I was born with a lethal allergy to men. According to my mother, any physical contact with a male would trigger a violent anaphylactic shock—my throat would close, my skin would erupt in hives, and my heart would simply stop. The doctors called it a rare “heterogeneous protein hypersensitivity.” There was no cure. To keep me alive, my mother divorced my father when I was a toddler and forced my sister, Riley, who is two years younger than me, to attend all-girls schools alongside me. For twenty years, the three of us lived in a sterilized world, a fortress without men. When Riley was seven, she missed our father so much that she sneaked out to see him for an hour. When Mom found out, she went into a manic frenzy. She dragged Riley into the bathroom and doused her in industrial disinfectant from head to toe. Then, she took a steel wool scrub pad and scoured Riley’s hands until the skin was raw and weeping blood. “You selfish little brat! Is a man really worth more than your sister’s life?” Mom screamed, her voice cracking. “Quinn could die at any second, and you’re out there indulging yourself? I’m telling you now—as long as your sister is alive, you are never to touch a man. Not ever!” Riley shook with pain, but she didn’t cry. She just stared at me. In that look, there was a cold, sharp resentment that made me wish I had died right then and there. So, on the eve of Riley’s eighteenth birthday, I decided to give her back a normal life. I decided to end it. I went to a dive bar downtown and found a stranger. But as the sun began to rise, the expected death didn’t come. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, my skin pale but clear, my breath steady. If I wasn’t dying, then what had the last twenty years been for? … I walked into that bar with the cold resolve of a ghost. I had spent my life as a burden, a fragile glass doll that everyone had to tiptoe around. I was done. I chose a stranger. I sat close to him, our shoulders brushing. I leaned in to speak over the music, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. I even let my hand linger against his arm. I had one singular, desperate thought: Let it end tonight. I didn’t want to be the weight around Riley’s neck anymore. I wanted her to have a father, a boyfriend, a home that didn’t smell like bleach and fear. I closed my eyes and waited for the suffocation to begin. One minute. Ten minutes. An hour. The entire night passed. My skin remained smooth. My lungs drew in the stale, smoky air without effort. No hives, no swelling, no shock. Not even a hint of a dizzy spell or an itch. None of the symptoms Mom had used to terrify me since I was old enough to speak ever appeared. Standing in the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom, I felt a different kind of chill. I had spent the night in close proximity to a man. I had done the one thing that was supposed to kill me ten times over. Why was I still breathing? Had I been cured by some miracle? Or was I already so far gone that I couldn’t feel the symptoms? Or—the most terrifying thought of all—had I never been sick in the first place? I suppressed the rising panic and glanced at the man sleeping on the bed. I grabbed my coat and bolted out the door, heart hammering against my ribs, and ran all the way home. The moment I stepped through the door, the air turned cold. Mom was standing in the living room, her face a mask of fury, clutching Riley’s phone. The screen showed a string of hidden messages between Riley and our father. “Who gave you permission to contact him?” Mom’s voice was like a serrated blade. “You went to see him again, didn’t you?” “Mom, it’s my eighteenth birthday,” Riley whispered, her voice trembling with a decade’s worth of suppressed tears. “Dad just wanted to give me a gift…” Mom lunged forward and grabbed me by the arm, pulling me in front of her like a shield. “Your sister has a severe protein hypersensitivity! It’s not just about touching!” Mom shrieked. “Even the scent of a man, the microscopic dander in the air—it can kill her instantly! And you’re out there rubbing shoulders with men and bringing that filth back into this house? Do you want to kill her? Is that it?” Riley’s eyes turned bloodshot. She bit her lip so hard it bled, her gaze fixed on me with a mixture of agony and pure, unadulterated hate. Mom turned and brought two bowls of brownish liquid from the kitchen. The bitter, pungent scent hit me, making my stomach roll. This was the “suppressant” I had been forced to drink every day for twenty years. “Drink it,” Mom commanded, sliding a bowl toward Riley. “Flush the contamination out of your system.” “I won’t!” Riley finally snapped. “It’s my birthday, and you’re making me drink this poison again? I’m not sick! I’m fine!” Mom’s face hardened. Her words were calculated, meant to draw blood. “Oh, is your birthday special? Your sister is two years older than you, and she’s drunk this every day for two decades without a single complaint. What makes you so special?” She leaned in closer. “You don’t have to drink it. But don’t expect a cent for your tuition or your life. Your sister’s health is a gold mine of medical bills; if she gets sick because of you, there won’t be anything left for you anyway.” Seeing Riley go pale, Mom softened her tone to a sickening sweet coo. “Be a good girl. Drink it, and I’ll buy you that MacBook you’ve been wanting. Consider it my gift to you.” Riley hesitated, her shoulders slumped in defeat. She closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and choked the bitter liquid down. Mom turned to me then, her face radiant with a gentle, terrifying smile. She stroked my hair. “Quinn, honey, Riley is just young and reckless. I have to be firm with her, or you’re the one who pays the price. I’d do anything to keep you safe.” She pressed the other bowl to my lips. “Drink up. This is a special batch. It’ll protect you from the world. You know you’re the one I love most, right?” In the past, I would have been moved to tears of guilt and gratitude. But now, the phantom sensation of the stranger’s skin from the bar was still fresh. I was breathing perfectly. I wasn’t in shock. I wasn’t sick. The wall of lies I had lived behind for twenty years didn’t just crack; it pulverized. If I wasn’t allergic, why had she invented this phantom plague? Why had she torn our family apart? Why had she groomed Riley to hate the very sight of me? I looked at the bitter sludge in the bowl. For the first time in my life, I didn’t open my mouth. One thought echoed in my mind: She’s not protecting me. She’s using me. “Don’t just stare at it. Drink it before it gets cold,” Mom urged, her voice gaining that familiar, non-negotiable edge. I clenched my fists, burying my suspicion deep. Seventeen years of obedience was a hard habit to break. I bowed my head, held my breath, and drained the bowl. As I set the bowl down, Mom’s eyes suddenly sharpened. She lunged toward Riley, her gaze fixed on Riley’s neck. There was a faint, nearly invisible red mark there. “What is this?” Mom’s voice dropped to a deadly chill. Riley flinched. “I… I just scratched myself…” “Scratched yourself?” Mom laughed, a sharp, toxic sound. “In an all-girls school? You’ve been out whoring yourself out to some boy, haven’t you? You disgusting, cheap little girl!” She grabbed Riley and shoved her toward me. “Look at what you’re doing! You’re bringing filth into this house! You’re trying to murder your sister!” “Come on! We’re going to the school right now!” Mom screamed, dragging Riley toward the door. “I want to know exactly which ‘stray’ touched you. I’m going to make sure the whole world knows what kind of girl you are!” She gripped my hand tightly as she hauled Riley out. Her voice broke into a sob. “Don’t be scared, Quinn. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I’ll protect you with my life!” The entire way to the school, Mom played the martyr. She wept to the neighbors, told anyone who would listen how ungrateful Riley was, how she was endangering her fragile sister. People looked at us with pity. They whispered about how hard it must be for a single mother with a “special” child. Mom soaked up the sympathy, her head held high in her staged misery. I felt a wave of nausea. It wasn’t about me. It was never about me. In the principal’s office, Mom turned on the waterworks for the staff. “My oldest daughter is so cursed… one touch from a man and she’s gone. I sent them to this school to save her life, and now… now Riley is bringing ‘dirt’ home from the hallways. She’s trying to kill us all!” The teachers offered tissues. The parents in the hallway nodded in solemn agreement. “Being a mother is so hard.” “That poor sister… how could the younger one be so heartless?” Everyone took Mom’s side. She stood in the center of the room, a tragic, noble figure, bathed in the warmth of collective pity. Riley stood in the corner, her face a mask of white marble. The hatred in her eyes when she looked at me was so thick I could almost taste it. The school, wanting to avoid a scandal, did a cursory investigation and decided Riley had an “inappropriate” relationship with a boy off-campus. They suspended her and sent her home to “reflect.” The moment we stepped back into our house, the dam broke. Riley lunged at me, shoving me hard. I stumbled back, my spine hitting the wall with a dull thud. “This is all because of you!” she screamed, her voice cracked and raw. “Because of you, I can’t see my father! I can’t have a life! You ruined everything!” Every ounce of her repressed rage poured out onto me. Before I could even catch my breath, Mom was there, stepping between us. She slapped Riley across the face. “You’ve lost your mind! How dare you lay a finger on your sister! Get to the balcony! Now! You stay out there until you apologize. No dinner, no bedroom. If you touch her again, you’re out of this house for good!” Riley was sobbing now, a sound of pure agony. Mom pushed her onto the balcony and locked the sliding glass door. Then, she turned to me and began stroking my back, her voice a soothing hum. “It’s okay, Quinn. Mommy’s here. No one will hurt you.” She raised her voice, making sure Riley could hear through the glass. “It’s her own fault. She needs to learn. Your life is worth more than ten of hers. If she ever stresses you into an attack, she couldn’t pay for the damage in a lifetime.” Riley stared at me through the glass, her eyes glowing with a feral, murderous red. She looked like she wanted to tear me apart. From that day on, Riley’s cruelty intensified. Whenever Mom was out, Riley treated me like a servant. She made me do the laundry, scrub the floors, and clean the grease off the stove. If I was too slow, she’d shove me or call me a “monster.” One afternoon, she forced me into the basement storage room to organize decades of old boxes and textbooks. As I moved a heavy crate from the bottom of a stack, a yellowed medical envelope fell out. Driven by a sudden, frantic curiosity, I opened it. Inside were three physical exam reports. My fingers shook as I read the first one. Name: Quinn Vincent. Female. All vitals normal. No known allergies. My brain went numb. I didn’t have the disease? Then what was the medicine for? What was the isolation for? I thought, maybe Riley was the sick one? Maybe Mom got the names mixed up? I pulled the second report. Name: Riley Vincent. Female. All vitals normal. No known allergies. I felt a cold sweat break across my skin. I wasn’t sick. Riley wasn’t sick. Then why? Why tear the family apart? Why exile our father? Why keep us in a cage? I opened the third document, and the truth hit me like a physical blow. It was all right there, stripped of the lies. Mom wasn’t protecting me. She wasn’t playing favorites with Riley. Mom was the one who was sick. She was the one who couldn’t stand men, who couldn’t bear the presence of any male energy. But she couldn’t admit she was broken. So, she pinned her “insanity” on me. Every bit of guilt I’d carried, every ounce of Riley’s hatred, our father’s exile—it was all a grand, delusional play directed by our mother. The paper rattled in my shaking hands. “Quinn? What are you doing in there?” Mom’s voice drifted down from the doorway. I panicked, shoving the reports back into the box. When I looked up, I forced my face into the mask of the submissive daughter she expected. “Nothing, Mom… Riley just wanted me to finish the storage room.” Mom watched me for a long beat, her eyes searching. Finally, she sighed. “Riley is getting out of hand. I’m sorry I haven’t raised her better. But don’t blame her too much, honey. She’s had to sacrifice a lot for you—staying home, not seeing her father. She’s bitter.” I clenched my hands at my sides. Even now, she was using me as the excuse. She was still stoking the fire between me and my sister to keep her secrets safe. But she didn’t know I knew. Just then, there was a heavy knock at the front door.

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After the earthquake, Dad went to sleep. I was curled into his chest, tucked beneath the shadow of a massive concrete slab. His body was slowly losing its heat, turning into a cooling hearth as I stayed huddled there, sucking on his finger and swallowing the sweet red tea he gave me. A voice crackled from the black screen of his phone. It was Mom. “Save the people with minor injuries and Parker first,” she said, her voice sharp and distant. “As for David—he’s tough as nails. He can wait a little longer. It won’t kill him.” It really was Mom. Dad told me she’d come for us soon. But why did she want him to wait? I looked at my sleeping father and whispered to the phone. “Mom, Dad’s asleep. He gave me lots of sweet tea to drink.” “The tea tastes a bit strange, but I’m not scared. Dad said you’d be here to hold me before the tea ran out.” The phone went silent. I went back to my tea. Then, I heard her voice again, loud and commanding, telling people to find “the baby.” I clapped my hands weakly. Mom was coming to get me. “Found him! Over here! There’s a kid alive!” … A blinding pillar of light stabbed into the darkness, making my eyes ache. I instinctively tried to burrow deeper into Dad’s arms, but he was stiff now, like a statue. “Dad, the sun’s up. Can we go home now?” I pushed against his chest. It wasn’t broad and warm anymore. A huge section of it had collapsed inward, and everything felt sticky. “Quick! Get the boy out first!” A pair of rough, heavy hands wrenched me away from him. “I’m not leaving! Dad’s still sleeping! I have to wait for him!” I screamed, my fingers locked onto a piece of his shirt. Riiiip. The fabric tore away in my hand. I was hauled into the arms of a man in an orange vest. My face was smeared with dark, dried red crust—the remains of the “sweet tea” Dad had fed me. “Jamie! My Jamie!” A figure came stumbling toward us. It was Mom. She was wearing an expensive designer suit, dusted with grime but otherwise intact. She snatched me from the rescuer and crushed me against her. “Thank God. You’re alive. You scared me to death…” She was crying. Her body was shaking. But then, I caught a scent. A crisp, stinging trail of men’s cologne. It was the scent Dad hated most—he called it the “bad man’s smell.” Every time he caught a whiff of it on her, he’d go quiet for hours. I struggled in her arms. “Mom, Dad’s still down there. He’s sleeping.” Mom’s body went rigid. She didn’t look at the ruins where Dad lay. Instead, she pressed my head hard against her shoulder, forcing me to look away. “Be a good boy, Jamie. Dad… Dad went somewhere very far away.” “No, he’s right there!” I got frantic, pointing at the black hole in the earth. “He gave me so much sweet tea. He said when I finished it, you’d be here.” Mom’s face turned deathly pale. She stared at the dark red scabs around my mouth, her lips trembling. The doctors and nurses around us fell into a heavy silence. One of the nurses covered her mouth, her eyes instantly brimming with tears. Only Mom looked away. Her eyes darted around, searching for an exit. What was she afraid of? Was it because of the black phone? Back then, her voice had come through the screen. She said Dad was tough. She said he wouldn’t die. I leaned into her ear and whispered, “Mom, why did we have to make Dad wait?” Mom jerked back and pushed me away as if I had burned her. Her eyes held no relief—only pure, unadulterated terror. The ambulance sirens wailed, a jagged sound against the quiet. I sat on the bench inside, still clutching that scrap of Dad’s shirt. Mom sat across from me, rubbing her hands incessantly. Her hands were clean, her nails painted a perfect, deep crimson. They looked nothing like Dad’s hands. His had been covered in mud and blood. “Jamie… back there… did you hear anything?” she asked tentatively, unable to meet my gaze. I licked my lips. I could still taste the rust. “I heard.” Mom flinched. “Heard… what?” “I heard you say to save Parker first.” The air in the ambulance turned to ice. The medic cleaning my face froze, his hand suspended in mid-air. He looked up at Mom, his eyes cold and judging. Mom forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. “You misheard, honey. The signal was bad. I was just… I was so worried.” “Was I?” I tilted my head. “But who’s Parker? Why is he more important than Dad?” Mom opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She turned to the window, pretending to wipe away tears. When we arrived at the hospital, a swarm of people surrounded us. Camera flashes popped like miniature lightning strikes, stinging my eyes. Suddenly, Mom transformed. She scooped me up and sobbed for the cameras. “Thank the Lord for giving me my son back! As long as Jamie is okay, I’d give up everything I own!” The reporters were dabbing their eyes, calling her a hero, a devoted mother. I rested my head on her shoulder, watching her face. She was howling, but there were no tears in her eyes. She looked like a clown on a TV screen. In the ward, I finally saw Parker. He was in a massive private suite, wearing a little designer suit and eating chocolate cake. He didn’t have a scratch on him. Not a single hair was out of place. Sitting by his bed was a man in a crisp white shirt. He was handsome, and he smelled exactly like Mom—that same sharp cologne. “Victoria, you’re here.” The man stood up. His eyes were red, making him look fragile and soulful. Mom set me down and rushed to him, taking his hands. “Harrison, how is Parker? Was he terrified?” I stood in the doorway, feeling like a ghost in someone else’s house. Parker saw me. He wrinkled his nose and pointed. “Dad, is that the dirty kid who drank blood? He smells gross.” Drinking blood. Dirty kid. I looked at the frosting on his lip, and my stomach growled. The man, Harrison, walked over and knelt in front of me. “This must be Jamie. You poor thing. Come let me give you a hug.” He reached out. On his wrist was a gold watch. It was identical to Dad’s. Dad told me Mom gave it to him for their tenth anniversary. Why was it on this man’s arm? A nameless fire ignited in my chest. Like a small, cornered animal, I lunged forward and sank my teeth into his wrist. “Gah!” Harrison screamed, lashing out with his arm. I was small, and the force sent me flying. I hit the foot of the bed hard. It hurt, but I didn’t cry. I just stared at him. “Jamie! Are you insane?” Mom rushed over, shoving me aside to cradle Harrison’s hand. “Harrison! Are you okay? Is it bleeding?” She turned on me, her eyes burning with venom. “Who taught you to be so feral? Apologize to him right now!” I stayed on the floor, feeling something warm trickle down my forehead. It was red, just like the “tea” Dad gave me. I looked at her and said quietly, “Mom, I’m bleeding too. Are you going to make me wait, too?” The room went silent. Mom’s face turned a bruised, ugly purple. Harrison’s eyes flickered, his expression shifting into something performatively kind. He ignored the bite mark and reached out to help me up. “Victoria, don’t blame the boy. He just lost his father. He’s traumatized.” He patted my shoulder. His grip was heavy, intended to hurt. “It’s okay, Jamie. It doesn’t hurt. I’ll buy you some candy.” I slapped his hand away. “I don’t want candy. I have the sweet tea Dad gave me.” Harrison’s face stiffened. Parker started wailing from the bed. “Mom, get this freak out of here! He stinks!” Mom took a deep breath and called for a nurse. “Take Jamie to the next room. Clean him up. And have them check his head. I think something’s wrong with his brain.” Check his head. She thought I was stupid. The nurse led me away. As she wiped my wound, I saw her quiet tears. “It’s okay, sweetie. I’ll be gentle.” I looked at her. “Is my dad really dead?” The nurse’s hand shook. She pulled me into a hug and sobbed. “Your father… he was a great man.” That evening, my grandparents arrived. My grandmother fainted the moment she saw me. My grandfather leaned on his cane, his hands trembling violently. He wanted to take me home, but Mom refused. “The doctor says his emotional state is unstable,” she said, blocking the door. “It’s better if he stays here for observation.” I knew why. She was afraid of what I’d say. She was afraid of the secret inside the black square. Late that night, the door creaked open. It was Sam, Dad’s best friend. Usually, he was all smiles, but today his eyes were dark. He walked to my bed and pulled something from his pocket. It was a phone with a shattered screen. Dad’s phone. “Jamie,” Sam whispered, as if afraid of being overheard. “They found this in the rubble. It still turns on.” I grabbed the phone and hugged it to my chest. It smelled like Dad. It was stained with his dried blood. Sam stroked my hair. “Jamie, do you want to help your dad?” I looked up at him. There was a flicker of fire in his eyes. “The funeral is in a few days. There will be a lot of people there. That man will be there too.” Sam pointed to a red triangle icon on the screen. “That day, if Mom gets up to speak, I want you to press this triangle. Can you do that for me?” I looked at the red triangle and nodded hard. “Yes.” It was a game. A game only Sam and I knew. I was going to let everyone hear what Mom really said that day. The day of the funeral, it rained. The sky was a dull, dirty gray. I was in a small black suit Nana bought me, a white carnation pinned to my lapel. The chapel was massive, filled with lilies. In the center hung a photo of Dad. He was smiling, his eyes bright like the sun. Mom stood at the front in a sharp black dress. She looked exhausted, her eyes sunken, her makeup failing to hide her fatigue. Everyone whispered about what a devoted widow she was, how she’d wasted away with grief. Harrison didn’t show, but Parker was there. He wore a black shirt and hid behind a pillar, making faces at me. He mouthed the words: You don’t have a dad anymore. I stared at him, my hand in my pocket, gripping the cold, shattered phone. The service began. The music was heavy and suffocating. Mom walked up to the podium, holding a few sheets of paper. She began her eulogy. “David, my love…” She choked up after the first sentence. The guests dabbed their eyes, moved by such “heartbreaking” love. “We were together for ten years. You were my rock, my heart. When the earthquake hit, I wished I could have died in your place.” “If I could turn back time, I would have been there with you, holding your hand so you wouldn’t have to face the dark alone.” She was sobbing now, her body swaying. Relatives rushed up to support her. “David, how could you be so cruel as to leave Jamie and me behind?” she cried out to his portrait, her fists thumping against her chest. I stood in the front row. Sam was right beside me. He knelt down, straightened my collar, and squeezed my hand. His palm was slick with sweat. “Ready, Jamie?” he whispered. I looked at Mom, putting on her grand performance. I looked at her tears and her trembling shoulders. I remembered the rubble. I remembered Dad’s body growing cold. I remembered him putting his finger in my mouth, smiling, telling me it didn’t hurt. I remembered her voice: “Let him wait a little longer.” A massive, hot surge of anger tore through my chest. I didn’t fully understand hate yet, but I knew I wanted to rip her performance to shreds. I broke away from Grandpa’s hand and walked toward the stage, clutching the broken phone. The crowd went silent, thinking I was just a grieving child reaching for my mother. Mom saw me, a flicker of panic crossing her eyes before she masked it. She knelt down, opening her arms. “Jamie, come to Mommy. We miss him so much, don’t we?” She wanted to hug me. She wanted to use me to finish her show. I stopped right in front of her. I didn’t go into her arms. I held up the black square—the phone stained with Dad’s blood. Mom’s pupils contracted. She recognized it. She reached out to grab it. “Jamie, that’s dirty. Give it to Mom—” The moment her fingertips brushed the glass, my thumb slammed down on the red triangle. The Bluetooth connection to the chapel’s massive sound system kicked in instantly.

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My childhood best friend, Roman, has always been the internet’s favorite “Gentle God.” That was until I took off my hearing aids and a cascade of glowing digital comments suddenly began scrolling across my vision. [Lord, this man is such a good actor. Is he really taking advantage of the fact that our girl can’t hear?]
[The Oscar wasn’t a fluke. A saint in the streets, a total beast in the sheets—or at least in his head.]
[Run, honey! He’s literally planning to lock you away!] I stared at the floating text, my mind racing. Instead of panicking, I reached into my pocket and slid in a pair of high-end, near-invisible hearing aids I’d been testing. Then, I watched him. With the most tender, devastatingly handsome expression on his face, he leaned in and whispered: “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to kiss you until you’re breathless, okay?” I nodded instinctively. In that heartbeat, the Gentle God’s mask shattered. And the comments? They went absolutely nuclear. 1 Late at night, the moment I removed my devices, the glowing words flickered into existence again. [Ugh, my poor baby. She really thinks this guy is some kind of selfless saint.]
[Can’t blame her. He’s an A-lister for a reason. His acting is textbook perfection.]
[He’s only this bold because he thinks she’s in a world of silence. This man is a red flag!]
[Roman, chill! Have some mercy!] I stared at the fading text, paralyzed. The comments were saying… Roman was playing me? That didn’t make sense. Roman had been the one constant in my life. He was the person who cared for me more than anyone else in the world. 2 Our families were old friends; Roman and I had been inseparable since we were in diapers. When we were kids, he used to follow me around, puffing out his chest and promising to be “my ears.” He had the patience of a saint. He would meticulously clean my cochlear implant and sit with me for hours, testing the signal over and over. Sometimes, when the equipment glitched, I’d have to rely on lip-reading. But Roman spoke fast—too fast for me to catch everything. I’d just shake my head, feeling stupid. He’d fix the device, tuck it gently back into place, and wait until the world rushed back in before speaking in that clear, melodic voice of his. “Better? Can you hear me now?” I’d nod and mutter a thank you. He’d usually look away then, clearing his throat awkwardly. My ears always felt a bit sensitive right after putting them back in, so once the static settled, I’d ask, “Roman, what were you saying just now?” His answer was always the same: “Nothing. Just nonsense. It’s probably better you didn’t hear it.” Our relationship hadn’t always been smooth sailing. In elementary school, I thought he was a nuisance—too bossy, too overprotective. Then came middle school, that brutal gauntlet of puberty. My classmates realized I was “different.” They figured out that if they pulled my devices, I became slow, vulnerable. I couldn’t hear their insults, but I could feel their cruelty. I became the “safe” target. Once, during P.E., someone intentionally slammed into me, knocking me down and ripping the processor from my head. Loner. Freak. Mute. I could see their mouths twisting into the shapes of those words. Without sound, the world was terrifyingly, suffocatingly quiet. I didn’t even notice Roman until he was standing behind me. Suddenly, the bullies’ faces went pale. They looked at something behind me with pure terror before scurrying away like rats. Warm hands covered my ears, and Roman carefully fitted my device back on. The sound of the wind flooded back, followed by his voice. “What did they say?” I asked, though I already knew. Roman stared at me for a long time before answering. “They were complimenting you. They said you’re the prettiest girl in school.” I rolled my eyes. “Roman, do I look like I’m five?” He just shrugged, his expression dead serious. “I’m not lying. Really.” After that day, no one touched me. Roman had spent his after-school hours “educating” the ringleaders one by one. My parents got the administration involved, too. From then on, the bullies didn’t just stop; they treated me like I was radioactive. 3 The first time Roman took my hearing aids off without warning was graduation day. The air was thick with the scent of cheap cologne and nervous energy. Everyone was using the chaos to confess their secret crushes. I was standing in the crowd, feeling a bit lost, when I saw a boy from my English class walking toward me, his face a bright, frantic red. Roman was faster. He reached out and plucked the devices from my ears. Silence crashed over me, and I flinched, pulling back. But when I looked up, I was caught in the depths of Roman’s dark eyes. He held the devices in his palm and signed to me: There was a petal caught in the casing.
I’ll get it out for you. I watched the English class boy walk away, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Only then did Roman hand my world back to me. “Don’t do that without asking,” I snapped, my heart still racing. “It scares me.” Roman looked down, his jaw tight. “I know. Sorry.” I glanced sideways, trying to find the boy. “Was someone looking for me?” Roman gave me a sharp, sour look. “You really want to know?” I shook my head. “Not really.” I mumbled, “If it was important, he’d say it again. If he didn’t, it probably didn’t matter.” Only then did Roman’s expression soften. “Exactly. It didn’t matter.” 4 Eventually, Roman entered the industry. With his family connections and raw talent, he was an A-lister by twenty-four, an Oscar in his hand and the world at his feet. He was constantly busy, flying between sets and premieres, but he always made time for me. Every time he came home, he brought the latest, most expensive hearing tech. “Try these?” He’d remove my old ones and slide the new ones in. “You mentioned the red ones were hurting your cartilage after a few hours, right?” During those seconds of silence, I’d watch his perfect lips move. I had no idea what he was saying. Then, the cold plastic would click into place. “Maisie, look at me. Can you hear me?” I’d look up at him and nod slowly. He’d smile—that soft, devastating smile that made millions of women scream—and twirl a lock of my hair around his finger. “You’re so busy,” I said once. “Why do you waste your energy on this?” Roman shook his head. “Whenever a new model comes out, I send your specs to the specialists. Maybe one day, they’ll find a permanent fix.” I looked down, a familiar pang of disappointment in my chest. “It’s not fixable, Roman. Don’t waste your money.” But he took my face in his hands, his grip firm, almost stubborn. “If it can’t be fixed, then I’ll buy you hearing aids for the rest of your life.” “Maisie, you’re stuck with me. You’ll always have to rely on me.” 5 I’d known Roman too long to believe those digital comments. How could someone act for twenty years? It wasn’t possible. But curiosity is a persistent itch. The next time Roman came over, I wore a pair of tiny, near-invisible hearing aids I’d bought myself. The room was quiet. I could hear the soft scuff-scuff of Roman cleaning the new equipment with a microfiber cloth. Then, his hands were on me, fitting the new devices. That’s when I realized: it wasn’t that the equipment was faulty. It was that Roman never turned them on immediately after putting them in. He intentionally created a “window of silence.” I was about to reach up and tell him they were off when his voice drifted through my hidden earpieces. It was exactly what the comments had warned me about. Roman was smiling at me—that sunny, gentle smile. But the words coming out of his mouth were cold enough to make me shiver. “Why are you being so restless today, Maisie?” His face was a mask of warmth, but his tone was dangerous. “So many little movements. Are you asking for trouble?” Thinking I was deaf to him, he let the mask slip for a fraction of a second. His features sharpened, revealing something dark, obsessive, and brooding. I’d known him nearly twenty years, and I’d never seen this man. Terrified, I swallowed hard. As he adjusted the fit, I instinctively shook my head. I wanted to see how far he’d go. A moment later, Roman leaned into my ear. “Maisie, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to kiss you until you’re breathless, okay, baby?” His eyes dragged across my lips, dark and hungry. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. My breathing hitched. In a moment of pure, panicked reflex, I looked him right in the eye and gave a firm, slow nod. Roman froze. His pupils blown wide. I froze, too. The floating comments in front of my eyes went into a frenzy: [HOLY CRAP! SHE HEARD HIM! SHE NODDED!]
[ABORT MISSION! THE MASK IS GONE!]
[Look at his face! He’s going to lose it! Hahahaha!]

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My mother is a textbook misogynist. Even though I’m her daughter—her only child—she’s hated me from the moment I took my first breath. To her, my existence wasn’t a miracle; it was an intrusion. I was beaten for wearing lip gloss, beaten for putting on a sundress, and beaten most severely if I ever dared to show affection toward my father. On the eve of my high school graduation, she did the unthinkable. She went to my school and spread a sickening lie: she told everyone I was a “homewrecker” who was seducing my own father. She pushed me until I had nowhere left to go but over the edge of a fifteen-story ledge. And as I fell, I knew one thing for certain: my mother was finally satisfied. 1 In the delivery room, the doctor beamed as she handed me over to my mother. “It’s a girl,” the doctor whispered, her voice full of warmth. “Look at that skin—she’s going to be a beauty when she grows up.” The color drained from my mother’s face, but not from exhaustion. It was pure, unadulterated rage. She lunged forward, grabbing the young doctor by her hair and swinging her palm across the woman’s face. The hallway echoed with her screams. “You bitch! You swapped him, didn’t you? Where is my son? I followed every old wives’ tale, took every supplement—I was supposed to have a boy!” It took a senior physician and a DNA test to finally quiet her, but the damage was done. When the results confirmed I was hers, she looked at me with eyes that dripped poison. It was only when my aunt called my father, Robert, and begged him to come to the hospital that the immediate violence stopped. My mother never forgave my aunt for that call. A few weeks later, once they were back in the quiet of our suburban home, my aunt came to check on me. My cries were weak, barely audible from the nursery. In the master bedroom, my father was sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully spooning warm broth into my mother’s mouth. “Robert, swear to me,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a desperate, sick kind of love. “Swear I’m the only woman you’ll ever love. You can’t love her just because she’s your daughter.” “I swear, Diane,” he replied softly. “You won’t hold her. You won’t kiss her. She’s just a guest here.” He promised. And in the years that followed, my father proved to be a man of his word. In all my memories, we never once touched. No hugs, no high-fives, no hand-holding. But even my father’s cold distance wasn’t enough to appease her. When I was seven, I walked three miles home from school only to be met with a backhanded strike that sent me reeling. She had found a photo of me on my father’s phone—a simple, blurry picture of me playing in the backyard. “You little tramp,” she hissed, shoving the phone into my face. “Who taught you to pose like that? You’re already trying to steal what’s mine!” I didn’t even know what she was talking about. I looked toward the hallway, hoping to see my father, hoping he’d step in. But the door stayed shut, and the beating continued. After that day, my father never took another photo of me. My mother’s triumphant, territorial smile is burned into my mind. When I was thirteen, I saved my allowance for six months to buy him a birthday gift—a simple navy blue sweater. I left it on his mahogany desk in the study, thinking it was a safe gesture. That night, the house felt like a tomb. I walked into the living room to find a pile of shredded blue wool on the floor. “Think you’re clever, don’t you?” Diane sneered. “I see right through you, you little slut!” She rained blows down on me until I was curled in a ball on the hardwood, gasping for air. The light was on in the study. My father was right there, behind the door. He never opened it. Diane spent her afternoons at the neighborhood coffee shop or the community pool, sighing to the other mothers: “It’s my cross to bear. My own daughter is a seductress. She won’t leave her father alone. It’s disgusting.” I became the ghost of the neighborhood. People whispered when I walked by. I learned to live in the silence. Until the woman moved in upstairs. Her name was Mrs. Miller. She was soft-spoken, kind, and always smelled like vanilla and rain. Whenever Diane locked me out of the house, Mrs. Miller would find me and slip me a granola bar or a juice box. She was the only light in my world. But God doesn’t let light stay in places like that for long. One afternoon, I was waiting on the porch for Diane to finish her bridge club. Mrs. Miller came down the stairs and noticed my lips were cracked and bleeding from the dry winter air. She reached into her purse and handed me a brand-new, tinted lip balm. “It’ll help, sweetheart,” she said with a sad smile. I had never used makeup. I didn’t realize it had a rosy tint. I applied it, feeling a tiny spark of joy, just as my mother’s car pulled into the driveway. The second she saw the color on my lips, her hand flew. 2 The blow sent me sprawling into the dirt. My vision blurred into a sea of static. My front tooth was loose, and the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. She screamed insults so vile the neighbors came out onto their porches to watch, but no one stepped forward. To them, I was exactly what my mother said I was: a girl trying to steal her father’s heart. Mrs. Miller heard the commotion and rushed down. I tried to crawl away; I didn’t want her to see me like this. I didn’t want her to hear the filth Diane was spewing. But my mother grabbed me by the hair and dragged me toward her. “Was it you?” Diane shrieked at Mrs. Miller. “Did you give this to her? Are you helping her entice my husband? You’re both trash!” I hung my head, burning with a shame that wasn’t mine to carry. But Mrs. Miller didn’t flinch. She stepped between us, her eyes brimming with a mixture of pity and steel. “I gave it to her, Diane. She’s a child. How can you say those things about your own daughter?” Mrs. Miller’s thin frame was a shield, but Diane wasn’t a woman who cared about reason. My mother’s eyes went cold. I felt a chill run down my spine. Diane raised her hand again. Mrs. Miller didn’t move—she probably thought a neighbor wouldn’t actually strike her. But I knew better. I’d seen Diane’s rage break women before. The thought of Mrs. Miller’s kind face being bruised because of me was more than I could bear. Before the blow landed, I lunged forward. It was the first time I ever fought back. I threw my arms around my mother’s waist, trying to pin her arms. It only made the beating more frantic. In the chaos, my head slammed into the rusted iron railing of the porch. Everything went white. Blood began to pour down my face. The neighbors turned away, closing their doors one by one. Diane didn’t stop. She shoved Mrs. Miller to the ground. Through the fog in my brain, I heard the heavy click of the gate. My father was home. I tried to scream for him, but my voice was a broken rasp. He walked past us, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He opened the front door and stepped inside. He didn’t even hesitate. Mrs. Miller begged for me. She went from demanding justice to pleading for mercy. “I’ll go! I’ll move out! I’ll never speak to her again! Just please, stop hitting her!” I looked up and saw tears streaming down Mrs. Miller’s face. Diane finally stopped—either because she’d won or because her arm was tired. She tossed me aside like a bag of refuse and followed my father into the house. I never saw Mrs. Miller again. Before she left, she managed to leave a small box for me hidden in the bushes. A few items of clothing, some snacks, and a book. I hid them away, treats I never dared to use, talismans of a life I wasn’t allowed to have. As the years passed, Diane’s hatred matured. Every birthday I had was a countdown to her losing her grip on Robert. She began to look at me not as a daughter, but as a rival she needed to liquidate. The only thing that kept me going was school. And Zoey. Zoey was my best friend. She didn’t know the details of my home life, but she saw the bruises. Every morning, she would pull me into a hug in the hallway. “It’s going to be okay, Nancy. Just breathe,” she’d say. That one sentence, that one hug—it was my oxygen. I was a straight-A student. I worked harder than anyone else because I knew that a scholarship was my only ticket out of that hellhole. My guidance counselor, Mr. Harrison, believed in me. He’d pat my shoulder and tell me I had a brilliant future. Senior year arrived. Mr. Harrison pulled me aside after a mock exam. “Nancy, look at these scores. Keep this up, and you’re looking at a full ride to the state university. Maybe even Columbia.” I was in the top ten of my class. I was twenty days away from freedom. One afternoon, after a celebratory lunch with the honor society, I walked across the campus alone. I was so happy it felt like a fever dream. For the first time, I allowed myself to think about a dorm room, a locked door, and a life where no one called me a slut for existing. “Nancy, wait up!” Mr. Harrison called out. He caught up to me, sensing my uncharacteristic glow. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. The road is long, but you’re almost there.” I saw Zoey waving at me from the parking lot. The sun was hitting the trees, and for a second, the world looked beautiful. I thought, Maybe I can be like her. Maybe I can be normal. That night, I walked into the house. Diane was sitting in the living room, the TV off. My heart skipped a beat. The air felt heavy, charged with a familiar electricity. I tried to bolt for my room, but she was faster. She lunged, grabbing me by the hair and slamming me to the floor. 3 The impact knocked the wind out of me. My backpack, heavy with textbooks, dug into my spine. Diane kicked me twice before stalking over to the coffee table. She was trembling with a manic, jagged energy. “The junk removal guy found your little stash,” she hissed, throwing a handful of items at me. “Dresses! Lipsticks! You’ve been stealing from us to buy these things, haven’t you?” They were the things Mrs. Miller had left me. The lip balm was dried up, the snacks were long expired, and the sundress smelled of mildew from being hidden under the floorboards. “You’re just dying for him to see you in this, aren’t you? You want to take him from me!” She threw the dress at my face. I curled into a ball, clutching the moth-eaten fabric. Just a little longer, I whispered to myself. Just twenty days. Just survive twenty days. The pain was a dull roar. I could handle the pain. Hope was so close I could taste it. But the world had other plans. Two weeks before graduation, the school announced a mandatory parent-teacher night. I didn’t think much of it. My parents never showed up to anything. I figured I’d have the night to myself. But the next morning, Diane was gone before I woke up. She had left early, humming a tune I didn’t recognize. Anxiety gnawed at my stomach all day. When I saw her later that afternoon, sitting on the porch of a neighbor’s house, laughing and drinking tea, I felt a wave of relief. Maybe she was just having a good day. I had already lined up a summer job at a diner three towns over. The manager had promised me a spot in the staff dorms. I had it all mapped out. I was so lost in my daydream that I didn’t notice the way the other students were looking at me. Cruel smirks. Disgusted whispers. Zoey was standing by her locker. I walked up to her, but when I reached out, she flinched away. “Zoey? What’s wrong?” my voice was trembling. “My mom said…” Zoey’s eyes were full of a coldness I’d never seen. She couldn’t even finish the sentence. A boy from the football team finished it for her. “She said you’ve been sleeping with your own dad, Nancy. That you’re a freak.” The hallway erupted in laughter. It was like a physical wall of sound hitting me. “Hey, Nancy, I didn’t know you were into that!” “Is that how you got the straight As? Practicing at home?” My face went white. I threw my books at them, but they just laughed harder, dodging easily. “Whoa! The slut’s got a temper!” I felt the blood rushing to my head. I wanted to kill them. I wanted to die. Mr. Harrison appeared and ushered me into his office. He didn’t pat my shoulder this time. He looked at me with a profound, soul-crushing disappointment. “Nancy… your mother came by this morning. She was… distraught. She told me everything. I know you’re young, and sometimes boundaries get blurred in difficult homes, but—” The room started to spin. I finally understood why Diane had been humming. She hadn’t just beaten me; she had reached out and poisoned the only world I had left. I didn’t say a word. I tucked my chin into my collar and walked out of the school. The next few days were a living nightmare. Zoey stopped talking to me. The girls in the cafeteria moved their trays if I sat within ten feet of them. The boys were worse. They would block my way in the halls, whispering graphic things, telling me that since I was “doing it with my old man,” I might as well give them a turn. When I went to the office to collect my graded senior thesis—the culmination of four years of work—I found it in the trash can in the girls’ bathroom. It was soaked in soda and covered in slurs. I looked around the school, and I realized I didn’t have a single person left. Not one. When I got home that night, Diane was sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of wine in her hand. She gave me a slow, satisfied smile. This was her masterpiece. She had isolated me so completely that I was hers again. 4 The noise from the courtyard below pulled me back to the present. I was standing on the roof of the science building. It was senior skip day, but a lot of kids were hanging out by the fountain below. I could see their bright, youthful faces looking up at me. “Hey! Look! She’s actually going to do it!” a voice yelled. My notebooks, my carefully curated life, were all gone. I was tired. I was so incredibly tired of fighting a war I was born to lose. I just wanted to live. Why was that so much to ask? “Just jump already!” someone shouted. “People like you don’t belong here!” The cruelty of teenagers is a special kind of sharp. I didn’t look at them. I looked at the horizon, at the life I would never have. One boy, a kid I’d helped with his chemistry homework just a month ago, climbed up onto the ledge a few feet away. “Come on, Nancy. Give us a show before you go. Or better yet, come down and play. I bet you’re as good as your mom says.” He reached for my arm. I scrambled back, my heart hammering against my ribs. I hadn’t planned to jump—I just wanted to get away from them—but as I looked down, I realized there was nowhere else to go. The rumors were a snowball that had turned into an avalanche. There was no explaining this away. My mother’s word was law. “She’s the girl from the honor society, right? I heard she’s been sleeping around since she was twelve.” “Her mom said it. Why would a mother lie about that?” I stared at a girl in the crowd. She looked like Zoey. She was recording me on her phone. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just stepped off. The wind was a roar in my ears. Then, a sudden, bone-shattering crack. Everything went black. When I opened my eyes again, I wasn’t on the pavement. I was sitting in a recliner. My hand was clutching a TV remote. The screen was flickering with static, a news report playing about a local tragedy—a high school girl jumping to her death. I stood up and walked to the mirror in the hallway. I didn’t see Nancy. I saw a face lined with seventy years of life. White hair, clouded eyes, the scent of lavender and mothballs. I was Martha. My grandmother. My mother, Diane, had never been close to Martha. They saw each other maybe twice a year. Martha was the only person who had ever been kind to me in a quiet, distant way—a crisp twenty-dollar bill in a Christmas card, a soft pat on the head when Diane wasn’t looking. I checked the calendar on the wall. It had been exactly one day since I—Nancy—had died. The grief in my chest was gone, replaced by a cold, vibrating hum of rage. I grabbed a cane and began the slow, painful walk to my old house. It was only two blocks away, but in this body, it took me forty minutes. The front door was propped open. I heard Diane’s voice coming from the hallway. “Just take it all. The books, the clothes, everything in that back room. Just give me a flat rate for the lot.” I walked inside. A junk removal guy was bundling my life into heavy plastic bags. My honors society plaques, my favorite novels, the few clothes I owned—all being weighed like scrap metal. “What are you doing here?” Diane asked, looking up. She didn’t sound sad. She sounded annoyed. I looked at the bag containing my books and whispered, “Where is Nancy?” “Dead,” she said flatly.

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Ten years into the collapse. Daniel’s little protégée, Tinsley, had been throwing a tantrum because she wanted to celebrate “Queen’s Day” despite the rations being thin. Her selfishness led them straight into a swarm, and a stray crawler ripped into her forearm. In my past life, Daniel came to me, frantic, claiming he was the one who had been hurt. The moment I stepped through the door to help him, he pinned me down. Without a flicker of hesitation, he hacked off my arm. He didn’t miss a beat. He grafted my severed limb onto Tinsley to save her. And me? He gave me her infected, rotting stump, already black with the necrosis of the hollow-virus. “Cassie, you have the Mending gift,” he’d said, his voice as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “Even with the infection, you won’t die. But Tinsley… she isn’t strong like you.” He was right. I didn’t die. Instead, my powers began to wither, poisoned by the very limb I’d been forced to accept. They stripped me of my title as Colony Commander. Eventually, when I was no longer “useful,” they lashed me to the ramparts, slicing my veins open to let the scent of my blood lure the horde away from the gates. I died being torn apart, bone by bone. I opened my eyes. The phantom pain of the blade was still there, a searing heat against my skin. But when I looked down, my left hand was still there, fingers twitching against the rough fabric of my cot. Outside the door, a voice shouted—a voice I recognized with a sickening jolt. It was Beckett, one of the scouts I’d personally pulled from a pile of corpses years ago. In my last life, he was the one who held my legs down while the saw bit into my bone. “Commander! Daniel’s hurt bad! You need to come, now!” I slowly wiped the cold sweat from my palms. A dark, jagged smile touched my lips. “What’s the rush, Beckett?” I called out, my voice steady. “The colony has plenty of Medics. Find someone else.” … Thump. Thump. Thump. The knocking was violent now, sending plumes of dust dancing down from the doorframe. “Cassie! Please! He’s losing too much blood! He asked for you specifically!” I stared at the ceiling, the familiar cracks looking like a map of a life I had already failed. There was no stench of rotting flesh here. No agonizing heat of a thousand teeth tearing into my midsection. My arm hung heavy and whole at my side. In that other life, the moment I heard Daniel was hurt, I’d bolted out of bed, my heart in my throat. I’d run straight into the ambush he’d spent weeks perfecting. Daniel had stood just a few feet away, holding the very blade I’d forged for him from reclaimed steel. He didn’t look away when he swung it. “Don’t hate me for this, Cassie,” he’d whispered as I screamed. “Tinsley lost her arm trying to save me. You’re a Healer. Your tissue is the only thing that will take. You’ve survived bites before; you’re practically immortal. You’ll be fine.” He’d called the rotting stump he gave me a “gift”—a way to keep me from being a “cripple.” I had spent months pouring my dwindling energy into that dead limb, trying to keep the virus from reaching my heart. My skin turned the color of wet ash. My hair fell out in clumps. I’d applied for the colony’s restricted serum—the stuff that could kickstart a Healer’s marrow. Once. Twice. Three times. Denied. The Quartermaster wouldn’t even look me in the eye. “Resources are tight, Cassie. It has to go to the front lines.” It wasn’t until the very end that I learned the truth. The front lines weren’t starving for supplies. Daniel, using his new authority as Commander, had been funneling every vial of serum to Tinsley. He wanted to see if he could force her body to develop a “Gift” of her own. When I’d dragged my skeletal body to his office to confront him, he just sighed. “Tinsley is showing signs of awakening an Ability, Cassie. She needs the nourishment. You’ve always been the tough one. Just endure a little longer.” Endure. I had endured until I was a husk. And when the well ran dry, they tied me to the stone like a piece of livestock, letting my blood “serve the colony” one last time. I closed my eyes, and for a second, I was back on those ramparts. Tinsley was standing below me, looking up with a face full of manufactured pity. “Oh, Cassie,” she’d cooed. “You’re infected and powerless. You’re basically a ghost already. You were the Commander once—don’t you want to die a hero? Think of it as your final contribution.” My fist clenched until my nails drew blood. Suddenly, a strange sensation bloomed in my palm. It wasn’t the warm, golden hum of the Mending. It was cold. It felt like graveyard soil and sharpened iron. A flicker of grey light danced between my fingers, swallowing the gold. A second Gift. Something that hadn’t existed before the rebirth. “Commander? Cassie! Are you in there?!” Beckett’s voice was frantic now. “He’s dying! The Medics say if we wait any longer, there will be permanent damage!” Permanent damage. The lie was so bold, so practiced, it made my skin crawl. I remembered Beckett’s face from the meeting where they stripped me of my rank. “Cassie’s a woman, and a broken one at that,” he’d told the council. “Why should a literal invalid run our home? Daniel is the one keeping us alive.” He had knelt before me once, years ago, sobbing that he’d never forget my kindness. Apparently, memory is a luxury the apocalypse doesn’t afford. The knocking turned into a rhythmic pounding. “Cassie! Open the damn door!” I took a long, jagged breath, pushing the rage down until it was a cold stone in my gut. When I opened the door, my face was a mask of perfect, frantic concern. “Where is he? Lead the way.” Beckett’s shoulders slumped with visible relief. “Thank god. Follow me!” He led me toward the restricted wing, to a room with reinforced walls and a door that locked only from the outside. In my past life, I hadn’t noticed the trap. I had been too busy looking for bloodstains on the floor. As we reached the door, Beckett glanced at me over his shoulder, his eyes darting away quickly. He reached for the handle. I didn’t wait. I didn’t ask questions. I gathered that new, oily grey energy in my palm and shoved. My foot connected with the small of Beckett’s back, sending him stumbling into the room. I slammed the door and threw the heavy iron bolt. From inside, a sickening squelch echoed, followed by a scream that sounded like a pig in a slaughterhouse. “What the hell? Beckett?” “Where’s Cassie? She was supposed to be the one!” Daniel’s voice was a low, dangerous snarl. Silence followed, then a shaky whisper from one of the others. “Captain… it’s Beckett. He’s… he’s passed out from the shock.” I heard Daniel approach the door, but a female voice stopped him. It was the colony’s head surgeon. “Don’t open it! If we don’t graft an arm onto her now, the necrosis will hit her heart. We already did the amputation. We have to use what’s in the room.” “No! I don’t want a man’s arm!” Tinsley’s voice rose in a shrill, hysterical peak. “It’s disgusting! It won’t match! You promised me Cassie’s! You said hers was the only one that was pure!” “Tinsley, shut up and hold still,” Daniel snapped, though his tone softened. “It’s a temporary fix. I’ll… I’ll find you a better one later. I promise.” Later. I leaned my head against the cold metal of the door and laughed, a quiet, jagged sound. “Good luck with that, Daniel,” I whispered. “I don’t think your ‘later’ is going to look the way you planned.” I walked away. I expected them to lay low, to try and hide their failure. But I underestimated Daniel’s arrogance. An hour later, he kicked in the door to the medical ward where I was checking the supply crates. He lunged for me, his fingers bruising my arm as he wrenched me toward him. “You bitch,” he hissed. “Because of your little stunt, Tinsley had to take Beckett’s arm. She’s locked herself in her room, crying her eyes out! She won’t even look at me!” He began dragging me toward the exit. “You’re going to her room. You’re going to get on your knees and beg for her forgiveness. And then, you’re going to ‘voluntarily’ offer your arm for a second transplant. If you don’t, I swear to God, you will never see the sun again.” I wrenched my arm back. The coldness in my chest flared, a localized blizzard. “Beg? Her?” I spat the words like venom. “Tinsley is a parasite, Daniel. She’s a nothing. And you? You’re just the man who forgot who actually built this place.” The slap was so hard it sent me stumbling into a rack of glass vials. My cheek went numb instantly. Behind Daniel, a few of his loyalists stepped forward. “Give it a rest, Cassie,” one of them sneered. “You’re just a Healer. You hide behind the walls while we do the real work. Losing an arm won’t kill you. Quit being so dramatic.” “Seriously,” another added. “The colony only stands because of Daniel. He only kept you around out of some misplaced sense of loyalty. You’re a leech, Cassie. You don’t even compare to Tinsley.” “Go apologize. Maybe then we won’t vote to kick you out of the gates tonight.” I looked at their faces. I had shared my bread with these men. I had stayed up for seventy-two hours straight during the Great Blight, weaving my Mending energy through the infirmary until I coughed up blood, just to keep their fevers from breaking. I remembered the hike through the Dead Zone—two hundred miles on foot to bring back the winter supplies they were too afraid to scout for. I remembered the siege at the West Gate, where I stood alone in the breach because Daniel had “clutched his chest” and retreated to the command center. “He’s the one who keeps us alive?” I started to laugh. It was a dark, hysterical sound that echoed off the sterile walls. “Is that what he told you?” “That’s enough!” Daniel barked. A flicker of genuine panic crossed his eyes before being replaced by ice. “I know you’re bitter, Cassie, but don’t try to rewrite history. I’ve bled for this colony while you sat in your office playing Commander. You’re done.” I pushed past him, my hand hovering over the console on my wrist. I tapped a command, and several holographic displays flickered to life in the air. They were the faces of the colony’s founding members—the ones who had been there since Day One. “Arthur,” I said, addressing the oldest of them. “Tell them.” Arthur’s face was etched with a weary, hollow kind of shame. “Cassie… don’t make this harder. Daniel is the face of the Sanctuary. He’s the strength. You’re a woman, dear. Without him to protect you, you never would have lasted this long.” The world seemed to tilt. I remembered pulling Arthur out of a burning wreck. I remembered carrying him on my back across a field of glass. I looked at Daniel. He was watching me with a smug, predatory satisfaction. “See, Cassie? I told you. You think too much of yourself.” I turned to walk away, but a hand caught my hair. I was jerked backward, my knees slamming into the concrete with a sickening crack. “You aren’t going anywhere,” Daniel growled. He knelt down, gripping my chin so hard I felt my teeth grind together. The mask was gone. The “hero” was gone. There was only the beast underneath. “You wouldn’t give the arm up willingly? Fine. We’ll do it the hard way. Consider this a down payment for Tinsley’s trauma.” He stood back. A fist caught me in the temple. Then a boot to the stomach, knocking the air from my lungs in a spray of red mist. Someone grabbed me by the hair, hauling me up just to drive a knee into my ribs. I heard the distinct snap of bone. Blood pooled in my mouth, tasting of copper and failure. I pressed my face against the cold floor, peering through the shattered glass of the medicine vials. And then, I felt it. A vibration. Deep in the earth. A low, rhythmic thrumming that felt like a heartbeat. They’re here. I closed my eyes. The floor beneath us didn’t just crack; it exploded. A massive, slick tentacle, dripping with black bile and lined with obsidian thorns, burst through the concrete. It swung with the force of a wrecking ball, sending three of Daniel’s men flying into the far wall like ragdolls. Then came the second. And the third. From every corridor, the sound of the dead began to rise—not a moan, but a coordinated, guttural roar. “Monster!” “It’s a swarm! How did they get inside the perimeter?!” The room descended into chaos. Daniel’s face went white, but his eyes landed on me. “She’s a Gifted! Her blood is concentrated!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “Throw her to them! Use her as bait while we hit the emergency exit!” Rough hands grabbed me. A blade nicked my throat, and I felt the warm slide of blood down my collar. They threw me toward the breach in the floor. I hit the rubble, the stench of decay filling my senses. I looked up. Dozens of pale, milky eyes were fixed on me. Daniel was already halfway to the safety tunnel, a jagged, triumphant grin on his face as he watched the “leech” finally get consumed. I sat up slowly. I raised my hand. And I snapped my fingers. The dead stopped. As one, they turned their heads away from me and fixed their gaze on the man in the tunnel.

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After eight years of loving Nate, my mother finally caved. She was ready to accept him—his commitment issues, his “phobia” of marriage, all of it. I was heading home with a fresh Chilean sea bass, his favorite, thinking about how I’d tell him the news. But as I reached the door, I heard his friend, Cooper, inside. “I thought you were dead-set against marriage, man,” Cooper said. “What changed? Why the sudden wedding?” My heart leaped. I thought he was going to surprise me. I thought he’d finally found the courage to give us a future. Then Nate spoke, his voice casual, almost bored. “I didn’t have a choice. She’s pregnant. For the sake of the kid, I have to give the girl a name. It’s the right thing to do.” I froze. The world tilted on its axis. The bag of groceries felt like lead in my hand. “Wait,” Cooper stammered. “You’re marrying the side piece? What about Jo? What are you going to do about Joanna?” Nate’s tone didn’t even flicker. “What do you mean, ‘do about her’? We keep things as they are. It’s not like I’m leaving her.” “And if she finds out? If she dumps you?” Nate let out a confident, low chuckle. “She won’t. I know Jo.” He paused, and I could almost picture the smug tilt of his head. “She wants a family so badly, yet she gave up the idea of marriage and kids just to stay with me. If she can handle that, she can handle anything. She’s not going anywhere.” So, he knew. He knew how much I longed for a wedding, for a home, for a life that wasn’t lived in the shadows of his trauma. A cold, sharp laugh bubbled up in my chest, though it didn’t reach my lips. He didn’t know me at all. To me, a dishonest man isn’t a partner; he’s just trash waiting to be tossed. 1 I walked in while they were still talking. Nate didn’t miss a beat. He smoothly pivoted the conversation to the NFL, his face a mask of effortless calm. When he saw me, he gave me that trademark look of practiced devotion. “Hey, babe. You’re back.” Cooper, on the other hand, couldn’t hide the guilt. His smile was forced, his eyes darting toward the floor in a cocktail of pity and shame. “I thought I heard something,” I said, my voice eerily steady. “Something about marriage? Who’s the lucky guy?” Eight years. You develop feelings for a stray cat in eight years, let alone a man you’ve shared a bed with every night. I was giving him one last chance. One final, desperate hope that he would be man enough to tell me the truth and end it. A flash of hesitation crossed his eyes before he stood up and walked over to wrap his arms around me. “Just an old friend from college,” Nate lied, pulling me into his chest. “Cooper was asking if I wanted to fly out for the wedding.” Cooper jumped in, desperate to help bury the lead. “Yeah, totally. The guy was a hardcore bachelor, too. No one saw it coming.” My heart went cold. Watching Nate lie to my face without even a hint of a blush, I realized there was no point in a grand breakup speech. He didn’t deserve my honesty. He didn’t deserve my vulnerability. I pulled away from his embrace, my skin crawling. He took it as shyness because Cooper was watching. He turned his attention to the groceries. “Did you get the sea bass?” “Jo treats you too well, man,” Cooper joked, though his voice sounded hollow. “She always hunts down the freshest catch because she knows you love it. Nate’s always bragging about your cooking, Jo. Says no one does it better.” I lifted the bag. “Actually, I bought this for my dad. He’s been craving it.” “Well, make it for me next time then,” Nate said, his tone entitled and sweet. I let a faint, bitter smile touch my lips. There wouldn’t be a next time. Nate, I’m never cooking for you again. “You’re the only one who takes care of me,” he said, slipping back into his usual routine of public affection. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even know what good food tastes like.” He didn’t notice the emptiness in my eyes. He was used to saying these things—calling me the most important person in his life, his “anchor.” He’d said it so often it had become white noise. And it was true; before he met me, he didn’t eat fish. It was his greatest trigger, a food that carried the weight of a dark childhood. On our first date, I had ordered sea bass. I’ll never forget the sheer terror that washed over his face. Later, he told me why. When he was three, his mother remarried a man who treated Nate like an intruder. His stepfather would eat the meat of the fish and leave only the bones and spines for Nate. He’d been choked by them, poked by them, terrified by them. And his mother? She never protected him. She was too busy trying to keep her own head above water in that house. That house was the reason he claimed he was “broken,” the reason he said he couldn’t handle the “suffocation” of a marriage license. I was the one who healed him. Piece by piece, I fed him the best parts of the fish. I promised him, “I’ll cook for you for the rest of our lives. With me, you’ll always have the best cut.” That night, he cried in my arms like a child. He begged me, “Please stay with me forever. Don’t ever throw me away.” 2 For eight years, my love for him hadn’t wavered. But he was the one who had stopped cherishing it. I went into the bedroom, grabbed my ID and my bank cards, and headed for the door with the fish. “Call me when you’re heading back, I’ll pick you up,” Nate called out, not looking up from the TV. I paused. “Don’t bother. I’m not coming back tonight.” “Really? You’re going to leave me in a cold bed all by myself?” He pouted, playing the role of the lonely lover. He didn’t hear the finality in my voice. He thought it was just a weekend trip to my parents’. I looked at him, my heart in pieces, yet my voice remained calm. “For eight years, Nate, I’ve been a rebellious daughter to my parents because of you. It’s time I started listening to my mother.” He still didn’t get it. He just thought I was feeling guilty about not spending enough time with family. He walked over, stroking my hair with a patronizing tenderness. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be so selfish. Your parents need you. Why don’t you stay there for a few days? Take all the time you need.” “Goodbye,” I said. He smiled. “See you in a couple of days.” There is no ‘in a couple of days,’ Nate. You’re officially out of my life. I went to my parents’ house and cooked that fish for them instead. My father sighed as he ate. “If he’s really the only one for you, Joanna… then bring him over. We’ll make it work.” Initially, my dad liked Nate. But by the third year, when there was no talk of an engagement, he grew frustrated. That was when Nate revealed his “trauma.” He showed me stacks of therapy records, explaining how his childhood had left him with deep psychological scars. He had night terrors. He was genuinely afraid of the institution of marriage. I pities him. I thought as long as we loved each other, a piece of paper didn’t matter. In our fifth year, I got pregnant. With twins. I hoped that for the sake of the babies, he would finally overcome his fear. I wanted a family. A real one. But he broke down. He told me, “Jo, I’m sorry. I can’t be a father. A child wouldn’t be happy with me. Besides, childbirth is dangerous. My mother died giving birth to that man’s child… I can’t risk losing you.” He used his mother’s death to guilt me. He used his trauma as a shield. So, I had the abortion. I promised him we could be enough for each other—no marriage, no kids, just us. And yet now, another woman was pregnant, and he hadn’t hesitated for a second to marry her. He made me, and the children we never had, look like a total joke. “What does he like to eat? I’ll prepare something for tomorrow,” my mom added, her voice soft with resignation. They had shed so many tears over my refusal to leave him. “I don’t want him anymore,” I said quietly. “I’m done.” 3 My mother froze, the spatula mid-air. “Joanna… what did you say?” My father couldn’t hide the hope in his eyes. My throat tightened. I forced a smile through the lump in my chest. “I’m thirty years old. I’m not wasting another second on him. I want to start over.” My parents wept with joy. They thanked God that I had finally woken up. My mom insisted that the best way to move on was to find someone new, and within forty-eight hours, she had told every relative and friend that I was single. She started setting up blind dates. I didn’t really want to go, but I didn’t want to break her heart again, so I went through the motions. I was coming out of a mall with a guy my mom had set me up with when I ran into Nate. He was carrying bags from a maternity store. The moment he saw me with another man, his face darkened with possessiveness. He stepped toward us, marking his territory. “Hey, honey. Who’s this?” The blind date, sensing the tension, made a quick exit. Nate was fuming. “Is your mother setting you up again? You promised me you’d say no! What am I to you, Jo?” He knew the pressure I was under to get married. But he had never moved an inch to alleviate it. I looked at the maternity bags in his hand. “Who are those for?” “Don’t change the subject,” he snapped, then softened his tone when he saw me staring. “I told you, Mike’s wife is pregnant. It’s a gift for the baby shower. Now, why were you with that guy?” He still thought I was an idiot. He didn’t know that the previous night, I had received an anonymous package. Inside were photos of him and a girl named Piper holding their marriage certificate. There were ultrasounds, photos of them decorating a nursery, and shots of them looking like the perfect couple. The moment I left our apartment, he had gone and made it official with her. And Piper, eager to stake her claim, hadn’t waited long to let me know. She even included the date and location of their upcoming wedding. My blood boiled, but I kept my face neutral. I wanted to see how long he could keep up the act. “Nate, you know my parents are breathing down my neck. What if we just got married? Right now. Today.” The anger in his eyes turned to guilt. He tried his old trick—opening his arms to pull me in. “Babe, I’m so sorry. You know I love you more than anything. I’ll give you everything else—the money, the house, my heart—but that paper… I just can’t do it. I can’t get past the mental block. You know that.” I stepped back, avoiding his touch. My smile was cold. It was true. He had given me everything but the title. Five years ago, in a fit of “guilt” over the abortion, he had signed a legally binding agreement transferring his entire company to me as a gift. He was the CEO, but technically, he was my employee. He worked for a salary I approved. The house, the cars, the investments—they were all in my name. Even the “new” house he’d bought for Piper had been put under my name years ago during a tax restructuring he thought I wouldn’t notice. His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and I saw that flicker of panic. It was Piper. “Work emergency,” he lied, backing away. “I have to go. We’ll talk later, okay?” As soon as he disappeared, I got a text from an unknown number. I didn’t want to make this ugly, but you clearly can’t take a hint. This is your final notice: get your stuff out of our house. We’re adults here, Joanna. Be graceful. If your things aren’t gone by tomorrow, they’re going in the trash. I stared at the screen and laughed. She was getting desperate. 4 I didn’t go back for my things the next day. Piper, apparently losing her patience, tracked me down at a cafe near my office. She didn’t look like a “mistress”; she looked like a girl who had won. She was young—maybe twenty-two, the same age I was when I first met Nate. She slid their marriage certificate across the table. “I think this gives me the right to ask you to clear out,” she said. Her voice was high, polished. “I haven’t thrown your stuff on the curb yet because I have class, Miss Miller. Don’t mistake my kindness for permission to keep clinging to my husband.” I looked her over. She was pretty in a generic way. There were faint love bites on her neck, partially hidden by a pink diamond necklace. I recognized that necklace. Nate had outbid three people for it at a charity auction last year. He told me it was an investment for “our” future. “You’re here because you’re too afraid to tell Nate you know about me, aren’t you?” I asked. She flinched, then doubled down. “I’m trying to let you keep a shred of dignity. You were with him for eight years and he never put a ring on it. Doesn’t that tell you everything you need to know?” She let out a mocking snort. “Why be the desperate ex?” I pushed the certificate back toward her. “I know when the wedding is, Piper. Don’t worry, I’ll be there to… congratulate you.” She panicked. “Don’t you dare. If you make a scene, you’ll be the one looking like a fool. Just leave gracefully. I don’t want you anywhere near my wedding. You’re bad luck.” I gave her a thin, sharp smile. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have a wedding.” Her eyes flashed with rage. “You really are a piece of work.” Then, her expression shifted. It was like watching a professional actress. She glanced toward the entrance of the cafe, then suddenly dropped to her knees at my feet. She grabbed my arm, tears welling up instantly. “I didn’t know about you!” she sobbed, loud enough for the other patrons to turn. “Please, we’re married now, and I’m pregnant. Please don’t take him away from me and my baby!” I groaned, reaching for my purse to leave. I didn’t have time for this melodrama. But as I tried to stand, she threw herself backward, hitting the floor with a muffled thud. “Ah! My stomach! Help! My baby!” She screamed in feigned agony. “Someone call my husband! 206-555-0198! Please!” The cafe erupted. People rushed over to her, shooting me looks of pure disgust. Since Nate’s office was only a block away, he arrived in less than five minutes, drenched in sweat and panic. He stopped dead when he saw me standing there. Piper reached out for him, trembling. “Nate! This woman… she told me she was your girlfriend. She told me to leave the house… when I said no, she pushed me! My stomach hurts so much…” Nate’s eyes were filled with terror. He scooped her up right in front of me. Guilt kept him from yelling at me, but he looked at me with a pleading desperation. “Jo, I’ll explain everything. I promise. I just have to get her to the hospital.” I stood there, cold as marble. “Nate, before you go, a quick reminder.” He paused, Piper moaning in his arms. “That black card in your wallet? It’s an authorized user card on my account. I just deactivated it. You might want to find another way to pay the hospital bill.” The color drained from his face. I turned my gaze to Piper. “And one more thing you should know. Nate signed over every cent of his assets to me years ago. The house you’re living in? Mine. The company he runs? Mine. He’s just an employee, and as of five minutes ago, he’s fired.” I looked back at Nate, whose expression was now one of pure horror. “Technically, he’s penniless. So, Piper? You’re the one who needs to get out of my house.” Piper’s face went ghost-white. The “pain” in her stomach seemed forgotten. “Nate?” I prompted, my voice low and dangerous. “Tell her. Is any of that a lie?”

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I was born with a storm in my blood. In my world, if you clip my wings, I’ll burn your whole forest down. That’s just the math of it. But growing up, my parents and my brother treated me like a piece of fragile porcelain. They smothered me with so much love and indulgence that my temper never had a chance to breathe. I was a weapon with no war to fight. Until I turned eighteen and enrolled at Beaumont Academy—a playground for the elite, the entitled, and the downright sociopathic. The school’s “Golden Girl,” a girl named Lexi Montgomery, made a sport out of destroying reputations. Her favorite move was photoshopping the scholarship girls into compromising, naked positions to ensure her own “purity” shone even brighter. I didn’t waste time with a dialogue. I smashed her iPhone into the marble floor, ripped the designer silk off her back, and let the entire student body see exactly what she was made of. Naturally, her pet thug and the school’s star quarterback, Brantley Pierce, didn’t take it well. He and his goons cornered me in the girl’s locker room, water buckets in hand. He grabbed me by the hair, forcing my head back, demanding I beg Lexi for forgiveness. I didn’t beg. I kicked him squarely in the groin with enough force to make his ancestors feel it. While he was doubled over, I dragged him into the stalls and shoved a filth-caked mop—the kind that had seen years of locker room grime—directly into his mouth. He passed out from the shock and the stench. I filmed the whole thing and posted it to the school’s private server. I thought that would be the end of it. I didn’t expect the Guidance Counselor to be even stupider than the students. Mrs. Gable was firmly in the pockets of the wealthy parents. She looked at me like I was a stain on her carpet, claiming I was the aggressor. Her “punishment”? A five-hundred-page handwritten apology and an order to kneel on the gravel of the track field while reciting it over a megaphone. “You want me to grovel?” I asked, my voice dangerously low. I didn’t wait for her answer. I grabbed her by the hair and slammed her forehead against the mahogany desk. Again. And again. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” I hissed. “Do you honestly think your little titles mean a damn thing to me?” … 1 “You’re psychotic! You laid hands on a faculty member! I’ll have you expelled before the sun sets!” Mrs. Gable was screaming, clutching her bleeding forehead. “You told me to grovel and apologize, didn’t you?” I wiped a stray drop of blood off my knuckle. “You just didn’t specify whose head should be hitting the floor.” I tossed her aside like a piece of yesterday’s trash. Looking at her pale, trembling face, a cold laugh bubbled up in my chest. These people spent their lives crushing the weak, but the second someone handed them their own medicine, they crumbled. Brantley, recovered and fuming, suddenly grabbed a heavy crystal vase from the desk and hurled it at my head. I ducked, but a shard grazed my temple. A flicker of sick satisfaction danced in his eyes when he saw the red streak on my skin. “Listen to me, Kit. This is Beaumont,” Brantley spat, stepping into my space. “Scholarship rats like you are here for one reason: to be our footstools. How dare you push back?” He lunged, throwing a heavy punch into my stomach. I took the hit, the air leaving my lungs for a split second. “Your parents probably sold their souls just to get you in here,” he sneered, leaning down to my ear. “If you want to stay, you’re going to bring them here. They can kneel on the gravel with you.” I didn’t let him finish. I caught his wrist, twisted it until the bone groaned, and stomped my boot onto his foot with a sickening crunch. He let out a strangled wheeze. Apologize? To them? They didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as my parents. If Brantley Pierce knew even a fraction of who my father was, he’d be hyperventilating. I was about to give them a reality check when Lexi Montgomery let out a sharp, mocking laugh. She picked up my student file from the floor, flipping through it with manicured nails and a look of pure disdain. “Parents’ background: Classified?” Lexi looked me up and down. “Please. That’s just code for ‘white trash.’ Your dad’s probably a low-level tweaker and your mom’s a back-alley pro. That explains why you have no manners. You don’t understand how the world works, Kit.” She stepped closer, her eyes glittering with malice. “Do you have any idea who our families are? Brantley’s father and mine are two of the three primary trustees of this entire institution. You didn’t just break a rule. You hit a brick wall.” A brick wall? To me, they weren’t even toothpicks. The “scholarship student” label was just a cloak my parents had draped over me. My family didn’t just have money; we owned the school. We were the majority shareholders. My parents had opened the doors to underprivileged students as a way to give back, but lately, rumors had reached us—rumors of scholarship kids disappearing, of “suicides” that didn’t make sense. My parents sent me here to burn out the rot. And Lexi had made it easy for me by posting those fake nudes of me on the first day, calling me the school’s “communal toy.” “I really wonder if you guys use your brains for anything other than hairspray storage,” I said, tilting my head. Lexi’s face contorted. She whipped out her phone and started sobbing into the receiver. “Dad! There’s a girl—a scholarship student—she’s attacking us! You need to find out who her parents are. Right now. I want them ruined. I want them at the bottom of the Atlantic!” She hung up, looking at me like she’d already won. I just smirked. “Your dad? He isn’t fit to shine my father’s shoes.” “You little bitch!” she screamed. Brantley tried to swing at me again. I parried, sent him back to the floor, and planted my heel firmly on his chest. My stomach still throbbed from his punch, and my patience was gone. “Still hungry, Brantley? Or should I go back to the stalls and get you a second helping of that mop?” Lexi started laughing, a high-pitched, hysterical sound. “You’re dead, Kit! You’re so dead! My father is sending his security team. And Brantley’s dad won’t let this go. You’ve destroyed your life.” I shrugged, the corner of my mouth twitching upward. “Good. Bring them all. I’d love to see them all grovel at once.” 2 Lexi helped Brantley up, her hands shaking with rage. “You think you’re tough because you can fight? You bullied us. You bullied Mrs. Gable! Her husband is the reigning champion of our family’s underground fight club. When they’re done beating your parents into the dirt, we’ll see if you still have that smart mouth.” “I’m the bully?” I asked. The audacity was almost impressive. There were three girls in the infirmary right now who Lexi had pushed down a flight of stairs last month. They still hadn’t woken up. “Yes! You’re a monster! I can only imagine the kind of filth that raised you.” My parents sent me here precisely because they knew I didn’t have a “forgive and forget” bone in my body. I was their retribution. I remembered when I was ten. An uncle had tried to embezzle from my father and suggested I be sent away to “boarding school” so he could replace me with his own daughter. I ended that dream by kicking a heavy door into his face, nearly blinding him. When I was twelve, a kidnapper grabbed me from a park. I didn’t cry; I bit his ear off and waited for the police to find him. My parents were often away on business, and my older brother, Sebastian, was too gentle for our world. He was the kind of person who apologized to the chair if he bumped into it. Our head butler once tried to steal my mother’s jewelry, thinking I was too young to notice. I taught myself basic coding in three days, drained his offshore accounts, and leaked his extracurricular affairs to the entire domestic service industry. He’s currently sorting recycling for a living. In my family, I wasn’t “bad.” I was “equipped.” “This is about the family legacy, Kit,” my father had told me before I left. “Find out who is hurting those kids. And once you find the rot… do whatever you have to do. I’ll handle the cleanup.” I didn’t even have to look for the rot. It had found me on day one. Mrs. Gable had tried to “mentor” me during my first week, implying that if I wanted to keep my scholarship, I’d have to be “accommodating” to the wealthy donors’ sons. She was a glorified madam. I was about to tell them that my family was the Valentine dynasty—the oldest money in the city—and that Lexi’s mother used to be my mother’s personal shopper, when the door burst open. Lexi’s face lit up, then fell. It wasn’t a hit squad. It was just the school’s medical team. “Miss Montgomery, we’re here to tend to Mrs. Gable and Mr. Pierce,” the lead medic said. “Your father and Mr. Pierce are in an emergency board meeting with the Chairman. They can’t come down yet.” Lexi’s eyes snapped back to me, the fire returning. “The Chairman is the most powerful man in this state. He doesn’t tolerate trash like you. When my dad tells him what you’ve done, your whole family is finished.” 3 “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” I said, turning to leave. Brantley blocked the door again, a cocky smirk plastered on his bruised face. “Scared? Running away?” “I’m bored, Brantley. There’s a difference.” “Tell you what,” he said, leaning in. “There’s one way you can save your family. Join the Hunt tonight. If you play, we might forget all about this.” Lexi sneered. “The Hunt is a privilege for scholarship rats. Don’t be ungrateful.” The “Hunt” was a twisted Beaumont tradition. Scholarship students were “mice,” hiding across the dark campus while the “cats”—the rich kids—hunted them down. If you were caught, you were at their mercy. If you survived the night, you supposedly got a cash prize. My roommate, Chloe, had told me about it. She’d spent her last Hunt locked in a cold basement. “What if the mouse decides to hunt the cats?” I asked. Before he could react, I grabbed his hand and twisted it at an angle that shouldn’t exist. He screamed as I walked past him toward the dorms. When I arrived at my room, I found Chloe sobbing in the hallway. I pushed the door open. Our beds had been smashed to kindling. Every piece of clothing we owned had been tossed into the dumpster outside. And the closet… they’d filled it with live rats. My phone buzzed. A message in the school group chat from Mrs. Gable. “Room 604 failed inspection. Deplorable conditions. Room lead Kit Valentine and her roommates are stripped of all credits and assigned to janitorial duty for the entire campus. Effective immediately.” Chloe was hyperventilating. “The scholarship… my mom is sick, Kit. I needed that money for her treatment. If I lose my credits, I’m out.” My other roommates were pale, but they didn’t blame me. “It’s okay, Kit. We know you were standing up for us. We’ll do the cleaning. You’re hurt, stay here.” Rage, hot and oily, bubbled up in my chest. My father’s scholarship fund was meant to be a lifeline, not a leash. I pulled up the group chat and sent a message to everyone. “Janitorial duty? Go to hell. Is fifty thousand enough to cover your stress? Because I’m bored of the drama.” I started hitting ‘Send’ on wire transfers. Every scholarship student in the school suddenly received fifty thousand dollars in their accounts. Before I could finish the list, I was kicked from the chat. A second later, I was added to a private group with Lexi, Brantley, and Mrs. Gable. “Where did you get that money? Did you steal a student’s credit card?” Mrs. Gable typed. I screenshot the transaction record, highlighting my name as the account holder. The amount I’d just dropped was more than Brantley’s monthly allowance. They went silent for three beats before Lexi typed: “I knew it. You’re a high-end escort. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure your parents know exactly how you’re earning your keep.” Three minutes later, Lexi posted a photo. It was a picture of me and my brother, Sebastian. We were laughing at a gala, his arm around my shoulder. “Looks like she’s the ‘special guest’ of the Valentine heir. I wonder if Sebastian Valentine knows his little plaything is a violent bully? I bet he’d cut her off in a heartbeat.” I stared at the screen. How did they get a photo of me and Sebastian? Before I could process it, a text came from an unknown number. “Your friend Chloe is having a bit of a problem at the old gym. Better hurry.” 4 By the time I reached the gym, it was a nightmare. Two thugs were holding Chloe down while Lexi and Brantley stood over her, phones out, the flashes strobing like a sick club. Mrs. Gable was there too, along with the school Principal, who was nodding as Gable pointed at Chloe. “This is the girl, sir. Bringing outsiders onto campus for ‘services.’ Absolutely disgusting behavior.” Chloe was shaking her head, tears streaming down her face. I realized then—she couldn’t speak. Her mouth was moving, but no sound came out. “She spends sixteen hours a day in the library,” I said, my voice echoing in the rafters. “She doesn’t even leave campus to get coffee. How is her ‘private life’ a mess?” The lead thug pointed at me. “You’re the one who called us, babe! You told us when you transferred that once you got into the Academy, you’d find us some fresh meat. Chloe was just the first one you offered.” “Check the security tapes,” I said, stepping toward the Principal. The Head of Security stepped forward, smirking. “Cameras are down for maintenance. Such a shame.” Brantley walked over and tapped my cheek, leaning in close. “You see now? Money is cute, Kit. But power? Power is the only currency that matters. Sebastian Valentine might be a big deal, but he’s one of us. He’s not going to ruin his reputation for a girl he’s bored with. Give up.” I smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Give up?” I walked over to Chloe, gently took the glasses off her face, and popped out the tiny pinhole camera I’d installed in the frame that morning. I synced it to my phone and projected the feed directly onto the school’s giant billboard in the courtyard. The video was clear: The thugs dragging Chloe out while she was cleaning. Mrs. Gable handing them a bottle of “vocal suppressant.” And Lexi, leaning into the frame, saying: “Blame your roommate, Chloe. She’s the one who made us do this.” Brantley’s face went gray. I patted his cheek, mimicking his gesture. “The problem with being arrogant, Brantley, is that you forget to check if the mouse is wearing a wire.” The video was scrubbed from the server within minutes, but I didn’t care. I knew that taking down Brantley and Lexi wasn’t enough. I needed to take down their fathers. I needed to cauterize the wound. So, I played along. For the next week, I didn’t retaliate. I watched. I waited. Every year, Beaumont hosted a Masquerade Ball. For the first time, all scholarship students were “invited” and provided with gowns. I checked the fabric. Water-soluble. One spill, one “accident” with the sprinklers, and every scholarship girl would be standing naked in front of the elite. I made a few phone calls. The night before the ball, the scholarship group chat was in a panic. All their provided gowns had been “vandalized” or shredded. Lexi and her crew were feigning outrage. “You clearly didn’t take care of them!” They rushed an order for a new set of gowns, paying double for overnight delivery. I made sure my contact was the one who fulfilled that order. The night of the ball arrived. The scholarship students were ushered in first. Above them, the sprinkler system was primed. Cameras were hidden in every corner. When Lexi and Brantley walked in, arm in arm, they stopped dead. Every scholarship girl was wearing a stunning, high-quality gown that was perfectly intact. I stood at the center of the room, holding a tray of champagne. “Care for a drink?” I asked. On my signal, the girls didn’t wait. They threw their drinks—not at the scholarship students, but at Lexi and Brantley. Their designer clothes—the ones I’d swapped into their dressing rooms—melted like wet sugar. Lexi screamed, trying to cover herself with her hands as the fabric dissolved into nothing. The photos were everywhere before they could even reach the exit. They snapped. The next day, Mrs. Gable screamed at me to get out of her classroom. Lexi and a group of her “followers” tried to corner me in the cafeteria, promising to “make me bleed.” Brantley went even further—he started sniffing around my brother, Sebastian, trying to convince him to “drop the charity case” before she ruined his name. Next week was the Annual Honors Gala. All the trustees would be there. “I talked to Sebastian,” Brantley hissed at me in the hall. “He barely remembered who you were. Just a girl he met at a party. Let’s see what the Chairman thinks when he finds out you’ve been using the Valentine name to bully his students.” I just watched him, like a scientist watching a bug in a jar. The Gala was a sea of tuxedos and floor-length silk. Brantley’s father, Arthur Pierce, and Lexi’s father, Marcus Montgomery, were there, looking smug. Beside them stood a man who looked like a retired linebacker—Mrs. Gable’s husband, the “fighter.” He caught my eye and made a throat-slitting gesture. Marcus Montgomery laughed loudly, making sure I heard him. “My sweet Lexi, tonight the Chairman and his son arrive. Finally, the trash will be swept out of this school for good.” Arthur Pierce nodded. “The scholarship program was a mistake. If the Chairman hears there’s a ‘Demon’ among the mice, he’ll pull the funding for good.” The scholarship students stood in the back, their eyes filled with dread. Then, the doors swung open. A phalanx of security guards cleared a path. A man in a bespoke suit walked in, the very air in the room shifting toward him. Lexi’s eyes gleamed. “You’re dead, Kit.” But the light in her eyes died an instant later. Because instead of shrinking away, I walked straight up to the man and looped my arm through his.

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It was International Women’s Day, a day supposedly meant for honoring the women who anchor our lives. Instead, I watched my husband hand a bouquet of fresh-cut peonies—the ones he’d promised were for our anniversary dinner—to the woman living in the apartment next door. His first love. “She’s been living alone for so many years, Diana,” Parker said, his voice smooth but hurried. “It’s Women’s Day. I just wanted to do something kind. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in five minutes and then we’re straight to the theater, okay?” He was wearing the deep navy silk robe I’d bought him for Christmas. It was cinched loosely, the collar hanging open to reveal far more skin than was appropriate for a neighborly visit. We had been married for five years. The last time I’d seen him look this frantic, this desperate, was three years ago when I’d come home early from a business trip. I’d walked into the living room to find him entangled with that same woman on our velvet sofa. The image of their pale, intertwined limbs had seared itself into my retinas. Back then, he had dropped to his knees, sobbing. He didn’t even bother to wipe the sweat from his face; he just grabbed a throw blanket to cover Lydia, his high school sweetheart. “Rose, please… she seduced me. I didn’t want this, I swear!” “Don’t leave me. Please, I’m begging you…” I stayed. I stayed for the sake of our families—our fathers had been business partners for decades, and our lives were woven together in a tapestry of social obligations. For a long time, he was a model husband. He was attentive, domestic, and eager to please me in every way possible. Until tonight. I looked at the restless hunger in his eyes and reached out to straighten the ribbon on the bouquet. “Go on then,” I said quietly. “Give them to her while they’re still fresh.” I knew, even as the words left my mouth, that after those flowers were delivered, there would be no “us” left to save. 1 Parker clearly hadn’t expected me to cave so easily. He froze for a second, then a look of pure, boyish relief broke across his face. He leaned in to pull me into a hug. “Thanks, babe! You’re the best, seriously. I’ll be back before you can even pick out a pair of shoes!” I tilted my head, letting his kiss land harmlessly on my cheek. But I couldn’t stop the last shred of wife-like instinct from speaking up. “Parker, it’s pouring out there. You’re going out in just your robe?” He hesitated, his gaze flickering toward the door. “Lydia keeps her place like a sauna. I’ll be fine. I’m literally going twenty feet. I’ll be right back.” “I mean it,” he added, almost as a challenge to himself. He didn’t look back at me. He slipped out the door and into the hallway. A few heartbeats later, I heard the heavy thud of the door next door closing. It felt like a physical blow to my chest. I walked over to the window. From this angle, I could see the glow of Lydia’s living room. She was standing there in a silk slip dress that left nothing to the imagination. As soon as Parker entered, she threw herself into his arms. Parker didn’t pull away. He didn’t even pretend to. He wrapped his arms around her, their heads leaning together in a dark, intimate whisper. Then, slowly, the curtains were drawn, cutting off the view and leaving me in the shadows of our own apartment. I looked at my phone. 8:00 PM. The gala we were supposed to attend was starting. I looked at the few stray flowers left on the table—the rejects he hadn’t put in her bouquet. A wave of nausea rolled through me. I picked up the half-empty bottle of expensive red wine I’d opened and dumped it, along with the wilting flowers, into the trash. This five-year marriage was exactly like those flowers: something that should never have been forced to live this long. I was the only one tending the soil, and I’d finally run out of water. Half an hour passed. Parker didn’t return. The TV was on in the background, some festive special blaring cheerful music that felt like a mockery of my stupidity. I sat on the sofa, watching my phone screen light up and dim, light up and dim. The family group chat was exploding. Cousins were posting photos from various parties and events. A message from my mother popped up, tagging me: “Diana, where’s Parker? Why haven’t you posted any photos of the two of you tonight?” “You guys better be out celebrating! Send me a picture of that dress you bought!” Reading her voice in my head made my throat tighten. My mother adored Parker. Three years ago, when I’d caught him, she was the one who held my hand and begged me to give him another chance. She reminded me of how much our families owed each other, how a scandal would break my father’s heart. I forced a smile I didn’t feel and took a photo of the discarded bouquet on the counter from an angle that looked intentional. I texted back: “He’s tied up with something right now, Mom. I’ll call you in a bit.” Just as I set the phone down, a notification red dot appeared on my Instagram feed. It was Lydia. It was a photo of the peonies in a crystal vase. In the blurred background, you could clearly see the distinctive navy silk of Parker’s robe. The caption read: Another year ends, and you’re still the only one by my side. Thank you for always being there. Parker had already “liked” it. I let out a short, dry laugh. I was done waiting. I stood up, walked into our bedroom, and pulled my suitcase from the top of the closet. I had bought this penthouse with my own money when we got married. Parker had lived here, rent-free, for years. I’d chosen this building specifically because there were only two units per floor, thinking it would give us privacy. Now, his designer suits took up three-quarters of the walk-in closet. As I started packing, I realized with a jolt how little of “me” was actually in this room. I couldn’t find a single thing in the apartment that he had bought for me out of genuine thought. Five years, and we were less than roommates. We were a business arrangement that had gone bankrupt. I shook my head, tucked my passport and some essentials into my bag, and moved to the study to gather my professional files. By the time I was finished, it was nearly midnight. I sat back on the sofa and waited until the clock struck twelve before calling him. It rang for a long time. When he finally picked up, the background was loud—music, laughter. Parker sounded breathless, his voice laced with an edge of annoyance. “Hey. Look, Diana, I’m on my way back. Lydia’s still showing me her new art pieces, okay?” Right as he finished the sentence, I heard a woman’s low, melodic giggle on the other end. A second later, Parker’s voice hitched, turning into a muffled groan. “Mmm… Diana… I gotta go…” The line went dead. 2 I walked out onto the balcony, watching the distant fireworks over the city skyline. I remembered five years ago—Parker in a white tuxedo, promising forever before a priest. But there are no gods in this city, and there was no loyalty in Parker. One look from Lydia, and I ceased to exist. When Lydia first moved into 4B, he’d acted outraged. He’d complained to me about how she was “stalking” him, how she wouldn’t let the past stay dead. Looking back, it was a masterful performance. He wasn’t annoyed; he was setting the stage. Thirty minutes later, the front door unlocked. Parker stumbled in, smelling of a perfume that wasn’t mine. He was carrying a floral umbrella. Lydia’s umbrella. He had that post-coital glow, a lazy, satisfied slump to his shoulders. “Babe, I am so sorry. Got caught up. Are we still good to go out?” He stepped toward me, trying to pull me into his arms. The scent of her—heavy, cloying vanilla—hit me like a physical wall. I stepped back, avoiding his touch. “Are the flowers pretty?” I asked. He blinked, a practiced, charming smile sliding onto his face. “They’re great. Lydia said you have impeccable taste.” I looked at him, and the very last spark of affection I held for him flickered out into ash. “She said that? By what right does she get to comment on my taste?” Parker realized his mistake, his tone shifting to that “calm down” voice men use when they want to make you sound crazy. “Hey, it was just a compliment. Don’t be petty, Diana. It’s a holiday.” As he spoke, he carelessly leaned Lydia’s umbrella against the coat rack, right next to my wool trench coat. It felt like a silent, mocking invasion. “Parker, do you remember the promise you made me three years ago?” His body stiffened. The smile became a brittle mask. “Of course I do. I said I was done with the past. And I am. Tonight was just… she was lonely, and I felt sorry for her…” “Sorry enough to go over there with your robe hanging open?” Parker turned deathly pale. He instinctively clutched the lapels of his robe shut. “Diana, let me explain—” “Don’t.” I pointed to the coffee table, where a manila envelope sat. “Sign the papers.” The color didn’t come back to his face. He looked at the divorce decree as if it were a coiled snake. “Diana, are you seriously doing this? Tonight? On a holiday?” “I told you, she’s alone. We’re neighbors, we went to school together. What’s the big deal about being a good person?” “It was a bouquet of flowers! You used to be bigger than this. You’re being so small-minded.” The more he spoke, the more “disappointed” he sounded, as if I were the one failing him. In the past, this was where I would have softened. I would have wondered if I was being too sensitive. Now, I just felt a deep, oily sense of disgust. “Parker,” I interrupted his performance. “The curtains weren’t closed all the way. And you aren’t a good enough actor to hide what you were doing on the phone.” His face went slack. The mask shattered, leaving only a panicked, pathetic man underneath. He pulled the robe tighter, trying to hide the marks I knew were on his skin. “You… you were spying on me?” The sheer audacity of the deflection made me laugh. I didn’t answer. I just turned and went into the bedroom to grab my suitcase. Parker chased after me, grabbing the handle of my bag. “I’m not letting you leave! I didn’t mean that, okay? I’m sorry. I was out of line.” “Look, nothing happened. We… we just got caught up in the moment, a kiss, that’s it! Nothing more!” “You know how it is. It’s the history. It’s hard to just turn it off. But you’re the one I love! We’ve been married for five years. Are you really going to throw away our home over a stupid mistake?” He sounded so sincere. Exactly like he had five years ago. I’d believed him then, thinking he was just confused. But a man who is “confused” for five years is just a man who is a liar. I shoved his hand off the suitcase, but before I could reach the door, my phone began to scream. It was my father. I answered, and my father’s voice came through the line, jagged and unrecognizable with panic. “Diana! Get to the hospital! Now! Your mother… it’s her heart. They’re taking her into surgery!” 3 The world tilted. My suitcase hit the floor with a heavy thud. “Dad? Dad, stay calm. I’m coming. I’m coming right now!” I grabbed my keys and bolted for the door. Parker was startled, too. He followed me toward the elevator. “I’m coming with you! You know how much she means to me!” I didn’t even look at him. When the elevator doors opened, I sprinted toward the parking garage. But when I got to my SUV and reached into my bag, my hand hit empty leather. My car keys were gone. Parker stood by the car door, his eyes darting everywhere but at my face. “Where are my keys, Parker?” I asked, my voice dangerously low. “I… I thought we weren’t going anywhere tonight. I lent them to Lydia’s parents. They needed to pick someone up from the airport and their car wouldn’t start…” He couldn’t even look at me. I didn’t have time for his lies. I shoved past him, running toward the street to hail a cab. But it was midnight on a holiday in a secluded, high-end residential district. The streets were empty. “Call an Uber! Now!” I screamed at him as I ran toward the gate. Parker pulled out his phone, his fingers fumbling with the screen. “I… my phone’s dead. It just shut off.” My heart plummeted. My mother had a serious heart condition. I knew why this was happening—my father had mentioned earlier that day that he was worried about how much time Parker was spending “next door.” My mother was a woman of immense pride and she loved me fiercely. The stress of the rumors must have finally broken her. I looked at my own phone. The rideshare app was spinning—no cars available for fifteen minutes. I couldn’t wait. I ran toward the security kiosk to ask for help. As I passed Lydia’s designated parking spot, I saw a brand-new Mercedes sitting there. “Parker, go to Lydia’s. Now. Tell her to drive me to the hospital!” It was the most humiliating thing I had ever had to say. But Parker grabbed my arm, pulling me back. “No! We can’t ask her!” “It’s a matter of life and death, Parker! Let go of me!” I tried to shake him off, but he gripped my wrist with a terrifying strength. “Diana, please! Just don’t go over there… she… she’s been drinking. She can’t drive!” I looked at the sheer, unadulterated guilt written on his face. “Are you afraid of what I’ll see? I don’t care!” “I don’t give a damn if you were screwing her five minutes ago! I need a car!” Parker seemed shocked by my outburst. He finally let go, looking defeated. He ran up to 4B and pounded on the door. The door opened. Lydia stood there in her slip dress, her hair damp, the air of the apartment smelling of sex and expensive gin. Parker started explaining, his voice shaking. Lydia leaned against the doorframe, a slow, cruel smirk spreading across her lips as she looked at me. “If you want a favor, Diana, ask for it yourself. Don’t use my Parker as a messenger.” My chest was heaving, but for the sake of my mother, I swallowed every ounce of my pride. “Lydia. Please. Let me borrow the car.” She didn’t move. She took a slow drag from a cigarette she’d just lit and exhaled the smoke directly into my face. I choked on the gray cloud, my eyes watering, but I didn’t move. She tapped the ash onto the hallway carpet and gestured toward the floor with her chin. “You want the car? Show me some respect. It’s a holiday. A little ‘thank you’ on your knees wouldn’t be out of place for a girl like you, would it?” My eyes burned. I turned to Parker. “Is this what you want?” Parker looked away, his voice a pathetic mumble. “Diana, just do it. Don’t be stubborn. Your mom is waiting.” “Lydia’s just upset because of how you’ve been acting tonight. She just wants an apology. Just… give her what she wants so we can go.” The coldness that settled in my bones was absolute. Lydia laughed, a bright, tinkling sound, and leaned her head on Parker’s shoulder. “See? Parker understands. If you won’t bow, then get lost. We have a long night ahead of us.” The seconds were ticking by. Every heartbeat was a second my mother might not have. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, there was nothing left but a dead, hollow silence. “Fine.” 4 I let my knees hit the hard wood of the hallway floor. Thud. The sound of my pride breaking was deafening in my own ears. Humiliation washed over me like freezing water. Satisfied, Lydia chirped a little laugh and tossed her car keys. They struck me in the face, the metal leaving a sharp sting on my cheek before clattering to the floor. As I reached for them, she playfully kicked them further down the hall. “Oops. My hand slipped. You’ll have to fetch them, sweetie.” Then, she wrapped her arms around Parker’s neck and planted a lingering, possessive kiss on his cheek. “Parker’s staying here. Good luck at the hospital.” She slammed the door. I didn’t waste a second. I grabbed the keys, ignored the sob trapped in my throat, and ran for the stairs. But when I got into the Mercedes and pressed the ignition, the dashboard glowed red. The tank was bone-dry. Empty. The car wouldn’t even make it out of the parking garage, let alone thirty miles to the city hospital. “You bitch!” I slammed my fist against the steering wheel, the sound of my own breakdown muffled by the luxury interior. She had planned this. Every second of it. I pulled out my phone to scream at Parker, but my finger slipped and opened my Instagram feed instead. Parker had just posted. It was a video of me. Me, on my knees in the hallway. Me, looking broken and pathetic. The caption: When the ‘Ice Queen’ finally learns her place. Some guys just have that touch. He’d filmed it. While I was debasing myself to save my mother’s life, he was thinking about how many likes he could get from his “bros.” I scrolled through the comments, my face burning as if I’d been slapped a thousand times. “Holy shit, Parker! You actually got her to bow? Absolute legend.” “I always knew Diana was a closet sub. Nice work, man.” “Lydia for the win! Taking back what’s hers.” My stomach turned. But I couldn’t afford revenge yet. Not yet. I wiped my eyes, gritted my teeth until I tasted blood, and forced myself to think. I opened the neighborhood’s private community group on Facebook. HELP. Emergency. Mother having a heart attack. Need a ride to Mercy General immediately. Will pay anything. Most of the residents were asleep or out, but a few seconds later, a reply popped up. “I’m in 12C. I’ve got a car in the driveway. Come up.” Fifteen minutes later, I burst through the hospital doors. The fluorescent lights were blinding, the hallway smelling of antiseptic and death. My father was sitting on a plastic chair, looking as though he had aged ten years in a single night. When he saw me, his eyes filled with tears. “Diana… you’re here… your mother…” Before he could finish, a doctor in blue scrubs emerged from the double doors. “Doctor? How is she? Can I see her?” The doctor took a long, heavy breath and slowly shook his head. “I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.”

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It was my second day at the County Clerk’s office after transferring back to the city. I was still settling in, shadowing one of the senior clerks, Sarah, when a young woman walked up to the counter. She looked like she’d stepped off a runway—expensive silk blouse, designer bag, and an aura of effortless privilege. Sarah leaned in and whispered, “Here we go again. This is her ninety-ninth time requesting a certified copy of her marriage license. We keep her files on standby; it’s faster that way.” I blinked, stunned. “Ninety-ninth?” Sarah chuckled, pulling up a digital folder. “Yeah. Local girl, married a tech mogul old enough to be her father. They have these explosive fights, and her favorite move is to shred the marriage certificate. It’s their little toxic ritual.” She tapped her screen, looking a bit envious. “Only a man with that much money can afford to indulge that kind of bratty behavior. Word is her husband is the head of the Blackwood empire—Sebastian Blackwood himself.” A cold shiver raced down my spine. My brow furrowed instinctively. “The Blackwoods? They’re practically royalty in this city. You’d think someone in that position would value discretion. Are you sure she’s not faking it?” Sarah’s eyes went wide, and she practically lunged across the desk to cover my mouth. “Honey, hush! That is very much the real Sebastian Blackwood. You do not want to be on his bad side.” I froze. My hand trembled, and my phone slipped from my grasp, clattering onto the laminate desktop. The screen lit up. The lock screen was a candid photo of me, leaning my head against Sebastian’s shoulder, both of us laughing under a canopy of autumn leaves. The girl on the other side of the glass saw it. Her face transformed from bored annoyance to sharp, jagged rage. She reached through the transaction slot and snatched the phone before I could react. “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice rising to a screech. “Why do you have a picture with my husband?” … 1 I tried to speak, but my throat felt like it was filled with broken glass. My husband. The man in that photo was Sebastian. My husband of five years. The Blackwood family was a dynasty, a web of old money and corporate power that stretched across the country. We had kept our marriage a secret. Sebastian told me it was for my own protection—that the media would devour me, that his family’s enemies would use me as leverage. He wanted to keep our “little world” private. I believed him. I had believed him for five years. Standing there, watching this girl clutch my phone, I realized I wasn’t his “protected secret.” I was his ghost. “I’ve seen women like you,” the girl—Lexi, according to her file—spat, her face flushing a deep, ugly red. “Social climbers. Professional mistresses. You see a man with a billion dollars and you think you can just claw your way in? And you work here? For the government? I’m going to have your job for this. I’m filing a formal complaint!” Sarah stepped in, trying to play peacemaker. “Ms. Miller—excuse me, Mrs. Blackwood—please, stay calm. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation…” “Explanation? Look at the photo! They’re practically on top of each other!” I forced a breath into my lungs. I reached out and took my phone back from her hand. My voice was eerily steady, the kind of calm that only comes when you’ve completely dissociated from reality. “It’s a misunderstanding,” I said. “I used to work in the mayor’s office in the next county over. I interviewed Mr. Blackwood for a profile piece. We took a photo together after the session. That’s all.” Lexi narrowed her eyes, searching my face for a lie. “An interview?” “Yes. Professional courtesy.” She stared at me for a few more seconds, and then the tension in her shoulders began to leak away. She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh… God, sorry. I’m just sensitive. My husband is… well, you’ve seen him. Every woman in this city wants a piece of him. I have to stay on high alert.” I forced a thin, professional smile. “I understand.” “Anyway, about the certificate…” “I’m looking at your digital file,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. “You’re missing the updated residency verification. I need to see a physical copy of your utility bill or your property deed.” Lexi groaned, checking her diamond-encrusted watch. “My place is only ten minutes away. I’ll just go grab it.” “I’ll go with you,” I said, standing up. Sarah looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “I’m about to go on my lunch break. I can verify it on-site and take a photo of the document for the file. It saves you a trip back here.” Lexi considered it for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure. Whatever makes this faster. Let’s go.” I followed her out of the building. She led me to a pristine white Porsche, the interior a sickeningly sweet shade of blush pink. Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up to the gates of a familiar luxury condo complex. My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it stopped. I knew this building. I knew this unit. Two years ago, I had used my entire inheritance from my grandmother—money I’d saved since I was a teenager—to put down the deposit on this place. I knew the Blackwoods had estates and penthouses, but I wanted something that was ours. Something I had contributed to, so I could feel like his equal, not his charity case. Back then, Sebastian told me he was having some “liquidity issues” with the family trust. He asked me to keep the deed in my name but said we couldn’t live there yet because it would draw too much attention from the press. He suggested we rent it out. I agreed. I wanted to be a supportive wife. Every month, the “rent” hit my bank account like clockwork. I never checked on the place. I trusted him. I walked into the foyer, my feet feeling like lead. Hanging directly across from the front door was a massive, gold-framed portrait. It was a wedding photo. Sebastian was in a white tuxedo, looking more handsome than I’d ever seen him. Lexi was draped across him in a Vera Wang gown, smiling with the radiant heat of a woman who owned the world. “Make yourself at home,” Lexi said, tossing her keys onto the marble console table. I stepped into the living room. Every nerve in my body was screaming. In five years of marriage, Sebastian had never given me a wedding. No ceremony. No gown. The only photo we had was that blurry shot on my phone from a weekend trip to the mountains—a photo I’d had to beg him to take. But here, he was a different man. The portrait was huge—maybe six feet tall—dominating the room. “Your home is… beautiful,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. She laughed. “I think the photo is a bit much, honestly. A little tacky. But Sebastian insisted. He said he wanted everyone who stepped foot in this house to know exactly who I am. His wife.” “He… seems to adore you.” “He’s okay,” she said, though her eyes were sparkling with triumph. “Take a seat. I’ll go find that paperwork.” I sat on the sofa, staring up at that portrait. Sebastian was smiling with a tenderness I hadn’t seen in years. He didn’t hate being photographed. He just hated being photographed with me. 2 Lexi rummaged through a desk in the corner for a few minutes before coming back empty-handed. “That’s weird. I can’t find the folder. Hold on, I’ll call my husband.” She hit speakerphone before I could protest. “Hey, baby,” Sebastian’s voice filled the room. It was warm, indulgent—the voice he used to use with me when we first met. “Did you shred the paper again? You know, for a mother, you’ve still got the temper of a toddler.” Lexi pouted, even though he couldn’t see her. “Where did you put the deed and the residency papers? The girl from the Clerk’s office is here with me right now.” There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line. “The Clerk’s office is at the house?” “Yeah, she’s being super helpful. Where are the papers?” “I have them with me. I was looking over the property taxes this morning. I’m actually out picking up the new house for you right now—I’ll bring them by in twenty minutes.” “Hurry up, okay? We’re waiting.” “I will. Did you get the formula for the baby yet?” “Yeah, yeah, that organic brand you insisted on.” “Good girl. See you soon.” The line went dead. Lexi beamed at me. “He’ll be here in a few. Oh! You have to see my son!” She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the back of the condo. “He’s six months old. He’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.” I followed her into the nursery, my mind a static-filled void. In the center of the room, a plump, healthy baby boy was sleeping in a high-end crib. Lexi leaned over the rail, her face softening with genuine motherly love. “Isn’t he perfect? Sebastian says he has my nose.” I stood by the crib, my blood turning to ice. They had a child. Sebastian and I had been married for five years. Six months ago, I was supposed to have a baby, too. I had been seven months pregnant when everything went wrong. There was a complication—an “emergency” procedure. I was told the baby didn’t make it. After that, Sebastian told me we should focus on my recovery. He said he couldn’t bear the thought of putting my body through that again. He said we didn’t need children to be happy. I thought he was protecting my heart. I didn’t realize he just didn’t want a child with me. “What’s his name?” I asked, my voice cracking. Lexi’s smile widened. “Callum. Sebastian picked it. He said it was a variation of his favorite flower—a Calla Lily.” A bomb went off in my brain. Calla. That was my name. When I was pregnant, we had spent hours dreaming of names. I had suggested Callum if it was a boy, a way to honor my name, Calla. Sebastian had held me and told me it was perfect. He said it would be a constant reminder of how much he loved me. “Does the name… mean something special?” I whispered. Lexi sighed, her expression flickering with a momentary shadow. “My husband’s ‘late wife’… her name was Calla. Apparently, she died in childbirth. The baby didn’t make it either. He said he wanted to name our son Callum to ‘honor the tragedy’ or something.” I stared at her, the bitterness in my mouth so strong I thought I might choke. Lexi’s voice dropped, sounding uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I tear up those marriage licenses because I’m insecure, honestly. He’s so hung up on the memory of this dead woman. I sometimes wonder if I’m just a replacement. He’s so romantic about her, and I’m just… here.” I looked at the sleeping baby. My stomach twisted into a knot. If my baby had lived, he would be exactly this age. “He told you she died in labor?” Lexi nodded. “Yeah. It nearly destroyed him. He said it took years to move on until he met me. I think it’s fate, really. He says I even look a little like her.” I looked at her face. We looked nothing alike. But if there was one thing we had in common, it was that we were both being played by a master. “Is he good to you?” I asked. Her eyes lit up again. “The best. He’s busy, obviously. But he promised me that in a few years, he’ll step back from the company and we’ll travel the world together.” I nodded slowly. He’d told me the same thing. Five years ago. 3 I stood in that nursery, the silence pressing against my eardrums until my head throbbed. “Where’s her memorial?” I asked, my voice flat. “If he loved his late wife so much, surely there’s a photo? A grave he visits?” Lexi pulled a face. “I asked about that. He said he doesn’t believe in shrines. He said once someone is gone, they live in your heart, not in a frame on a wall.” I looked down at my hands. My knuckles were white. In his heart. What a beautiful lie. But where did my seven-month-old son live? I unclenched my fists, my palms marred by the imprints of my nails. “I have one more question.” “Yeah?” “If your husband is as wealthy as everyone says… why are you living here? This is a nice building, but it’s a far cry from a Blackwood estate.” Lexi laughed. “This was my idea. Sebastian’s world is so… cold. So much marble and glass. I wanted a ‘normal’ life. I made him buy this place so we could feel like a real family.” She pointed to the DIY decorations on the walls. “He wasn’t used to it at first, but now he loves it. He says this is the only place that actually feels like home.” “He bought this for you?” “Mm-hm. A wedding gift.” She leaned in, whispering like we were best friends. “Honestly, it was my insurance policy. If he ever leaves me, I have this. He put it in writing—this place is mine forever.” The ice in my veins reached my heart. Two years ago, Sebastian had asked for the deed to this condo. He told me it was better for “tax purposes” to let his management company handle the rental. He said he wanted me to be an “independent woman” with my own rental income so I wouldn’t have to ask him for money. The “rent” I’d been receiving was just my own life being sold back to me in installments. “You’re very lucky,” I said. My voice was trembling so hard I wasn’t sure she could understand me. Lexi smiled and went back to cooing at the baby. I watched her profile. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. She knew nothing. But even if she did, would it matter? 4 The baby in the crib started to fuss. Lexi immediately scooped him up, rocking him gently against her chest. I stepped closer to get a better look. And then, the world stopped spinning. Behind the baby’s right ear, there was a tiny, distinct skin tag. A “preauricular tag,” the doctors call it. I gasped, my eyes wide with horror. Six months ago, during my last ultrasound at seven months, the tech had pointed out that exact same thing. It’s a harmless genetic quirk. The doctor had told me it was purely cosmetic and could be snipped off after birth. How could there be such a coincidence? “How old did you say he was?” I asked, my voice rising. “Six months. To the day.” Lexi frowned as the baby continued to cry. “He’s always been a bit fussy. The doctors said it’s because he was premature. His system is sensitive.” My hands began to shake uncontrollably. “Premature?” “Yeah. I was terrified of the pain of labor, so I told Sebastian I didn’t want to go through a traditional birth. He was so sweet about it. He arranged for a surrogate—well, a ‘carrier’—to handle the pregnancy for us.” Lexi sighed, adjusting the baby. “But the woman he hired was incompetent. She went into labor at seven months. The poor thing was in the NICU for eight weeks. We almost lost him.” “And the woman? The surrogate?” Lexi shrugged dismissively. “She took the money and disappeared. Sebastian said those types are dangerous. He made sure she was paid off and gone so she’d never come back for more.” I stared at the child in her arms, tears stinging my eyes. A terrifying, sickening realization took root in my soul. This wasn’t Lexi’s baby. This wasn’t a surrogate’s baby. This was my baby. The boy they told me had died on the table while I was under anesthesia. Sebastian, you monster. You deserve to rot in hell. I forced myself to stay upright. I forced my voice to stay calm. “Did you ever meet her? The surrogate?” Lexi shook her head. “No. Sebastian handled everything. He said it was better that way.” She noticed my expression and her brow furrowed. “Are you okay? You’re pale as a ghost.” “I’m fine,” I lied. “Just low blood sugar. I skipped lunch.” She looked at me suspiciously, about to say something else, when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Sebastian. [Working late tonight, don’t wait up. Get some sleep, Calla. Love you.] I stared at the words. Just then, the front door opened. “That’s him!” Lexi cheered, holding the baby up. I heard the heavy thud of a designer briefcase hitting the floor and then that voice—the voice of the man I had loved for a third of my life. “Hey, beautiful. Did you miss me?” “We did! Also, the girl from the County Clerk is here to help with the papers!” Footsteps echoed down the hallway. I stood at the entrance of the nursery, watching as Sebastian Blackwood walked through the door. He was wearing a sharp charcoal suit, looking every bit the titan of industry. The moment his eyes met mine, the color drained from his face. He looked like he’d just seen a ghost—because he had. In that second, the sorrow and the shock evaporated, replaced by a cold, searing rage. I smiled at him. I took one slow step forward. “What’s the matter, Sebastian?” I asked, my voice like a razor. “You look surprised to see your ‘dead’ wife standing in your nursery.”

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From the moment my daughter learned to speak, she treated me like a romantic rival. Every time my husband and I tried to be intimate, she would burst into the room, physically wedging herself between us. “You’re such a slut, Mom! Stop trying to seduce my daddy!” Once, at dinner, my husband reached over to put a piece of steak on my plate. My daughter screamed, ran to the balcony, and climbed onto the railing of our sixteenth-floor apartment. “Unless Daddy stays away from Mom, I’m jumping right now!” Even when I sat at my vanity to put on makeup, her voice would drip with venomous mockery: “You’re just an old woman. No matter how much paint you put on that face, you’ll never be as pretty as me.” Later, when my husband cheated, I was terrified she would be mistreated by a stepmother. I fought tooth and nail for her custody, burning through my savings and my sanity. In response, my daughter looked at me with a face twisted by hysteria and threw a bottle of industrial-grade sulfuric acid at me. “You’ll never separate me from Daddy! Daddy belongs to me and me alone!” Maybe the universe took pity on the sheer agony of my death, because it gave me a second chance. I woke up back at the beginning. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I gave up custody. “From now on, I want to be as far away from that girl as possible.” … My husband, David, looked at me in genuine shock. “Naomi? Where is this coming from? You were ready to burn the world down to take her with you. Why the sudden change of heart?” Before I could answer, our ten-year-old daughter, Sophie, stormed into the living room. She didn’t just walk; she attacked, kicking and scratching at my legs. “I’m not going with you anyway!” she shrieked. “We’re both women, Mom. I know exactly what you’re doing. You’re just jealous because Daddy loves me more!” She threw herself into David’s arms, clinging to his neck and throwing me a triumphant, nasty look. “Nobody can split us up. I’m going to be Daddy’s little girl forever.” Even though Sophie had treated me like an enemy since she was a toddler, she was still my own flesh and blood. In my first life, when I found out David was planning to remarry immediately, I fought him for months. I gave up half my assets just to secure her custody, thinking I was saving her. But then I remembered the sensation of my skin melting—the white-hot, bubbling scream of my own nerves being eaten away by acid. I picked up the divorce papers and signed my name with a steady hand. “I’m respecting my daughter’s wishes. She stays with you.” Sophie froze, her eyes widening in momentary confusion. I moved to finalize the documents, but she lunged forward, snatching the papers off the coffee table. “You’re a discarded wife! How dare you try to take Daddy’s money? Have you no shame?” she barked. “Daddy, you said you’d buy me all those designer dresses! Don’t give this old woman a cent.” She hugged David’s leg, her voice turning into a sugary, manipulative coo, telling him that a “failure of a woman” like me didn’t deserve a settlement. She had no idea about David’s affair, nor did she care that I was legally entitled to a seven-figure payout. David didn’t correct her. Instead, he leaned into the “noble father” persona he loved so much. “I’m just too kind-hearted, Sophie. I can’t bring myself to be too cruel to your mother, even if she doesn’t deserve it.” He stroked her hair. “I know you’re worried about how hard I work for our money. You really are my little angel.” Watching them perform this twisted duet, I felt a cold laugh bubbling in my chest. David was the true architect of this monster. He never corrected her behavior; he fed her delusions with endless indulgence until her mind became a warped, competitive maze. David eventually managed to coax Sophie out of the room. The moment she was gone, he leaned in and whispered, “Naomi, don’t mention the remarriage to Sophie yet. I’m worried she’s too fragile to handle it right now. When the timing is right, I’ll introduce her to her new mom.” Sophie, blissfully unaware, was currently in the hallway celebrating her “victory.” She had pulled our wedding photo off the wall and was jumping on my face in the picture, her heels puncturing the glass. “Yes! I finally won! The rival is gone!” Watching her, I felt a profound sense of detachment. It wasn’t just heartbreak anymore; it was pity. I wondered if she’d still be smiling when she realized she was about to face a brand-new “rival”—one who didn’t share my maternal instinct. Sophie caught me looking. She laughed, a shrill, mocking sound. “Are you jealous, Naomi? From today on, Daddy is all mine!” I didn’t say a word. I walked into the bedroom and began packing. Since I had opted for a cash settlement instead of the house, and because David was terrified I’d change my mind during the mandatory thirty-day “cooling-off” period required by our state’s laws, we had an agreement. I would stay in the guest room for the month while I finalized my new apartment. When Sophie saw me moving my things into the small room instead of leaving the house entirely, she flipped. “Why aren’t you taking your suitcases out? Are you trying to stay here and rot?” she screamed. “You shameless bitch! I knew you wouldn’t give up that easily!” She began grabbing my clothes and throwing them into the kitchen trash can. Then she ran to David, sobbing. “Daddy, why is she still here? I hate her! Make her leave!” David tried to explain the legal cooling-off period, but she wouldn’t hear it. “I came out of her stomach, Daddy. I know her better than anyone,” Sophie hissed. “She’s trying to stay here to seduce you. She’s playing hard to get so you’ll take her back. She doesn’t want the divorce; she’s just tricking you!” Even with the papers signed, her hostility had only intensified. The “quiet moment” I needed to process my grief was shattered by her screeching. I had reached my limit. I stepped forward and slapped her—hard. “Shut up,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to call me Mom anymore. And you sure as hell don’t get to talk to me like that. We are almost strangers, Sophie. Don’t expect me to tolerate your bullshit for one second longer.” In my previous life, I had worshipped her. Even when she was at her worst, I couldn’t bring myself to be firm. Sophie had never seen this version of me. She went pale, then burst into a theatrical wail, burying her face in David’s chest. “See, Daddy? The mask finally slipped! This is how she treats me when you’re not looking! She’s always been jealous of us. She abuses me because she can’t stand how much you love me!” This wasn’t new. Since she was four, she had been a master of the “smear campaign,” weaving elaborate lies to turn David against me. In her narrative, I was a violent, unstable shrew. And David always believed her. “She’s just a child, Naomi. Why would she lie about something like that?” Back then, I couldn’t believe my own daughter was “competing” with me for her father’s heart. By the time I accepted the truth, it was too late. Looking at her now, I just smirked. “You’re ten years old, Sophie, and you’re already a better actress than anyone in Hollywood. Save your breath. Fighting me is a waste of time. You should worry about your dad’s—” Before I could finish, David grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the hallway. “Naomi! What are you doing? I told you to keep the remarriage a secret! If you drop that on her now, she’ll have a nervous breakdown.” Watching him pretend to be the “concerned father” made me want to retch. “You didn’t care about her breakdown when you were screwing that girl in our bed, David. You don’t care about Sophie; you just care about your image. But whatever. I’m done being the villain in your little soap opera.” Sophie would find out the truth eventually. I decided I’d have a front-row seat for the fallout. I underestimated Sophie’s dedication. To ensure there was no chance of a reconciliation, she spent the next few days going door-to-door in our gated community. “My mom was having an affair,” she told the neighbors, her eyes brimming with fake tears. “My dad is divorcing her, but she refuses to leave. She’s obsessed with him. Please, can you help us get her out?” By the weekend, the neighbors were whispering as I walked to my car. “I never would have guessed,” I heard Mrs. Higgins say from across the street. “She looked so respectable, but she was out there sleeping around. Even her own daughter can’t stand to look at her.” In their eyes, I was the ultimate failure. A cheating wife, a hated mother—a woman whose life had collapsed under the weight of her own sins. David, worried I might snap and blow his cover, finally tried to play peacemaker. “It’s just a misunderstanding, everyone. Don’t listen to a child’s rambling. We’re handling our private business.” Sophie was livid. “Daddy! Why are you defending her? I’m doing this for you!” She turned to me, her face contorting. Since I told her she didn’t get to call me “Mom,” she started using my first name like a slur. “Listen up, Naomi. This divorce is happening. I’m going to make sure you never have the chance to crawl back!” David, finally pushed by the social embarrassment, snapped at her. “Enough! This is adult business. Go to your room and stay there!” Sophie’s eyes filled with real tears this time. But she didn’t blame David for yelling. She pivoted her rage right back to me. “It’s all your fault! If I didn’t have such a pathetic mother, Daddy would never be this stressed! You’re trying to come between us, but it won’t work!” I just shook my head. “David, this is the monster you raised. When your little mistress moves in, I hope you’re ready for the life you’ve built.” I didn’t give David a chance to respond. I pulled out my phone and sent a blast message to the neighborhood Facebook group. I laid it all out: the affair, the proof, the reason for the divorce. I told them that anyone spreading Sophie’s lies would be hearing from my lawyer for defamation. David panicked, trying to grab my phone to delete the post, but I was already out the door. “Naomi, wait! You can’t leave! If you disappear, how do I know you’ll show up to sign the final papers in three weeks?” I shook him off with a look of pure disgust. “Trust me, David. Nobody wants that piece of paper more than I do.” I checked into a hotel. Within an hour, a text from Sophie popped up: Don’t even think about sneaking back to seduce him. I’m watching you. She followed it with a video. She had gathered every photo of me in the house—my graduation pictures, my portraits—and was burning them in a metal trash can, cheering as my face turned to ash. I didn’t reply. I just blocked her number. In my last life, I spent months agonizing over the divorce, trying to “win” a child who hated me. This time, I felt light. I spent the next three weeks at a luxury spa, hit the gym, and hosted a “Freedom Party” for my closest friends. By the time the cooling-off period ended and we met at the lawyer’s office, I looked radiant. Sophie glared at me, scanning my face. “You really went all out to try and win him back, didn’t you? Botox? New hair? Give it up, Naomi. He’s never coming back. From now on, I’m the only girl in his life.” She clung to David’s arm like a trophy wife. I didn’t say a word. I picked up my copy of the divorce decree, kissed the seal, and walked out. I bought a new condo across town and started my life. But a week after moving in, there was a pounding on my door at 2:00 AM. It was the police. “Ms. Jackson? We found your daughter wandering the streets. Why is she out alone at this hour?” Before I could process the question, Sophie pushed past the officer and stormed into my living room, her eyes darting around wildly. “Is he here? Is Daddy here? He didn’t come home tonight, so you must have hidden him!” She started ripping open my closet doors, tossing my newly organized clothes onto the floor. A familiar, hot rage flared in my chest. I grabbed her by her ponytail and shoved her toward the police officer. “Nobody wants your father, Sophie. He isn’t here. Get out of my house!” Sophie flinched, then immediately squeezed out a sob. “Officer, look! See? This is how she always treats me…” The cop frowned at me. “Ma’am, she’s your daughter. There’s no need for that.” I forced myself to breathe. “Officer, I am divorced. Her father has sole custody. She didn’t ‘get lost’—she’s here to harass me. Call her father. I’ll give you his number.” Sophie didn’t believe me. “Who else would he be with? You’re the only one who would keep him out all night!” I almost told her the truth—that David was likely in a hotel bed with his “new mom”—but I knew she wouldn’t believe it. She’d just find a way to blame me. I gave the police David’s address and told them to take her home. The next day, an officer called to follow up. He told me Sophie claimed she couldn’t reach her dad and was scared to be alone. She said she only came to me because she was “lonely,” but I had blocked her. The cop, clearly moved by her “sad little girl” act, lectured me. “She just misses her mother. There’s no grudge that should come between a parent and a child. You need to do better.” I stayed silent. There was no point in explaining the Electra complex or the psychological warfare to a stranger. Instead, I sent David a one-sentence email: Bring your new wife home already. I’m done being the scapegoat. Peace lasted for three days. Then, Sophie’s school counselor called. “Sophie is locked in the bathroom. she won’t come out unless you’re the one to pick her up. Naomi, regardless of the custody agreement, you have a moral responsibility here. This child is traumatized by the divorce. You can’t just abandon her.” The counselor hinted that if I didn’t show up, they might involve social services or “community advocates” (meaning: local gossip blogs). I went. I had to protect my professional reputation. To my surprise, Sophie was perfectly sweet at the school. She hugged me, calling me “Mommy” in front of the counselor, playing the part of the grieving child to perfection. I played along, my skin crawling, and drove her back to David’s house. I dropped her bag in the foyer and turned to leave. Sophie’s face dropped. The “sweet child” mask dissolved, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated malice.

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