect family. Warm, complete. A family that simply didn’t include me. My smile deepened, though beneath it, I felt absolutely nothing. The numbness was total. Suddenly, the doorbell downstairs rang out, shattering the quiet. Frowning, I pulled a heavy cardigan over my shoulders and made my way down the stairs to the foyer. I pulled the door open. “Wyatt, you coming over once while you’re sick is enough…” A tall shadow fell over me, blocking out the porch light. “Who is Wyatt?” 2 I looked up, stunned, straight into Theodore’s deeply suspicious face. “You didn’t go to London?” He shifted his weight, suddenly looking defensive. “Melody bought an earlier ticket and got on a flight. She told me to wait for her here.” He stepped into the house, his eyes boring into mine. “Who is Wyatt? I thought you were too sick to get out of bed?” I looked away, unable to meet his gaze. Wyatt was the neighbor boy, six years my junior. On my wedding night, after Theodore had abandoned me for Melody, the aphrodisiac I had taken began to course through my veins. Dizzy and burning, I stumbled down the stairs, rolled my ankle, and fell right into Wyatt’s arms as he was coming up the walk. He had caught me effortlessly. The sheer, overwhelming scent of him—young, vital, undeniably masculine—had wrapped around me like an invisible net. The boy had gotten a taste of something he liked, and ever since, he had constantly found excuses to intertwine himself in my life, teasing me with his dangerous little games. Today, he had shown up at my door burning with a fever. I couldn’t bear to turn him away, so I… I never expected Theodore to suddenly abort his trip and come home. I opened my mouth, ready to just confess and blow the whole thing up, when a weak voice drifted from behind me. “It’s me.” Wyatt was curled up on the living room sofa, looking for all the world like an abandoned stray. Panic spiked in my chest. I turned to rush over to him, but Theodore grabbed my wrist in a vice grip. “What is your relationship with him? Why is he inside our house?” I ripped my arm out of his grasp. “Can’t you see he’s sick?” Ignoring Theodore, I hurried over to the sofa and pressed the back of my hand to Wyatt’s forehead. He was radiating heat. Anxiety overriding everything else, I turned back to Theodore. “There’s a thermometer in the cabinet to your right. Grab it for me.” Theodore exploded. He pointed a shaking finger at Wyatt. “Who the hell is he?! Why should I get anything for him? Cecilia, tell me right now—is he your damn affair partner?” The words caught in my throat. If we were keeping score, Theodore was the one having the affair. Three years ago, at our engagement party, he ditched me to run to Melody. I was so crushed by his “wait five years” text that I delayed signing our actual marriage certificate, pushing it until after the wedding ceremony. And then came the wedding night abandonment. After Wyatt and I spent that chaotic, feverish night together, the younger man had tangled his fingers in the ends of my hair, looking at me with wide, wounded eyes. “Cece, you aren’t one of those heartless women who play with my body and then refuse to take responsibility, are you?” Cornered by guilt and a strange, reckless spite, I went with him the next morning and signed the papers. When I walked out of City Hall holding that marriage certificate, I tried calling Theodore. He didn’t answer. I sent a text, only to see it bounce back. That was how I found out he had blocked my number. And so, the mess had dragged on until today. Seeing my silence, Theodore took it as a confession. His anger erupted into an inferno. “Cecilia! You cheat on me, and then you bring your boy-toy into my house?! What kind of sick joke is this?!” Instinctively, I moved to cover Wyatt’s ears to shield him from the shouting. That only enraged Theodore more. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a tiny golden retriever puppy trotting out from behind the sofa. He looked like he was about to faint. “Cecilia, I am allergic to dog hair!” I dropped my hands, shooting him a look of pure exhaustion. “I know. Can you just act like a rational adult? You’re going to scare Wyatt and the puppy.” Brushing past him, I retrieved the thermometer myself, gently placing it under Wyatt’s arm. Theodore’s chest heaved. He followed me, mouth open to scream again, but was cut off by the sharp trill of the doorbell. Melody walked in, wheeling a massive suitcase, three little boys trailing timidly behind her. “Theo, I don’t want to ruin the harmony of your marriage. If Cecilia is uncomfortable with me and the kids moving in, I can take them to a hotel.” On the sofa, Wyatt opened his fever-bright eyes and weakly tugged at my sleeve. “Cece… I know I’m sick and have nowhere else to go, but if Theo minds, I can take the puppy and leave, too.” 3 The moment the three boys saw Theodore, they swarmed him, chanting, “Daddy!” He shot me a guilty look, coaxing the kids toward Melody before reaching out to pat my arm in what was supposed to be a soothing manner. “Melody and the kids just got off a thirteen-hour flight. Staying in a hotel is too difficult for them right now, so I told them they could stay here. Just be empathetic, okay?” The old me would have turned on my heel, locked myself in my bedroom, and cried myself to sleep, agonizing over why he constantly demanded that I bend over backward for everyone else’s comfort. But now… Without a word, I checked the thermometer Wyatt handed back to me. “Wyatt is at 104 degrees, and he has nowhere to stay. Pity him just this once. He’s staying here.” Theodore’s face went livid. “Cecilia! Get a grip on reality! Who did you marry three months ago?! How can you let another man stay in our house?!” Before I could find the words to respond, Melody stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on Theodore’s arm. “Theo, the kids have been flying for over half a day. They’re exhausted.” Right on cue, the three boys clung to his legs, whining in unison. “Daddy, I want a bath!” “I want to wash my hair!” “I have to pee!” Theodore’s anger evaporated. He smiled down at them, scooped the smallest one up, and headed straight up the stairs without so much as a backward glance. I didn’t waste any more energy on him. I gave Wyatt some ibuprofen and brought down a heavy quilt, tucking it securely around him. After sitting with him for half an hour, his fever finally broke. Looking much more lucid, he watched the puppy lick the toe of my slipper and offered an apologetic smile. “I think he’s hungry.” Understanding immediately, I went into the kitchen to prepare some food. Just as I turned off the stove and was heading back to the living room, I nearly collided with Theodore in the hallway. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking intensely uncomfortable. “The kids finished their baths. They smelled whatever you were cooking and said they’re starving.” I gave him a brief nod and tried to step around him. His face instantly darkened. He threw his arm out, blocking my path. “Cecilia, I know you’re furious that I didn’t discuss moving Melody and the kids in with you first. But the children are innocent. You shouldn’t take it out on them, right?” I let out a long breath, turned around, took the lid off the small pot, and held it up to his face. “This is dog food. If they want some, they’re welcome to it.” Theodore’s jaw snapped shut. He turned sideways to let me pass, but just as I stepped into the living room, Wyatt walked toward us holding a stunning azure-blue ceramic bowl. Theodore’s eyes bulged. “Cecilia! That is my prized Qing Dynasty porcelain! It’s worth millions! And you’re using it to feed a dog?!” “Oh, Snowball always eats out of this bowl,” Wyatt chimed in innocently, then clapped a hand over his mouth, looking at me in shock. “Cece, I just thought it was a pretty dish. I had no idea…” I reached out to pat Wyatt’s arm soothingly, shooting Theodore an icy glare. “It’s a set of six. You still have five left, don’t you?” “No! That porcelain is my life!” I took a deep, steadying breath and pointed a finger toward the top of the stairs, where Melody was standing, wearing my custom-made pink bunny slippers. “And she is wearing my favorite shoes!” Theodore opened his mouth to formulate an excuse, but Melody’s sweet, helpless voice drifted down the stairs. “Theo? The kids are crying. They want you to read them a bedtime story.” He deflated, casting me a look heavy with manufactured guilt. “Wash the bowl and put it away. I promise you, this is the last time. Let me just get the kids to sleep, and then we will sit down and have a real talk, okay?” With that, he jogged up the stairs. I acted like I hadn’t heard a word, pulling Wyatt into the kitchen to feed the dog. By the time I finished cleaning up, it was late into the night. I took a moment to mentally brace myself for the confrontation, then pushed open the door to the master bedroom. Theodore was slumped at the foot of the bed, throwing back a glass of straight scotch. I marched over and snatched the bottle from the nightstand. “It smells disgusting in here. Who gave you permission to drink in the bedroom?” He let out a boozy hiccup, his eyes swimming as he looked up at me. “Cecilia… I know you. You’re not the kind of woman who would actually cheat… I’m the one who kept failing you. I’m the one who broke your heart.” As he spoke, his voice grew thick with tears. I frowned, taking a step back in sheer disgust. He immediately dropped to his knees and slapped himself hard across the cheek. “It’s all my fault. It’s on me. Tomorrow, I will make Melody pack up and take the kids to a hotel. No matter what happens from now on, I will only look at you.” He looked up, an expression of profound martyrdom on his face. Then, as if seized by inspiration, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms tightly around my legs. “Cecilia, since our engagement, I know I’ve barely… performed as a husband. Let me make it up to you tonight. Let’s finally have our wedding night. Please?” He sounded so terribly earnest. The words I had been holding in my throat—I’m legally married to someone else—suddenly felt too cruel to say in that exact moment. But then, a voice called out from the hallway. “Wife? Are you done talking to the old man yet?”

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Richard’s phantom of a son, who had supposedly been wasting away in a European sanatorium for years, returned to the States abruptly. Today was the day he was set to take over the Whitmore family empire. I arrived at the corporate headquarters just in time to witness him kick three embezzling board members off the edge of the penthouse roof terrace, sending them plummeting into the glass-bottomed pool a story below. Richard, my elderly husband, stood by, clutching his chest and gasping for air in pure outrage. Terrified, I immediately ducked my head, trying to shrink into my designer coat, terrified to make a sound. But the new heir simply turned his head, a slow, predatory smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. “Hello, step-mom. It’s been a while.” I froze, the blood draining from my face. The face looking back at me belonged to the suffocating, hopelessly clingy VIP companion I had blocked on my phone just days ago. When I married that decaying old billionaire, the suffocating loneliness of a sexless marriage had finally broken me. Desperate for a distraction, I went to an exclusive, discreet underground club and put a young, devastatingly handsome escort with a sculpted eight-pack on my clandestine payroll. He had been exceptionally dedicated when it came to pleasing me in bed. But outside of it, he was unbearable. He clung to me like a shadow, constantly demanding my attention, whining when I wasn’t around. I grew entirely sick of his neediness. To avoid him, I started filling my days with charity luncheons and endless rounds of day-drinking at the country club with the other society wives. He couldn’t handle the radio silence. One day, he actually lost his temper, shouting through the phone, “Am I not enough for you?! Why do you have to constantly go out looking for other thrills?!” The sheer headache of his possessiveness was the final straw. I cut ties and vanished. Who could have possibly predicted that my incredibly needy, insanely jealous boy toy was actually my legendary, “chronically ill” stepson? … 1 Richard whipped his head around to glare at me, his eyes practically bugging out of his skull with suspicion. “You two know each other?” I shook my head with the frantic energy of a cornered animal. “No! Absolutely not! I spend every day at the estate taking care of you, Richard. How on earth would I have ever crossed paths with your son?” Tim let out a dark, velvety chuckle. Before I could blink, he stepped forward and yanked me right out from behind Richard’s frail frame. “Is that so? Then how is it that the haute couture dress my step-mom is wearing right now was paid for with my black card last week?” Richard’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he collapsed directly onto the terrace floor. Total chaos erupted. Paramedics and private doctors swarmed the rooftop, loading the old man onto a stretcher to rush him to the private elevator. In the pandemonium, I tried to wrench my wrist out of Tim’s iron grip. Instead of letting go, he spun me around and pinned me back against the glass balustrade. Dozens of stories of empty air stretched out directly beneath my heels. My knees turned to water. “Running away?” He pinched my chin, his fingers rough, forcing my gaze up to meet his. “Off to the country club, are we? Why aren’t you going?” I swallowed hard, forcing the tremor out of my voice. “Tim. Please compose yourself. I am your mother in the eyes of the law.” “Mother?” Tim sneered, his thumb dragging slowly across my lower lip. “Funny. You didn’t seem to remember that when you were begging for it in my bed.” Heat violently rushed to my cheeks. The man was a lunatic. We were in public, and he was casually dropping landmines. “That was a misunderstanding,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “I paid for a companion named Tim at the club. How was I supposed to know the heir to the Whitmore throne had a fetish for playing the gigolo?” Tim’s eyes darkened to the color of storm clouds. He dipped his head and bit down hard on my lip. The sharp tang of copper instantly flooded my mouth. I gasped in pain, raising my hand to slap him across the face. Fast and brutal, he caught my wrists and pinned them squarely behind my back. “A misunderstanding? You slept with me for three months, used me up, and thought you could just disappear? Did you really think I’d let you off that easily, Margot?” Heavy, chaotic footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor. Connor, Richard’s favorite illegitimate son, came storming onto the terrace with a pack of bodyguards in tow. Connor practically ran the Whitmore estate like a tyrant. He had never once hidden his utter disdain for me. “Margot! You bitch! My father barely gets back from Europe and you give him a heart attack? What, are you praying he drops dead today so you can swallow the inheritance?!” I shot him a look of absolute ice. Tim released me, slowly drawing a silk handkerchief from his pocket to dab the smear of my blood from his lip. Only then did Connor seem to register Tim’s presence. The color drained from the younger man’s face for a fraction of a second, but he quickly puffed out his chest, trying to project a dominance he didn’t possess. “Tim. You’ve been out of the country too long. You don’t know what this woman really is. She’s a gold-digger. She spends my father’s money keeping a stable of boy toys on the side!” Blind to the danger, Connor took a step closer. “Today, I’m going to do my father a favor and teach this shameless—” He never finished the sentence. Tim’s long leg lashed out, his bespoke shoe burying itself deep into Connor’s abdomen. Connor let out a strangled, breathless shriek, flying backward like a broken doll and crashing violently against the marble wall. “Since when,” Tim said, his voice dropping to a lethally quiet register, “does a bastard son get to discipline anyone in my house?” 2 Connor curled into a fetal position, groaning in agony on the floor. The bodyguards he had brought exchanged terrified glances. Not a single one dared to move a muscle. I rubbed my reddened wrists, a fierce, secret satisfaction blooming in my chest. That spoiled brat had made my life a living hell. Seeing him finally kick a hornet’s nest was intoxicating. Tim turned his head, his heavy gaze landing back on me. “Let’s go, step-mom.” He leaned heavily into the title. A violent shiver crawled down my spine. “Go where?” “To Mount Sinai. To pay our respects to my dying father, obviously,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Outside the VIP suite at the hospital, the extended Whitmore clan was gathered in a sprawling, miserable circle, looking like a flock of vultures waiting for the end. Dora, Richard’s eldest daughter—who was a full two decades older than me—marched right up to me, the sharp click of her Louboutins echoing like gunshots. “Margot, you absolute parasite! My father was perfectly fine. You show up, and his heart fails? What exactly did you do to him?!” I rolled my eyes, the exhaustion settling deep into my bones. “Careful, Dora. Defamation doesn’t look good on you. Your father had an episode because he watched his precious son kick a board member off a roof. What does that have to do with me?” “Don’t you dare talk back to me!” Dora raised a heavily ringed hand to strike me. I didn’t even flinch. I snatched a long-stemmed Baccarat rose from a nearby vase and whipped it directly across her face. “Ah!” Dora shrieked, clutching her cheek. Angry red scratches swelled across the back of her hand where the thorns had caught her. “You hit me?! Guards! Restrain this bitch right now!” Several of the family’s security detail immediately surged forward. I took a step back, only to collide with a wall of solid muscle. Tim’s arm snaked around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest, shielding me entirely. He didn’t even bother to look up. He just let a single word drop into the dead silence of the hallway. “Leave.” The bodyguards froze, turning into statues. Dora was shaking with rage. “Tim! What are you doing?! She’s an outsider!” Tim let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Dora. Legally speaking, she is my mother. She’s hardly an outsider. You, on the other hand, are barking in a hospital corridor with a pack of rented thugs. You’re embarrassing the family.” Dora’s face cycled through shades of red and white. Jaw clenched so tight I thought her teeth might crack, she signaled her men and stormed off. As the crowd dispersed, only Tim and I were left in the sterile quiet of the hall. I pushed against his chest, trying to break free, but his arm only tightened around me. He lowered his head, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I just saved you. How are you going to thank me?” “What do you want?” I asked, my body rigid with caution. “Tonight. My room.” I let out a bitter, incredulous laugh. “Tim, get a grip on reality. I am your stepmother. You want me in your bed in your father’s house? Aren’t you afraid of the scandal?” “Stepmother?” He scoffed softly. “You certainly didn’t call yourself that when we were tangled in the sheets. You thought I was too clingy, didn’t you? Tonight, I’m going to show you exactly how ruthless I can be.” I didn’t go to his room, obviously. I loved money, yes, but I valued my life far more. Tim was a rabid dog who now held the absolute power of life and death over the Whitmore empire. I wanted to be on a different continent from him, let alone voluntarily walk into his bedroom. At ten o’clock that night, I slipped into dark, unassuming clothes and snuck out through the service entrance of the estate. I met my best friend, Gemma, at a dimly lit speakeasy downtown. “Margot, the rumors are insane. Your phantom stepson is back? Is he as hot as they say?” I took a massive gulp of my martini, wincing as the gin burned down my throat. “Hot doesn’t matter when the man is a certified psychopath.” Gemma leaned in close over the candlelight. “What happened? Did he threaten you? Look, the old man is on his deathbed. You need an exit strategy. If things go south, we pack our bags and vanish.” I let out a hollow sigh. “My black cards are frozen. I’m completely broke.” Before Gemma could reply, the heavy mahogany door of our private booth was kicked entirely off its hinges. Men in black suits flooded the room, flanking the doorway. Tim stepped through the frame. He wore a black silk button-down, the collar unfastened, looking like a dark god of vengeance. The jazz music in the room was abruptly cut. Gemma dropped her glass; it shattered on the floor. He walked straight toward me, his eyes burning with an intense, suffocating heat. “I told you to come to my room. Did you think I was making a suggestion?” 3 I forced myself to hold his gaze, gripping the edge of the table to hide my shaking hands. “I came out to have a drink with my friend. Is that a crime?” He let out a sharp, cold laugh, leaned down, and effortlessly hauled me over his shoulder like a sack of flour. “A drink? Or were you out hunting for my replacement?” “Ah! What are you doing?! Put me down!” I fought like hell, hammering my fists against the hard plane of his back. He didn’t even flinch. He just carried me out, his strides long and unbothered. Gemma tried to step in, but one dead-eyed look from a bodyguard rooted her to the spot. “Tim! You absolute bastard! Let me go!” He carried me straight out of the club and shoved me into the cavernous backseat of his waiting Phantom. The heavy car door slammed shut, instantly severing us from the noise of the city street. The privacy partition was up. The cabin was pitch black and stiflingly intimate. He lunged forward, his weight pressing me deep into the leather upholstery, trapping me completely. “Margot. Did you really mistake my patience for weakness?” “I gave you an out. You’re the one who threw it away.” “You’re out of your mind! We are done! You lied to me, pretended to be some club escort—I haven’t even made you pay for that yet!” A low, vibrating laugh rumbled in his chest. His hands gripped the lapels of my blouse, and with one sharp, violent tug, he tore it open. Buttons ricocheted off the tinted windows. “Done? I never said we were done. Who gave you the right to end things?” I scrambled to cover my chest, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “Tim! You’re insane! We’re in a car!” “And?” He dipped his head, his teeth grazing my collarbone, leaving a stinging mark. “You always liked a thrill. Tonight, I’ll make sure you get enough adrenaline to last a lifetime.” He took me apart in the back of that car for hours. The man was relentless, driven by a raw, pent-up violence, punishing me for leaving him. By the time the Rolls Royce pulled back into the Whitmore estate, my legs couldn’t even support my own weight. He threw me onto the center of his massive bed. I curled into a tight ball beneath the silk duvet, my entire body trembling. Tim stood at the foot of the bed, methodically pulling off his tie. “Starting tonight, you live in this room. You do not take a single step outside without my explicit permission.” I bit down on my lip, glaring at him through a mess of tangled hair. “This is kidnapping.” He scoffed. “Call the police, then. Let’s see which judge in this city has the spine to take that case.” For the next few days, my gilded cage became a literal prison. Meals were brought in on silver trays. Two men stood guard outside the mahogany doors twenty-four hours a day. During the day, Tim went to the glass towers to dismantle his father’s company. At night, he returned to dismantle me. He was like an engine that never ran out of fuel, relentlessly trying to break me down, trying to force me to say I regretted leaving him. But I refused. I might have married for money, but my spine wasn’t made of glass. I wasn’t going to let him break me. One afternoon, a violent commotion erupted outside the bedroom doors. “Get out of my way! I demand to see that little whore!” It was Dora. The guards couldn’t legally lay hands on her, and the double doors burst open. When she saw me lounging against Tim’s pillows in his silk pajamas, her eyes looked ready to bleed. “You shameless parasite! My father isn’t even cold in the ground yet, and you’re already warming his son’s bed!” I shifted lazily against the headboard, not even bothering to sit up. “Dora, darling, get your eyes checked. Your brother is the one keeping me locked in here. If you have an issue, take it up with him.” Dora sneered, her face twisting into something ugly. “Don’t try to use him as a shield! You’re just a shiny new toy to him. Let’s see how much he likes you when he sees these!” She hurled a thick stack of glossy photographs onto the bed. I picked one up. The blood rushed from my head. They were high-resolution surveillance photos of me at hotels, kissing and sleeping with other men. And right beneath them was a sheaf of offshore asset transfer agreements. They clearly documented me liquidating three of Richard’s private estates and two commercial high-rises, transferring the funds to an untraceable account. At the bottom of the page was my exact signature, right next to my own thumbprint. Before I could even open my mouth to defend myself, Dora cut me off. “Drag her out! The entire family board is convened downstairs. Today, I am going to rip your reputation to shreds in front of everyone!” 4 I fought the guards with everything I had, but it was useless. The grand foyer was packed with the entire Whitmore board and extended family. Even Richard had been wheeled out, an oxygen mask strapped to his pale face. I was shoved violently to the floor right at the foot of his wheelchair. “Dad! Look at what this venomous snake has been doing behind your back!” Dora enthusiastically passed the doctored photos and the forged financial documents around to the relatives. The old man read them, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped the paper. He raised his silver-tipped cane and swung it down hard toward my shoulder. “Poison! I gave you everything, and you humiliate me with cheap street trash!” The whispers erupted around the room like a swarm of locusts. “No wonder she always dressed like she belonged in a red-light district.” “We need to cut her off completely. Have her thrown out onto the street with nothing.” Listening to the venomous gossip, I braced my hands against the marble, ready to push myself up and tear into them. But before I could, the temperature in the room plummeted. Tim had returned. He stepped directly in front of me, his eyes sweeping over the crowd like a scythe. “Father. Your heart can’t take this kind of stress. You really should calm down.” Dora panicked. “Tim! You’re still protecting her?! She stole from the family to fund her filthy affairs!” Tim completely ignored her. He looked down at me. I was sitting on the cold floor, my hair a mess, the silk pajama top torn at the shoulder, looking like absolute collateral damage. He quietly shrugged off his bespoke suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders, wrapping me up completely. “Since when,” he asked softly, “does anyone here have the right to touch what belongs to me?” Connor, practically vibrating with triumphant malice, hopped forward. “Tim, the proof is right here! And we even caught the bastard she was sleeping with! He’s right outside!” He snapped his fingers. Two guards dragged in a bruised, battered man who looked like he’d been beaten in an alleyway. The moment the man saw me, he burst into theatrical tears. “Margot! Save me! You told me the old man was going to die soon! You promised you were transferring the money so we could run away together!” A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. The production value on this setup was truly impressive. Before I could even utter a word of defense, Richard wheezed from his chair. “Guards. Beat him to a pulp. And throw her out. If she dies in the cold, we’ll call it a suicide out of shame.” The room murmured their dark agreement. I clenched my jaw, tilting my head back to look at Tim. Our eyes locked. He stared down at me, his expression an unreadable, flawless mask. Just as the bodyguards grabbed my arms, Tim let out a low, chilling laugh. “It’s fascinating,” he mused, “I didn’t realize I had been demoted to the status of a ‘cheap street trash’ affair.” He bent down, hooked his hands under my arms, and lifted me effortlessly to my feet, settling me into a plush velvet armchair. Then, he turned to the room, his voice dangerously calm. “Now. Would someone care to explain to me where exactly these photos and documents came from?” He let the silence stretch until it was suffocating. “Because I was under the impression that none of you ever wanted to experience the consequences of crossing me again.” Whatever memory he triggered in Dora and Connor caused the remaining color to drain completely from their faces. Their bodies visibly began to tremble.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “442357”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It turns out my fate had been sealed from the very beginning. No matter what I did, it was always going to be the wrong choice. A voice had suddenly echoed in my mind, sterile and mechanical, informing me that my role as the tragic supporting character in this story had come to an end. It told me that if I just chose to die, I could exit this world completely. I agreed without a second thought. Because living like this was infinitely worse than whatever peace death could offer. It took me three agonizing years to escape my abductors and find my way back home. But in the short three months since my return, scenes like this had played out at least ten times. This time, it was my adopted sister, Kelsey, who “accidentally” poured a pan of boiling oil over my neck and shoulder. I remember thrashing on the kitchen floor, my screams tearing through my own throat as the agony swallowed me alive. Yet, the last thing I saw before passing out was seared into my brain: my parents frantically shielding Kelsey, while my older brother, Tim, treated the tiny grease blister on Kelsey’s hand like a life-threatening casualty. When I clawed my way back from the gates of hell and woke up in the hospital, the first thing I heard was Tim’s voice. He wasn’t asking if I was okay. He was reprimanding me for making Kelsey worry, claiming she had been crying her eyes out over my safety while her own hand throbbed in pain. My mother, Carol, sat at the edge of my bed, urging me not to hold a grudge. She was just trying to make you a late-night snack, she murmured. It’s your fault for walking into the kitchen so quietly. You startled her. Kelsey peeked out from behind my mother’s back, her face half-hidden as she offered a trembling apology, calling herself clumsy. But my memory wasn’t broken. I remembered the exact moment the boiling oil hit my skin. I remembered screaming. And I remembered the distinct, undeniable smirk on Kelsey’s face as she watched me burn. When I refused to speak, my father, Richard, darkened his expression. He lectured me on being the bigger person. Your wounds will heal with time, he said, his voice heavy with disappointment. But the psychological trauma Kelsey suffered tonight is far more severe. I laid in that hospital bed for half a month. My body was a landscape of unbearable agony, yet my own flesh and blood only cared about extracting my forgiveness. During those three years in the dark, I had fantasized about coming home a million times. It was never supposed to be like this. … 1 Transaction complete. Wishing the host… a pleasant death. As the mechanical voice faded from my mind, the turbulent waves of bitterness, confusion, grievance, and rage that had been drowning me suddenly receded. I felt incredibly light. Parents who only had eyes for their adopted daughter. A brother who was blind to the truth. If Kelsey wanted it all so badly, she could have it. I didn’t want this family anymore anyway. The voice had called itself a “System.” I asked it one final question. “Who is the protagonist?” The System answered instantly. Kelsey. Of course it was. The quiet suspicion in my heart had finally been validated, and with it came a profound sense of liberation. As a supporting character, my entire existence was designed to be misunderstood, abused, and ultimately sacrificed to further her plotline. Once I died, I would be free. “Gemma! It’s just a flesh wound, you haven’t gone mute! Kelsey already apologized, what more do you want from her?” Tim’s sharp reprimand snapped me back to the sterile hospital room. Kelsey’s eyes were swimming in tears, the absolute picture of a wronged, fragile victim. My parents looked at me with undisguised irritation. Without breaking eye contact, I swallowed the blinding pain radiating across my chest, reached over, and violently ripped the IV needle out of the back of my hand. A string of crimson droplets flew through the air, splattering directly across my mother’s cheek. Carol froze in sheer horror. But my heart swelled with a euphoric joy. Without the antibiotics, the sepsis would come roaring back. I would be dead in no time. Tim was the first to react. He snatched a fistful of paper towels, slammed them down on my bleeding hand, and twisted toward the hallway, his voice cracking with panic. “Doctor! Get in here! She pulled her line!” He whipped his head back to me, his eyes wide with a terrifying realization. “Are you insane? Do you have a death wish?” The nurses rushed in, efficiently re-establishing the IV. Carol’s hands shook violently as she wiped my blood from her face. Her voice hitched into a sob. “Gemma, I know you harbor resentment. But this entire family has been revolving around you in this hospital. Pulling a stunt like this… are you trying to drive us all to an early grave?” Kelsey rubbed her damp eyes. “Gemma, if you really refuse to forgive me… then I’ll just go die.” She made a dramatic pivot and ran toward the second-story window. Tim, whose eyes had been locked on me, moved faster than a thought. He lunged, grabbing Kelsey by the waist. “What the hell are you talking about?” he blurted out. “Even if someone had to die, it wouldn’t be you!” The moment the words left his mouth, he froze. A flash of profound regret crossed his face, and he looked back at me, panicked. I just watched them. My face was a mask of absolute calm as Richard and Carol clustered around Kelsey, soothing her with overlapping murmurs of comfort. I let my gaze drift away from the pathetic domestic drama, scanning the hospital room for a faster way out. We were only on the second floor. Jumping wouldn’t guarantee death. Ripping the IV out again would just be an annoyance. Finally, my eyes landed on the paring knife resting next to a fruit basket on the nightstand. I took a deep, steadying breath. Gathering every ounce of strength left in my broken body, I snatched the knife and drove it directly toward my own throat. “Gemma! Stop!” Tim threw his body across the bed and jammed his hand between the blade and my neck. The steel didn’t slice my throat. Instead, it tore deep into my brother’s palm. Blood immediately surged from the wound, the flesh splitting open in a grotesque smile. Tim let out a muffled groan, the veins in his forehead bulging as he used his other hand to pry the knife from my grip and hurl it across the linoleum floor. 2 Kelsey let out a piercing shriek. “Tim! Your hand! There’s so much blood!” My parents, who had been too busy coddling Kelsey to see the actual scuffle, turned around. When Carol saw the gash on Tim’s hand—deep enough to expose the bone—the color drained completely from her face. “Gemma! Do you hate your brother that much? He didn’t even mean what he said! How can you be so vicious?” “You little monster!” Richard roared, stepping forward and delivering a vicious, backhanded slap across my face. The fragile, half-healed skin beneath my bandages instantly split open. Droplets of fresh blood soaked through the layers of white gauze. The pain was so sharp, so absolute, that my body convulsed into violent tremors, and tears spilled from my eyes against my will. “You ruthless, ungrateful bitch!” Richard pointed a trembling finger directly at my nose. “You’d actually try to slaughter your own brother? You are a stray dog that bites the hand that feeds it. We never should have brought you back into this house!” The attending doctor rushed in to suture Tim’s hand. Kelsey stood in the corner, pale and tearful. “Gemma, if you’re angry, take it out on me. I’m the one who burned you. I’m the one who took your place. Please don’t hurt Tim. He only misspoke because he was worried about me.” The moment the words left her mouth, my parents’ expressions hardened even further. The way they looked at me was now laced with pure disgust. I knew it. Just like the past three months, Kelsey had won again. When I first came home, I used to fight back. I used to argue. I naively thought our three years apart had just created a temporary awkwardness. I firmly believed that eventually, they would remember that I was their real daughter, their real flesh and blood. I tried so hard for three months. From the ecstatic joy of my first day back, to the confusion when they couldn’t even look me in the eye, to the soul-crushing disappointment of watching them side with Kelsey, over and over again. The truth was laid bare: during the three years I was locked in a living nightmare, my parents had simply gotten a new daughter. My brother had gotten a new sister. To them, Kelsey was infinitely more important than I was. But this isn’t how you treat a family member who has crawled her way back from the dead. It wasn’t until today, when I learned that Kelsey was the actual protagonist of this reality, that it all made sense. My entire existence was nothing but a stepping stone for her. So, there was no point in fighting anymore. Because every time I fought, I was the only one left swallowing glass. On my very first day home, Kelsey threw herself down the grand staircase and wailed that I had pushed her. Tim didn’t even ask questions; he just struck me across the face so hard my lip split open. Even later, when the security footage explicitly proved I was nowhere near her, Tim just frowned, muttered a begrudging, “I guess I saw it wrong,” and tossed me a bag of frozen peas for my bruised cheek. And that was the end of it. Five days after I got back, Kelsey “accidentally” locked me out on the back terrace. It was November. I stayed out there all night. It wasn’t until Richard went out to check the weather the next morning that he found me, half-frozen and unconscious on the stone tiles. Before Kelsey even had to fake a tear, Richard defended her. “The lock is tricky. She didn’t mean to. And honestly, Gemma, why didn’t you just use the phone we bought you to call us? You’re so irresponsible.” But Kelsey had taken my phone. He had seen her take it. He just pretended he hadn’t. When my medication was swapped, a heavy cold mutated into full-blown pneumonia. Lying in the hospital, I begged them to believe me. I told them Kelsey had switched the pills. Carol just sighed, telling me I was struggling to readjust to civilian life and that I was being paranoid. Even when she found my actual prescription tucked in the back of Kelsey’s nightstand drawer, Carol said nothing. She just told me to rest and let the IV do its job. After I was discharged, Kelsey snapped the braided bracelet off my wrist. It was a simple woven string with a small silver charm engraved with my initials. Carol had made it for me right before I was kidnapped. During those three years in hell, I held onto that bracelet like a lifeline. I touched it to remind myself who I was, and that I had a home to go back to. Kelsey broke the string and crushed the silver charm under the heel of her shoe. My vision went red. I shoved her violently, screaming, “Get the hell away from me!” Carol ran in at the sound of the commotion. Seeing Kelsey on the floor, her face contorted in rage. She charged at me, shoving me backward with brutal force, and pulled Kelsey into her arms. “Gemma! Are you out of your mind? You’re laying hands on your sister over a piece of trash? Three years away and you’ve turned into a savage!” Caught off guard, I stumbled backward. The side of my head slammed into the sharp corner of a mahogany end table. A wave of blinding pain hit me, and thick, warm blood ran down my brow, dripping into my eye. Tears mixed with the blood as it hit the hardwood floor. I looked at my mother, my voice trembling. “It wasn’t a piece of trash. You made that for me when I was eight. It was supposed to keep me safe.” Carol’s face went entirely slack. Then, she looked away, her tone stiff and defensive. “I’ll just get you another one. Was it really worth getting physical over?” Two days later, she handed me a replacement. It was a cheap, plastic-bead bracelet from a dollar store. The string was scratchy. The charm was plastic painted silver. When Carol shoved it into my hand, she didn’t even look at me. “Weaving takes too long. This one is fine. It’s basically the same thing.” Over and over again, Kelsey proved to me that there was no space left for me in the Crawford house. She was the diamond of the family. Whether she “accidentally” sliced my arm with a letter opener, or “playfully” pushed me into the deep end of the pool when she knew my lungs hadn’t recovered, she always walked away entirely unscathed. And I was always the one left standing in the wreckage, bearing the blame. Looking at Kelsey now—tears streaming down her cheeks while a victorious, smug little smile danced on her lips—I just felt… bored. I didn’t want to fight anymore. I just wanted to die. Why was dying so damn hard? 3 After the doctor finished suturing Tim’s hand, he finally caught a clear look at my face. His expression shifted into something thunderous. “How are you people caring for this patient? The gauze has completely shifted! She’s bleeding through the dressing!” The doctor gestured for the nurse, and together they carefully peeled back the bandages on my neck and shoulder. The skin beneath looked like something dragged out of a horror film. Charred, blackened flesh twisted into weeping, raw pink tissue. The scabs had split wide open from the slap, and fresh blood bubbled from the cracks. The skin on my neck, where the boiling oil had hit directly, was completely carbonized. Whenever they changed the dressings and had to peel away the dead tissue, it felt like being flayed alive. “This is unacceptable negligence!” the doctor barked, his voice sharp with professional fury. “These are extensive, third-degree burns! Forget about a full recovery—she is going to have severe, lifelong complications from this.” He glared at my parents. “We barely got her sepsis under control, and you, as her family, can’t even manage basic care? Even with meticulous nursing, she is still at high risk for sudden organ failure! Not to mention her wounds have now been forcibly reopened. Her infection risk just doubled.” “She requires 24-hour supervision. The wounds cannot get wet. They cannot endure any friction. If you ignore this, you will be burying her. Understood?” The doctor’s brutal honesty drained the color from everyone in the room. Especially Richard. His fingers twitched by his side—the same hand he had just used to strike me. A flicker of genuine horror flashed in his eyes. He swallowed hard. “Doctor… thank you. We understand. We’ll be careful.” After the medical staff left, Richard’s lips parted. He hesitated. “Gemma… maybe I was a bit heavy-handed just now. But you shouldn’t have pulled a knife on your brother…” Before he could finish his pathetic excuse, I simply closed my one good eye. Richard didn’t speak another word. Perhaps the doctor’s grim warning actually penetrated their skulls, because for the remainder of my hospital stay, they handled me with a fragile, walking-on-eggshells caution. But it wasn’t what I wanted. I stayed in the hospital until I was discharged, and I failed to die the entire time. The day I finally returned to the house, I was left alone in my bedroom. Almost immediately, the door clicked shut, and Kelsey stood at the foot of my bed. “Well, Gemma. Mom, Dad, and Tim have been waiting on you hand and foot lately. You must be feeling pretty proud of yourself, huh?” When I simply stared through her, she continued her monologue. “You don’t know this, but every time the nurses changed your dressings, Mom and Dad were so disgusted by the sight of you they couldn’t eat for days.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping into a venomous whisper. “Kidnapped for three years. Raped. Five miscarriages. You are completely rotten on the inside. And look at you now—you look like a goddamn gargoyle. If I were you, I would have crawled into a hole and stayed there. It’s embarrassing to look at you.” “Tim won’t say it out loud, but he is so sick of you. He only tolerates you because of genetics. Just yesterday, he told me in secret that our family of four was absolutely perfect until you had to come back and ruin it.” Kelsey smiled, a sweet, chilling curve of her lips. “If you had an ounce of self-awareness, you’d just go ahead and die. Give this family its peace back.” Her words actually made me pause. In my memories, Richard used to put on an apron and cook my favorite sweet and sour ribs from scratch. Carol used to buy me ridiculous, extravagant gifts just to see me smile. Tim used to roll his eyes and eat the vegetables I secretly shoveled onto his plate at dinner. Back then, the house was always echoing with laughter. Even the air felt sweet. So, what was this family supposed to look like now? Did a perfect home mean a home without me? In that split second of my dissociation, Kelsey suddenly lunged at me. She grabbed my wrists with crushing force and used my own hands to smack herself hard across the face, screaming at the top of her lungs, “Gemma! Stop! I’m sorry! Don’t hit me!” The bedroom door flew open. Carol stood in the doorway, staring at the bright red handprint blooming on Kelsey’s cheek. The tray of medical supplies in her hands crashed to the floor. “Kelsey!” Carol shrieked, lunging forward and shoving me backward with everything she had. Kelsey had been gripping my wrists like a vice, but Carol’s momentum was violent. As I was thrown backward, Kelsey’s manicured nails dug into my arm and violently ripped down the length of my healing burns. The fragile pink tissue tore open instantly. Thick blood welled up and began dripping steadily from my fingertips onto the rug. Kelsey buried her face in Carol’s chest, sobbing hysterically. “I just… I just wanted to cheer her up. I didn’t know she would get so angry.” 4 Still weeping, Kelsey held up a velvet box containing a delicate pearl necklace. “Gemma… I brought this for you.” “I thought getting some new jewelry would make you feel pretty again. I wanted to see how it looked on you. I… I forgot you were too scared to look in the mirror now. Gemma, I’m so sorry.” Richard had appeared in the doorway. The veins in his neck were rigid with rage. “Gemma! Are you even human? Your sister brings you her most prized piece of jewelry, and you strike her?” Carol’s eyes were blazing. “We’ve neglected Kelsey this entire time you’ve been in the hospital, and she hasn’t complained once. She’s been nothing but an angel! You’ve been home for five minutes and you’re already trying to snatch her birthday presents and assault her? You bring nothing but chaos into this house!” My arm was bleeding. My shoulder was throbbing. But right then, the physical pain vanished entirely. Because the pain in my chest was so immense, so absolute, I genuinely thought I had already died. For the past three years, I had lived like an animal in a cage. The only thing that kept me breathing was the desperate, burning need to come home for my birthdays. But Kelsey got the birthday presents. So, what was I? Tim stepped into the room. He gently pulled Kelsey up from the floor, his cold eyes sweeping over my weeping, bloody skin. His voice was absolute ice. “Look at yourself. You look like a monster. Putting fine jewelry on you is a waste of money.” “Don’t think just because you got hurt you can do whatever the hell you want. You brought those injuries on yourself. You have no one else to blame.” “You don’t deserve Kelsey’s kindness. Apologize to her. Now.” I looked at Kelsey’s theatrical sobbing. I looked at Richard’s explosive fury. Carol’s visceral disgust. Tim’s freezing apathy. And suddenly, I smiled. I looked at this fiercely united family of four through my one good eye, and my voice came out eerily calm. “I’m sorry.” It was the first time I had spoken out loud since waking up in the hospital. My vocal cords were heavily damaged from the smoke and screaming. My voice sounded like grinding gravel—hoarse, broken, and agonizing to listen to. It forced the rest of their insults to die in their throats. Carol’s expression softened slightly. “As long as you know you’re wrong. Learn to get along with your sister. Stop bullying her.” Tim patted Kelsey on the shoulder. “Put the necklace away. No one is going to take your things.” He threw one last look at me. “Sit here and think about what you’ve done. Don’t leave this room until you’ve genuinely reflected.” With that, the three of them wrapped their arms around Kelsey and ushered her out of the room. The door clicked shut, sealing me in a suffocating silence. The only sound left in the room was the heavy drip, drip, drip of my blood hitting the hardwood. The System’s voice echoed in my brain once more. It was deeply seductive, laced with a bizarre, buzzing excitement. If you die, you will be completely free. You can leave this place and live in a world without pain. I let out a long, shuddering breath. I bent down. With my blood-soaked hand, I picked up the heavy, stainless steel medical shears Carol had dropped from the tray. I pressed the sharp, heavy tip directly against the center of my chest. Over my heart. And without a single second of hesitation, I drove them in. I felt the heat leave my body. I felt my life draining away with terrifying speed. And as the darkness rushed in to claim me, the corners of my mouth slowly curled upward. Finally. I got to leave. Downstairs, after the three of them had settled Kelsey onto the living room sofa, they stood in the kitchen, their faces clouded with heavy sighs. Tim leaned against the marble counter. “Gemma’s psychology is completely fractured. We need to hire a psychiatrist.” Richard rubbed his temples, exhausted. “Once her mood stabilizes, I’ll fly her to the States. I heard there’s a clinic in Boston doing experimental skin grafting. I don’t care what it costs, we’ll try it.” Carol sighed softly. “Her neck is too raw for a necklace anyway; the pearls would just chafe. I ordered her a limited-edition Cartier bracelet. The skin on her left wrist is still intact. I’ll give it to her when it arrives.” When dinner was served, I didn’t come down. Tim marched upstairs and knocked on my door. Silence. Irritation flashed across his face. “Gemma, throwing a tantrum has a time limit. Don’t make the entire family wait on you to eat.” He waited another minute. Still nothing. His patience evaporated. He grabbed the heavy brass handle, expecting it to be locked. To his surprise, it clicked open effortlessly. Tim pushed the door open, a lecture already on his tongue. But the moment his eyes registered the scene inside the bedroom, his pupils dilated into pinpricks, and his entire body turned to stone.

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