The day the acceptance letters for university arrived was the same day the Blackwood family—the wealthiest dynasty in the state—showed up at our doorstep. Until that moment, I had no idea that the boy I’d grown up with in the group home, the boy who shared my stolen snacks and my darkest fears, was the long-lost heir to a multi-billion-dollar empire. Wyatt gripped my hand so tight it hurt, his eyes defiant as he faced the men in tailored suits. “If you want me to come home,” he said, his voice ringing through the dilapidated hallway of the orphanage, “she comes with me. That’s the deal.” His mother, a woman who looked like she’d been carved out of expensive marble, didn’t flinch. She offered a thin, practiced smile and pulled a check from her designer handbag. She slid it across the scratched wooden table toward me. “Five million dollars,” she said, her tone as cool as a January morning. “Consider it a scholarship. The Blackwood family’s way of ensuring you finish your education.” The politeness in her voice was a weapon. It was a buyout—a clean, surgical strike to sever the bond between us. Wyatt was livid, ready to drag me out of the room right then and there, but I stayed his hand. I gently pulled my fingers from his, the ghost of his warmth lingering on my skin. I reached out and took the check. “Go home, Wyatt,” I said quietly. “What?” He looked at me like I’d just slapped him. “I like my life here,” I lied, the words tasting like ash. “I wouldn’t know what to do with a life like yours. Go be a Blackwood. Leave me to be a nobody.” He didn’t know the truth. He didn’t know that I had already gone back with him once before. In another life, I had followed him into that world. I had died in that house, broken and discarded. The memories of my final moments were still so vivid they felt like bruises on my soul. This time, I wasn’t going to let history repeat itself. 01 Outside, the younger kids were playing on the rusted swing set, their laughter filtered through the cracks in the door. Wyatt grabbed my hand again, his eyes rimmed with red. “Norma, what the hell are you talking about? You don’t mean that.” He looked vulnerable, terrified—exactly like the boy I’d met years ago. He looked like a stray kitten expecting a kick. In my past life, that look would have shattered me. I would have folded instantly. But this time, my heart stayed cold. I looked past him at the sea of bodyguards and assistants, then looked him dead in the eye. “Wyatt, this money is more than I’d make in three lifetimes. It’s security. It’s a way out.” I paused, letting the cruelty settle in my expression. “So, stop being a weight around my neck, okay? Just let me go.” His grip faltered. When I first met Wyatt at age eight, he had just been diagnosed with Bipolar II. He was volatile, prone to explosive outbursts and crushing silences. Nobody wanted to play with him; even the staff looked at him with a mix of pity and exhaustion. I was the exception. Maybe it was a girl’s naive sense of heroism, or maybe it was because I saw him sitting alone in the corner of the yard, staring at nothing, and felt a kinship in that loneliness. Because I stayed by his side, the other kids stayed away from me, too. They called Wyatt a “psycho” and me his “keeper.” Whenever Wyatt heard them, he’d charge, fists flying. And every time, I would catch him. I’d cup his ears with my hands and whisper, “Don’t listen, Wyatt. Don’t think about them. If you don’t hear the words, they stay in their mouths. They can’t touch us.” He always listened to me. So now, his hands trembled as he mimicked that old gesture, reaching up to cover his own ears. “Look, Norma. I’m not listening. Just don’t leave me, okay?” I pulled my hands back and looked away. “It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “If you don’t want to go to the city, I’ll stay here. I won’t go anywhere. I’ll just stay with you.” Before he could finish, Mrs. Blackwood stepped forward, the click of her heels sounding like a death knell. “Wyatt, honey, don’t be ridiculous,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial maternal grief. “We’ve spent years looking for you. How can you break our hearts for a girl who’s clearly telling you she’s moved on?” She looked like a grieving mother. I looked like the villain. It was almost funny. I knew how this story ended. I knew exactly how much I would eventually weigh in Wyatt’s heart when he was surrounded by gold and silk. I looked up, forcing a look of pure annoyance. “Wyatt, I’ve made it clear. If you have any dignity left, you’ll stop begging. To be honest, even if you stay, I’m going to college. I want to meet someone normal. I want a normal life, a normal relationship. Not… this.” “Norma…” His name for me was a plea. His eyes were wide with a hurt so deep it should have killed me. I looked past him at the bodyguards. “What are you waiting for? Take him home. He’s making a scene.” The guards moved in, hoisting him up. Wyatt struggled, his screams echoing through the hallways. “Norma! Did they threaten you? Is it my mother? I know you don’t mean this! I don’t believe you!” A flash of memory hit me. In my previous life, I was the one screaming. I was the one begging him not to do this to me, refusing to believe he could be so cruel. It hadn’t mattered then. My pleas hadn’t softened his heart for a second. Wyatt, you don’t understand. In that life, I chose you. And the moment you stopped believing in me—the moment you chose someone else—I realized what a fool I’d been. I had prayed to whatever god was listening: If I get one more chance, I will never go back to New York with him. 02 After the Blackwood motorcade disappeared, the director of the home and the teachers crowded around me, their eyes fixed on the check Mrs. Blackwood had left behind. They were beaming, their faces flushed with excitement. “Norma, you really hit the jackpot! Make sure you keep in touch with him. He’s a Blackwood now!” “Exactly! He’s an only child. One day you’ll be a Blackwood yourself. A real-life Cinderella.” Even the kids I’d grown up with joined in. “No wonder Wyatt was always so moody. He was a prince in disguise.” They swarmed me, planning out my future as a trophy wife before I’d even packed a bag. The air felt thin, suffocating. “I’m not staying in touch with him,” I snapped, cutting through the noise. “And I’m definitely not marrying him.” The room went silent. “Norma, don’t be stupid,” the director said. She’d watched us grow up; she knew how intertwined our lives were. “I’m not being stupid,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m an orphan. They are the Blackwoods. People like us don’t belong in their world. Don’t mention this again.” For ten years, I had been the only person in Wyatt’s world. Everyone assumed he couldn’t breathe without me. They assumed I was just as obsessed with him. I didn’t bother arguing. I pushed past the whispers of “she’s crazy” and “she’s throwing away her life” and went to my room. “Norma?” A tiny, bird-like voice called from the corner. Seeing her pale, thin face made my throat tighten. I almost broke then. Her name was Lucy. Wyatt and I had found her on the side of the road on our way home from school when she was only four. We called her our sister. We loved her like she was our own blood. Three months ago, she was diagnosed with leukemia. She needed a bone marrow transplant. In my past life, the Blackwoods had used their connections to find a match at the last minute. But Wyatt had given that donor’s spot to someone else—to Bianca—leaving Lucy to die at the age of six. “Norma, you’re crying,” Lucy whispered. “Are you sad because Wyatt left?” I knelt beside her bed and stroked her hair, pushing down the bile in my throat. “No, sweetie. I’m not sad. I just want to stay here with you.” She smiled, showing her two little dimples. “I want to stay with you, too. But Wyatt said he wanted to be with you forever. Why did he go?” I froze. “Wyatt… Wyatt found his family.” Every kid in the system dreams of that. That afternoon, Lucy talked incessantly about how lucky Wyatt was, until her energy faded and she drifted off to sleep. I leaned against her bed, closing my eyes. And as sleep took me, I was dragged back into the nightmare. 03 The day I arrived at the Blackwood estate in my first life, I had worn my best clothes. Everything was clean, pressed, and hole-free. But standing in that gold-leafed foyer, I felt like a stain. My palms were sweating, and my feet felt glued to the marble. Wyatt sensed my panic and grabbed my hand. He leaned in, a bright, genuine smile on his face. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.” His eyes were so full of light then. I believed him. Those were the words I used to say to him. When his episodes hit—the mania that made him pick fights, or the crushing depression that sent him hiding in the dark corners of the orphanage—I was always there. The other kids would make a game of finding him just to poke at him. I would always find him first. I’d stand in front of him like a shield and say, “Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you.” Every single time. Until the day he looked at the scrapes on my arms from protecting him and said, “Norma, from now on, I’m the one who protects you.” I believed him. I was wrong. “Your name is Norma?” It was Wyatt’s father. He looked at our interlaced fingers, and a tiny, almost imperceptible frown marred his face. I pulled my hand away instantly. “Yes, sir. It’s nice to meet you.” He just nodded. At dinner, I followed Wyatt like a shadow. The silence at the table was heavy, punctuated only by the sound of Wyatt piling food onto my plate. I could feel the resentment in the room; my presence had soured their long-awaited reunion. Then, the front door opened, and a voice like honey drifted in. “Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood! I’m here!” Mrs. Blackwood was on her feet instantly, her face lighting up with a warmth she hadn’t shown her own son. Even Mr. Blackwood softened. That was the first time I saw Bianca. She was the personification of “old money.” Elegant, effortless, confident—a swan in human form. She walked straight to our table and looked at the chair I was sitting in. “Could you move? That’s my seat. Thanks.” She said it with such casual authority. That was when I learned that the seat—and the life—truly did belong to her. She and Wyatt had been “betrothed” in a sense since they were toddlers, a pact between two powerful families. I watched her flirt with Wyatt. I watched his ears turn red. Something shifted that night. The Blackwoods bought me an apartment near the university. Wyatt would visit whenever he didn’t have class. We’d go to dinner, movies, walks—all the things normal couples do. Eventually, he used the family’s influence to bring Lucy to New York. She was placed in the best private hospital, with a team of specialists hunting for a marrow match. Those months were the only sweetness I had in that life. We’d visit Lucy together, and she’d hold both our hands, beaming. We’d huddle on the sofa watching old movies. I thought we were safe. But the safety shattered. Wyatt started coming home later and later. First, it was “schoolwork,” then “fraternity events,” then “family business.” I’d cook dinner and watch it go cold. I’d reheat it, then let it go cold again, eventually falling asleep at the table until he’d carry me to bed in the early hours of the morning. Then, he stopped coming home at all. He didn’t answer his phone. My texts went unread. Sometimes two weeks would pass without a word. For his nineteenth birthday, the Blackwoods threw a gala at their estate. I took a deep breath, wrapped the scarf I’d spent weeks knitting for him around my neck, and walked in. I saw him immediately. He was in the center of the ballroom, leading the first dance with Bianca. He looked regal, his movements fluid and sure. The boy who used to be too anxious to speak to strangers was now perfectly at home in her arms. Golden couple. The words whispered through the crowd. They felt like lead in my chest. The guests looked at me with pity or disgust. I didn’t fit. I never had. And this time, Wyatt didn’t look my way. He didn’t come to grab my hand and say, “I’ve got you.” After the dance, Wyatt was pulled away by his father. Bianca walked up to me. “Norma,” she said, her voice low. “Look around. This is Wyatt’s world. Do you really think you belong in it?” I tried to walk away, but she blocked me. She looked at my hands—hands that were calloused and rough from years of chores at the home. I tried to hide them in my pockets. She grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. “These hands don’t belong on someone like him. You’re a ghost, Norma. Why don’t you just disappear?” I tried to pull away. “Let go of me, Bianca.” But as I pulled, she let go suddenly, throwing herself backward into a pyramid of champagne glasses. The sound of shattering crystal was deafening. The entire room went silent. Wyatt rushed out from the crowd. “Norma! What the hell did you do?”

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The moment the stage lights cut to black, the silence was shattered by a wave of jagged, mocking laughter from the audience. A cold shiver raced down the back of my neck. My fingers instinctively reached behind me, brushing against the rough, adhesive edge of a piece of paper stuck to my tuxedo jacket. “Caden’s Dedicated Lapdog.” Those four words felt like a brand seared into my skin, sending a sickening heat straight down my spine. The livestream cameras were still rolling, broadcasting to thousands. Natalie—or rather, the girl I had been for the last six years—was being dismantled in real-time. Finally, Caden pushed aside Callie’s hand, which was looped smugly through his arm, and grabbed my jacket. He threw it over my shoulders, effectively shielding the sign, and practically dragged me toward the wings. Callie’s laughter bled through the heavy backstage doors, sharp as broken glass. “Did you see his face?” she wheezed. “Like a stray dog that just realized it’s been kicked into a gutter.” I turned, my fists trembling so hard I thought my bones might snap. Tears blurred my vision, turning the backstage lights into distorted halos. “You promised,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “You said tonight was the night. The proposal… the livestream… everyone was watching.” “It’s April Fool’s, babe,” Callie said, rolling her eyes as she strolled in behind us. “God, can’t the future Mrs. Sterling take a joke?” She bumped her shoulder against Caden’s, her tone dripping with mock concern. “See? He’s already snapping at you over a little bit of pride. Is this really the kind of guy you want to spend your life with?” Caden looked down, slowly closing a velvet ring box I hadn’t even realized he was holding. His voice was as light as a falling feather, devoid of any weight. “Callie’s right. About the proposal… let’s just revisit it next year.” It felt like a giant hand had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart until it bruised. All those years of devotion, of being his shadow, suddenly felt like a punchline I was too stupid to understand. I released my bitten lip and slowly shook my head. The breath I let out tasted like rust—the bitter tang of old blood. “Don’t bother with next year,” I said, the words surprisingly steady. “There isn’t going to be a wedding.” 1 The words had barely left my mouth before Caden’s brows lowered, a dismissive smirk tugging at his lips. “Over an April Fool’s joke? Really?” “Yes.” He stared at me for a long time, as if waiting for me to cave first. Finally, he sighed, the sound of a man burdened by a difficult child. He reached out, his thumb catching a tear at the corner of my eye. “Miranda, it was just a prank. Callie bet me that even if I were about to propose, you’d still find a way to throw a tantrum over a little fun.” He tilted his head toward the stage, his tone casual. “Look, I had the whole thing set up.” I followed his gaze. Through the gap in the curtains, I could see it: the champagne tower, the wall of white roses, the clusters of plush bears arranged in a massive heart. Sitting on a white Steinway was a delicate, lace veil—the exact one I had pointed out in a magazine three years ago. It was everything he had ever promised. Callie snorted. “It wasn’t just the decor. There’s a firework show scheduled, a drone display… but I guess that’s all going to waste now. Tens of thousands in deposits, down the drain.” Caden stepped into my line of sight, blocking her out. “Don’t blame Callie. If you’re mad, be mad at me.” Right. Don’t blame her. Blame me. Blame me for being humiliated during my first public performance in years. Blame me for being labeled an “obsessed social climber” on every social media feed in the country. My name was now synonymous with pathetic. The proposal was being postponed because I couldn’t manage to smile and say, “It’s okay.” But why should it be? Why did he have to crush my dignity into the dirt just to see if I’d still say “I do”? I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and looked away. I pulled what was left of my pride around me like a shroud. “Caden, we’re done.” His face darkened instantly. He opened his mouth to snap back, but Callie beat him to it. “Seriously, Miranda? The ‘desperate-to-marry’ act is getting old.” She flicked her hair, her eyes scanning me with pure disdain. “Caden and I grew up together. I know exactly how he works. This ‘playing hard to get’ move to pressure him into a ring might fool him, but it doesn’t work on me.” There it was again. The “joke” that served as a knife, always carving me into the villain. I remembered the first time I met his parents after we moved back to the States. Callie had been there, playing the helpful “sister” figure, before casually dropping a bomb over dinner. “Miranda’s got such a great eye, doesn’t she?” she’d said with a sweet smile. “Most people wouldn’t even know Caden was the heir to the Sterling fortune while he was studying abroad. It’s such a coincidence… didn’t I hear your family’s firm was struggling with debt recently?” The atmosphere had chilled instantly. Caden’s smile had vanished. He’d looked at me, his eyes searching, and asked, “Is that true?” No matter how much I explained that I’d had no idea who the Sterlings were when we met in that rainy London library, the seed was planted. Caden just nodded, but the warmth never quite returned to his gaze. The next day, Callie became a permanent fixture in our “private” world. She was there to “vet” me for her best friend. Over and over, she made a fool of me, and over and over, the wedding date was pushed back. Caden wouldn’t understand. Love has an expiration date when it’s fed nothing but doubt. I was exhausted. I pulled my arm out of his grip and turned toward the exit. “Miranda!” I stopped out of habit. Caden grabbed my wrist, a flicker of genuine panic crossing his features. “Don’t…” “Let him go,” Callie interrupted. “He’s just doing this for effect. He wants you to chase him. If you keep spoiling him like this, Caden, he’ll never learn how to be a proper Sterling wife. Give him a few days to cool off. He’ll be back.” I felt the pressure on my wrist slacken. Inch by inch, his grip loosened. Caden’s expression shifted, turning cold and guarded. He let go. “Fine,” he said. “Whatever you want.” 2 The night was pitch black. I pulled my coat tight, keeping my head down as I walked toward the curb. The whispers of the departing audience felt like needles in my ears. “Look, that’s the girl from the livestream.” “Beautiful, but clearly a gold-digger. Glad he caught on before the ring.” Nobody would believe that Caden was the one who pursued me. During our grad studies in London, I was the one who preferred being alone. He was the one who seemed to be everywhere—the library, the cafe, the path to my morning lectures. The fifth time we “ran into each other,” he’d held out his hand, his eyes crinkling with a charm that felt like sunshine. “I’m Caden Sterling,” he’d said. “And I think we’re destined to be more than just strangers.” From then on, the seat next to me was always reserved for him. When it rained and I forgot my umbrella, Caden would appear, thrusting his into my hands and running home in the downpour. He stayed sick with a fever for two weeks because of it. When I practiced in the music hall, he would sit in the back, listening for hours. He’d say, “Miranda, I could never get tired of your music.” On April Fool’s Day back then, he had waited outside my dorm. He stood under a streetlamp, looking at me with such intensity it made my heart skip. “I love you,” he said. I had tried to be playful, to protect myself. “Happy April Fool’s?” Caden didn’t laugh. He stepped forward and tucked a stray hair behind my ear. “Miranda,” he whispered. “I would never lie to you.” When did those vows become punchlines? When we moved back, Callie invaded our world, and I wasn’t allowed to complain. At a New Year’s party, she demanded I play for the guests like I was hired entertainment. When I finished, she pulled a wad of cash from her purse and tossed it at my feet. “Bravo! A tip for the talent!” The room erupted in snickering. Caden didn’t flinch. He just held a tipsy Callie steady and looked at me. “She’s had too much to drink. Don’t be sensitive.” Last year, for Callie’s birthday, Caden bought her a luxury SUV and paid for a 24-hour digital billboard in Times Square that read Happy Birthday, Callie. The next day was my birthday. Caden showed up hungover and handed me a used Starbucks gift card he’d found in his car. I’d cried. I’d asked him why. By the end of the argument, it turned out to be another “test.” Caden wasn’t even drunk; his eyes were clear and piercing as he asked, “Do you love me, or do you love the things I can buy you?” The rain began to fall harder now, mixing with the tears streaming down my face. I had never done anything to betray him. Yet I was the one constantly on trial. I flagged a taxi, my hands shaking as I checked my phone. A news notification popped up. A photo of me frantically ripping the sign off my back had been enlarged and centered. The headline was a joke about “The Lapdog Who Didn’t Get the Bone.” The comments were a cesspool. She deserved it. Pushing for a mansion she didn’t earn. I tried to lock my phone, but my fingers wouldn’t obey. Suddenly, a boom echoed through the night sky. Fireworks. They went on for ten minutes. Then, a thousand drones rose into the air, forming the shape of a massive diamond ring being slipped onto a finger. Callie, Marry Me. The taxi driver rolled down his window. “Man, look at that. Some rich kid must be proposing. That Callie girl is one lucky woman.” On Instagram, Callie had posted a picture of the sky. Some people don’t know how to appreciate what they have. Sometimes you just have to take what’s yours. My phone buzzed again. A voice note from Caden. “You seeing this?” There was a pause. “The team already had everything set up, and it seemed like a waste to cancel. I just had them change the name on the drones. Don’t read too much into it.” I stared at the screen for a long time. Then, I typed back: It’s beautiful. I hope you both get exactly what you deserve. 3 I blocked his number the moment the message sent. The taxi pulled up to my apartment. I felt a strange hollowed-out sensation—part relief, part devastating loss. I went inside and started to pack. Six years is a long time. The memories were everywhere, tucked into the corners of the rooms. The coffee station where Caden would make me a latte every morning before he left. The navy-blue scarf on the hook—he’d spent two weeks learning to knit it for me, and even though the stitches were crooked, I’d loved it more than anything else I owned. The vinyl records we’d hunted for in dusty shops in Shoreditch. One of them had a lopsided heart drawn on the cover with the words Miranda’s Favorite scribbled next to it. When we moved back to the States, I’d paid hundreds in extra baggage fees just to make sure those things arrived safely. But now, as I looked around, I realized I didn’t want any of it. I packed one small suitcase. As the confirmation for my flight clicked through on my laptop, a familiar, sharp cramp bloomed in my abdomen. My period was early. Stress, probably. I realized I was out of Advil. I felt faint, my body giving out from the emotional toll of the night. I ordered some delivery and sat on the floor, waiting. The doorbell rang. I dragged myself up, expecting a delivery driver. It was Caden. “How long are you going to keep up this act—” He stopped abruptly when he saw me. His annoyance vanished, replaced by an immediate, frantic concern. He stepped inside and pulled me into his arms. He smelled like Callie’s perfume—that cloying, expensive floral scent. I tried to push him away, but my limbs felt like lead. “You’re burning up. Did you walk home in the rain?” Caden stayed all night. He brought me medicine, wiped my forehead with a cool cloth, and kept me hydrated. I drifted in and out of a fever dream. I was back on that stage, but the audience had turned into monsters with Callie’s face, laughing as they tore my clothes off. I woke up with a start to find Caden watching me, his expression uncharacteristically soft. “I had the news articles scrubbed,” he said quietly. “And Callie asked me to apologize for her. It’s over now, Miranda. Let’s just move past it.” He touched my forehead and sighed with relief. I looked at him, confused. His hand felt exactly as it did years ago—warm and steady. I remembered the night in London when a group of guys had cornered me in an alley. Caden had jumped in without a second thought. He’d shielded me with his body, whispering, “Don’t look, don’t listen. I’ve got you.” He still had the scars on his back from that night. Maybe it was the fever, but a desperate, pathetic hope flared in my chest. “Caden,” I whispered. “Please. Just stop listening to her. Can we just be us again?” He looked at me for a long time. Then, the softness vanished. “Miranda, why do you have to be so stubborn? It was a joke. An April Fool’s prank. Callie apologized, and you’re still holding a grudge? Can you really not tolerate my friends?” The disappointment in his voice was like a bucket of ice water. “She’s my oldest friend. She was just worried about me being used. Is it so bad that she wanted to protect me?” “If you really loved me,” I said, my voice trembling, “why would you push the wedding back another year?” I looked at him, a hollow laugh escaping my lips. “Was last night—your ‘care’ for me—just another test too?” He looked stunned. “Were you testing to see if I’d still be grateful? To see if I’d forgive you because you gave me a glass of water?” I was crying now, the ugly, racking kind of sobs. “Tell me! What do I have to do to make you believe I’m human?!” He didn’t answer. The silence stretched between us, sharp and agonizing. “Caden,” I choked out. “I can’t tell the difference between your love and your trials anymore.” 4 Caden practically fled the apartment. I closed my eyes, blaming myself. I should have ended it the first time he looked at me with suspicion. I should have ended it when the “tests” started. Once the fever broke and the painkillers kicked in, I grabbed my suitcase and headed for the door. Callie was leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, a jagged smile on her face. “Well, look at you. Using a little fever to win him back? I underestimated your theatrics.” I didn’t have the energy for her. “Move.” She stepped in front of me, her expression shifting into something sharp and hateful. “What do you even have, Miranda? I’ve known him for twenty years. Why did everything change the moment he met you?” She grabbed my wrist, her nails digging into my skin. “I play piano too. But he never looked at me the way he looks at you when you play. I’m tired of being the ‘best friend.’ I want him.” I wrenched my hand away. “He’s yours. Congratulations.” Callie’s face twisted. “Don’t you dare act superior with me!” She lunged forward and shoved me. Still weak from the fever and off-balance from the suitcase, I hit the floor hard. Before I could move, I felt a sharp, blinding agony. Callie had slammed the heel of her stiletto onto the back of my right hand. “If you can’t play, let’s see how much he loves you then!” The world went white. I couldn’t even scream; the pain was so intense it stole the air from my lungs. I felt the bone give way. I heard her footsteps retreating. The elevator dinned. Then, someone else appeared—a frantic, guttural shout echoing through the hall.

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The day of my third-trimester check-up, I stumbled across a confirmation email for a service package my husband had booked. It wasn’t for a nursery or a postpartum doula. It was for “Post-Abortion Recovery and Wellness.” I thought it was a clerical error, a dark glitch in the system. I was laughing, ready to make a joke about it as he walked into the kitchen, but the look on his face stopped the air in my lungs. He didn’t look confused. He looked resolute. Gideon told me, with a calmness that made my skin crawl, that he’d been seeing a college student. He described her as “kind” and “pure,” someone who didn’t want his money or his title, someone who didn’t want to break up our marriage. But now, this girl was pregnant. And Gideon had decided he couldn’t let her suffer the “stigma.” He wanted her child to be born with the legitimacy of his name. Ten minutes later, I was forced onto an ultrasound table. My body went rigid, a cold sweat breaking out as the technician applied the gel. My voice shook so hard I could barely form the words. I asked him if he was divorcing me to marry her. Gideon didn’t look away. He gripped my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles while he used a paper towel to wipe the excess gel from my swollen belly. He gave me a thin, patronizing smile. He reminded me that when he married me, he promised I would be his only wife. He pointed out that both my parents were gone—that if he left me, I’d have nowhere to go. His plan was simple, and sick: I would adopt the girl’s baby. My own pregnancy had to be “terminated” because he was afraid that if I had my own flesh and blood, I would never truly love the child he shared with her. He slid a surgical consent form onto my lap. He told me to be a “good girl,” promising that I would always be the mistress of this house, that no one could ever take my seat at the table. I looked at him—really looked at him—for a long time. Then I stood up, my legs feeling like lead, and walked toward the operating room. At the threshold, I stopped. I told him he didn’t need to worry. I told him I hoped he’d never regret the choice he made today. He will never know the truth. He will never know that in this entire world, I am the only person capable of carrying a child for a man with a zero sperm count. 1 I didn’t wake up until three days later. The first thing I heard through the haze of anesthesia was a hushed, panicked conversation. “Mr. Scott, that was an incredible risk. Forcing a late-term termination at eight months is dangerous enough, but demanding a total hysterectomy at the same time? Your wife nearly bled out on the table. We almost lost her.” Gideon’s voice was dismissive, lacking even a hint of tremor. “I made a promise to Daisy. I told her I would only ever have one child, and it would be hers. The only way to guarantee that was to make sure Isabel couldn’t try again.” As his eyes shifted toward the bed, they met mine. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t look guilty. He simply reached out and tucked the thermal blanket around my shoulders with a sigh of feigned exhaustion. “You heard that, didn’t you?” he said, his tone bordering on a pout. “I didn’t have much choice, Isabel. Daisy said she’d only feel comfortable with the adoption if the ‘other mother’ was physically unable to conceive. Since you were already going under for the procedure, I figured we’d save you a second surgery later and just take care of it all at once.” He saw the tears leaking from the corners of my eyes and wiped them away with a thumb. He actually chuckled. “I didn’t expect the complications, but look at the bright side—I’d hired the best OB-GYN in the state for Daisy, and he happened to be in the building. You should thank her. Her ‘blessings’ are the only reason you’re still breathing.” My body began to shake. I summoned every ounce of strength I had left to raise my hand and swing at his face. My chest felt like it was being ripped open from the inside out. “Gideon… you’re a monster.” But my hand was weak. It barely grazed his cheek, leaving nothing but a faint streak of salt. Suddenly, a small, lithe figure shrieked and lunged toward the bed. A sharp crack echoed through the room as her palm collided with my face. I fell back against the pillows, my oxygen mask slipping, gasping for air like a fish out of water. A young girl, eyes brimming with performative tears, stood in front of Gideon like a shield. She screamed at me. “How dare you touch him! Do you have any idea how hard he’s worked? He’s been sitting outside the ICU for three days straight! If I hadn’t been bringing him nutritious meals every day, he would have collapsed! Why do you treat a man this wonderful like your personal punching bag?” I didn’t miss the look in Gideon’s eyes—the flash of raw tenderness and protective heat as he looked at her. I had seen that look before. He’d looked at me that way when I spent a week in the hospital with alcohol poisoning after covering for him at a high-stakes corporate dinner. He’d looked at me that way when I knelt on the floor, sobbing, begging debt collectors not to take his hands, offering them the only heirloom my mother left me just to buy him another month. I had destroyed myself for him, and in the end, it was worth less than a single tear from this girl. The pain was a dull knife carving into my ribs. I propped myself up, looking at the two of them—the devoted lover and his “pure” girl. I let out a jagged, hollow laugh. “Am I supposed to be grateful? Grateful that he killed my baby? Grateful that he gutted me like a fish so I can never be a mother? Grateful that he watched me almost die just so he could keep his little mistress happy?” Daisy’s tears began to fall in earnest. She glared at me with a terrifying, righteous fury. “Fine! It’s all my fault! I’m the villain! Is that what you want? Do you want me to pay for it?” She went manic. She shoved Gideon aside and grabbed a paring knife from the fruit basket on the nightstand, pointing it at her own stomach. “I’ll do it! I’ll cut my baby and my womb out right now if it’ll make you stop being such a bitch!” Gideon lunged for her, grabbing the blade. Blood began to drip from his palm as he wrestled the knife away. He turned to me, his eyes cold and full of genuine hatred. “Isabel, are you happy now?” He scooped the “fainting” Daisy into his arms, carrying her out of the room without looking back. He threw one last sentence over his shoulder. “I think I’ve been too kind to you. I’ve let you believe you actually have a say in how this works. Since you want to be difficult, you can find out what life is like without my protection.” I watched them leave, laughing through the tears. The man who once swore he’d spend his life shielding me from the world was the one who had finally set it on fire. Gideon’s security detail didn’t wait. They dragged me out of the bed, barely giving me time to find my shoes. “As of this moment, Mr. Scott is rescinding all privileges,” the guard said, his voice a mechanical drone. “If you want to stay in this private wing, you’ll need to pay the balance yourself.” I smiled, a bitter, broken thing, and turned toward the exit. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I don’t want anything that belongs to Gideon Scott ever again.” 2 My phone, my credit cards, my keys—all gone. They were “company property.” I stood on the street corner, clutching my hospital gown closed under a thin coat, trying to hail a cab. Every time a car slowed down, one of Gideon’s shadows would step forward. “Unless you want to be blacklisted by Summit Group, keep driving,” they’d say. The drivers would look at me with pity, shake their heads, and floor it. The guard looked at my trembling legs and spoke with cold detachment. “Mr. Scott wanted me to give you a message. This is what happens when you’re ungrateful. If you’re willing to apologize to Miss Daisy and agree to act as her live-in caretaker during the rest of her pregnancy, he’ll let me take you home.” I didn’t even look at him. I just started walking. A thin trail of blood began to seep down my leg, staining the pavement, drawing stares from the evening commuters. I was numb to it. I walked until the sun dipped below the skyline, until the city lights felt like needles in my eyes, and finally, I reached the house. Our house. The windows were glowing, a warm invitation against the night chill. I reached out with frozen fingers to punch in the security code. Beep-beep. Access Denied. I tried again. And again. The system hissed at me with every failure. Finally, the housekeeper opened the door. She didn’t look at me with concern. She looked at me with smug disdain. “Ma’am, stop. You know the rules. Until you apologize to Mr. Scott, you aren’t allowed to use anything he paid for. And he paid for this house.” She looked me up and down, a sneer curling her lip. “If I were you, I’d just say sorry. Look at who he is. There are a thousand women waiting in line for your spot. You’re in your thirties, you have no family left, and now you can’t even have kids… he’s being generous by not divorcing you. Why make a scene?” “I’m not coming in,” I said, my voice raspy. “I just want one thing.” She scoffed. “Everything in there belongs to him. What could you possibly own? You’re probably trying to steal some jewelry to sell, aren’t you?” “I want my medical file,” I said calmly. She rolled her eyes, disappeared inside, and returned a moment later to hurl a brown envelope at my feet. I picked it up. Inside was a lab report from a decade ago. It bore Gideon’s name and a diagnosis: Azoospermia. Permanent infertility. I remembered the day we got those results right before the wedding. I remembered the crushing weight of the secret. Gideon was a man of immense pride, a man who built an empire on the idea of his own perfection. How could he have lived with the knowledge that he was “broken”? How would his competitors have used it against him? But the doctor had told me a secret back then. My biology was an anomaly. Something in my hormonal makeup was capable of “triggering” his dormant, non-motile sperm. It was a one-in-a-million medical fluke. “Mrs. Scott, your husband is a lucky man,” the specialist had told me. “I’ve never seen a compatibility like this. You are quite literally the only person on earth who could give him a biological child.” I had intended to take that secret to my grave. I wanted to protect his ego. I wanted him to feel whole. I never imagined I would be the one to tear the veil down. I took the last bit of cash I had hidden in my coat pocket and went to a 24-hour copy center. I made twenty copies of that report. I called a courier service. “Deliver these immediately,” I told the man, giving him the addresses of every rival CEO in the city. “Tell them it’s a wedding gift from the former Mrs. Scott. They’ll tip you well.” Gideon, this is the last thing I’m giving you. I hope you enjoy the fallout. 3 I didn’t go back to the mansion. I went to the tiny, one-bedroom walk-up we’d lived in when we first started the company. Back then, we were broke. We lived on instant noodles and dreams. Gideon used to lie to me, saying he’d already eaten at a business meeting so I could have his portion of the food. I’d wake up at 2 AM and see him at the kitchen sink, drinking glass after glass of tap water just to stop the hunger pangs. We got married in that living room. No guests. Just a pair of cheap silver bands that cost less than fifty bucks. That place meant everything to me. Even after we moved into the ten-million-dollar penthouse, I’d secretly bought the unit from the landlord. I used to imagine us retiring there, going back to the beginning when things were simple. I never thought I’d be returning there because the end had come. I turned the key and pushed open the door. My heart stopped. There, on the worn-out thrift store sofa, were two bodies tangled together. And the silk pajamas I’d kept in the closet—the ones Gideon and I bought as our first “luxury” purchase—were draped over Gideon and Daisy. My brain went white. “Gideon! How could you bring her here? You know what this place is—” Daisy didn’t let me finish. She moved with practiced speed, slapping herself across the face so hard her cheek reddened instantly. She threw herself in front of Gideon, weeping. “Isabel, I’m sorry! I just wanted to see where Gideon grew up! I begged him to bring me here! Please, if you’re angry, hit me, just don’t hurt him!” Gideon’s face transformed with fury. He cupped her “injured” face, blowing on her cheek as if she were a child. Then he looked at the guard behind me. A massive hand gripped my arm. A heavy palm slammed into my cheek. Once. Twice. My ears began to ring. They didn’t stop until I was slumped on the floor, gasping. Gideon looked down at me, his expression flat. “Why do you have to make this so difficult, Isabel? If you’re feeling unwell, go back to the hospital. Why are you stalking us?” “Home?” I whispered, tasting blood. “Do I still have a home?” I looked at him, my eyes burning. “Why this place, Gideon? You can screw whoever you want, but why did you have to ruin this? The Gideon I loved at twenty was the only thing I had left. Why did you have to kill him too?” Gideon’s eyes flickered for a second—a ghost of a memory—but then they hardened into obsidian. “Ruin it? I built it! If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be rotting in a hole like this. Don’t forget, the money you used to buy this place came from my accounts. It’s mine. I’ll do whatever I want with it.” He let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “You think I’m making it dirty? Isabel, I don’t care about this dump. I’ll burn it to the ground before I let you hold it over my head.” He signaled the guards to drag me outside. I watched, paralyzed, as they hauled in several canisters of gasoline and a few industrial fire-starters. With a single flick of his lighter, the only place where we were ever truly happy went up in a roar of orange flame. Through the wall of heat and smoke, my tears wouldn’t stop. Gideon stared at my face, his anger seemingly sated by the destruction. His voice dropped to a cold, clinical low. “Isabel, what will it take for you to understand? I gave you the Scott name. I gave you the penthouse, the Birkin bags, the couture gowns you’re wearing right now—things most people couldn’t earn in three lifetimes. Wasn’t that enough?” “You’re not young anymore. Did you really think I’d stay in love with a fading woman forever? I’m giving you dignity. I’m giving you a life of luxury. All I asked was for you to keep your eyes closed and make room for Daisy and the baby. Is that so hard?” I looked into his eyes, and for the first time, I felt nothing but a deep, hollow pity. “I won’t do it.” “Gideon, you just burned the last bridge. I want a divorce.” His jaw tightened. “Divorce? Never. Even if I don’t love you, you’re a part of the Scott brand. I’m not letting you go.” He stepped closer, his voice a hiss. “I never owed you anything, Isabel. If anything, I owe Daisy. I’ve made her live in the shadows during the best years of her life. I tried to give you a graceful way out, but you insisted on making it ugly.” He turned away from me and dropped to one knee in front of Daisy. He pulled a massive, 10-carat diamond from his pocket. “Daisy, I’m sorry I found you so late. I can’t give you a legal marriage certificate yet, but I’m going to give you the biggest wedding this city has ever seen. I want everyone to know you’re the one I love.” Daisy gasped, her eyes shining with triumph, but then she looked at me and pouted. “I can’t, Gideon. I love you, so I’ve been willing to be the ‘other woman,’ but I can’t stand the thought of the whole world calling me a home-wrecker. Unless…” She turned her venomous gaze toward me. “Unless the ‘first wife’ stands as our witness. Unless she tells the world that the woman who isn’t loved is the real intruder. Unless she admits she is the third wheel.” 4 I met the girl’s malicious gaze with a blank stare. Gideon, seeing my silence, twisted the knife. “Isabel, don’t forget where your parents are buried. That private cemetery? I own the deed to that plot. You wouldn’t want them to end up like this house… would you?” It felt like he’d reached into my chest and squeezed my heart until it burst. I could taste the copper in my throat. I nodded slowly. “Fine. I’ll be there.” Daisy squealed with delight and threw herself into Gideon’s arms. He took her to look at gowns and hotels, but he paused at the door. For a moment, his voice softened. “It’s just a ceremony, Isabel. It doesn’t change your legal status. Just play along.” “Okay,” I said. He looked at me deeply, finally satisfied. “You don’t need to look after Daisy for now. Go rest. When the baby is born, the three of us will go on a trip. Think of it as your compensation.” “Okay,” I repeated. The day of the “wedding,” Gideon was so paranoid I’d cause a scene that he had guards lock me in the bridal suite early. Daisy was preening in a gown that cost more than a suburban house. “Isabel, the dress is so heavy, I can’t reach my shoes. Be a dear and help me?” Gideon frowned, his eyes shifting to me. I didn’t say a word. I knelt, lifted the layers of lace, and slid the heels onto her feet. Gideon looked at me with a complicated expression—guilt, perhaps, or a lingering sense of wrongness. He opened his mouth to say something, but Daisy pushed him toward the door. “Honey, I’m parched. Go grab me some orange juice?” He smiled, kissed her forehead, and stepped out. The second the door clicked shut, Daisy’s foot lashed out, kicking me square in the chest. I sprawled back as she looked down at me with a sneer. “You think I’m just some gold-digger, don’t you? You have no idea. Gideon and I? We’ve been together for almost ten years.” The shock must have shown on my face, because she laughed. “He said I was too young to suffer through the lean years with him. So he kept me in a condo across town while he used you to build the company. He felt so bad for ‘using’ you that every time he made his first big commissions, he told you the debt collectors took the money. In reality? He was buying me Chanel bags. Whenever I got bored, he’d have those ‘collectors’ come to your house and put on a show so he could siphon more cash to me.” “It was about two million dollars in total. Oh, and that cheap silver bracelet you liked? I threw it in the trash.” I was shaking so hard I couldn’t breathe. Two million dollars. That was the money I’d worked three jobs for. I’d fainted on a factory line once, nearly losing my arm to a machine, just to make sure Gideon’s “debts” were paid. When he found out, he’d held me and cried, saying he was a failure. And all that time… it was a lie. Daisy kept going, her voice a sharp stiletto. “And then you got pregnant. I was so mad I wouldn’t let him touch me. So he staged that ‘celebratory dinner’ with the investors. He made sure they kept pouring you drinks until you miscarried. You were dying on the operating table, and he was on the phone with me, begging me not to be mad at him.” The world went black for a second. “But he still won’t divorce you!” she hissed, her face contorting with rage. “You’re just a habit he can’t quit. You think your ‘history’ makes you special?” She smiled then—a slow, terrifying grin. “Tell me, Isabel… if Gideon thinks you tried to kill his baby, do you think he’ll still care about your ‘history’?” My hair stood on end. I turned to bolt for the door, but she was faster. Daisy grabbed a bottle of champagne and smashed it against her own stomach, letting out a blood-curdling scream. “Gideon! Help me! She’s killing the baby!” The door flew open. Gideon was there in a heartbeat, his face a mask of horror. He grabbed my wrist and threw me across the room. He didn’t see me hit the wall; he only saw the blood beginning to bloom on Daisy’s white skirt. “It wasn’t me…” I tried to say, but his hand was already around my throat, cutting off my air. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice a primal roar. “Isabel! You’d even kill a child? You disgust me!” “You took her baby,” he snarled, his face inches from mine. “So don’t blame me for what happens to your parents.” Through my tears of agony, I heard him bark an order into his radio. “Destroy the graves. I want the headstones crushed and the remains thrown into the sewer. Now.” “NO!” I screamed, a sound that didn’t feel human. “Gideon, you madman! Look at the security cameras! I didn’t touch her!” Daisy scrambled up, sobbing, and ran toward the open window. “The baby is gone! What’s the point of living? I’ll just jump! Go ahead, Isabel, tell him more lies!” Gideon panicked, dropping me to catch her. He held her tight, looking at me with a coldness that froze my blood. “Isabel, you’ve exhausted every ounce of mercy I had. You hurt my family? You’re going to pay.” “Call the police,” he said to his guards. “Tell them she assaulted a pregnant woman. And call the warden at the county jail. Tell him to make sure she doesn’t have a single ‘good’ day inside.” ——– Gideon ignored every red light on the way to the hospital. He ran into the ER with Daisy in his arms. “Save my child! I’ll donate ten million to this hospital if you save my baby!” The doctor on duty jumped, looking at Gideon with a confused frown. “Mr. Scott?” He looked at Gideon, then at the “fainting” Daisy. “Your child? Mr. Scott, you have a documented case of Azoospermia. You’re sterile. How could you have a child?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “442353”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The first thing I did when I was given a second chance at life was purge the past. I spent the morning incinerating the physical remnants of a decade’s worth of lies. Nancy’s letters—three years’ worth of carefully scripted “devotion”—were fed into the shredder until they were nothing but confetti. The framed photos of Diana and me? I set them ablaze in the fireplace, watching the edges of our smiling faces curl and blacken into ash. In my previous life, I had been the quintessential fool, a supporting character in a drama where I wasn’t even credited in the playbill. I believed Diana when she whispered that she loved me. I believed her so much that I turned down a prestigious fellowship at Oxford just to stay by her side. And for what? She left anyway. She followed Felix halfway across the world the moment he beckoned, leaving me with nothing but a cold, parting remark: “He needs me more than you do, Ben.” I spent those months living like a ghost. Nancy was the one who pulled me back, or so I thought. She brought me dinner every night, looking at me with those soft, empathetic eyes, telling me she had waited eight years for me to notice her. I thought I had finally found my harbor. She never stayed out late; she never looked at another man. Until the winter of my accident. I spent seven days in the ICU, hovering in the gray space between life and death. Nancy never showed up. Not once. Instead, I drifted in and out of consciousness to the hushed gossip of the night nurses: “Poor guy in Bed 12. His wife is here every day, but she never steps foot in his room. She’s always next door, fussing over that guy, Felix.” Later, I learned the truth. Diana hadn’t gone abroad to be with Felix out of love—she went to pay off his gambling debts. And the money? It had all come from Nancy. In the twisted play these three were staging, I was nothing more than the human ATM and the emotional safety net. Not this time. This time, I moved fast. I put the house on the market and booked two one-way tickets to London for myself and my grandfather before the first act could even begin. … “The guy in Bed 12 is breaking my heart. His wife is here around the clock, but she hasn’t even looked in on him.” “I know. She goes straight to the room next door. That patient, Felix? She won’t leave his side.” The nurses’ voices filtered through the heavy door of the ICU. My body was shattered from the car wreck, a map of broken bones and internal bleeding. My eyes were fused shut, but my mind was sharp, recording every word. I heard the nurses call Nancy’s phone over and over. She never picked up. She was busy with someone more important. The “redemption” I thought I’d found with her was just another layer of the scam. I tried to scream, to wake up, to demand an explanation, but my strength failed. The last thing I “saw” was the jagged rhythm of my heart monitor smoothing out into a single, eternal horizontal line. When I opened my eyes again, the sunlight was blinding. I was sitting at my old mahogany desk. The calendar read three months before the deadline for the Oxford fellowship—the one I had thrown away for Diana in my past life. I didn’t hesitate. I picked up the phone and dialed the International Programs office. “Professor? It’s Ben. I’m calling to confirm my acceptance of the exchange program. I’d like to finalize the paperwork today.” The professor sounded relieved. “Glad to hear it, Ben. It would have been a tragedy to waste talent like yours over… well, anything.” A tragedy. Yes. Throwing away a future for a woman who viewed me as a footnote wasn’t just a tragedy; it was a farce. After hanging up, I called a real estate agent. I told him I wanted my parents’ house sold—cash only, fast closing. No exceptions. As I finished the call, Diana’s name flashed on my screen. I felt a phantom ache in my chest, the ghost of a love that had once consumed me. “Ben,” she said, her voice cool and commanding. “Felix is struggling with his senior thesis. His design is a mess. You’re the best in the department; I need you to go over to his place and fix it for him.” Always Felix. He was the invisible third person in our bed, the constant shadow over our dinners. In my past life, I had pulled three all-nighters to rebuild his project from scratch. When he won the departmental award, my name wasn’t even mentioned in the fine print. Diana’s excuse back then? “Felix has such a fragile constitution, Ben. He needs this win for his resume more than you do.” I gripped the phone, a cold smile touching my lips. “Sure, Diana. Have him email me the files.” “Good boy,” she said. One word. Like she was patting a golden retriever. I looked out the window, marveling at how easily I used to be manipulated. An hour later, there was a knock at the door. It was Nancy, holding a takeout bag from my favorite dim sum place. She set the containers out with practiced grace, her expression a mask of gentle concern. “Eat while it’s hot, Ben. I know you’ve been stressed helping Diana and Felix. Don’t burn yourself out.” She always appeared right when Diana’s coldness reached a breaking point, playing the role of the nurturing alternative. “You know,” she added, her tone conversational, “Felix’s project is so vital. Diana is just worried. He’s been sickly since they were kids; he can’t handle the pressure like you can.” The script was so predictable. Felix was weak, so he deserved everything. I was strong, so I deserved to be bled dry. I picked up a dumpling and smiled at her. “I get it, Nancy. I won’t make things difficult for Diana.” Nancy smiled back, satisfied. They both thought I was still the same Ben—the man who would compromise his soul for a scrap of affection. The next day, I took my laptop to the campus library to finish my visa application. As I scanned the aisles for references, I saw them. Diana and Felix were tucked into a corner booth. Felix was leaning into her, his head on her shoulder. He looked perfectly healthy—flushed and laughing. “Diana, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered. She looked at him with a tenderness she had never afforded me. “Silly boy,” she murmured. When Diana stood up to get a coffee, she spotted me. Her expression hardened instantly. My presence was an intrusion on their curated intimacy. I didn’t storm over. I didn’t demand an explanation. I simply caught her eye and gave her a polite, distant nod before returning to my books. I could feel her gaze burning into the back of my neck, confused by my lack of reaction. I didn’t care. My countdown had already started. I didn’t touch a single file of Felix’s thesis. Two days later, Diana cornered me in the library. She snatched the book out of my hands and slammed it onto the table. The loud thud drew glares from the surrounding students. “Ben, what the hell? I told you to help Felix. Why are you sitting here reading trash?” I looked up at her, then at Felix, who was hovering behind her with a practiced look of innocence. “I’m doing my own research,” I said simply. “What research could possibly be more important than Felix’s graduation?” Diana hissed. She pulled Felix forward. “He hasn’t slept in days worrying about this, and you’re just… ignoring him?” Felix touched her sleeve, his voice a soft whine. “Diana, don’t. Ben probably has his own stuff to do. I’ll just… I’ll figure it out. Even if I fail.” Diana’s eyes flashed with anger. “See? Even now, he’s more considerate than you! Ben, I’m saying this one last time: I want that completed proposal on my desk in a week.” I looked at them, the golden boy and his protector, and felt nothing but a dull sense of relief. “Understood,” I said. She assumed I had folded. She softened slightly, gave my shoulder a dismissive pat, and led Felix away. I went back to my work. It was the last time I’d ever let her see me as her subordinate. The calls started becoming frantic as the deadline approached. “Ben! Where is the file? It’s due in forty-eight hours!” Diana’s voice was shrill over the phone. I turned on the faucet in the kitchen, letting the rush of water fill the silence. “I’m sorry, Diana. My grandfather hasn’t been feeling well. I’ve been at the hospital with him. Everything else has had to take a backseat.” “Felix’s future depends on this! Can’t your grandfather’s nurse handle it? Just finish the damn project, Ben.” My grandfather, the man who raised me, was less important to her than a plagiarized thesis for a boy who had never worked a day in his life. “I’ll see what I can do,” I lied. “You’d better. If Felix doesn’t graduate, we are done.” She slammed the phone down. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I couldn’t believe I had ever loved a woman who held me in such low Brooke-style contempt. The real estate agent called ten minutes later. He had a buyer. All cash, quick close, way over asking price. I told him to send the contract immediately. To make the “move” look real, I needed to get rid of some of the heavy antique furniture my parents had left behind. It was a two-person job, and I decided to test Nancy one last time. “Nancy? Are you free? I need to move some of the heavy stuff out of the house today. Could use a hand.” There was a long pause. Then, the sound of a faint, pathetic cough in the background. Felix. “Oh, Ben, I’m so sorry. I’m stuck at Felix’s. He’s running a fever and I’m the only one here to look after him. Can’t you just hire movers? I’ll Venmo you the money later.” Always Felix. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my voice steady. “Take care of him.” I hung up and booked a professional moving crew within five minutes. If money could buy my freedom from their “favors,” it was worth every cent. An hour later, I called Nancy back. My voice was a strained whisper. “Nancy… my stomach. It’s bad. I think I need to go to the ER. I’m at City General.” “Stay put! I’m coming!” she cried. I sat on a cold plastic bench in the hospital lobby, watching the automatic doors. Thirty minutes later, Nancy burst through. She was breathless, eyes darting around frantically. But she didn’t see me. She didn’t even look toward the waiting area. She ran straight past me, sprinting toward the Orthopedics wing. I stood up and followed her at a distance. Outside an exam room, Felix was sitting in a wheelchair, his ankle wrapped in a light bandage. He was crying—fat, theatrical tears. Nancy dropped to her knees in front of him, her face a mask of genuine agony. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. The doctor said it’s just a minor sprain. You’ll be fine in a few days.” “But it hurts so much,” Felix whimpered, leaning his head against hers. She reached out to touch his ankle, her hands trembling with a tenderness she had never shown me even when I had a 103-degree flu. This was the “care” I had been promised in the ICU. It had been happening long before the accident. I stepped out from behind the pillar. “Nancy?” She jumped, nearly knocking Felix over. Her face went pale. “Ben? What… why are you here?” Felix’s tears vanished instantly. His eyes narrowed, flashing a look of pure, territorial triumph. “Stomach pains,” I said, patting my midsection. “I was just heading to get my prescription.” “Are you… are you okay?” Nancy stammered, standing up. “I’ll live. It’s an old issue.” I looked at Felix. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full, though. I’ll let you get back to it. I can find my own way home.” I didn’t wait for her to explain. I walked away, knowing that my “jealous but resigned” act would keep them from suspecting anything until it was too late. The day I signed the closing papers and saw the wire transfer hit my account, the sun was shining. I went straight to the registrar’s office, filed for an indefinite leave of absence, and finalized my student visa. That weekend, a mutual friend organized a karaoke night. I knew Diana and Nancy would be there. To keep up appearances, I went. The neon-lit room was thick with the smell of cheap beer and perfume. After an hour, Felix, clutching a bag of dice, stood up with a grin. “Let’s play King’s Game! Whoever draws the King gets to make any two people do whatever they want!” The room cheered. Diana and Nancy laughed, looking at Felix with indulgent eyes. Naturally, Felix drew the King in the first round. He probably cheated. “I command… Number 2 and Number 5 to reenact the ‘I’m flying’ scene from Titanic!” Everyone revealed their cards. I was Number 2. Diana, with a look of visible annoyance, flipped over Number 5. The room exploded into whistles and jeers. “Come on, Ben! Your big moment!” “Diana, don’t be a killjoy, just hug him!” I was pushed onto the low coffee table in the center of the room. Diana stood in front of me, her arms crossed, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. Nancy laughed from the couch. “Hurry up, Diana. Don’t keep us waiting. Ben, open your arms!” I stood there, stiff and humiliated, closing my eyes to avoid seeing the disgust on Diana’s face. I waited for the hug. It never came. Instead, I felt a violent shove against my chest. It was Felix. He had leaped up behind me, laughing as he wrapped his arms around me in a mocking embrace. “Look, Diana! Is this better?” But his momentum was too much. I lost my balance on the slick surface of the table. My feet slipped, and I went crashing backward. CRACK. My head hit the sharp corner of a side table. Stars exploded in my vision. Everything went black for a second, then a searing, white-hot pain bloomed at the base of my skull. I fell to the floor, and the impact knocked several drinks over. Ice-cold gin and sticky soda drenched my hair and clothes. The room went silent. Then, I heard it. Diana didn’t gasp. She didn’t run to help. She let out a sharp, mocking snort. “God, Ben. You’re such a buzzkill,” she said, turning back to the group. Nancy just sighed, checking her manicure. “Honestly, Ben, how clumsy can you be? It was just a game.” No one reached out a hand. All eyes were on Felix, who was now pouting, his eyes welling with fake tears. “I’m sorry, Diana… I didn’t mean to… I just wanted to be funny.” Diana pulled him into her side, her voice softening. “It’s okay, sweetie. It’s not your fault. He just can’t keep his feet.” The pain in my head was nauseating. I lay there on the cold, sticky floor, shivering and soaked. I didn’t say a word. I gathered what was left of my dignity, stood up, and walked out of that room. I didn’t look back. I just felt a profound sense of gratitude. The house was sold. The visa was in my bag. I was leaving in three days.

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On the stage of the National Pastry Championship, I had planned to honor my grandfather’s legacy by recreating his signature dessert. I didn’t expect my girlfriend’s childhood sweetheart to step forward and accuse me of lacing my entries with synthetic opioids. As I scrambled to clear my name, she locked me in our house. She held me for a long time, weeping, telling me she loved me, promising she would finally say “yes” when I proposed. But her next words were a serrated blade to my heart: “I’m so sorry, Sam. Jackson needs this trophy too much. Just this once. I promise I’ll help you rebuild everything next time.” The result was predictable. Jackson walked away with the gold, while my family’s multi-generational reputation—the pride of the Mitch name—was dragged through the mud, branded as a den of addicts and cheats. This was the ninety-ninth time. For Jackson’s sake, she had systematically stripped away everything that belonged to me, making me the laughingstock of the culinary world. Later, when Jackson had finally achieved his “rightful” fame, Nancy stopped preventing me from competing. She even said that once I won a comeback title, she wanted me to bake our family’s traditional wedding cake for their ceremony. She probably will never know that Jackson had my hands severed months ago. 1 “Wait, isn’t that Sam Mitch? Henry Mitch’s grandson? What the hell happened to him?” “Look at him. He looks like he’s been through a death camp. This is the International Grand Prix—is he really here just to embarrass himself?” Amidst the jeers of the crowd, I was forced toward Nancy by two burly security guards. Nancy looked at me, her face tight with a mixture of embarrassment and fury. Before I could speak, she slapped me across the face. “I gave you the chance to showcase your family’s masterpiece, and you show up looking like a pathetic charity case? You’re ungrateful, Sam.” She leaned in, her voice a low hiss. “You’re already disgraced because of the drug scandal. Today is the only chance I’m giving you to redeem your name. Now get over there and prepare.” I remained silent, head bowed. Beside her, Jackson began to stir the pot, his voice dripping with faux-sympathy. “Nancy, maybe Sam is still angry with me. After all, I’ve taken the spotlight the last ninety-nine times… maybe I should just withdraw. I can’t bear to see him like this.” His eyes reddened. He leaned into Nancy, a stray tear escaping. Nancy’s heart clearly broke for him. She reached out, cupping his face with a tenderness she had never once shown me. “Don’t cry, baby. That glory belongs to you. As long as you’re on that stage, he will always be standing in your shadow.” The reporters and Jackson’s frantic fan-girls started jeering louder. “Mitch’s got some nerve. Losing ninety-nine times to Jackson? If I were him, I’d have walked into traffic by now.” “I heard his grandfather stole the ‘original’ recipes from Jackson’s family anyway. And Sam was the one who tried to come between Nancy and Jackson. The whole Mitch family is just a bunch of shameless grifters.” My heart gave a violent shudder. They could say whatever they wanted about me, but they had no right to slander my grandfather. Grandpa Henry had spent his entire life in a kitchen, pouring his blood and sweat into his craft to earn his place. He was a man who spent his weekends at soup kitchens, who gave everything to the poor. Why did he have to carry this filth in his grave? I gritted my teeth and forced myself upright, turning toward the nearest camera. “Stop lying! My grandfather never stole a thing. Every Mitch recipe is an original masterpiece!” The crowd didn’t buy it. They only responded with a chorus of derisive scoffs. I turned to Nancy, my eyes burning. I begged her—with a look, with a silent plea—to tell them the truth. Nancy only recoiled in disgust. “Your family’s reputation is in the gutter because of your own actions. Why should I explain anything? If you’re so talented, prove it on the table.” The staff shoved me toward the pastry station. I stared at the gleaming stainless steel and the polished marble. A wave of nausea hit me. This place was supposed to be my sanctuary, my altar of honor. Instead, every inch of it was stained with the memory of pain. There was a time when Nancy loved me—or so she said. She used to tell me that my desserts were the only things that made her feel alive. She said she’d never get tired of them. Then she imprisoned me in a basement, forcing me to act as Jackson’s ghost-writer, his shadow, his stepping stone. After the ninety-ninth time she demanded I throw a competition for him, I finally broke. I told her I was done. Nancy had looked at me then with eyes full of a haunting, manipulative sorrow. “Sam, being a pastry chef is Jackson’s only dream. Please, don’t take this from him. Just this once, okay?” “You still have me. I’ll love you forever. But Jackson… Jackson lost everything trying to save me once. I can’t let him lose his career, too.” 2 I knew Jackson didn’t care about the art. He only cared about the title of “Pastry Prince.” Yet, back then, I hadn’t fought her. I had just nodded, a hollow shell of a man. I felt I owed Nancy for a debt from our youth. I thought I was paying her back. I was so naive. I thought if I stepped down, she would let me go. I didn’t expect her to plant those drugs in my kitchen, to orchestrate the raid that destroyed a hundred-year-old legacy in a single afternoon. When I screamed at her, asking why, she had been so calm. “You have talent and the recipes, Sam. You can bounce back whenever you want. But Jackson has nothing. I have to clear the path for him.” “I’m sorry. This is the debt I owe him. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.” She kept me locked in that cellar, bringing me out only for competitions, forcing me to endure the public’s spit and venom as I lost over and over. Nancy, you owed him. And I owed you. So today, I’m paying you back in full. And then, I am done. I closed my eyes, waiting for the execution. Jackson stood at the station opposite me. The host shouted for the round to begin. Under the hungry gaze of the audience, Jackson began cracking eggs, his movements practiced and flashy. I didn’t move. I just stood there, staring into space. The crowd grew restless. “What’s wrong with him? Does he even know how to bake?” “He’s a hack! He probably forgot his ‘secret ingredients’—the ones from the pharmacy!” “If you can’t do it, get the hell off the stage!” Nancy, standing in the front row, marched over. She leaned over the barrier, her voice a sharp whisper. “What is wrong with you? Start the prep. Now.” I gritted my teeth, my voice trembling. “I don’t have hands anymore, Nancy. Haven’t you had enough?” Nancy laughed, a cold, sharp sound. “Sam, give it a rest. You’ve been living in luxury in my villa for three years. I told the housekeeper to make sure you were pampered. I specifically told her to look after your hands. Stop lying for attention.” Jackson looked up then, his voice oily. “Nancy, don’t push him. He’s clearly still bitter about my success. Maybe I should just quit…” He started to untie his apron, his eyes brimming with fake tears. The audience went into a frenzy, screaming insults at me, throwing crumpled programs and water bottles. The livestream chat on the giant screen was a waterfall of hate. But I really didn’t have hands. How was I supposed to bake? I reached for my sleeves, desperate to show them, to prove the nightmare. But Jackson moved faster. He lunged across the gap, grabbing my forearms, his fingers digging into the stumps hidden beneath the fabric. He squeezed with agonizing force. “Sam, your hands are fine. Why are you making excuses?” I looked into Jackson’s eyes. They were cold, triumphant, and utterly evil. He was the one who had done it. He had walked into that basement with a meat cleaver and a smile. How could he stand there and say this? Before I could scream, Nancy’s hand connected with my cheek again. “If you keep up this act, I will release your grandfather’s private journals to the press tonight. Start the competition. Now.” I froze. My grandfather’s journals—the record of his life’s work, his soul. They were in the safe at the house. I hadn’t realized she’d stolen them for Jackson. “Nancy…” my voice cracked. “You know how much he cared for you. He treated you like his own daughter. How can you use him to threaten me?” Nancy looked away, a flicker of guilt crossing her face before hardening back into stone. “Don’t play the emotion card. There is no sentiment on this stage. I am being fair.” Fair. It was laughable. She just wanted me to lose one last time on the world stage. This was the Grand Prix. The winner would be immortalized. But without my hands, and with my grandfather’s legacy held hostage, what was left? The rage boiled in my blood. I wanted to leap over the counter and kill them both, but the fear for my grandfather’s memory held me back. If those recipes were lost or defiled, the Mitch name truly died. “Please,” I whispered, tears blurring my vision. “Stop. I’ll do it. I’ll try.” 3 I spoke through sobs, stepping toward the station with leaden feet. But… Without palms, without fingers, I couldn’t even pick up an egg. I tried to pin an egg between my shrouded wrists, but it slipped, shattering on the floor. The crowd erupted in laughter. “Is he pretending to be a thalidomide kid now? How pathetic.” “This is the Mitch heir? Jackson is a god compared to this clown!” Jackson smiled, basking in the cheers as he began whipping cream. The bitterness rose in my throat like bile. I let the tears fall. The first scent of baking filled the air. Jackson was making a lemon tart—my grandfather’s recipe. He had stolen the soul of my family and was parading it as his own. Meanwhile, my station was a disaster. I couldn’t adjust the oven temp accurately. I couldn’t whisk. My entry looked like a pile of raw, grey sludge. The judges didn’t even want to look at it. One of them sneered, “Is this a joke or just incompetence?” Jackson chimed in, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “Judges, I know Sam. He’s better than this. He’s doing this on purpose for the cameras. He wants to look like a victim.” I was paralyzed with shame. A moment later, Jackson “accidentally” bumped into my station, knocking my bowl to the floor and shoving me down. “Oh! My god, Sam, I’m so sorry! Let me help you up.” As he leaned down, his face inches from mine, his voice dropped to a terrifying whisper. “You want to know the truth? I killed that old man. He held onto those recipes until his last breath. I had to use a pillow to shut him up… he died protecting a pile of paper that I’ve already burned to ash. You have nothing left, Sam.” The world turned cold. My blood felt like shards of ice in my veins. I tried to grab him, to scream, but I had no fingers to grip his throat. “You monster! You murderer!” I lunged upward. Immediately, Nancy was there, her hand cracking across my face for the third time. “What are you doing? Jackson tried to help you! You serve up this filth and then attack the champion? Your family was always a fraud, Sam. You just bought your way to the top.” She stood there, righteous and indignant, completely forgetting that when she was a starving orphan, it was my grandfather who paid her tuition and put clothes on her back. I broke. Right there in front of the world, I screamed at Jackson. “Why? Why did you kill him?” Nancy’s face twisted. “Shut up! What are you talking about? Henry died of natural causes! Stop lying!” Jackson began to sob. “I know you hate seeing me happy, Sam, but to accuse me of murder?” “You admitted it! You cut off my hands in that basement! I’m calling the police!” “ENOUGH!” Nancy screamed. “Stop slandering him! You’ve been living in my house, being pampered, and now you’re throwing a tantrum because you want my attention? You’re sick!” She turned to the cameras, to the millions watching. “Don’t believe a word he says. He’s obsessed with his image. He would never let anything happen to his ‘artist’s hands.’” She looked at me with pure disappointment. “I was actually going to give you a custom watch today as a peace offering. I can’t believe I wasted my time on you.” The crowd was whipped into a state of feral rage. People started jumping the barriers, swarming the stage to get at me. I curled into a ball, trying to shield myself with my stumps. “Stop! Please! I’m not lying! My hands are gone! Look at me!” But no one listened. Nancy stepped forward and kicked me in the arm. “Stop acting. You’re a terrible liar, Sam.” In the chaos, Jackson “tripped,” spilling a pot of boiling clarified butter directly onto my back and arms. The scream that tore from my throat was unearthly. I felt my skin melting, the searing heat bubbling my flesh. The crowd recoiled, horrified by the sound, backing away to avoid the splatter. It was my only chance. I didn’t care about the pain. I began to crawl, desperate to get away from the lights, the cameras, and the monsters. But Nancy grabbed my shirt. The fabric was soaked in oil and sweat. As she pulled, the cheap material gave way, ripping entirely off my body. I collapsed, my last shred of dignity stripped away. I knelt on the floor, weeping, hiding my face. “Please… don’t look… please just let me go…” But the room went deathly silent. Nancy stood frozen. She stared at my arms. Her pupils dilated. Her voice was a broken, trembling reed. “Sam… where… where are your hands?”

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The endgame of the Apex Trials arrived not with a roar, but with a terrifying, clinical silence. Three faces frozen around a cold metal table. Before us sat three identical capsules. The rules were as simple as they were barbaric: two contained the antidote that would allow us to walk out of here; the third contained a fast-acting neurotoxin that would liquefy your organs in minutes. The survivor wouldn’t just win their life back; they’d walk away with a ten-million-dollar purse. The loser would die in agony. And here we were, the final three: me, my fiancé, and my younger sister. Maya, who had struggled with a congenital heart defect since she was a toddler, was trembling so violently she could barely sit upright. She reached out, her fingers like cold wire as she gripped my forearm. “Jo,” she choked out, her eyes swimming with tears. “I was never going to live a long life anyway. Give me the poison. You and Gabe… you have to live. You have to take care of Mom and Dad for me.” My heart felt like it had been pierced by a needle. I fought back my own tears, nodding as I reached for the capsules to distribute them. I looked at them one last time—the man I planned to marry and the sister I had spent my life protecting. I raised my capsule to my lips. Suddenly, a hand clamped around my wrist. The grip was so savage I felt the delicate bones of my arm creak. I looked up. Under the harsh LED lights, Gabe’s face looked like a stranger’s—cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of the warmth I’d known for eight years. “Joanna,” his voice was like a winter wind. “Maya is your sister. You should give that pill to her.” Before I could process the betrayal in his tone, the comms monitor on the wall crackled to life. My parents’ faces appeared on the screen, broadcast from the viewing gallery. My mother’s voice was thick with tears, but her words were hard as flint. “Joanna, Maya is pregnant! You can’t let two lives end today. Give her the antidote. Now!” In that heartbeat, the world fractured. The jagged pieces finally clicked into place—my sister and my fiancé hadn’t just been close; they had been together. And my parents? They had known all along. A chill crawled up my spine, freezing the marrow in my bones. But instead of screaming, I started to laugh. A low, jagged sound that scraped my throat. They seemed to have forgotten one thing. They were so sure I was holding the antidote. But in this game, nothing is ever what it seems. 1 The final round of the Apex Trials. Three pills on a table. Two are life. One is a death sentence. The winner gets ten million dollars and a second chance. The loser rots. And the only ones left in the arena are me, my fiancé, Gabe, and my sister, Maya. Maya, the girl with the “fragile heart,” was currently sobbing into my shoulder. “Jo, please. My heart was going to give out before thirty anyway. Let me take the hit. You and Gabe… you’re my world. Just promise you’ll look after the parents.” My chest throbbed with a dull ache. I nodded, my eyes blurring as I handed out the pills. I took one last, lingering look at the two people I loved most, preparing to swallow my fate. Then Gabe’s hand was on me, pinning me down. I looked at him, stunned. “Joanna, she’s your sister. She needs that pill more than you do.” On the screen, my mother’s grief turned into a sharpened weapon. “Joanna, for God’s sake! Maya is pregnant. How can you be so selfish? Give her the medicine!” The word pregnant hit me like a physical blow. My brain hummed with static. I wrenched my hand away from Gabe, clutching the pill in my palm, my eyes fixed on Maya. I didn’t blink. I couldn’t. Maya and I are twins. We shared a womb, shared secrets, shared a life. She never mentioned a boyfriend. She never mentioned him. Maya’s eyes darted away, her pale face ghost-white. She clutched her chest, shaking her head. “Mom, Dad, please… stop. I already owe Jo so much. My heart is a ticking clock anyway. Just let me take the poison and go. I just want you all to be happy.” She made a show of raising her hand to her mouth, but Gabe caught her. The look on his face—a mixture of desperate panic and raw devotion—was something he had never once given to me. “Maya, stop. It’s not your fault. I’m the one who fell for you.” He turned his gaze toward the camera, then back to her. “You’re carrying my child. I’m not letting anything happen to you. Not today. Not ever.” I felt the air leave my lungs. I felt my knees give way, my body suddenly heavy with the weight of the injuries I’d sustained during the earlier rounds. To keep Maya safe, I had taken the hits. I’d walked through fire, literally and figuratively. My body was a map of bruises and half-healed lacerations. I was at my limit. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the sensation of my heart being ground into glass. I whispered the words, tasting the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. “Your… child?” “Gabe, stop it. This isn’t a funny joke.” Gabe and I had been together for eight years. Eight years of him knowing exactly how I liked my coffee, of him cooking soup for me when I was sick, of him warming my feet under the covers in the dead of winter. I thought he was my rock. I decided to marry him after my accident last year. He had been late to pick me up, and I’d tried to catch a bus, only to be clipped by a distracted driver. I was thrown ten feet. Broken ribs, shattered leg, internal bleeding. In the ICU, through the haze of morphine, I heard him begging the doctors. “Save her. Sell the house, take my car, take everything I own—just don’t let her go.” When they needed blood, he didn’t hesitate. He sat in that chair and let them draw until he turned gray, refusing to let them stop even when he passed the safety limit. “If she dies because I was a few milliliters short, I’ll never forgive myself,” he’d told the nurse. When Maya told me that story later, I cried until I couldn’t breathe. The moment I was stable, I grabbed his hand and told him to put the ring on my finger. I thought it was our “happily ever after.” But looking back now, I remembered how his hands had trembled when he slid that diamond onto my finger. Was that joy? Or was it the tremors of a man who had just realized he was trapped by his own guilt? I tried to smile, but tears were carving hot tracks through the dirt and blood on my face. I prayed—I actually prayed—that this was some hallucination brought on by blood loss. Then Gabe spoke again, and the trapdoor beneath my feet finally swung open. “Jo… she’s four months along.” 2 I stared at him, the math failing to compute. Gabe sighed, his voice heavy with a weary kind of pity. “The night of your accident… the reason I was late? I was with her.” “We lost track of time. It was intense. I was so preoccupied with her—cleaning her up, buying her new clothes because I’d ruined hers, making sure she got to work okay—that I forgot about the time. I forgot about you.” I remembered that night. I had called Maya while waiting for Gabe. I had gushed to her about how lucky I was to have him. I told her I hoped she found someone just like him so we could be happy together. Maya’s voice had been strange then. Breathless. Strained. I’d heard a muffled groan in the background. “Maya? You okay?” I’d asked. “Just a cold, Jo,” she’d rasped after a long pause. “My body… you know how it is. I shouldn’t… ugh… I shouldn’t burden anyone else.” “As long as I can see you happy… then I’m happy too. Ha.” Growing up, my parents always leaned toward Maya. The “Sui’an” to my “Mengbai”—the peace to my purity. They spent their lives hovering over her, terrified of her heart, terrified of her pain. Even on our shared birthdays, there was only ever one cake. Maya’s favorite flavor. Every single year. I used to be bitter. Until the year Maya took that cake and threw it in the trash. She’d taken my hand, her face pale and defiant, and told our parents: “Today is Jo’s birthday too. If you keep ignoring her, I’m going to stop taking my meds. I’d rather be dead than see her hurt.” My resentment vanished in that instant. My mother had wept, pulling me into her arms, promising to love us both equally. From that day on, we were inseparable. Or so I thought. “Maya, don’t worry,” I had whispered into the phone that night. “I’m going to win this money. I’m going to pay for your transplant. We’re sisters for life. Not a second less.” I’d hung up and signed the contract for the Apex Trials to save her life. Now, those memories felt like a sequence of slaps across the face. Every sacrifice I’d made for her felt like a jagged piece of hot coal in my gut. I couldn’t take it anymore. I lunged forward and slapped Gabe across the face. “Do you even have a soul?” I screamed, my voice breaking. “She’s my sister! My flesh and blood!” “You told me you cared for her like family. Was ‘family’ just code for ‘mistress’? What am I to you, Gabe? A placeholder? A backup plan?” Maya let out a sharp cry and tried to step between us. Gabe’s expression shifted instantly—from cold indifference to feral protection. He lashed out, kicking me square in the stomach. I flew backward, my spine slamming into a jagged rock. The world went black for a second, then rushed back in a wave of cold sweat and agonizing pain. But Gabe didn’t even look at me. He was busy checking Maya’s pulse, running his hands over her shoulders. “Maya, are you okay? The baby? Don’t worry, I’ve got you. I won’t let her hurt you.” Maya shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “Gabe, stop. Leave me. I’ve had a bad life, I’ve accepted it. I’ve had parents who loved me, and in the end, I had you. That’s enough.” “The only thing I regret is this baby. But it’s okay. When I get to the other side, I’ll tell the little one I’m sorry.” She looked at me, her eyes shimmering with a performative grief that made my skin crawl. “Joanna, I know I did a terrible thing. But I never lied about wanting you to be happy. When I found out you signed up for this game for me… the guilt nearly killed me.” “So let this be my penance. Let me take the poison.” 3 The words had barely left her mouth when she broke free from Gabe’s arms and lunged for the pill Gabe had knocked out of my hand earlier—the one they were so sure was the toxin. Suddenly, a piercing scream erupted from the monitors. “Maya! If you swallow that, we’re coming with you!” I looked up, dazed. My parents had somehow made it to the edge of the arena fence. My mother was holding a small utility knife to her own throat, her face a mask of maternal madness. “Maya, life isn’t worth living without you. You have a baby now. They found a donor heart for you, honey! You have a future. I won’t let you throw it away here!” Her tears weren’t falling on the ground; they were falling on my soul. I gasped for air, clutching my broken back, and used the last of my strength to scream at the screen. “Mom! I’m your daughter too! Does my life mean nothing to you?” “I’ve called you ‘Mom’ for twenty-five years. Did you ever actually love me?” My mother’s eyes flickered toward me, cold and hollow. “Joanna, Maya said she owed you, but the truth is, you owe her. You were the stronger twin in the womb. You sucked all the nutrients out of her. You’re the reason her heart never developed. You got the normal life, you got to run and play, and then you took the man she loved. You’re the thief, Joanna. If anyone has to die today, it’s you.” I closed my eyes. I bit my lip until it bled, but I couldn’t stop the sob that tore through my chest. I felt like a fish gasping on dry land, drowning in the open air. My mother didn’t love me. But I had loved her. I had come here for Maya. I had already decided, before the betrayals came to light, that I was going to take the poison. When I was distributing the pills, I had already palmed the toxin. I was going to die so they could be happy. But now, I realized my sacrifice was a punchline. The people I would have died for were currently cheering for my execution. [Trial Countdown: Five Minutes. If no one consumes the toxin, all remaining players will be terminated.] The mechanical voice boomed. Gabe’s face twisted. He lunged at me, pinning me into the dirt, prying my fingers open with brutal force. I looked at his snarling, unrecognizable face. “Gabe,” I whispered. “If I told you that the pill in my hand right now is the poison… that I was always going to choose death for you… would you even feel a shred of guilt?” Gabe froze for a second. But then my mother’s voice shrieked from the fence. “Gabe! Maya collapsed! Her heart! You have to hurry! Give the poison to Joanna and take the money! Save Maya!” Panic erased whatever doubt was in Gabe’s eyes. He sneered at me. “Nice try, Joanna. I know how selfish you are. You’d say anything to save your own skin.” “You want the truth? I only asked you out because I thought you were Maya that night. By the time I realized the mistake, I tried to break it off, but Maya… she’s too good. she begged me to stay with you because she didn’t want to break your heart.” “That ring? It was always meant for her. You used our guilt to trap me. I’ve hated you for years.” I felt my heart shatter into a million pieces. My strength vanished. I watched, numb, as he ripped the pill from my palm and shoved a gritty, dust-covered capsule into my mouth. The bitterness exploded on my tongue. I looked at him, my voice a ghost. “Why… why didn’t you just tell me?” Gabe smiled, a cruel, triumphant thing. “Because I knew you’d never believe it. You’re too narcissistic to think anyone could prefer her over you. You probably knew all along and just liked watching us suffer.” I swallowed the bitterness. I lay there on the dirt, watching the giant countdown clock hit zero. A second later, a scream that sounded like a dying animal ripped through the air. “NO!! MAYA!”

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My sister and I used to be drowning in our own toxicity, hell-bent on chasing men who didn’t want us. I was obsessed with the older one—a cold, ruthlessly disciplined, older corporate executive. My sister, meanwhile, was desperately in love with his younger brother—a frail, soft-spoken, wheelchair-bound boy with a shy smile. After an entire year of throwing ourselves at them and getting absolutely nowhere, we reached a point of pathetic desperation. We actually planned to drug them. It was a reckless, absurd idea. But right before we crossed that unforgivable line, a glitching stream of glowing text appeared out of thin air, hovering right in front of our eyes. The floating words screamed at us. The text berated my sister and me for our twisted, obsessive minds, begging us to spare these two men. The comments insisted that they belonged to the “rightful heroine” of the story. More terrifyingly, the floating text warned us of exactly what would happen if we went through with the drugging: our family would go bankrupt, our faces would be ruined, and we would be violently thrown out into the streets, left to rot. Seeing those warnings felt like taking a bucket of ice water to the chest. My sister and I snapped out of our fever dream. From that moment on, we stopped suffocating them. We stopped forcing our feelings down their throats. We decided to focus on ourselves, to pull our lives together, and to actually open our eyes to the other decent guys in the world. Yet, the universe has a sick sense of humor. The older brother—the man who had spent a year looking through me as if I were made of glass—suddenly cornered me in the hallway. Before I could process what was happening, he closed the distance and kissed me, hard. His breathing was ragged. He practically shook as he demanded to know why I had just given up on him so easily. He asked, his voice dripping with a dark, bitter insecurity, if I suddenly thought he was too old, too boring for me. The more he spoke, the more he lost control. The kiss turned desperate. Punishing. Panicking, I managed to shove him back just enough to hit speed-dial for my sister. When the call connected, I didn’t hear her voice. I heard her muffled, terrified crying. And then, crackling through the receiver, came the voice of the younger brother. The shy, gentle boy was gone. His voice was thick, dark, and sickly sweet. “Be a good girl,” he whispered through the phone. “Let’s do that again.” A chill violently clawed its way down my spine. 1 It was right after my ninth failed confession to my older stepbrother, Devin. I decided I was going to force his hand. My twin sister, Serena, didn’t approve at first. “You can’t force a flower to bloom,” she told me, lounging on my bed. “Matters of the heart require patience. We have to play the long game. Slowly reel them in.” Exactly one week later, Serena experienced her tenth brutal rejection from the younger brother, Kieran. She was devastated. She cried until her eyes were swollen shut. “You can’t force a flower to bloom,” she sniffled, wiping mascara from her cheeks, “but at least you can rip off the petals.” “Exactly.” “If I can’t have his heart, I’ll take his body.” “Damn right!” Serena initiated the raid; I immediately fell into formation. One look between us, and the plan was set. Sunday was our mother’s birthday gala. For the sake of convenience and showing off, it was hosted right here at our sprawling estate. Because it was the first birthday since our families had merged into one messy, wealthy blended household, our stepdad, Richard, had his two sons in attendance. I had acquired the goods. Serena stared at the five tiny green vials in the palm of my hand, her expression entirely skeptical. “Are you absolutely sure this sketchy powder you bought off a dark-web pop-up ad for ten bucks actually works?” I was brimming with misguided confidence. “The forums swore by it. It’s foolproof.” The party downstairs was a blur of designer dresses, clinking champagne flutes, and polite corporate laughter. Devin, whom I hadn’t seen in weeks, was dressed in a razor-sharp bespoke suit, looking like he owned the room. He stood near the grand piano, nursing a scotch and making small talk with the investors. He caught sight of me. His gaze lingered on me for less than three seconds before he abruptly looked away, his jaw tightening. He looked so painfully stiff and awkward that a stranger would have thought he was the one who had been rejected nine times. Kieran, confined to his wheelchair, sat quietly in the shadowed corner of the sunken living room. When Serena took a seat on the velvet sofa near him, he didn’t even dare to lift his head. They really were brothers. Their avoidance tactics were identical. Serena had been wavering slightly, but seeing Kieran shrink away from her solidified her resolve. “I’m going to find out if his body is as stubborn as his mouth,” she muttered. We divided the labor. Serena poured the drinks; I twisted the caps off the vials. Right as I was tipping the powder over the rim of the crystal tumbler, a blinding white light flashed across my vision. Neon text began scrolling through the empty air in front of me. [God, I am so sick of these two desperately horny sisters. Begging the author to let our two male leads go.] [The premise of this book is a love triangle where both brothers fall for the sunshine female lead! Even if these toxic twins drug them, it won’t work.] [This is so gross! Why can’t they just be normal stepsiblings?!] [In the original novel, these two evil stepsisters end up with the most gruesome fates just because they tried this stunt.] [Help, stop digging your own graves! Just be background characters!] [I eternally reject the ‘harassment as romance’ trope. Someone delete these side characters.] [When is the real heroine showing up? I’m dying waiting.] [Go ahead and drop the powder, girls. Enjoy your VIP package of bankruptcy, facial disfigurement, and getting thrown into the gutter.] “Bankrupt?” I whispered. “Disfigured?” Serena gasped. Another flash of white light. Suddenly, a vivid, horrifying montage played in my mind: Serena and I weeping, begging on our knees, being spat on, humiliated, stripped of everything, our faces scarred, our bank accounts drained to zero. I love money more than life itself. Serena worships her own beauty. We slowly turned to look at each other, the color draining from our faces. We spoke in unison. “You saw that too?” “…” 2 Serena and I are identical twins. We share the exact same face. We share absolutely none of the same personality traits. Serena reads obscure French poetry; I devour double cheeseburgers. Serena is the picture of poise; I’m a walking hurricane. We only have one thing in common. We are both incredibly pretentious. To prove how “different” and deep we were, Serena and I would camp out at the local artisanal coffee shop with our MacBooks, looking brooding and intellectual for ten hours straight. Because we thought adopting a dog or a cat was too basic, I bought a ball python, and she bought an iguana. Beyond that, our daily routine consisted of viciously competing with one another. We competed over who could eat more, who could fail an exam more spectacularly, who had a better metabolism, and who could curse someone out more creatively. Our mother, trapped between us, had a miserable time trying to keep the peace. Finally, after one too many nights of being forced to choose whether the snake or the iguana was “cuter” before we went to bed, our mother snapped. She decided she wasn’t going to suffer alone anymore. She was going to find a husband to draw some of our fire. Enter Richard. Richard was a widower of many years, dragging along two grown sons. In the high-society dating market, he was considered damaged goods. Our mother took one look at his bank accounts and zeroed in on him. Serena and I took one look at him and zeroed in on… his sons. Devin was twenty-seven. Kieran was twenty-five. Devin was ice-cold, impossibly arrogant, and ruled by logic. He was the quintessential, untouchable CEO from a romance novel. Kieran was the gentle aristocrat. Soft-spoken, warm, yet shadowed by the tragedy of his paralyzed legs, which gave him an air of fragile melancholy. I stared at Devin, practically salivating. “I want to see that ice-king lose his mind. It would be intoxicating.” Serena stared at Kieran, her eyes dark. “I want to pin him down and make him cry.” Like I said, Serena and I are family. We have the exact same twisted DNA running through our veins. We were creatures of impulse. If we wanted something, we took it. I was the action-taker. I immediately drafted a battle plan to conquer the older brother. I bought him absurdly expensive watches, sent him texts, ambushed him for lunches and movies. I studied his coffee orders, his habits, trying to dismantle his defenses brick by brick. After a year of this, my progress was exactly zero. Serena believed in the slow burn. She thought love should seep in like water into soil. Whenever she had a free moment, she was pushing Kieran’s wheelchair through the gardens. She talked to him about art, the moon, life, and philosophy. She listened to him talk about the trauma of losing his mother and the agonizing pain of losing his legs. But Kieran’s heart was apparently made of Kevlar. “Kieran said I’m too young, and that I’m just confusing pity for love,” Serena complained to me once. “Devin said my constant presence is a sign of deep-seated attachment issues,” I grumbled back. “Kieran said legally, it’s frowned upon.” “Devin said he has a corporate image to maintain and won’t involve himself in a scandal.” We both sighed heavily. This was the first time either of us had seriously pursued anyone. We just assumed we hadn’t tried hard enough, hadn’t dug deep enough into their souls. The more we failed, the harder we pushed. The more they pushed us away, the more obsessed we became. It grew into a sickness. A total fixation. But it turned out, we were just living inside the pages of a novel. Serena and I were the cannon fodder. The evil stepsisters. Devin and Kieran were the male leads. Their entire universe was meant to revolve around the heroine. Serena and I were just the pathetic catalysts meant to push the main characters closer together. We were flat, one-dimensional tools. We were never, ever going to get a text back. Under the invisible hand of the plot, we had slowly been driven insane, pushed toward making unforgivable choices, destined to die penniless and ruined. I looked down at the powder dusted across my knuckles. A cold sweat broke out over my entire body. 3 [Why is the evil stepsister just standing there spacing out? Is she plotting something worse?] The text was still hovering in the air. I quickly pulled out my phone and checked my banking app. I counted the zeroes. They were still there. Serena whipped out her compact mirror. Her flawless face was untouched. We both let out massive, shaky breaths. We looked at each other, communicating entirely through our eyes. Actually, when you really think about it, Devin always has a stick up his ass. He’s not even fun. Men age like milk anyway. He’s twenty-seven, which in club years is basically sixty-two. He’s too old for me. Kieran is so fragile. If I actually got him into bed, he’d probably break. Love is great, but my face is worth millions. If I have to choose between a man and my trust fund, the man has to go. Serena always knew exactly what to say. I decisively dumped the remaining powder straight into the nearest potted plant. But I couldn’t just leave the drinks sitting there. It felt too suspicious. I grabbed a pitcher of tap water and topped off both glasses of scotch until they were thoroughly diluted. [Wait, why did the villain back out?] [The plot is totally shifting. Am I reading a pirated version of the book?] [Oh no! The first encounter between the heroine and the male leads is totally ruined! How are they going to have their romantic, drug-fueled one-night stand now?!] First encounter? One-night stand? Romantic? Now that I was pulled out of my obsessive haze, reading those words made me want to gag. What a load of toxic bullshit. Serena saw the text too. She frowned, looking visibly nauseated. “Thank God we stopped,” she whispered. “We didn’t ruin our own lives, and we didn’t accidentally traffic them to some random girl.” Devin stepped up to the bar. Seeing the glass in my hand, he assumed it was for him. He reached out to take it. After seeing those floating comments, looking at him made my chest feel tight and complicated. Maybe it started out as physical attraction. A shallow crush. But over the last year of trying to break through his walls, I had actually given him pieces of my real heart. But if this was a story, and I was the villain, there was no point in bleeding out for him anymore. “This isn’t for you,” I said coldly, pulling the glass away. “…” Devin’s dark eyes narrowed. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. I lifted the glass, intending to take a sip just to prove my point. His hand shot out, wrapping around my wrist. He pulled the glass down. “Did you forget you’re allergic to alcohol?” I actually had forgotten. I let him take the glass. He brought it to his lips and took a slow sip. Serena watched him, opening her mouth to say something, then shutting it. I knew firsthand how terrifyingly observant Devin was. Once, I had accidentally left a single strand of hair on his office chair. The next day, he presented it to me, noting the length and the curl pattern, and told me to learn the definition of boundaries. There was no way he didn’t taste the tap water I had just dumped into his Macallan. But before I could dwell on it, our mother clinked her glass to announce the cake cutting. Serena and I linked arms and walked up to the front to stand with her. I accidentally glanced up. I met Devin’s eyes across the room. I didn’t give him my usual desperate, glowing smile. I just looked at him blankly, and then shifted my gaze to the wall. Around ten o’clock, the party wound down. I headed upstairs to my bedroom. Devin was leaning against the mahogany railing at the top of the stairs. He called my name, stopping me in my tracks. The light from the crystal chandelier hit the sharp angles of his jaw. Usually, his features were entirely composed, practically monastic. But tonight, there was a faint flush to his cheeks. He was holding a small, dark red velvet box. He looked at me. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Last week was your birthday. I was out of town on business and missed it. This is your gift.” I took the box and offered a polite, distant smile. “Thank you, Devin.” Devin’s eyes widened, a sudden, jarring clarity cutting through his buzzed state. His voice hitched with a strange tension. “What did you just… call me?”

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The new intern at the office handed me a thick, cream-colored envelope embossed with gold foil. A wedding invitation. I opened it with the distracted air of a busy executive, my mind already drifting to the afternoon’s quarterly projections. But as my eyes snagged on the groom’s name, the air left my lungs. Killian. My fingers went rigid. Killian. That was my husband’s name. I forced a brittle smile, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. It’s a common enough name, I told myself. A coincidence. A cruel, statistical anomaly. The world was full of men named Killian. Across the open-plan office, my staff was already swarming the intern, Lexie. “God, Lexie, you really hit the jackpot,” one of the junior analysts chirped, her voice dripping with envy. “Marrying a literal titan of industry? Even if he is ten years older, who cares?” Another girl chimed in, “Older? Please. I saw his Instagram—he’s in better shape than most guys our age. And that jawline? Lethal.” Someone tapped a command on their laptop, and the projector on the far wall hummed to life. A photo filled the screen. I looked up. The world tilted on its axis. The face staring back at me—the sharp, intelligent eyes, the slight quirk of the mouth I’d kissed every morning for fifteen years—was the man I had shared a bed with last night. The blood in my veins turned to ice. On the day of the wedding, I arrived at the Fairmont ballroom thirty minutes early. The air was cloying with the scent of expensive lilies and floor-to-ceiling peonies. Lexie was there, a vision in a bespoke Vera Wang, her smile radiant enough to light up the city. She glided toward me, her hand outstretched. “Elena, I’m so glad you could make it!” Her voice was like spun sugar, sweet and sickly. “It means everything to have you here to witness our beginning.” … I felt a thin, cold smile stretch across my face. Witnessing. That was an interesting word for it. To be more accurate, I was here to witness a crime scene—the slow-motion demolition of my life. Two massive, framed portraits flanked the entrance. In them, Killian held Lexie by her slender waist, their laughter captured in high-definition bliss. Looking at them, I felt a physical sensation of being torn apart, as if invisible hooks were pulling my skin in opposite directions. Lexie took my hand, her eyes shimmering with a performative shyness. “Elena—” she paused, her smile turning probing. “On a day like this, formalities feel so cold. Can I call you Len? Like a big sister?” She was twenty-two. A recent NYU grad with skin like porcelain and eyes that hadn’t yet learned how to hide a secret. At that age, you don’t need makeup to be beautiful; you just need to breathe. My heart throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. “Sure,” I managed to choke out. “Len is fine.” She led me to the VIP lounge, hovering over me with tea and fruit, her excitement so palpable it reminded me of myself fifteen years ago. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a lead weight. Before leaving for the “wedding” this morning, I had called Killian. He told me he was still stuck in Chicago on business. On the FaceTime call, he looked tired, his eyes softening with that familiar, curated devotion. He even showed me a Tiffany box he’d bought for me. “Three more days until I’m home, El,” he’d whispered, looking like a man who missed his wife. “It feels like a century. I miss you so much it hurts.” I had come so close to screaming then. I wanted to rip that mask off his face right through the screen, but I held back. For fifteen years, Killian was the gold standard. The perfect husband, the doting father, the son-in-law my parents bragged about at every country club dinner. Until last week, I believed he was the best man I’d ever known. The height of that pedestal made the fall infinite. Bella, a gossip-loving manager from my department, walked over and grabbed Lexie’s hands. “You look stunning! Absolutely breathtaking!” Lexie blushed, glancing at me. “It’s just the contouring, believe me. Elena is the real beauty here.” It was a known fact in our circles. I was the “classic” beauty, the former homecoming queen who had aged into a sharp, sophisticated grace. Even next to a twenty-two-year-old, I held my own. But I knew better than anyone that marriage isn’t a beauty pageant. If it were, I wouldn’t be standing in the wreckage of mine. “So, Lexie,” Bella leaned in, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “I heard you’ve been together for four years. How did you land a billionaire catch like this? Is there a brother? I’ll sign my divorce papers today if there is.” Four years. The words hit me like a physical blow. Four years. He had maintained a parallel universe for four years without leaving a single fingerprint on our life together. I felt a surge of nausea. “He was a gift from the universe,” Lexie said, her voice soft and reverent. We sat down in the plush velvet armchairs. “My freshman year at Columbia, my parents were killed in a car accident. I was going to drop out—I couldn’t afford the tuition. It turned out Killian was a major donor to his alma mater. He gave five million a year to the scholarship fund, and I was one of his recipients.” She smiled into her tea. “That first winter was brutal. To thank him, I hand-knitted him a charcoal cashmere sweater. That sweater… that was the beginning of us.” I remembered that sweater. Killian treated it like a holy relic. He’d told me his late mother had knitted it for him before she passed. Once, our son accidentally dropped it on the floor, and Killian had flown into a terrifying, uncharacteristic rage. He’d actually struck the boy. And the five million a year? I knew nothing about it. Two years ago, Killian told me the firm was in a liquidity crisis. He’d mortgaged our penthouse, his father’s estate, and even my parents’ retirement home to “save” the company. He’d painted a picture of a business on life support, barely breaking even. But he wasn’t broke. He was just funding a fantasy. “I heard he’s loaded,” Bella continued, oblivious to the blood draining from my face. “And that he’s turned everything over to you. Why are you even working that soul-crushing job at our firm?” I watched Lexie closely. “He did,” she said, her expression serene. “He’s given me more than I could spend in ten lifetimes. But I want my own life, you know? I don’t want to be just another trophy wife. I need to have my own value.” Ten lifetimes. My lungs felt tight. Just last month, we couldn’t “afford” the $70k tuition for our son Teddy’s private academy for children with special needs. We had to move him to a crumbling public school. The transition had triggered a massive depressive episode for my ten-year-old; he’d stopped eating, stopped talking. “What exactly does your husband do that’s so lucrative?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. “Most of his holdings are offshore,” she replied. “The domestic companies don’t really make much, apparently.” I felt a jolt of shock. I had no idea Killian had international entities. For four years, he’d claimed the business was failing so he could stop contributing to our household. My salary—six figures after tax—covered everything. When my mother-in-law was dying four years ago, the medical bills topped two million. I paid for all of it. I borrowed half of that money, working eighty-hour weeks and hiding my grey hair under expensive dye just to keep up the appearance that we hadn’t fallen from grace. Killian had watched me cry myself to sleep from the stress. He’d watched me sell my grandmother’s jewelry. And he hadn’t contributed a single cent. Bella leaned in closer. “I heard he’s a divorcee. Is he… you know, over the first wife?” I felt a cold laugh bubbling in my throat, but I kept my face a mask of polite interest. Lexie didn’t hesitate. Her smile was tinged with a practiced, tragic sweetness. “His first wife and son are dead.” The world stopped. I couldn’t breathe. The air in the room turned into jagged glass in my throat. He told her we were dead. “It was an accident,” Lexie added, looking genuinely mournful. “Such a shame. She never got to see the man he became, or enjoy the life he can provide now.” More colleagues arrived, and Lexie fluttered away to greet them. They circled her like she was a miracle, gushing over her luck. Suddenly, Lexie’s phone buzzed with a FaceTime request. It was Killian. “Pick it up!” the girls squealed. “Let us see the groom!” Lexie blushed and declined the call. “No. I want the first time he sees me today to be when I’m walking down the aisle. I want it to be a surprise.” She turned back to us, her eyes moist. “To be honest, Killian never had a real wedding with his first wife. No photos, no big party, he never even saw her in a dress. I want today to be the most beautiful, unforgettable day of his life.” She was right about one thing. Fifteen years ago, Killian was a nobody. We’d eloped in a courthouse. Our “rings” were ten-dollar bands from a street vendor. Every penny I had went into his first startup. Three months ago, Teddy had asked his dad if we could take family portraits at a professional studio. Killian had just laughed it off. “We’re an old married couple, Ted. We don’t need all that fuss. Maybe next year.” I’d felt a twinge of disappointment, but I’d let it go. I thought we had the only thing that mattered: a life together. I remembered our wedding night in a $40 motel room. He’d held my hands, his eyes red with tears, and promised me: “One day, El, when I’ve made it, I’m going to give you the wedding of your dreams. The dress, the diamonds, everything. I’ll make it up to you.” He was making it up to someone, alright. Just not me. “Wait,” Bella gasped. “He had nothing with the dead wife?” “He said there was no love there,” Lexie said casually, as if she were discussing the weather. “He said it was an arrangement his parents forced on him. He told me that when she died, he felt like he could finally breathe again. Like the sun finally came out.” The pain in my chest was so sharp I thought I was having a heart attack. He’d proposed to me twenty times before I finally said yes. He’d cried at our son’s birth. And now, I was a suffocating shadow he’d finally escaped. Lexie suddenly turned pale and clutched her stomach, let out a small retching sound. “Morning sickness?” I asked. Her eyes lit up. She nodded. “Good eye, Len. We just found out. Two months.” The congratulations poured in. They called the unborn baby the “heir to the empire.” “Killian’s already transferring everything into a trust for me and the baby,” Lexie said. “He wants me to quit the firm immediately. He’s moving us to London next month. He says he wants us to have the best of everything.” I felt a chill settle into my marrow. Her child was the heir? What about Teddy? My ten-year-old son who, at age eight, had run into a burning warehouse to save his father’s life? Killian had been trapped during an electrical fire at a site visit. Teddy didn’t hesitate. He’d dragged his father out, but a falling beam had crushed the boy’s leg. My healthy, athletic son was now a “lame” child who walked with a heavy brace and lived with crushing anxiety. Killian had cried for days after that. He’d promised Teddy: “I’m going to work so hard that you’ll never have to worry about anything. You’re going to be a king, son.” It was the greatest lie ever told. “Lexie,” Bella sighed, “the universe really loves you. Your husband is obsessed with you. You guys are going to be happy forever.” Lexie squeezed Bella’s hand. “I know he loves me. He’s literally risked his life for me.” I raised an eyebrow. “Really? What did he do?” “Two years ago,” Lexie said, her voice dropping into a romantic hush, “we were at one of his warehouses. I lost an earring—just a cheap $30 stud, but it was my favorite. He went back inside to find it. An electrical fire broke out while he was in there. He almost died, but he wouldn’t leave until he found that stupid earring for me.” The blood roared in my ears. My nails bit into my palms so hard I drew blood. My son lost his leg because of a thirty-dollar earring. Fifteen years. I had slept next to a monster for fifteen years and called it love. “Oh my god, that’s so romantic,” someone whispered. “What about his parents?” another girl asked. “Are they as sweet as he is?” I looked at Lexie. She nodded enthusiastically. “They’re wonderful. They treat me like their own daughter.” My skin crawled. Killian’s mother died four years ago. His father has advanced Alzheimer’s and lives in a high-security memory care facility. Lexie adjusted her lace sleeve, revealing a pale wrist adorned with a familiar jade bangle. It was an identical match to the one I was wearing. “My mother-in-law gave me this,” Lexie said, showing it off. “She told me it’s an heirloom. Only passed down to the women who join the family. It’s been in their family for generations.” I looked at my own wrist. I looked closer. For the first time, I realized the luster of my bangle was off. Mine was a fake. The real one had been bought by Killian’s mother with a year’s worth of wages from her job as a dishwasher. She loved me. She’d told me I was the daughter she never had. That’s why I’d bankrupted myself to try to save her life. And Killian had swapped it out for a glass replica to give to his mistress. A wedding coordinator appeared. “Bride? We’re starting.” Lexie gathered her skirts, beaming. “See you all inside!” “See you inside,” I whispered to the empty air. The ballroom was packed. I saw a couple sitting in the front row with “Father of the Groom” and “Mother of the Groom” boutonnieres. I felt a bitter laugh rise in my chest. He had actually hired actors to play his dead mother and demented father. The music swelled. Killian stood at the altar, looking regal and composed, a smile of pure joy on his face. I stood in the shadows at the back, a searing, white-hot hatred boiling over in my soul. I watched him watch her. I watched him take her hand. I listened to them exchange vows that were built on the bones of my son’s future. The officiant turned to Lexie. “Do you, Lexie, take this man…” “I do!” she chirped, her voice ringing out. I stepped out of the shadows, a microphone in my hand. My voice cut through the room like a serrated blade. “Actually, I have a few notes on that.” I locked eyes with Killian. His face went gray. “Don’t I get a vote, sweetheart?”

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I was supposed to open the floor with a dance with my fiancée at my twenty-fourth birthday gala. I headed toward the private lounge to find her, my heart light, my mind rehearsing the steps. I never made it through the door. Instead, I froze at the threshold, the sound of her laughter drifting through the crack, sharp as a razor. It was her best friend, Brooke, speaking first. “Honestly, Patricia, I get that you’re using the Sterling family’s influence to climb the social ladder, but why do you have to humiliate Timothy at his own birthday party every single year? It’s been five years straight.” Brooke’s voice took on a mock-pitiful tone. “Watching the heir to the Sterling fortune being mocked as a ‘lapdog’ by every trust-fund brat in the city… don’t you feel even a little bit sorry for him?” My fiancée, Patricia, replied with a casual, airy nonchalance that made my blood run cold. “I mean, I feel a little bad,” she said. “But what can I do? Jax is a brat. I lost a bet to him years ago. We agreed I’d make Timothy look like a fool at every birthday gala for six years. Not a day less, or Jax won’t let it go.” She sighed as if it were a minor inconvenience, like a parking ticket. “Besides, Timothy is the golden boy of the richest family in the state. Even if he loses a bit of face, no one is actually going to do anything to him.” She paused, her voice softening. “This is the sixth year. The debt is paid. Next year, I’ll actually propose to him at the gala. I’ll make it up to him then.” Then came the sound of metal clicking. Through the gap, I saw her unfastening the sapphire cufflinks from her own French cuffs. She traced the intricate, custom engravings with her thumb—the ones I had stayed up nights designing for her. “I’m going to give these to Jax’s dog, King,” she said, a playful smile touching her lips. “He’s such a little gentleman. I want to see the look on Jax’s face when his Golden Retriever is better dressed than the birthday boy.” Brooke gasped. “You’re giving Timothy’s engagement gift to a dog?” Patricia’s laugh was indulgent. “It’s just a little gift to keep Jax happy. If I don’t knock Timothy down a peg once in a while, Jax gets so moody.” I didn’t stay to hear the rest. I turned and walked away, the opulence of the hallway suddenly feeling like a gilded cage. I remembered what my grandmother told me when I first stepped into the CEO’s office. She had sat me down, her eyes sharp as flint. “Timothy,” she’d said, “a man in our position is allowed to be weak for love exactly five times in his life. Five times you can let your heart override your head. On the sixth time, you aren’t being romantic—you’re being a fool.” This was the sixth year. I had watched the woman I loved give my heart, my dignity, and now my hand-crafted designs to a dog. The engagement was over. I just hadn’t told her yet. 1. Ten minutes later, the gala officially began. I stood at the top of the grand marble staircase, my tailored cream suit fitting perfectly, though my chest felt hollow. I looked down at the sea of Manhattan’s elite. Patricia was seated at the head table, looking radiant. Beside her sat Jax, dressed in a loud, crimson suit that practically screamed for attention. A large Golden Retriever was circling their feet, wagging its tail. “King, come here,” Patricia cooed, beckoning the dog. Under the watchful eyes of the entire room, Patricia reached into her clutch and pulled out a silver chain. She threaded it through the deep blue sapphire cufflinks—my cufflinks—and fastened it around the dog’s collar. The stones caught the chandelier light, pulsing with a mocking blue glow. Everyone in that room recognized those cufflinks. They were the symbol of our commitment, the prototype for our wedding bands. “He looks great,” Jax smirked, leaning into Patricia’s space, his shoulder brushing hers. “Look, Patricia. Doesn’t he look like a real little gentleman now?” “He really does,” Patricia said, ruffling the dog’s fur. Her gaze drifted up and found me at the top of the stairs, her smile carrying a hint of smug triumph. In years past, I would have been furious. I would have caused a scene, demanding Jax show some respect. And Patricia would have publicly scolded me for being “immature” and “insecure,” forcing me to apologize to her and her ‘best friend’ by the end of the night. But tonight, the fire was out. There was only ash. I took a deep breath, adjusted my lapels, and walked down the stairs. My leather shoes clicked rhythmically against the marble. The crowd parted instinctively, sensing a shift in the air they couldn’t quite name. I walked straight to Patricia. Jax’s smirk faltered for a second, and he took a half-step behind her. Patricia immediately bristled, leaning forward as if to shield him. “Timothy, it’s your birthday,” she whispered sharply, a warning in her eyes. “Don’t make this ugly.” I didn’t even look at her. I looked at the dog. “The cufflinks have a nice weight to them,” I said, my voice steady and conversational. “They actually complement the leather of the collar quite well.” Patricia froze. Jax’s grin turned into a confused mask. “What did you say?” Patricia asked, her voice dropping an octave. “I said, they look good on him.” I turned to a passing waiter, took a glass of vintage red wine, and raised it slightly toward her. “Since you have such… unique tastes, Patricia, consider the cufflinks a gift to the dog. From me.” Without another word, I turned my back on her and walked toward the main table. Behind me, I heard the screech of a chair being pushed back violently. “Timothy Sterling! Don’t you walk away from me!” I didn’t stop. I had spent every ounce of the “hesitation” my grandmother had gifted me on Patricia. For six years, I had held on. Tonight, she had literally thrown my heart to the dogs. The six-year contract of my soul was officially cancelled. 2. After the gala, I returned to the penthouse we shared in the city. It was technically a Sterling property, meant to be our marital home. Patricia had been living there for three years. I began gathering my work files from the coffee table, preparing my exit. The door burst open. Patricia walked in, smelling of expensive gin and Jax’s signature cologne. Her face was a storm of indignation. She kicked off her heels and threw her designer bag onto the sofa. “What the hell was that tonight?” she demanded, stepping into my light. “You embarrassed me in front of everyone.” I clicked my briefcase shut. “I didn’t do anything but state the truth.” “State the truth?” she mocked. “Jax was just having fun. He thought the dog looked cute. You had to make it a thing? You had to make him feel like trash in front of the whole board?” She pulled a slim cigarette from her pack and lit it, her hands trembling slightly. “Do you have any idea how quiet he was on the drive home? He’s devastated. He thinks he ruined your birthday. He’s been blaming himself all night.” I looked up at her, really looked at her. “Patricia, it was my birthday.” “So?” She exhaled a cloud of smoke. “You’re a Sterling. You have everything. Jax only has me. I was just trying to make him smile for once, and you’re so petty you can’t even handle that?” The door creaked open further. Jax stepped in, wearing one of my oversized spare T-shirts. His eyes were artificially red, his expression practiced in its vulnerability. “Patricia, please, don’t fight with Timothy because of me,” he said, grabbing her arm. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have said the cufflinks were pretty. I’ve just never seen anything so exquisite… I lost my head for a second.” Patricia’s expression softened instantly as she took his hand. She shot me a look of pure ice. “Do you hear him, Timothy? Even now, he’s thinking about you.” I looked at their joined hands. The six years of devotion I’d given her felt like a bad punchline. “There are a dozen more pairs in the hallway cabinet,” I said calmly. “Gifts I gave you over the years. Take them. Take the house, too. Consider it a parting gift for you both.” Patricia blinked, then let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Oh, here we go. The ‘I’m leaving’ routine again? Let me remind you, Timothy—last time you tried this, you called me three hours later crying, begging to come back.” Jax looked down, hiding a smirk of pure satisfaction. “Timothy, don’t be mad. I’ll leave… I don’t want to cause trouble…” He made a show of turning to leave, but as he passed the coffee table, he “accidentally” caught his knee on the sharp edge of the rosewood. “Ah!” He let out a muffled groan and collapsed toward Patricia. Patricia caught him immediately, turning on me with a snarl. “Why is this table pushed so far out? Did you do that on purpose? You’re obsessed with hurting him!” That table hadn’t moved since the day we bought it. I didn’t bother explaining. Patricia helped Jax onto the sofa with maternal tenderness, rolling up his pant leg to inspect a faint red mark on his knee. “I’m going to get the ointment.” As she stood up to walk past me, she slammed her shoulder into mine. Hard. It was deliberate. I was caught off guard, and the force sent me stumbling back toward the heavy display cabinet. My temple slammed into the sharp, gilded corner of the wood. A white-hot flash of pain erupted. Then, something warm began to trickle down my eyebrow. My vision blurred with red. Drip. Drip. The blood hit the hardwood floor with a soft, wet sound. Patricia stopped and glanced back. She saw the blood, but she didn’t move. “Stop acting,” she said, her lip curling. “It was a nudge. You aren’t bleeding that much. Go get Jax an ice pack—his knee is actually bruised.” I held my hand to my forehead, the blood seeping through my fingers. Across the room, Jax was watching me. The “pain” was gone from his face, replaced by a look of pure, toxic triumph. I used the cabinet to steady myself and stood up straight. I didn’t look at either of them again. I picked up my briefcase and walked out into the cold night air. She didn’t realize it yet, but she had just severed the last thread connecting me to her. 3. The next morning, the board room at Sterling Global was stifling. I sat at the head of the table, a stark white bandage taped over my temple. The heavy oak doors swung open, and Patricia walked in, followed by Jax carrying a stack of folders. She was the Managing Director of our subsidiary; Jax was her “assistant.” Patricia saw the bandage and paused for a fraction of a second. “What happened to your face?” she asked, her voice laced with annoyance rather than concern. I flipped open the quarterly report. “Let’s begin, Director Lu. Everyone’s time is valuable.” Patricia’s jaw tightened as she sat down across from me. Halfway through the presentation, as Jax was handing Patricia a cup of coffee, his hand “slipped.” The scalding liquid splashed across the original, signed financial audit sitting in front of Patricia. “Oh my god, Patricia, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to…” He scrambled with napkins, his face a mask of frantic clumsiness. Patricia caught his hand. “It’s fine, Jax. It’s just paper. Are your hands okay?” She turned to me, her tone demanding. “Timothy, have your secretary print another copy.” I clicked my pen. The sound echoed in the silent room. “Director Lu, that document was the final audit, signed by our partners in London. It is the only legally binding original. While we have digital backups, the process for re-authorization of an original takes weeks. It’s a massive security risk.” Patricia waved a hand dismissively. “Then have the team do it! Jax was up until 3 A.M. helping me prep this data. He’s exhausted. You should be more understanding.” The other executives in the room looked at their shoes. I looked her dead in the eye. “Director, we are in a place of business. Please act like it.” “Timothy, are you seriously targeting Jax again?” Patricia slammed the damp document on the table. “It’s a piece of paper! As my fiancé, can’t you be a little more generous?” Jax stood up, his face pale. “Mr. Sterling, it’s all my fault. Don’t blame Patricia… I’ll fix it. I’ll do it right now.” He leaned down to pick up the scattered papers, but as he stood, he swayed, looking like he was about to faint. Patricia caught him instantly, shouting at me. “Enough! Timothy, look at yourself. You have zero class. Jax isn’t feeling well. If you scare him into a panic attack, can you even live with yourself?” I reached for the intercom on the desk. “Security to the boardroom. Now.” Patricia stared at me, bewildered. “What are you doing?” “Mr. Miller is grossly incompetent. He has destroyed vital company assets and created a liability. He is fired, effective immediately.” I looked at the two security guards who entered the room, then turned to Patricia. “And as for you, Director Lu—your inability to separate your personal life from your professional duties has compromised this meeting. You are suspended indefinitely. Go home and reflect.” Patricia let out a sharp, hysterical laugh. “Timothy, is this your new tactic? Ruining my career to make me crawl back to you? Fine. I’m leaving. Let’s see how the South Side project moves forward without me!” She grabbed Jax’s hand. “Come on, Jax. We’re leaving.” Jax looked back at me over his shoulder, a smirk hidden in the shadow of his collar. At the door, Patricia stopped. She threw one last cold look at me. “When you learn how to be a real man and a real fiancé, come find me and apologize. Maybe then I’ll think about coming back.” The door slammed so hard the windows rattled. My head throbbed. I fed the ruined document into the shredder and opened the next file. “Next item on the agenda.” Three days later, I stood in the VIP hallway of the City General Hospital. My grandmother’s lead surgeon looked at me with a grim expression. “Mr. Sterling, your grandmother’s condition is critical. She needs a quadruple bypass immediately. However, Dr. Lawrence is currently at a restricted military medical conference upstate. All communications are jammed. We’ve found that the only way to get him back in time is by private jet—and the only one with an active flight path cleared for that restricted airspace right now is the one registered to Director Lu.” My fingers trembled as I pulled out my phone. I dialed Patricia. The first call went to voicemail. The second was declined. On the third, she finally picked up. In the background, I could hear loud music and the cheering of a crowd. “What?” Patricia’s voice was sharp with irritation. “Patricia, listen to me. Nana had a heart attack. She’s in the ER. I need your jet to pick up Dr. Lawrence from the upstate base. It’s the only one cleared for the flight path. Please. I’m begging you. Arrange it now.” The line went quiet for a few seconds. Then, I heard Jax’s voice in the background. “Patricia, who is it? Is it important? It’s okay… we can skip the meteor shower if you have to go.” Patricia’s voice softened as she spoke to him. “Stay put, honey. It’s fine.” Then she spoke back into the phone. “Timothy, stop it. This is pathetic.” “I’m not playing! She’s in surgery!” I screamed into the receiver. “Surgery?” she scoffed. “Last month you said her blood pressure was high. Last week you said you cut your hand. Timothy, you’ve used the ’emergency’ card three times too many. I’m tired of the drama. Jax has never seen a meteor shower from a private jet, and I promised him tonight would be special. I’m not breaking my word to him just because you’re lonely.” 4. “Patricia, this is a human life!” I roared into the phone. “Enough,” she snapped. “If you want me to come home, just say it. Don’t curse your own grandmother’s health to get attention. I’m busy. I don’t have time for your movies.” Click. The line went dead. I leaned against the cold hospital wall, the phone slipping from my hand. A team of nurses rushed past me with a crash cart. The red “In Surgery” light burned like a mocking eye. I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, burying my face in my knees. Five hours later, the news came. Dr. Lawrence hadn’t made it back in time. The local team had done their best, but they could only stabilize her on life support. She needed to be transferred to a specialist facility in Switzerland immediately. And while my grandmother clung to life by a thread, Patricia’s jet was thousands of feet in the air, chasing stars. I scrolled through my feed. Jax had posted a photo. He was holding a glass of vintage Cristal, the star-strewn sky visible through the cabin window. The caption read: Thank you, P, for making my dreams come true. Best night of my life. Patricia had liked the post. Her comment sat right at the top: Anything for you. You’re worth it all. A cold, dead weight settled in my chest. I wiped the tears from my face and stood up. I called the head of Sterling’s legal department. “Draft the papers. I want the engagement officially dissolved. Effective immediately, revoke all of Patricia Lu’s access to Sterling assets. Freeze the corporate accounts she uses. Start the clawback process for every cent of company money she’s spent on personal ‘gifts’ for Miller. And get the international medical transport ready. We’re taking my grandmother to Switzerland.” I walked out of the hospital into the gray dawn. A black Bentley was idling by the curb. The window rolled down, revealing Patricia’s smug, beautiful face. Jax was in the passenger seat, his arm draped lazily over her headrest. “Look at you,” Patricia said, her eyes scanning my disheveled state. “Still playing the part, standing outside the hospital. Get in the car, Timothy. Stop embarrassing yourself. Since you want my attention so badly, I’ll give you a ride.” I walked over to the car, my face a mask of stone. Jax grinned at me, his eyes gleaming with malice. “The meteor shower was incredible, Timothy. Too bad you missed it. Patricia said maybe she’ll take you next time.” Patricia hit the central locks, inviting me in. I reached into my bag, pulled out a thick manila envelope, and dropped it through the open window into her lap. “No thanks,” I said. Patricia frowned, picking up the envelope. “What’s this? A formal apology? A poem?” She pulled out the papers. In the dim glow of the streetlights, she read the header of the first page. NOTICE OF TERMINATION OF ENGAGEMENT. Beneath it was the second document: NOTICE OF EXECUTIVE DISMISSAL AND ASSET FREEZURE. Patricia’s hand began to shake. The blood drained from her face. “Timothy…” her voice wavered. “Are you serious?”

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The new intern orientation is always a circus, but this year felt different. I was buried in quarterly projections when my phone buzzed with a LinkedIn request. The note was brief: “I’m Mackenzie’s mother. Please add me.” Mackenzie was the star of this year’s cohort—the kind of Ivy League recruit whose resume looked like it had been curated by a PR firm. Top of her class, perfect test scores, glowing recommendations. I hesitated, then clicked ‘Accept.’ The floodgates opened instantly. A barrage of messages lit up my screen. She wasn’t looking for professional feedback; she was providing a manual for her daughter’s existence. She demanded the cafeteria prepare low-sodium, organic meals. She requested a private nap pod for Mackenzie’s afternoon “recharge.” She even specified that Mackenzie required two hard-boiled eggs every morning, organic and pre-peeled, because Mackenzie “found the shells distressing.” I stared at the screen, a cocktail of amusement and horror rising in my chest. I took a screenshot, forwarded it to my assistant, and deleted the woman’s contact without a word. I thought that was the end of it. I thought I was hiring a software engineer, not adopting a Victorian child. 1 I was reviewing the latest revenue reports when the notification pinged again. This time it was a direct text. “Hi, this is Mackenzie’s mom. I need you to approve this.” I felt a prickle of annoyance. Mackenzie had placed first in both the technical and culture-fit interviews, but this was becoming a distraction. I accepted the message out of morbid curiosity. “Hello, Morgan,” she wrote, using my first name with a familiarity that made my skin crawl. “Please look after my little girl. She’s very special.” “We value all our interns,” I replied, keeping it professional. The screen immediately filled with a scrolling wall of text. “Morgan, our Mackenzie is delicate. She’s never had to deal with hardship. Her stomach is sensitive, and the office catering is far too greasy. I’ll send you a custom menu for the kitchen to follow.” “Also, she needs a nap. Does the office have a quiet room? It needs blackout curtains. Oh, and about her breakfast—she needs two hard-boiled eggs every morning for protein. Make sure someone peels them; she doesn’t like the mess. And the fruit must be pre-sliced. She won’t eat it otherwise.” “Don’t put too much pressure on her. She’s fragile. If she gets criticized, she might cry, and we can’t have that. She’s my only daughter. She’s the hope of our entire family…” I stared at the list. Was I running a multi-million dollar tech firm or a boutique daycare? I didn’t reply. I simply screenshotted the entire deranged manifesto and sent it to Daniel, my Chief of Staff. “Handle this per company policy. Ignore any further communication from this woman,” I messaged him. Then, I blocked her. I hoped it was a fluke, a case of a “helicopter parent” who didn’t know when to let go. But I quickly realized that Mackenzie and her mother were cut from the same cloth. Mackenzie had talent, certainly. But she spent 90% of her energy on the optics of work rather than the work itself. During a departmental sprint, she presented her progress with a slide deck so flashy it belonged at a tech keynote, filled with buzzwords and high-res animations. It looked like she’d solved cold fusion. The CTO, however, wasn’t impressed. He squinted at the screen. “The efficiency on this algorithm is abysmal, Mackenzie. Why didn’t you use Option B? It’s the industry standard for a reason.” Mackenzie adjusted her designer glasses and shrugged with an air of unearned confidence. “My mom always says the presentation is what people see first. We can fix the ‘boring’ details later.” The room went dead silent. In the corner, almost invisible, was Noelle. She was the runner-up in the internship rankings—a quiet girl with thick-rimmed glasses who rarely spoke unless she had something vital to say. While Mackenzie was busy perfecting her font choices, Noelle was quietly shipping code. A few nights later, a critical bug crashed the dev environment at 2:00 AM. Mackenzie was in the group chat, posting long-winded theories about “synergistic failures” and “architectural misalignment.” Then, a single message from Noelle popped up: “Issue resolved. It was a parameter mismatch in the auth-token. Patch is live.” The next morning, I overheard two senior devs in the breakroom. “God, Mackenzie is exhausting,” one whispered. “If I have to hear one more story about her mother’s ‘wisdom,’ I’m going to quit. She’s all fluff.” “Tell me about it,” the other replied. “Noelle, though? She stayed late and optimized my redundant code yesterday. Boosted the execution speed by thirty percent. She’s the real deal.” I sipped my coffee, watching the two interns through the glass wall. The trial period was ending soon. On Friday afternoon, I asked Daniel to post the final capstone project. And with a flick of my finger, I assigned Mackenzie as the Project Lead. 2 The moment the notification went out, Mackenzie claimed the largest glass-walled conference room in the building. She gathered the other interns like she was a general addressing her troops. “Since Morgan personally tapped me to lead this,” she said, her voice carrying that practiced, melodic lilt, “it’s clear the firm is looking for my specific vision. Follow my lead, and we’ll all get our full-time offers.” She began delegating. She took the “vision” and the “presentation” for herself—the parts that involved talking and looking important. For the actual heavy lifting—the core architecture and the back-end database—she waved a hand toward Noelle. “You’re the technical one,” Mackenzie said, her tone dripping with patronizing sweetness. “I’ll leave the ‘gritty bits’ to you. Don’t let me down.” Noelle just nodded, her eyes fixed on her laptop, and got to work. Ten minutes after the meeting ended, Daniel walked into my office and dropped a call log on my desk. “Front desk is losing their minds, Morgan. Mackenzie’s mother has called four times this morning. First, she wanted to know if this project was ‘The Big One.’ Second, she wanted to confirm her daughter was the only leader. Third, she asked when we’d be hosting the ‘coronation’ banquet for the successful completion.” I didn’t even look up. “And the fourth?” “She wanted to know if we could provide a car service for Mackenzie since ‘leading’ is so draining.” I didn’t say a word. I opened the project management software. Mackenzie’s contributions were a graveyard of aesthetic tweaks: “Updated button color to ‘Ocean Breeze,’” “Adjusted padding on landing page,” “Added fade-in animation for logo.” Noelle’s log was a masterclass: “Refactored query module, 40% efficiency gain,” “Fixed memory leak in core framework,” “Optimized response times by 30%.” Two days before the deadline, Noelle tagged Mackenzie in the dev-thread. “@Mackenzie, I found a vulnerability in the current architecture. Under high traffic, the data will desync. I’ve drafted an optimization plan to fix the core functions. Can you review?” Mackenzie’s reply was instant and sharp. “Noelle, do you understand what ‘scope creep’ is? Stick to your tasks. I’m the lead, and I’ve already approved the architecture. We need to focus on the ‘wow factor,’ not invisible ‘what-ifs.’” Noelle didn’t argue. But in the backend, I saw her create a new branch. She named it: “Emergency_Stable_Backup.” I looked at the two diverging paths on my screen. I already knew where this was going. The calls from the mother, Mrs. Beaumont, became more aggressive. She contacted HR, demanding to know what Mackenzie’s starting salary would be and suggesting the company provide her with a private office “to protect her delicate focus.” The administrative staff were on the verge of a revolt. Meanwhile, Mackenzie was obsessed with the pitch deck. I heard it had cinematic transitions and a custom soundtrack. The night before the final presentation, I logged in one last time. A final comment from Noelle sat at the top of the thread, unaddressed. “@Mackenzie, the core authentication module has a fatal logic flaw. It bypasses the password check entirely. If we don’t patch this, the system will crash the moment we try to demo it tomorrow.” I checked the timestamps. Mackenzie had logged off thirty minutes prior. She hadn’t even seen it. 3 The final presentation was a triumph. At least, that’s what it looked like to the uninitiated. Mackenzie’s slide deck was a work of art. Her speech was stirring, full of “disruptive” rhetoric that had the middle managers nodding like bobbleheads. When it came time for the live demo, the system ran flawlessly. But I noticed something. Mackenzie wasn’t running the main build. She had quietly opened Noelle’s “Emergency_Stable_Backup” branch. Throughout the entire hour, Mackenzie didn’t mention Noelle once. She spoke as if she had personally birthed the code in a fever dream of genius. When the scores came in, Mackenzie was ranked first. She caught my eye and gave me a triumphant, knowing smirk. I just nodded, my expression unreadable. Three days before the official hiring letters were to be sent out, I was leaving the building when a figure stepped out from behind a pillar. It was Mrs. Beaumont. She was dressed like she was attending a gala—oversized pearls and a smile that didn’t reach her predatory eyes. “Morgan! My daughter was spectacular, wasn’t she? Another first-place finish. She really is the light of my life.” I stopped and waited. I knew the “ask” was coming. Her smile sharpened. “I know how much your firm wants to keep her. Talent like hers is a once-in-a-generation gift. You’re lucky she’s even considering staying.” She reached into her designer bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I’ll let her sign the contract, but I have a few conditions.” I took the paper. It was a list of names. Twelve of them. Each one had a label: “Mackenzie’s cousin,” “Mackenzie’s brother-in-law,” “Mrs. Beaumont’s niece.” “These are our people,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re all very close to Mackenzie. You hire them, and my daughter will feel ‘supported’ enough to stay. It’s a family package. We take care of our own, right?” She looked at me as if she’d just handed me the keys to the kingdom. “I see,” I said, folding the paper and tucking it into my blazer. “I’ll certainly take this into consideration.” She beamed, patted my arm, and strutted toward her waiting car, practically humming with victory. I went back up to my office. Daniel followed me in, looking worried. “Morgan, was that…?” I threw the list onto my desk and leaned back, a cold smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Daniel.” “Yes, Morgan?” “Go to HR. I want two formal offer letters drafted immediately.” Daniel blinked. “Two?” I picked up my desk phone and dialed the reception desk. “Send Noelle up to my office. Now.” 4 Noelle arrived moments later. She looked terrified, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. Behind her glasses, her eyes were darting around the room as if looking for the exit. “You wanted to see me, Ms. Sinclair?” I gestured to the chair across from me. “I saw the final presentation.” She swallowed hard. “It… it went well.” “It went well because you submitted a backup branch that fixed the fatal flaw Mackenzie ignored, isn’t that right?” Noelle froze. She opened her mouth to defend her “lead,” to play the good soldier, but I held up a hand. I pushed a contract toward her. “Noelle, I’m officially offering you the position of Senior Associate Developer. Your starting salary is twenty percent higher than the standard intern conversion rate.” She stared at the document, her jaw dropping. “But… I placed second. Mackenzie won.” “In this office, I value architects, not decorators,” I said. “You patched three core bugs and optimized the entire framework while your lead was picking out slide transitions. The logs don’t lie. I hire people who do the work, not people who talk about it.” Noelle’s eyes welled up. She wiped them quickly, her voice trembling. “Thank you. I… I won’t let you down.” I nodded and pulled out the second contract. “And this,” I said, “is for Mackenzie.” Noelle’s expression clouded with confusion. “It’s a standard, entry-level contract. No perks. No ‘family’ additions. No special treatment,” I explained. “I want you to hand it to her. Tell her the company has decided to offer you both positions.” It was the final test. Noelle didn’t ask questions. She took both folders, squared her shoulders, and left. That afternoon, an email landed in my inbox from Mackenzie’s private account. It was a masterpiece of entitlement. She told me she had received the “insulting” offer. She accused me of playing games, trying to “negg” her into a lower salary. She reiterated that for a “prodigy” of her caliber, the family package was non-negotiable. She ended the email with: “This is my final ultimatum. You have twenty-four hours to meet my mother’s terms, or I take my talents to a competitor.” I read it twice, then forwarded it to Daniel and the Legal department. “Copy HR,” I said. “Archive this as Mackenzie’s formal rejection of our offer. Then, notify security. As of tomorrow morning, she is no longer allowed on the premises.” The day the new hires were supposed to start, the sun was shining over Manhattan. The lobby was bustling with fresh faces. At 9:30 AM, a commotion erupted near the elevators. Mackenzie marched in, dressed in a power suit, looking like she owned the building. Behind her was a small army—twelve people ranging from teenagers in hoodies to middle-aged men in wrinkled shirts. “Hi, we’re here for onboarding!” Mackenzie announced, slamming her list of relatives onto the security desk. She spoke with the arrogance of a CEO. “Take us to HR immediately.” The security lead, a veteran named Joe, didn’t move. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Do you have an appointment?” Mrs. Beaumont pushed to the front, her voice screeching through the marble lobby. “Appointment? My daughter is the genius your boss begged to stay! We’re the new backbone of this company! Move out of the way, you glorified doorman!” Joe looked at the list, then checked his tablet. He frowned. “Miss… Mackenzie?” he asked. “According to our records, you officially declined your offer forty-eight hours ago.”

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