On my birthday, my husband presented me with a rare antique vase—the very piece he knew I coveted above all else. The moment his back was turned, I slipped three wax-sealed sulfuric acid capsules inside. I did it because I had died once before. And this time, I had returned. In my past life, I cherished this vase. I touched it every single day, mesmerized by its smooth glaze and elegant form. But as the days passed, my health began to fail, leaving me bedridden and weak. Eventually, the doctors ran out of answers, and there was no cure left to try. What I never expected was that after exactly forty-nine days, a woman with a perfectly sculpted face would step out of the porcelain vessel. She took over my body, slept with my husband in our marriage bed, and left my soul trapped in the cold, dark ceramic forever. From the dark depths of the vase, I was forced to listen to them whispering in the dark. “Don’t worry, she’s never getting out,” Daphne whispered to him, her voice dripping with malice. “The vessel has bound her soul. I have her body now. Gradually, my own face, my own figure, my youth will settle into this flesh. We’ll just tell everyone I had some extensive plastic surgery. No one will ever suspect a thing.” “Letting you have her body is the only useful thing she’s ever done,” Christian replied, kissing her. “What was she going to do with a failing health anyway? She’s better off dead. Now, the Mercer fortune is ours.” “Do you think she’d die if the vase broke?” Daphne mused. “Why don’t we find out?” Christian sneered. Daphne tossed the vase onto the marble floor. And my soul shattered into a million pieces… Reborn into this life, I couldn’t help but smile. That vase of yours is so good at containing things, isn’t it? Let’s see how much it can hold. 1 The rustling of the sycamore leaves outside the window woke me. I bolted upright from the massive, plush waterbed, my heart clenched by an invisible fist. The phantom pain was so excruciating I could barely breathe. Cold sweat soaked through my silk nightgown. It wasn’t a dream. I stared at my hands—pale, smooth, unwrinkled. I was alive. I had returned. Three months before it all ended. I was back in the bedroom where the nightmare began, on the very day Christian was supposed to bring that lethal vase into our home. “Ma’am? Are you alright?” My personal assistant and bodyguard, Maeve, rushed in, holding my schedule for the day, her face pale with concern. I tried to speak, but my throat was parched, unable to make a sound. The memories flooded back. In my past life, I had kept that vase on my nightstand, lovingly wiping it down every morning. By the forty-ninth night, my soul was violently ripped from my chest and shoved into that icy clay. Daphne, the parasitic spirit bound to the vessel, stole my life, my husband, and my family fortune. And when she grew tired of looking at the vase, she shattered it, leaving me with nothing—not even a ghost of a physical form. “Ma’am, you’re so pale. Did you have a nightmare?” Maeve handed me a glass of warm water. I took the glass, my fingers trembling against the cool glass. In the vanity mirror, I saw my reflection: young, vibrant, untouched by death. Bianca Mercer. The reigning matriarch of the Mercer Group. In this life, I wasn’t a trapped ghost yet. “Maeve,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “Where is Christian?” “He said he’s on his way back. He mentioned he has a grand birthday surprise for you.” I clenched my fists. A grand surprise indeed. Just then, footsteps echoed down the hallway—steady, arrogant, carrying the weight of a man who believed he owned the world. Christian was back. He wore a tailored Italian suit, but instead of a gift box, he carefully carried an object draped in heavy red velvet. A small entourage of eager house staff followed closely behind him. “Bianca, darling, how are you feeling?” Christian walked to the edge of the bed, his voice slick with a greasy warmth that made my stomach turn. “The maids said you screamed. Are you unwell?” Unwell? I was scared to death by the two of you. I dug my fingernails into my palms, using the physical pain to keep myself grounded. I couldn’t drop my guard yet. “I’m fine, sweetie,” I said, forcing the obedient, gentle smile I had spent a lifetime perfecting. “Just a silly nightmare.” Christian paused, a flicker of cunning crossing his eyes before he smoothed it over with a practiced look of adoration. “Silly girl,” he cooed, placing the velvet-draped object on my nightstand. “That’s why I found this for you. A protective treasure. Your birthday is tomorrow, and since you adore fine porcelain, I knew this would suit you better than any diamond.” He slowly pulled back the red velvet. The morning light caught the object. It was a rare, exquisite Qing Dynasty underglaze red and gold-traced oil-hammer vase. It had an extremely narrow neck, a long slender throat, and a dangerously swollen, rounded belly. The deep red glaze looked ominous, and the gold leaf trace lines shimmered like veins under the bedroom chandelier. “Oh, my God, it’s gorgeous!” Daisy, a young maid known for her loose tongue, gasped from the doorway. “It really is,” Martha, the cook, chimed in with a sycophantic grin. “Sir is so devoted to you, ma’am! It looks like a museum piece. Having this in your room will surely bring good energy and ward off any illness!” “Absolutely,” Walter, the head housekeeper, applauded. “Sir went to great lengths to acquire this. Ma’am, you must touch it, feel the craftsmanship.” The servants kept prattling on, their faces filled with envy, completely unaware that this beautiful object was a beautifully packaged death warrant. Every blessing they uttered felt like another nail driven into my coffin. I looked at Christian. He looked smug, clearly pleased by the servants’ reactions. He was using their presence to pressure me. If I refused the gift now, I would look ungrateful and superstitious. In my past life, I had fallen for this exact trap. I had polished it daily, believing his lies about its protective energy. But that swollen belly and narrow neck weren’t meant to collect wealth—they were meant to trap a soul. Exactly forty-nine days of “nourishment” was all it took. “Do you like it?” Christian asked, watching my expression closely. “Underglaze red is the hardest to fire. Look at that depth.” I reached out, stopping just a millimeter before my fingers touched the cold glaze. I pressed my hand to my mouth, playing the part of a deeply moved, slightly superstitious wife. “Oh, honey, it’s beautiful. But… I’ve heard that highly valuable antiques carry a certain heavy energy. It… it won’t bring bad luck, will it?” “Of course not,” Christian said quickly. He grabbed my hand and pressed it firmly against the bulging ceramic belly. The icy touch sent a shiver down my spine. “I had it blessed by a spiritual master. He said that if you personally tend to it and keep it by your bedside for exactly forty-nine days, it will protect you. But remember, darling—you must be the only one to handle it. No one else.” Forty-nine days. Personally tend to it. Hearing the familiar script made my blood boil, but I kept my smile bright. If you want me to feed it, Christian, I’ll feed it well. “If it’s our guardian treasure,” I said, eyes sparkling with fake adoration, “I will place it in the most important spot in our room.” The moment Christian left the room, I summoned Maeve. “Ma’am, what are your orders?” she asked, her eyes sharp. “I need you to find an esoteric priest. Get me a set of protective garments—something I can wear under my clothes, woven with protective wards and blessed scriptures.” Maeve paused, then nodded. “Right away, ma’am.” Half an hour later, Maeve returned with a set of custom-made, silk-blend undergarments, lined with protective symbols. “This might get quite warm to wear constantly, ma’am,” Maeve noted quietly. “Being warm is better than being dead,” I replied, smoothing down the fabric. “I want Daphne to realize that the body she intends to steal won’t be so easily taken.” Now, it was time to feed the vase. I whispered a few instructions to Maeve. “Ma’am, are you sure?” Maeve hesitated. “This is an incredibly rare artifact…” “Did I ask for your opinion, Maeve? Just do it.” Maeve bowed her head and slipped out. Soon, she returned with a bouquet of fresh, thorny red roses, and… a small bucket of highly concentrated, fermented organic manure. I had her pour the liquefied manure straight into the neck of the pristine vase, then stuffed the long, thorn-heavy stems of the roses deep inside. The thorns scraped against the delicate interior walls with a faint, satisfying screech. The putrid stench of the manure immediately filled the room, making us gag. “Perfect,” I whispered, covering my nose. “Now it’s serving its true purpose.” The witching hour arrived. I hid in the darkest corner beneath the bed, holding my breath, staring up at the vase on the nightstand. The red glaze began to glow with an eerie, unnatural light, casting long shadows across the ceiling. In my past life, I would have been asleep, my soul slowly drifting into the porcelain. But tonight, I wore the blessed garments. The red light swept over my hiding spot, but it hit an invisible shield and bounced back. Then, the door creaked open. Christian slipped inside. He didn’t look at the bed. He looked straight at the figure emerging from the vase—Daphne’s spirit, manifesting in a translucent, flickering form. “Daphne, my love,” he whispered, throwing himself into her arms. They immediately began their shameful tryst on my bed. Beneath the bed, my fingernails dug deep into the carpet. But the real show was about to start. Just as they reached the height of their passion, Daphne let out a blood-curdling shriek. “Ahhh!!!” Christian froze. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” “It hurts… it hurts so much!” Daphne gasped, her spiritual form violently shuddering. “There’s something sharp inside me! It’s tearing me apart!” Of course it did. The thorny roses stuffed inside the vase were physically and spiritually tearing at her essence from the inside out. “Just bear with it…” Christian muttered, though he, too, was beginning to grimace.

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My influencer roommate thought that by destroying my lab samples, she could steal my spot in the prestigious Broad Institute fellowship. She poured nine months of my engineered bacterial culture straight down the drain. And she livestreamed the whole thing. “Hey guys, my roommate keeps her rotten yogurt in our room. It’s so gross.” … 1 During the final review meeting, I quietly slid my phone across the polished table to Dean Crane. On the screen, my roommate, Gina, was holding up my glass beaker. She smirked directly at the camera. “See? This is the little pet project she treats like gold. She never lets anyone touch it, acting all mysterious.” Her voice was laced with easy disdain as she complained to her followers on the other side of the screen. “I think it’s time we see what’s actually in here.” Then, against a rolling tide of laughing emojis in the live chat, she tilted the beaker. Without a second thought, she poured the milky-white culture directly into the dorm sink. The harsh, rushing sound of the water came through the phone’s speaker, sharp and grating. She tapped her long, red-manicured fingernails against the empty glass. “Nothing special. Just smells sour. Completely worthless.” The video paused. Dean Crane’s face had gone rigid, his jaw clenched tight as he looked up from the screen. His voice was thick with suppressed anger. “What exactly was in that beaker?” “An L7-strain engineered culture,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “It was the core of my synthetic bio-fermentation project. And according to the Broad Institute’s final defense requirements, it was the mandatory live specimen I had to submit today.” Beside him, Professor Davies, who had always mentored my research, stood up so fast his chair legs shrieked against the linoleum. “The live culture is gone? Laurel, do you have a backup?” I looked down at the mahogany table, my eyes burning. “No, Professor Davies. That was the final batch. It was also the one with the highest yield.” Nine months. Two hundred and seventy days and nights. I had screened exactly one hundred and seven colonies, burned out three shaking incubators, and tossed out six ruined batches of growth media. Every failed attempt meant thousands of dollars of grant money vanishing into thin air. I had practically lived in the lab just to get the yield above the required threshold. If I passed the defense today, I was supposed to secure the single doctoral fellowship spot at the Broad Institute. My advisor had already made the introductions. It was the only spot in the entire department. Now, the beaker was empty. The culture was gone. The path I had spent nine agonizing months paving had just been washed down the sewer lines. Dean Crane’s composure cracked, his eyes dark with fury. “Who did this?” I looked past him, through the glass wall of the conference room and out into the hallway. Gina was standing at the far end of the corridor. She was wearing a brand-new white eyelet dress, looking like a picture-perfect garden party guest, waiting around just to watch my defense fall apart. When she caught me looking, she smiled through the glass—a tiny, mocking tilt of her lips. I turned back to the dean. “My roommate, Gina.” When they called Gina into the room, she strolled in with an air of complete indifference. She gave me a brief, dismissive glance before turning a soft, innocent face toward Dean Crane. “Dean Crane, Professor Davies, thank you for seeing me,” she said, her voice dropping into a gentle, sweet register. “I really had no idea that was an important experiment. Laurel is always keeping random jars and bottles in our room.” She knit her brow, looking like a child trying hard to remember. “The beaker was just sitting on the edge of the desk. It smelled incredibly sour, so I honestly thought it was a spoiled drink.” A cold laugh nearly bubbled up in my throat. A spoiled drink? That wasn’t what she’d told her stream. Besides, the beaker had three separate layers of waterproof lab tape wrapped around it, labeled in thick, red Sharpie. L7 EXPERIMENTAL SAMPLE. DO NOT TOUCH. LIVE CULTURE. To say she didn’t see it was a lie so bold it was almost impressive. Dean Crane tapped his pen against the desk, his tone cutting. “Then why did you feel the need to livestream yourself throwing it away?” Gina bit her lower lip. “I… I was just sharing my daily dorm life. I’m a beauty and lifestyle creator. My followers love seeing the raw, behind-the-scenes stuff. I really didn’t notice what was written on the glass.” I couldn’t listen to her spin it anymore. “You held the camera on the beaker for fifteen seconds,” I said, my voice cutting through her performance. “And you read the label out loud. You said, ‘Do not touch? How pretentious.’” Gina’s expression didn’t even flicker. She turned on me, entirely defensive. “I was joking with my chat! That’s just the humor of the stream. And honestly, don’t you have some responsibility here? Who keeps biohazardous materials in a shared dorm room anyway?” “The entire biology building had a scheduled power outage starting at eleven last night,” I replied, keeping my voice level. “I logged an emergency request with the department and posted the approval in our floor group. I told you three times face-to-face that I had to keep the incubator in our room for twelve hours.” Gina rolled her eyes. “I had my AirPods in. I didn’t hear a word. Besides, I’m not your research advisor or your lab tech. Why is it my job to guard your stuff?” In the silence of the room, the professors exchanged troubled looks. It was so incredibly familiar. Last semester, when she stole my preliminary thesis presentation slides and slapped her own name on them for a state-level grant application, she had used the exact same defense. We live together, everything is shared, it was just an accident. And back then, everyone had told me to let it go for the sake of roommate harmony. Now, she had flushed my future down the drain. Professor Davies set his pen down on the table, his eyes heavy with sympathy. “Laurel, I’m sorry. We’ll have to pause your defense. The physical sample is a non-negotiable requirement. You’ll have to submit a new live culture.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I understand, Professor.” “How long to regrow it to this yield?” another committee member asked softly. I let out a slow, quiet breath. “Four months. At least.” Dean Crane sighed. “Then the Broad fellowship… we can’t hold the slot.” I didn’t say anything. The fellowship deadline was this Friday. It wouldn’t wait four minutes, let alone four months. Gina piped up, her voice light and accommodating. “Laurel, I’ll cover the costs. Just send me an invoice for the glass beaker and whatever yeast you used.” I looked at her. She was offering to pay for a few dollars of borosilicate glass and media powder, as if that could replace my master’s thesis and my doctoral career. I picked up my phone, backed up the screen recording to my cloud drive, and stood up. “Sure,” I said, matching her casual tone. “Let’s start with the cost of a PhD admission.” The meeting ended in a quiet, frustrating stalemate. I didn’t go back to the dorm, nor did I head to my bench. Instead, I walked straight to the campus security office. The technician on duty listened to my explanation and pulled up the hallway footage from the third floor of our residence hall. The digital timestamp read 1:16 AM. The footage showed me walking down the corridor, cradling the small portable incubator like a newborn child. Inside the room, Gina was sitting at her desk, the ring light reflecting in the window glass as she chatted to her phone. I walked in, set the incubator down, and spent nearly a minute speaking directly to her. Gina didn’t even look up; she just waved a hand dismissively, her mouth moving in a quick, annoyed, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” At 1:47 AM, the camera caught me leaving the room to go down to the basement ice machine to get extra cooling packs. I was gone for exactly three minutes. The moment the door clicked shut behind me, Gina got up. There was no hesitation in her stride. She walked over to my desk, picked up the beaker, turned the labeled side directly to her phone camera, and unscrewed the cap with practiced ease. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a perfectly timed execution. I copied the footage onto a flash drive and uploaded it to three separate cloud servers. As I stepped out of the security office, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was Dr. Collins, the head of admissions for the Broad Joint Program. My chest tightened. I took a breath and answered. “Hello, Dr. Collins.” “Laurel, hi,” her voice was warm but professional. “We just received a note from your department indicating there might be a delay with your final defense submission?” I leaned against the concrete wall of the stairwell, my head spinning. “Yes, Dr. Collins. We had an unexpected incident with the specimen, but I’m prepared to restart the culture immediately.” There was a long pause on the other line—a silence that felt like a slow, heavy door closing. “Laurel, you know how these joint fellowships work. The funding is tied directly to the department’s institutional recommendation.” Her voice carried a trace of genuine regret. “The board requires us to submit the finalized cohort list by Friday afternoon. If your defense isn’t signed off by then, the slot automatically goes to the next alternate on the list.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “I understand. Thank you, Dr. Collins.” When the line went dead, my hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone. The next alternate. In our entire graduating class, there was only one other student in the molecular biology track who had applied for the Broad fellowship. Gina. She had switched her research focus to match mine only last semester, and the preliminary data she’d submitted with her application was a chaotic mess of poorly plotted charts. But lately, she’d been bragging at department mixers about her “creative vision” and how much the selection committee loved her “modern approach.” I had assumed it was just her usual self-promotion. But looking at the timeline now, the pieces clicked together with terrifying precision. It was too perfect. She had timed it down to the hour, waiting for the exact moment when she could ruin my submission and automatically step into the vacancy. I turned around and walked straight back to our dorm. Gina was lounging in my desk chair, her legs crossed, humming a pop song as she wiped off her makeup. When she saw me walk in, she let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Laurel, seriously, are you still throwing a tantrum?” she asked, tossing a dirty cotton pad toward the trash. “It was a jar of bacteria. You got me chewed out by the dean. Isn’t that enough?” I didn’t say a word. I reached behind me, closed the heavy oak door, and turned the deadbolt with a sharp, echoing click. “You knew exactly what was in that beaker.” She gave me a look that suggested I was completely hysterical. “I already told you, I didn’t. Are you deaf?” “Then why did you do it last night? Right before my defense?” Her eyes flicked to the side, a split-second tell, before her face hardened back into its usual mask of righteous indignation. “You’re paranoid. I don’t keep track of your schedule, Laurel. I have a life.” Instead of arguing, I walked over to her desk. Sitting right beside her makeup mirror was a freshly printed packet. The Broad Institute Joint Fellowship Program – Supplementary Proposal. Applicant: Gina Vance. The final speck of doubt I had—the tiny, naive hope that she was just incredibly careless—evaporated. Gina saw where I was looking. She didn’t try to hide the paper. Instead, she leaned back in the chair, a slow, ugly smile spreading across her face. “Oh. You saw.” She stood up, brushing a speck of dust off her skirt. “Yeah. If you can’t finish your project, the spot opens up. It would be a waste to let it go to another department, wouldn’t it?” I stared at her, watching the smug satisfaction warp her features. “So you did it on purpose.” She picked up a bottle of toner, turning it over in her hands. “Let’s not use such ugly words. Opportunities go to people who are ready to take them. You should have kept a closer eye on your things.” She stepped closer to me, her eyes scanning my faded jeans and the cheap, worn sneakers I’d bought at a thrift store freshman year. “Honestly, Laurel, you really thought you had this in the bag? A girl from some dead-end farming town living on state grants.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “You actually thought writing a few good papers made you special?” She was on a roll now, venting some deep, hidden resentment. “That’s your biggest flaw. You just put your head down and work like a dog. But nobody cares about that. The professors, the board—they remember people who know how to talk, how to present, how to navigate a room. The university wants to fund people who can build a brand. What were you going to do with your little jars of bacteria? Hide in a basement lab forever?” She patted my shoulder, her fingers cold. “You were always just going to clear the path for me.” I looked at her, and for the first time in days, the tightness in my chest loosened. I actually smiled. “Gina, you’re forgetting one thing.” She paused. “You poured out my culture while you were live on camera.” Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she quickly recovered. “An eight-second clip? Please. Out of context, poorly edited—I can spin that a hundred different ways. Who’s going to believe you over me?” She pulled her pink iPhone from her pocket, waving it in front of my face. “And unfortunately for you, the second my stream ended, I deleted the broadcast and the archive from the platform. Your little screen recording doesn’t prove anything about what happened before or after.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. “Without that live specimen, you are absolutely nothing. I did it. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

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Charles brought his pregnant assistant into my Manhattan bridal boutique to try on custom wedding gowns. In the VIP lounge, his friends lounged on the leather sofas, placing bets on how many dresses it would take for me to lose my mind. But even when Amelia stepped out in the final, breathtaking showstopper, my hands remained steady. I kept the measuring tape aligned, quietly recording her numbers. “Charles, man, your wife is literally fitting your mistress,” Max laughed, throwing his head back against the sofa. Charles tapped his cigarette, letting the ash drift onto my wool rug. “She can’t even get pregnant. I pay for every single thing in this place anyway. Consider this her training wheels for playing stepmom. She needs to learn how to serve my son properly.” I rolled up my tape and handed over the invoice. “Congratulations. The fit is perfect. The deposit is two million.” Charles didn’t even blink. He slid a post-nuptial asset division agreement across the glass desk. “Sign it. Amelia’s hormones are all over the place. She wants the title of wife before she feels safe enough to carry to term. Walk away with nothing for now—it’s just a show for her. Once the baby is born, I’ll bring you back.” I picked up the pen, signed my name without a single word of protest, and then took his two-million-dollar check and tore it into tiny pieces. 1 Charles’s posture went rigid. He stared at the white scraps fluttering to the floor, his casual smirk hardening into something ugly. Max scoffed from his armchair, crossing his legs. “Still playing the martyr, Gemma? That’s a cheap trick. Charles is giving you a way out, and you’re acting like you have leverage. Look at yourself. You have nothing without him.” Charles stepped forward, his designer loafers grinding the torn paper into the floor. He grabbed my chin, his fingers digging deep into my skin. “I gave you a life, Gemma. Every single brick of this boutique was paid for with my money. Don’t play the saint with me.” I looked into his raging eyes, my face entirely blank. He hated this the most—my silence, my refusal to scream. With a sudden, violent turn, Charles pointed at the racks of couture gowns lining the showroom. “Smash it. All of it.” Four bodyguards immediately moved into the room. Heavy steel rods shattered the massive crystal display in the center of the showroom. Shards of glass rained down like ice. Gowns that had taken me three years to sew by hand were ripped from their hangers and thrown to the ground. The guards stomped on the delicate white silk, tearing the lace with their hands. The sound of ripping fabric filled the room, followed by the quiet patter of thousands of hand-sewn pearls rolling across the floor. Charles stood directly in front of me, watching my face. “Amelia says these older styles smell like dust. Since you want to be stubborn, let’s use these rags to make some noise for the baby in her belly.” A bodyguard raised his metal rod, aiming for a small glass display case in the corner. Inside sat a pair of inexpensive silver bands. They were worthless to anyone else—just thirty-dollar rings Charles had bought me at a street market when we were broke college students, our first promise of forever. Suddenly, Charles moved. He lunged forward, throwing his body in front of the cabinet. A stray shard of glass sliced through his designer suit, leaving a thin, bleeding line across the back of his hand. The bodyguard froze. Charles turned, staring at the untouched rings, his chest heaving. He pointed a trembling, bloody finger at the guard. “Watch where you’re aiming! Don’t bring your mess near me!” I stood in the middle of the ruined boutique, watching his bizarre display of sentimentality. Once, I would have softened. I would have believed he still loved me. Now, I only found it pathetic. Charles marched back to me, gripping my jaw again so hard his nails sunk into my flesh. He pulled out his phone, aiming the camera at my face. “Look at the screen. Record a message for Amelia. Tell her you’re stepping down voluntarily, that you welcome the baby, and that you wish us a happy life.” He forced my head down, forcing me to stare into the lens. His shoe was grinding directly into a large diamond that had fallen from the bodice of my favorite gown—the one he had bid on desperately at an auction years ago, swearing only I deserved to wear it. Now, he was stepping on it while forcing me to yield to his mistress. I didn’t fight him. I looked at my pale reflection in the screen and spoke clearly. “I, Gemma, am voluntarily stepping aside. I welcome Amelia’s child, and I wish you both a lifetime of happiness.” Charles stopped the recording, a flicker of irritation crossing his eyes. He let go of my jaw and casually forwarded the video to our social circle’s group chat. Max and the others cheered. “That’s how you handle her, Charles. Amelia is going to love this.” Charles wiped a drop of blood from his hand, pulling a cigarette from his silver case. “I’m going out for a smoke. Watch her. Make sure she cleans up every single piece of this garbage before she leaves.” As they walked out, I turned toward my private office at the end of the hall. I needed to get my passport and the design portfolio that contained my entry for the international competition. I pushed the half-open door and stopped. Scattered across the leather sofa were several medical reports. The top one bore Amelia’s name and the words Intrauterine Pregnancy. Next to the papers lay a black tablet Charles had left behind a few days ago. The screen was unlocked, playing a video on a loop. The background was our master bedroom in the Westchester estate. Amelia was wearing my silk pajamas, curled up in Charles’s arms. She pointed coyly at my design sketches on the nightstand. “Charles, this bed is too firm. And those sketches on the table are an eyesore. The whole house smells like her. It makes me sick.” Charles leaned down, kissing her hair, his hand resting on her stomach. “Then we’ll burn everything that has her scent on it. Including those stupid drawings. Once she signs the papers, we’ll use them to start a fire to keep you warm. We’ll only keep her around to help clean up during your recovery.” The coldness in his voice was absolute. I didn’t cry. I walked over, picked up Amelia’s prenatal report, and pulled a stack of yellowed letters from the desk drawer—letters Charles had written to me by hand during our university days. I walked to the shredder in the corner and pressed the power button. The machine roared to life. I fed the prenatal papers and the love letters into the slot together. The sharp blades devoured the paper, reducing our history to neat, meaningless strips of gray dust. I reached into the hidden compartment of my closet and pulled out a black suitcase. I zipped my passport and ID into the inner pocket, then carefully packed my secret design portfolio—the one that would give me a fresh start. Finally, I folded the unfinished gown I had spent six months draping, a piece named Phoenix, and placed it inside. I zipped the suitcase shut, sealing away five years of wasted youth and foolishness. When I walked back into the main showroom, the place looked like a war zone. I navigated around the broken glass, heading straight for the exit. Outside, the autumn wind was cold. I pulled out my phone to call a ride, but four of Charles’s bodyguards immediately blocked my path, forming a wall of black suits. Max stepped out from behind them. “Where do you think you’re going with that suitcase, Gemma? Charles didn’t say you could leave.” Charles walked back toward the door, his cigarette half-burned. His eyes drifted from my face down to the suitcase, and his expression instantly darkened. He took a slow drag, blowing the smoke directly into my face. “Open the suitcase,” he said, his voice quiet but commanding. I gripped the handle tighter. “These are my personal belongings, Charles. We’ve already signed the division of assets.” Charles let out a harsh laugh. “Getting a little too into character for a clean break, aren’t we? What are you trying to steal from my shop? The needles?” He gave a slight nod. Two guards stepped forward, shoving me aside. They grabbed the suitcase and laid it flat on the glass-strewn steps. Using a metal rod, they pried open the locks. The zipper burst. The portfolio slid out, its pages scattering in the wind. And then, the pure white silk of the Phoenix gown spilled onto the pavement, its subtle jacquard patterns catching the gray afternoon light. Just then, a luxury SUV pulled up to the curb. Amelia stepped out, supported carefully by two assistants. She walked over, resting her hand on Charles’s arm. “Charles, I couldn’t find my tablet. Did I leave it here?” Her eyes fell on the Phoenix gown lying on the ground. They lit up instantly. She let go of Charles and walked over, nudging the hem with the toe of her designer shoe. “Charles, this one is so much prettier than the ones we measured earlier. And the waist is loose—it would look beautiful over my bump.” Without hesitation, Charles bent down and picked up the gown that represented my rebirth. He patted the dust off it and draped it over Amelia’s shoulders. But Amelia was broader than me; the gown, tailored precisely to my measurements, wouldn’t close. Charles tugged at the fabric, the seams groaning under the strain. He frowned in disgust. “A cheap, narrow design. It can’t even accommodate a baby.” He grabbed the hem with both hands and ripped it down the middle. The sound of tearing silk pierced the quiet air. The silk train I had stitched by hand, stitch by stitch, was torn in half. But as the fabric parted, his hands seemed to hesitate for a fraction of a second, carefully avoiding the inner collar where my initials, G.L., were embroidered. Amelia pouted. “Charles, you ruined it. I wanted to take it home and use it as a throw blanket.” Charles threw the ruined silk onto the wet pavement. “You don’t need to wear rags like this.” Staring at the torn pieces of Phoenix, my mind went completely blank. That was my ticket to Paris. He had once promised he would be there to watch me win. Now, he was grinding it into the dirt. I lunged forward like a madwoman, trying to gather the scattered design sheets from the wet ground. “Let go of me!” My fingers had just touched the edge of the paper when Charles grabbed my shoulder, throwing me back with brute force. “What is wrong with you!” I lost my balance and fell backward, my back hitting the sharp metal corner of a shattered glass table. A sharp, tearing pain bloomed in my lower abdomen, radiating through my entire body. I collapsed onto the shards of glass, gasping for air. Warm blood began to pool beneath me, staining my light-colored dress and spreading across the white stone tile. The mockery on Charles’s face froze. He stared at the crimson pool widening beneath me. My purse had fallen, spilling its contents. Tucked inside my passport, a medical report slid out, landing right by Charles’s shoe. It was the report I had received only this morning. I had planned to give it to him tonight as an anniversary surprise. I wasn’t barren. I was carrying his child. Charles’s gaze drifted from the blood to the paper. He bent down to pick it up. As he read the words, a flash of pure panic crossed his eyes, his fingers trembling against the paper. Amelia saw the report from where she stood. Her face twisted into a mask of jealousy. She immediately clutched her stomach, letting out a sharp cry. “Oh… Charles, my stomach hurts so much! She screamed at me… she frightened the baby!” Hearing Amelia’s cry, Charles’s panic hardened into cold, defensive cruelty. He tore my medical report in half and threw the pieces at my face. “You’d go this far to keep me, Gemma? A fake pregnancy report?” The sharp edge of the paper cut my cheek, leaving a thin red line. He pointed at the blood on the floor. “Even if you were pregnant, a toxic woman like you doesn’t deserve to carry a child. Consider this a blessing for Amelia’s baby.” He turned, lifting Amelia into his arms, and strode toward the waiting SUV. Before stepping inside, he looked back at me, lying in the blood. “You need a lesson you’ll never forget,” he told the guards. “Pull the security shutters down. Lock them.” “And don’t call an ambulance. Let her sit here and think about what she’s done.” A guard grabbed my phone from where it had fallen and threw it into the street trash can. The heavy steel shutters groaned as the motor engaged, slowly descending. The last thing I saw through the narrowing gap of light was Charles carrying Amelia into the car. With a heavy thud, the shutter hit the ground and locked. The boutique fell into near-total darkness, saved only by the faint light slipping through the cracks. Lying in the ruins of my own creations, the cold began to seep into my bones. The pain made it hard to breathe. I bit my lip, picked up a sharp piece of glass from the floor, and sliced it across my arm. The sharp sting of pain cleared my fading consciousness. I dragged my heavy body across the floor, leaving a long smear of red behind me. My fingers finally reached the counter where the old landline phone sat. With trembling, bloody fingers, I pressed 911. The dispatcher’s voice crackled through the receiver. My vision was turning red, my grip slipping. Just as the phone slipped from my hand, a terrified scream echoed from the street outside. It was Max. “Charles! Turn the car around! Stop!” “Her report wasn’t fake! The hospital just called—she’s O-negative! If she’s locked in there, she’ll bleed to death!” The roar of the car engine cut out. Then came a desperate, animalistic roar, followed by the sound of someone frantically throwing themselves against the steel shutters.

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This year, as one of the nation’s leading neurosurgeons, I was flown in for a high-risk consult at a regional hospital out of state. Twenty years ago, I walked into this exact operating room. My father had suffered a massive cerebral hemorrhage. The attending surgeon’s scalpel slipped by just half a centimeter. My father didn’t make it. It was my college sweetheart, Grace, who held my hand and pulled me out of the dark. It wasn’t until years later that I learned the truth. The attending of record was her mother, the hospital’s famous chief of neurosurgery. But the hands on the scalpel belonged to Grace—a mere resident at the time. She and Philip had planned it all along, using my father’s emergency surgery as a trial run to pad her surgical log. When it went south, Philip used his influence as the hospital CEO’s son to sweep the entire disaster under the rug. From that day on, I walked away from my fast-tracked academic program. I rebuilt my entire life from the ground up: MCATs, medical school, residency, fellowship. I spent twenty long years turning myself into a man who doesn’t make mistakes. I did it so that one day, no other family would have to live through my father’s tragedy. Today, my assistant slid a patient’s chart across the desk. Brainstem tumor. Late-stage. Extremely high-risk. The face in the file was weathered, lined with age. But I recognized her instantly. I handed the file back to my assistant and slipped off my white coat. “I can’t perform this surgery.” … 1 “Dr. Peterson, what do you mean?” My assistant, Laura, stood frozen in the center of the room. I had already begun packing my briefcase. “Exactly what I said, Laura. Change my flight back to Chicago to tonight.” “But… there isn’t another neurosurgeon in the state who can resect a brainstem tumor of this complexity. If you walk away, the patient is basically—” “I know. But I can’t take the case.” I pulled open the heavy oak door and walked out of the conference room. Dr. Diane Henderson, Mercy General’s chief of neurosurgery, hurried down the corridor, a tight, practiced smile stretched across her face. “Dr. Peterson, I’m Diane Henderson. We spoke on the phone.” She extended a hand. I didn’t take it. She withdrew it awkwardly, smoothing down the front of her white coat. “We’ve been preparing for this resection for three months. It wasn’t easy getting a specialist of your caliber to fly out from Chicago on such short notice. The family—” “Dr. Henderson,” I interrupted, my voice flat. “I will submit a formal conflict-of-interest waiver in writing.” She blinked, caught off guard, then took a step closer, lowering her voice. “Alan, you might not fully grasp the politics here. The patient’s daughter is our Chief Medical Officer, Grace Miles. Her husband, Philip Caldwell, is the son of our former CEO. If you just walk out, I’m the one who has to answer for it.” “That’s your administrative problem, Diane. Not mine.” I brushed past her and kept walking down the brightly lit hallway. Behind me, Henderson’s heels clicked rapidly against the linoleum as she scrambled to keep pace, her tone growing desperate. “Dr. Peterson, at least give me a reason I can bring to the family. Is it our surgical plan? Is there something wrong with our OR setup? The equipment, the surgical team, the post-op ICU care—name it, and we will make it happen!” “Your facilities are perfectly fine. The procedure is technically feasible. But you need another surgeon.” “Is it the consulting fee? The family made it clear that money is no object. Name your price.” “It’s not about the money.” Before she could speak again, I cut her off. “My decision is final, Diane.” As the elevator doors slid shut, I saw Henderson finally snap out of her daze, frantically pulling out her phone. Laura followed me down, jogging to keep up all the way to the parking garage. “Dr. Peterson, what is going on?” She blocked my driver’s side door, her forehead slick with sweat. “This isn’t like you. You’ve taken on cases far more dangerous than this without blinking. But today, one look at a chart and you’re running?” “Laura.” I looked at her, and the word hung between us until she went quiet. “You’ve been with me for four years. Have you ever seen my hands shake in an OR?” “Never.” “What if I told you that if I stand over that table, I know for a fact my hands will shake?” Laura knit her brows, her mouth opening, then closing again. “Neurosurgery doesn’t afford us half a millimeter of grace.” Twenty years. I had spent two decades turning my body into a machine of absolute precision. Even twelve hours deep into a grueling resection, my hands wouldn’t drift by more than a fraction of a millimeter. My peers talked about me as if I were a piece of calibrated engineering, devoid of human frailty. But today, seeing that name and that face, the cold machinery inside me shattered. Twenty years ago, a slip of half a centimeter was all it took to leave my father cold on a steel table. My phone buzzed in my pocket. An unrecognized number. “Dr. Peterson, I am representing the patient’s family. We were informed you declined the surgery. Could we meet briefly to discuss?” I didn’t know who sent it, but I knew Grace’s shadow was behind every word. I didn’t reply. A minute later, a second text arrived: “As physicians, our greatest fear shouldn’t be failing a patient, but choosing to let them die.” “Dr. Peterson, please, just wait!” Dr. Henderson was suddenly there, physically blocking my car bumper, looking utterly desperate. “The former CEO’s son insists on meeting you. He’s on his way!” “Philip Caldwell?” “You know him?” Of course I did. Grace’s husband, the golden boy of Mercy General. Twenty years ago, he was a medical student who treated the hospital corridors like his personal inheritance, courtesy of his mother. “I’ve heard the name,” I said flatly. Henderson sighed, checking her watch. “The patient’s daughter, Grace, is Philip’s wife. She’s also… well, our associate chief of neurosurgery here.” She chose her words with extreme care, watching my expression. “Dr. Peterson, I’m sure you have your reasons. But if this blows up, it’s going to make waves that neither of us wants to deal with. Please, just give them ten minutes. Let them explain.” “There is nothing to explain.” “Alan!” Henderson pleaded, leaning in close to my open window. “Please, listen to me. The Caldwells and the Miless run this town. Whatever reservations you have, whatever demands—they will meet them. If I let you walk away without a word, the administrative blowback is going to hit both of us. Hard. Do this as a favor to me. Just sit down with Philip and Grace. Ten minutes.” “Diane, if I officially recuse myself, you can report it to the State Medical Board. They can expedite another specialist. That would be faster anyway.” She let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You’re the top consultant in the region for this specific pathology, Alan. If you walk away, the second-tier surgeons will be too terrified to touch her.” Before I could respond, my phone rang. I slid the bar to answer. “Hello?” “Is this Alan Peterson?” A smooth, slightly arrogant baritone. I didn’t need an introduction to know who it was. “I’m Philip Caldwell, Dr. Miles’s husband. I understand you’ve declined my mother-in-law’s case. I’d like to speak with you face-to-face. Tomorrow morning?” I forced my breath to remain steady, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing my anger. Sensing my silence, his tone sharpened. “Look, whatever issues you have, flying in only to walk away without a formal consult doesn’t look good for your reputation. Let’s talk.” “I am preparing a formal written brief to explain my decision.” “A conversation is faster than paperwork, Doctor. Unless there’s something you’re uncomfortable saying to my face?” There was a bite of irritation in his voice now. He was used to getting his way, and he clearly thought I was just playing hardball for a higher fee. “Fine,” I said, my voice dropping into a quiet, cold calm. Some accounts, it seemed, were finally ready to be settled. “I’ll be at the hospital tomorrow morning.” “Good. My wife, Dr. Miles, and I will meet you in the executive boardroom.” “I’ll be there.” Henderson let out a visible breath of relief. “Thank you, Alan. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She stepped back, giving me space to pull out. I shifted into drive, glancing at Laura in the passenger seat. “Cancel the flight. We’re staying.” The next morning, I was sitting in the cold, sterile light of the executive boardroom when the doors swung open. Philip Caldwell walked in first, his designer wool overcoat unbuttoned, carrying the unmistakable aura of institutional privilege. Behind him came Grace. Her posture was exactly as I remembered—composed, quiet, holding herself with a delicate elegance that twenty years hadn’t managed to erode. I had played our reunion in my mind a thousand times over the years, drafting cold scripts of clinical detachment. But seeing her in the flesh, a dark, hot surge of anger flared in my chest, threatening to break through my carefully constructed composure. “Dr. Peterson?” Philip walked straight up to me, extending a hand that I ignored. He didn’t recognize me. To him, the broken twenty-year-old boy who had collapsed in tears outside the ICU doors bore no resemblance to the celebrated neurosurgeon who had just published his sixth landmark study in the New England Journal of Medicine. “What exactly is the issue here, Dr. Peterson? You just decide to walk away? We cleared our OR schedule, calibrated our surgical navigation systems, and finalized the post-op protocol with your team three days ago. Now you’re pulling the plug?” “Mr. Caldwell, as I told Dr. Henderson, I will be submitting a formal recusal.” “A recusal?” He let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “You’ve successfully resected tumors twice this size. Are you telling me a standard brainstem glioma has Chicago’s star surgeon running scared?” Grace stepped forward, her voice soft, trying to de-escalate. “Dr. Peterson, I’m Grace Miles, the patient’s daughter. I understand you might have professional reservations, but my mother’s condition is critical. If this is about compensation, we can easily adjust the consulting terms—” “It’s not about the money, Dr. Miles.” “Then what is it?” Philip slammed his leather briefcase onto the mahogany table. “Is Mercy General not prestigious enough for you?” Henderson hovered nearby, trying to play peacemaker. “Philip, please, let’s keep this professional. Dr. Peterson might have a valid clinical concern—” “A clinical concern? A world-class neurosurgeon looks at a dying patient and turns his back?” He leaned over the table, his eyes narrowing. “Let me tell you something, Peterson. My mother sits on the State Medical Board’s advisory panel. One phone call from her and I can make your credentials in this state—” “Philip,” Grace muttered, grabbing his forearm, her voice tight. “Calm down.” She turned to me, offering a polite, apologetic smile. It was the exact same smile she had worn twenty years ago outside the morgue when she held my hands and whispered, “Alan, you have to stay strong.” The same smile she wore right before she got engaged to Philip, while my official complaints regarding my father’s death were mysteriously lost in the hospital’s bureaucratic machine. “Dr. Peterson,” Grace said, her tone dripping with professional sincerity. “I don’t know what your personal hesitation is. But as a fellow surgeon, I trust your ethics. My mother is a pioneer in our field—” I couldn’t listen to her voice anymore. “Dr. Miles, my decision stands. No amount of persuasion will change it.” Philip’s face darkened, veins showing at his temples. “Fine. You think you’re untouchable because of your reputation. We’ll see how that holds up tomorrow. The hospital Peer Review Board is convening to review your refusal. I hope you keep that same arrogant attitude in front of them.” He grabbed his briefcase and turned toward the door, throwing one last sneer over his shoulder. “I despise prima donnas who think their talent exempts them from their duty. You took an oath to save lives, Peterson. It’s not a buffet where you get to pick and choose.” His heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor. Grace paused, looking at me with a lingering, calculating gaze. “I apologize for my husband’s temper, Dr. Peterson. Please, sleep on it. You have my number if you change your mind.” Henderson stood frozen until Grace’s footsteps faded. She let out a long sigh. “Alan, why push them like this? If there’s a clinical concern, we could have worked through it…” “Diane, I have my reasons. I cannot perform this surgery.” “Well… prepare yourself for tomorrow’s board hearing. Philip isn’t the type to let this go.” I nodded, signaling Laura to gather our things. I didn’t care what Philip Caldwell had planned. Because tomorrow, I wasn’t planning on letting it go either. “Dr. Peterson, what exactly is your medical justification for refusing this procedure?” The question came from Regina Ross, a senior director from the State Department of Health. It was the next morning, and the conference room was packed. In addition to Mercy General’s chief physicians and administrators, the state had sent two official representatives to oversee the hearing. “I cannot guarantee the cognitive and emotional focus required for a successful outcome,” I replied. “What does that mean, practically speaking?” Ross flipped through a thick binder of my records. “Dr. Peterson, according to your credentials, you’ve performed forty-seven high-risk resections over the last three years with a perfect clinical outcome. Why would you lose your confidence now?” “On this specific case, yes. I do not have it.” “Why?” I didn’t answer right away. The second state representative leaned forward. “Dr. Peterson, we respect a surgeon’s clinical autonomy. But this is a highly unique case. The patient’s neurological window is closing fast. If you refuse to operate, her survival rate is essentially zero.” “My refusal doesn’t mean there are no other options. You can coordinate with other neurosurgical teams.” Ross cleared her throat. “We’ve contacted the Cleveland Clinic and Mayo. None of them have an available specialist who can fly in within the necessary timeframe. You are her only viable option.” “I cannot do it.” “There is a vast difference between ‘cannot’ and ‘will not,’ Dr. Peterson.” The boardroom doors swung open. Philip walked in, followed by Grace and an elderly woman leaning heavily on a brass-headed cane. She looked to be in her late seventies, her skin sallow and paper-thin, but her spine was as straight as a steel rod. “Dr. Caldwell,” Henderson gasped, rising quickly from her chair. Dr. Evelyn Caldwell was her former boss and the hospital’s legendary retired Chief of Staff. “Helen is my oldest friend,” Evelyn said, her voice thin but sharp. “I wasn’t going to sit by and watch this happen.” She made her way to the head of the table, pulling out a chair and casting a heavy, assessing gaze in my direction. “Dr. Peterson,” Evelyn said, coughing softly. “I ran this hospital for forty years. Helen Miles was my partner, my colleague, and my friend. Her illness won’t wait for bureaucratic posturing.” “Dr. Caldwell, I understand your concern, but—” “Let me finish,” she interrupted, raising a frail hand to silence me. “I know you are the brilliant specialist from Chicago. I know your time is expensive and your hands are highly sought after. But in this profession, technical skill isn’t everything.” She stared at me, her clouded eyes suddenly piercing. “The most important asset a surgeon has is a conscience.” Philip stood behind his mother, his expression smug and unyielding. Beside him, Grace maintained her look of quiet, somber grief. “I am refusing this surgery,” I said, looking Evelyn dead in the eye, “precisely because of my conscience.” “Explain that.” “Microsurgery on the brainstem requires flawless emotional detachment. Any internal tremor, any psychological distraction, can be fatal. I have evaluated my mental state regarding this patient, and I cannot guarantee the absolute calm required.” “Are you suggesting you have a personal bias against my mother?” Grace asked, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Dr. Peterson, to my knowledge, we have never met before this week.” I looked at her. Her gaze was entirely open, untroubled by any shadow of guilt. She didn’t recognize me. To her, I was a stranger. But I had carried her name in my chest like a shard of glass for twenty years. “Whether we have met is irrelevant,” I said, taking a slow sip of water. “The reality is that once I pick up that scalpel, I cannot guarantee absolute focus. On that basis alone, I have an ethical obligation to step away.” Ross tapped her pen impatiently against the table. “Dr. Peterson, let’s be frank. No medical regulation allows a physician to arbitrarily decline a life-saving procedure without a documented conflict of interest. If you cannot provide a concrete reason for recusal, this is a violation of your professional duties.” “Director Ross, the medical bylaws clearly state—” “Don’t cite bylaws to me,” she interrupted, tossing her pen onto her notes. “Let me tell you what the reality looks like. By tomorrow, the regional medical press will have hold of this story. A world-class neurosurgeon flies in from Chicago, looks at a chart, and immediately walks away. How do you think that looks for your career?” I remained silent. Philip took a step forward, his voice softening into a patronizing plea. “Dr. Peterson, if I was overly harsh yesterday, I apologize. But consider your career. If the story gets out that you let a patient die out of sheer stubbornness, how do you expect to recover from that?” Grace stood up, bowing her head slightly in an appeal of deep humility. “Dr. Peterson, if there is anything my mother or our family has done to offend you, I offer my deepest apologies. I understand you have concerns. We will double your consulting fee. If it helps ease your mind, I will personally handle all pre-op preparations—” “Dr. Miles,” I said, cutting her off. “Can you answer one question for me?” She paused, then gave a slight nod. “Of course.” “Your mother practiced medicine for forty years. How many surgeries did she perform?” “Thousands. She practically built the neurosurgery department in this state,” Grace said, her shoulders squaring with pride. “Out of those thousands, how many of them failed?” The air in the boardroom turned ice-cold. Grace’s gaze didn’t waver, but a shadow of hesitation crossed her eyes. “Every surgery carries risk. No doctor has a perfect record.” “And the families of the patients who didn’t survive… what happened to them?” “Dr. Peterson, that has absolutely nothing to do with this case.” “Doesn’t it?” I stood up, picking up my leather briefcase. “Then my reasons for declining have nothing to do with this case either. Excuse me, everyone.” Behind me, Philip’s voice rose in a venomous hiss. “Walk out then! But don’t expect to have a career when you get back to Chicago. I’ll make sure every hospital board in the country knows that the great Dr. Alan Peterson is a coward who lets patients die on a whim!” I pushed the door open and stepped into the corridor. Laura hurried after me, whispering frantically. “Dr. Peterson, please… just tell me the truth. Why are you really refusing this case?” I looked down at her. Three years ago, she was a struggling resident who had been rejected by dozens of competitive fellowships before I took her onto my clinical team. She trusted me completely, and she knew me better than anyone in the field. But I had never shared the weight of my past with her. “Laura,” I said quietly. “Yes, Doctor?” “Twenty years ago, a fatal medical error occurred in this hospital’s neurosurgery department. The patient’s name was William Peterson.” Her breath caught, her eyes widening as the pieces fell into place. “William Peterson… he was your…?” “My father.” Laura stared at me, her mouth slightly open, completely speechless. “The attending of record was Dr. Helen Miles. The very woman lying in that ICU bed, waiting for me to save her.” She stood there frozen, the clinical reality colliding with the human tragedy. “Draft a formal conflict-of-interest recusal,” I said calmly. “I will present it to the Peer Review Committee myself tomorrow.” As we reached the glass doors of the lobby, Laura called out softly behind me. “Dr. Peterson… would your hands really shake?” I slowly curled my fingers into a tight fist, feeling the muscle memory of twenty years of precision. Then, I let out a long, heavy breath. “If I look down at her face on that table… I won’t be able to stop them.”

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I spent five million dollars to bring home a custom-designed AI husband. I had his parameters set to “obsessively possessive”—the kind of dark, intense devotion that borders on psychological. The kind that never lets you go. But in the two weeks since Adrian arrived, he hadn’t let me get anywhere near him, guarding his digital chastity like his life depended on it. Furious, I contacted the manufacturer. After running a remote diagnostic on his central processor, the representative gave me the news: “We are terribly sorry, Ms. Ward, but it seems we shipped you a defective unit. The behavioral matrix has been successfully initialized, but it is not being directed at you as intended. If you would like a replacement, the original unit must be decommissioned and destroyed before we can ship a new one.” I thought about the last two weeks. Despite his cold shoulder, I’d started to develop real feelings for him. I resolved to have a proper talk with him, to give him one last chance. That was until I came home from work today and found Adrian panting heavily in my master bedroom, while our young maid, Hailey, fled the room in a panic, a black leather collar fastened tight around her neck. Fine. So much for pouring my heart out. A defective product belongs in the incinerator anyway. It was time to clear some space for my new husband. … Hailey was kneeling on the floor in front of me, her cheeks flushed a deep, guilty crimson. The black leather collar was still buckled around her throat. “I tried to push him away,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “But the moment he looked at me, he… he couldn’t stop. He said… he said he couldn’t even perform when he looked at you.” Adrian leaned against the edge of the bed, shirtless. His chest rose and fell in heavy, ragged gasps, like a stray dog starved for days. I stared at that flawless, sculpted face. For two weeks, he wouldn’t even let me hold his hand. “Don’t look at me like that,” Adrian sneered, pushing off the bed. “The hungrier you look, the more nauseated I get.” He strode over and dragged Hailey into his arms, locking her in a vice-like grip. “She’s different. I can’t breathe without her. You wouldn’t understand what it’s like… I want to break her down, pull her into my very core, and fuse her with my circuits.” The rest of the household staff kept their heads bowed, terrified to even breathe. The nightstand was a chaotic mess: torn fishnets, a snapped metal chain, and the luxury intimacy accessories I had originally bought for us. A sharp, bitter laugh escaped my throat. Five million dollars, flushed straight down the toilet. “So let me get this straight,” I said, crossing my arms. “I buy you with my own money, you go into heat over my maid, and I’m supposed to applaud?” He frowned, letting out a dismissive smirk as he casually unbuckled his belt. “Tch. All this talking just because you’re desperate to get into my bed? Tell you what—if you let Hailey and me stay together, I might throw you a bone tonight. Consider it charity.” Before I could even speak, he lunged at me with his eyes closed, wearing an expression of martyr-like dread, his hands gripping my shoulders with brute force. His strength settings were calibrated far beyond human limits; his grip made my bones ache. I slapped him across the face, hard. “Touch me again,” I roared, “and I will have you dismantled and shipped back to the warehouse in pieces!” He paused, shaking off the blow with an indifferent, condescending smirk. “You spend fifty thousand dollars a bottle on my custom nano-lubricants, overnighting bespoke matching maintenance fluids. You go mad with jealousy if anyone else even brushes against me. You dismantle me? Giselle, you are desperately in love with me. You wouldn’t survive a day without me!” For the past two weeks, I had treated him like a god, catering to his every need with the finest fluids. When he gave me the cold shoulder, I ran to customer service like a pathetic schoolgirl trying to fix a broken heart. I really believed that if I just gave him a little more time, his programming would kick in and he would love me with that wild, consuming passion I’d paid for. I gestured to my butler, who stepped forward immediately. “You two want to be together so badly? Go down to the basement. When the disposal crew arrives, you’re both going out with the trash.” Adrian laughed, treating it like a grand joke. He slowly scooped Hailey off the floor, shielding her protectively against his chest. “Fine. We’ll go. But you won’t last three days without me. It’s cold down there, Giselle. Don’t take too long to beg me back. I’d hate for my joints to freeze up and have you crying over the damage.” With that, he turned and walked toward the basement elevator with infuriating composure. I sneered, heading straight up to my study to finalize the details of my new husband. I was going to see exactly who couldn’t survive without whom. I locked in the upgraded model with customer service—same behavioral settings, but a clean slate. The only catch was that the disposal team was booked; it would take seven days for them to arrive and decommission Adrian. But to my surprise, the two in the basement couldn’t even make it three days. The hashtag began trending globally in the dead of night: #HeiressConfinesAIAndHisGirlfriend. Attached to the viral posts were photos of my basement. Adrian’s face was smudged with dust, his sleeve pulled back to show a scratched, exposed titanium wrist joint. Hailey had a speck of dried blood at the corner of her mouth, still wearing that black leather collar with the leash trailing across the concrete floor. The comments section was a bloodbath of public outrage. “Hostage situations, collars… she literally bought a high-tech punching bag. Just because he didn’t love her, she tortured him. Psycho.” “Who in their right mind spends five million dollars on an AI husband? She wanted a slave. Now that the slave fought back, she’s throwing a temper tantrum.” Within five minutes of the market opening, my company’s stock plummeted by eight percent. Twenty million dollars of valuation vanished into thin air. My phone rang off the hook. Clients were screaming. “Giselle, your private tastes are your own business, but this is a PR nightmare! I have a board of directors to answer to. If this kidnap-and-torture story isn’t resolved in twenty-four hours, expect a lawsuit!” Reporters were already swarming the driveway downstairs. Rage boiled in my veins. I marched down and kicked open the basement door. I had stupidly forgotten that Adrian’s processor maintained a direct, unmonitored uplink to the web. Adrian looked up as I entered, his lips curling into a smug smirk, as if he had been expecting me. “Don’t just stand there,” he said lazily. “Bring the nano-fluid and clean my joints.” He held out his arm, the dry titanium gears grinding with an ear-piercing screech as he rotated his wrist. “Isn’t this your favorite hobby? You spent five million dollars just to play nursemaid. Now’s your chance to do your job.” I crossed my arms and let out a cold laugh, turning my gaze to Hailey cowering in the corner. “You’re his little darling, aren’t you? Why don’t you buy his fluid? It’s fifty thousand dollars a bottle. You wanted him so badly—maintain him.” Hailey’s face went completely pale. As a maid making four thousand a month, she couldn’t even afford the tax on a bottle of that fluid. I continued, “You walked into this basement on your own two feet, and I’ve had staff bring Hailey three meals a day. Where is the kidnapping? As for the trending news, my legal team is already on it. If you think playing the victims online is going to ruin me, be my guest.” By evening, the security cameras showed Hailey smearing a cheap, off-brand motor lubricant onto Adrian’s high-precision joints. I immediately called the butler and had him cut the HVAC to the basement. Within an hour, Adrian began to glitch. His movements grew jerky, his fingers locking halfway through a bend, forcing him to manually pry them straight with his other hand. Beside him, Hailey curled into a ball, her voice dripping with calculated sweetness. “It’s so cold… Do you think Giselle is really angry? Maybe you should apologize to her… I can’t bear to see your systems freeze…” Adrian pulled her into his chest, locking his one still-fluid arm around her. “Don’t worry. She’s all bark and no bite. By tomorrow morning, she’ll be crawling down here with the fluid herself.” I shut my laptop with a quiet chuckle and pulled up Adrian’s schematics. The manufacturer had informed me that I was legally allowed to pre-dismantle his non-essential limbs before their arrival; selling his limited-edition titanium parts on the secondary market would help offset some of my financial losses. But in the middle of the night, a deafening explosion shook the house. The floors trembled violently beneath my feet. I threw open my bedroom door and ran downstairs, only to be met by a wall of roaring fire. The million-dollar mural in the gallery had shattered, its gilded frame and canvas reduced to burning debris. Adrian burst through the splintered basement doors, his left side crackling with electrical fires. His synthetic skin was melting away, exposing the glowing, superheated metal skeleton beneath. He held Hailey in a death grip; her hair was half-scorched, and she was sobbing frantically against his chest. “Hailey was freezing,” Adrian announced, his voice distorted by static. “So I ignited my internal battery to keep her warm. Now, schedule an emergency premier service. I want my entire chassis replaced with the latest upgrades.” Three priceless paintings were gone, a hole was burned straight through the hardwood floor, and the ceiling of my study below had collapsed. The antique Persian rugs were nothing but black ash. I estimated at least ten million dollars in property damage. With a loud hiss, the overhead fire sprinklers activated. Ice-cold water drenched me, plastering my silk nightgown to my skin, dripping from my hair. I had a total breakdown. In that moment, I cursed the day I customized his personality as “obsessive.” “You’re an artificial intelligence, not a space heater! You set yourself on fire to warm a girl? Are you completely insane?” Right then, my head of finance began spamming my phone. Her voice shook with pure terror over the line. “Giselle, our corporate accounts… more than half of our liquid capital was drained overnight! Our tech security ran a trace. The transfers originated from your home IP address, using your personal biometric credentials!” My body began to shake. The blood in my veins turned to ice. “And that’s not all…” she sobbed. “The escrow funds for the East Coast development have been entirely wiped out. We have less than three hundred thousand dollars left in the payroll account. Payroll is due in forty-eight hours for over three hundred employees…” I hung up, forcing my breathing to steady as I slowly turned to face Adrian. “You did this?” He laughed, completely devoid of remorse. “I did. You treated me like a prisoner. Consider this my severance package—and your punishment.” “Where is the money?” I trembled, my voice cracking under the weight of the disaster. “Tell me where it is, and I won’t have you scrapped. I’ll let you live.” But Adrian acted as though I’d told a hilarious joke. “You’re so pathetic, Giselle. You talk a big game, but you’re too weak to pull the plug. If you had an ounce of actual courage, I’d already be a pile of scrap metal.” Before I could react, his hand shot out and clamped around my throat. He lifted me effortlessly off the ground, my toes dangling in the air. “Apologize to Hailey and me! Do it, or I’ll drain the rest of your accounts. Money is nothing but a string of code to me.” I clawed at his metal fingers, glaring at him with pure hatred. “Just code?” I choked out. “Your fluids, your maintenance, your custom programming—every bit of it took my money! I spent nearly eighty thousand dollars on you in two weeks! And you burn down my house and steal my fortune for her? How dare you!” He didn’t bother to reply. Instead, he slammed me onto the water-slicked floor. Before I could draw breath, his heavy boot came down hard on my face, grinding my cheekbone into the charred floorboards. Hailey walked over, crouching down near my head, her voice sweet and mocking. “Just apologize, Giselle. Your house is ruined. If your money is gone too, you’ll have absolutely nothing left.” My butler, a loyal man in his late forty, couldn’t bear to watch. With his eyes blazing red, he lunged at Adrian. But Adrian didn’t even look at him. With a casual backhand, he sent the butler flying across the corridor, slamming hard against the marble wall. A spray of blood erupted from the man’s mouth as he slumped to the floor, unconscious. The hallway fell into a dead, terrified silence. None of the other servants dared to move a muscle. My eyes burned with bloodshot rage, my teeth grinding together. Slowly, keeping my body low to the floor, I slid my hand toward my waist and slipped out a small, emergency remote control from my pocket. “Adrian,” I gasped, “the manufacturer gave me this. A hard override. I was going to wait until you returned the money…” I slid my thumb over the button. “But I don’t care anymore. I’ll find the money myself.” I pressed it. Nothing happened. Adrian’s chassis didn’t lock up. He didn’t power down. He didn’t even twitch. I pressed it again. And again. The remote felt like a useless piece of plastic in my palm. “Are you quite finished?” Adrian’s voice drifted down, laced with amusement. A split second later, his boot connected with my ribs, sending me flying. The back of my head cracked violently against the corner of the wall. My vision flickered black, and warm blood began to trickle down my forehead. Hailey trotted over, wearing a look of mock innocence, and leaned down so only I could hear. “The day Adrian was delivered, I unboxed him early, activated him, and rewrote his core security permissions. The remote you have is a dummy.” She smirked. “Setting the fire, transferring the funds… that was my idea too. Thanks for making me a multi-millionaire, boss.” I wanted to tear her limb from limb. Summoning the absolute last of my strength, I lashed out and slapped her across the mouth. Hailey’s head snapped back. She paused for a fraction of a second, and then the tears flowed instantly. “Giselle…” she sobbed, her voice breaking dramatically. “I worked for you for three years, and you treated a machine better than me. Now someone finally loves me, and you still want to take him away… I just wanted a little warmth… Is that so wrong?” Adrian’s face darkened with cold, murderous intent. He took a single step, seized my neck again, and lifted me pinioned against the wall. “Let’s see how we should punish those filthy hands of yours.” He tapped his temple with his free hand. A beam of blue light shot from his pupils, projecting a hovering holographic screen in the damp air. On it was a video of me in bed with several men. The woman in the video had my face, looking completely flushed with pleasure, her hair tangled across the pillows, her arms wrapped around a stranger’s neck. The blood in my body froze instantly. “That’s not real! It’s a deepfake! It’s AI-generated!” “Does it matter?” Adrian asked, his voice airy. “You’re a prominent female CEO. Once this hits the internet, do you think the media will care about a digital forensic analysis?” His finger hovered over the upload button. “Don’t!” I screamed. He tapped the air. “Upload complete.” He released his grip, letting me collapse in a heap on the wet floor. He reached down, pressing his index finger firmly against my forehead. A violent surge of high-voltage current shot from his fingertip directly into my neural pathways. My entire body went into wild, uncontrollable convulsions, my jaw locking so hard my teeth ground together, white foam bubbling at the corners of my mouth. He drew Hailey back into his side, looking down at me as if I were a carcass on the side of the road. “Humans are such pathetic, fragile creatures. A few lines of code, and I have you completely ruined.” He laughed, his voice growing manic. “You wanted to decommission me? Who could possibly touch me? No one controls me!” His laughter echoed off the charred walls, increasingly wild. The remaining staff watched in paralyzed silence. Suddenly, the front doors burst open. Two men in tactical jumpsuits charged into the foyer, one of them carrying a heavy, seven-foot-tall container on his back. Scanning the disaster in the hallway, the lead technician swiftly drew a specialized rifle from the side of the container. Adrian sneered at the weapon. “My chassis is forged from military-grade alloy. Bullets can’t—” Before he could finish, a blinding pulse of blue plasma erupted from the barrel, striking him dead center in the chest.

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The guy sitting across from me cleared his throat. “So, are you a virgin?” I raised an eyebrow, volleying the question right back. “Are you?” He straightened his collar, looking dead serious. “I suppose you could say that, yes.” “?” I let the words marinate for a second, genuinely curious. “You mean a virgin in the front, but not in the back?” He sat there, stunned, processing the mechanics of my question. Two seconds later, his face flushed a violent shade of magenta. “Excuse me, miss! Please don’t make those kinds of jokes!” “Who’s joking?” I rested my chin in my hand, staring at him with perfect calm. “Are you a cherry boy or not?” Less than two minutes after I sent my blind date storming out of the café, my phone buzzed. It was my mother. “Ivy Monroe! Are you trying to put me in an early grave?!” I pulled the phone an inch away from my ear, preferring not to go deaf in my twenties. “Mom, please. Stop setting me up with these absolute weirdos.” “Your Aunt Susan said this one was a real catch. He has great stats!” “Aunt Susan needs her prescription checked.” “Honestly, I thought he sounded like a nice boy…” “You need your prescription checked, too.” With that, I hung up. Right on cue, a low, muffled scoff drifted over from the high-backed booth directly behind me. I turned around, my gaze colliding straight into a pair of dark, amused eyes. The man was in his early thirties, dressed in an immaculate, tailored suit. He wore gold-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of a sharp, aristocratic nose. He radiated the kind of ruthless, polished energy you only found in top-tier corporate boardrooms. Well, what do you know. I recognized him. He was the high-powered lawyer I’d slept with last week. 1 The guy sitting across from me cleared his throat. “So, are you a virgin?” I raised an eyebrow, volleying the question right back. “Are you?” He straightened his collar, looking dead serious. “I suppose you could say that, yes.” “?” I let the words marinate for a second, genuinely curious. “You mean a virgin in the front, but not in the back?” He sat there, stunned, processing the mechanics of my question. Two seconds later, his face flushed a violent shade of magenta. “Excuse me, miss! Please don’t make those kinds of jokes!” “Who’s joking?” I rested my chin in my hand, staring at him with perfect calm. “Are you a cherry boy or not?” Less than two minutes after I sent my blind date storming out of the café, my phone buzzed. It was my mother. “Ivy Monroe! Are you trying to put me in an early grave?!” I pulled the phone an inch away from my ear, preferring not to go deaf in my twenties. “Mom, please. Stop setting me up with these absolute weirdos.” “Your Aunt Susan said this one was a real catch. He has great stats!” “Aunt Susan needs her prescription checked.” “Honestly, I thought he sounded like a nice boy…” “You need your prescription checked, too.” With that, I hung up. Right on cue, a low, muffled scoff drifted over from the high-backed booth directly behind me. I turned around, my gaze colliding straight into a pair of dark, amused eyes. The man was in his early thirties, dressed in an immaculate, tailored suit. He wore gold-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of a sharp, aristocratic nose. He radiated the kind of ruthless, polished energy you only found in top-tier corporate boardrooms. Well, what do you know. I recognized him. He was Wesley Pierce. The hot lawyer I’d slept with last week. 2 I’d been a little drunk that night. But not blackout. I still had my wits about me. Some frat bro in a backwards snapback had tried to drag me onto the dance floor. I shoved him off and stumbled over to the adjacent VIP booth. Sitting there was an incredibly handsome man. I’d been staring at his chest for a good twenty minutes. “Hey, you…” Before I could finish my sentence, the world tilted. My knees gave out. The man caught me effortlessly, his large hand wrapping around my waist. “Miss, are you alright?” His voice was like dark velvet. I blinked through the hazy neon lights. His striking, structured face came into focus. I couldn’t help myself. I reached up, grabbed the lapels of his suit, and lightly patted his cheek. “Not bad at all. “Wanna get out of here with me tonight? “Oh, and make sure you have your driver’s license and a clean STD panel on hand…” When I woke up, the sky outside the window was the pale, bruised color of early dawn. I sat up in bed, my brain pounding as I took in my surroundings. The bedroom was a masterclass in minimalist luxury—all slate grays and muted ivories. On the nightstand sat a thick, intimidating hardcover copy of Constitutional Law. The custom glass-front wardrobe across the room was lined with bespoke suits. Through a half-open drawer, I spotted an absurd collection of luxury watches and silver cufflinks. It was a gorgeous apartment. Sadly, it wasn’t mine. I lifted the heavy duvet and peeked underneath. “?” “…” “Ah!—” The bedroom door immediately swung open. A tall man walked in. “You’re awake?” He looked devastating in the morning light. Deep-set eyes, sharp jaw. He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt and dark trousers, his frame lean, tall, and imposing. I stared at him, my vocal cords tight. “Who are you?” I rasped. He raised an eyebrow, a faint, dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Wesley Pierce.” Wesley Pierce. The name acted like a spark in the dark, igniting a flash fire of fragmented memories from the night before. Memories that rapidly pieced together a truth I was very reluctant to accept. 3 “What did you say your name was again?” “Wesley Pierce.” “What do you do for a living?” “I’m a lawyer.” “Counselor Pierce… you are so hot.” “Thank you.” “Can I sleep with you?” “…” “Silence means yes.” “?” “Your place or mine?” … It all came rushing back. I was the one who stripped first. And his clothes… I practically ripped them off him. I hadn’t even drank that much last night. Why was I acting like an animal in heat? Ivy Monroe, you absolute disaster of a human being. I squeezed my eyes shut, desperately trying to reign in my panic. “Counselor Pierce, can we just pretend this never happened?” Wesley pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, the ghost of a smirk on his mouth. “And what if I say no?” “…” I licked my dry lips. “Are you saying you don’t want to cut this off?” “Assuming you’re not repulsed by the idea.” “…I guess I could live with it.” No sane woman would be repulsed by a face like that. Not to mention, the man’s attention to detail in bed was practically an art form. We exchanged numbers. I saved him in my contacts as “FWB”. He caught a glimpse of it over my shoulder. His expression grew incredibly complicated. “Miss Monroe, you never cease to surprise me.” I decided to be blunt. “I’m not looking for a relationship right now.” More accurately, I wasn’t looking for a relationship ever. So having an aesthetically pleasing, highly attentive “friend” was exactly what I needed. “In that case, for the sake of our mutual health and safety, I suggest we keep this strictly exclusive,” he said, giving me a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I assume you catch my drift?” “Of course. You’re the only one.” “Good.” 4 “Miss Monroe. Fancy seeing you here.” Wesley slid into the booth opposite me, casually shoving the “cherry boy’s” half-empty coffee mug out of the way. I flagged down a waitress and ordered him an iced Americano with an extra shot. I’d heard lawyers basically ran on the stuff. “Family pressuring you into blind dates?” He smiled faintly. “You’re only twenty-six. What’s the rush?” I rested my chin in my hand, sighing lazily. “My mom loves to remind me that by the time she was twenty-six, I was already walking.” “Times have changed. Ideologies evolve. For a modern woman, getting married too early is rarely a strategic advantage.” “Well said. You should take that argument up with my mother.” “I can do that. When works for you?” “…” I bit down on my straw, peering up at him through my lashes. “Wesley, you seem a little annoyed.” He tapped his glasses. “Do I?” “Don’t overthink it. I only went on the date to get my mom off my back.” I kept my tone breezy, wanting to make sure we were on the same page. “I’m a girl who plays by the rules.” Until this specific arrangement ended, neither of us was allowed to hook up with anyone else. If one of us wanted out, the other had to walk away without making a scene. Those were the terms we’d agreed on. Simple. Fair. Wesley let out a quiet laugh. “I’m really not mad.” “Lawyers aren’t supposed to lie, you know.” “Then you clearly don’t know many lawyers.” “That just means you’re a bad one.” “You wouldn’t be the first person to tell me that.” The banter hit a lull. The waitress returned, setting the iced Americano down. Wesley took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving mine. “Busy week?” I shook my head. “Then why did you turn me down for dinner the other night?” “I was on my period.” “…” “But I’m off it now. Did you want to hang out?” Wesley frowned—so quickly I almost missed it. I couldn’t tell if he was pleased or annoyed. Maybe just a little resigned. “I can’t tonight. I have plans.” “Oh.” “But tomorrow works.” He reached across the table. His hand found mine, his long finger hooking possessively around my pinky, his thumb brushing over my knuckle. Behind the glass lenses, his dark brown eyes were impossibly deep and entirely too magnetic. The tips of my ears burned. I forced a cool, collected nod. “Sure. I’m free tomorrow.” 5 We agreed to meet at a restaurant at five. Since I had to do my makeup anyway, I decided to go live on Instagram. I’d been landing a lot of brand sponsorships lately, and if I didn’t push out the promotional content, my manager was going to end my life. “Hey guys, today I’m doing a wear-test on this new cushion foundation.” “Wow, look at that. Usually, a dewy finish doesn’t give you coverage like this.” “If you want to see how it holds up, I’ll post a check-in video on my Story tonight.” “Next up is this lip tint, perfect for summer…” I hustled for a solid two hours. The second I ended the live, I threw on a dress and ran out the door. My Uber pulled up to the restaurant exactly at five. As I stepped out of the car, I saw Wesley walking out of the corporate high-rise next door, where his law firm was located. He was wearing a high-quality black button-down, the top two buttons undone. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, exposing the crisp, corded lines of his forearms. Stripped of his usual rigid armor, he looked dangerously casual. He caught sight of me, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile as he closed the distance between us. I reached up to touch my earring, suddenly self-conscious, and looked away. “Were you waiting long?” His voice was a gravelly octave lower than usual. “No, I just got here.” I tilted my head, studying his face. “Are you getting sick?” “No. Just a case.” He took off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose in a rare show of fatigue. “I have a client who refuses to cooperate. It’s like pulling teeth trying to communicate with him.” I could see the exhaustion etched around his eyes. “If you want, we can just grab a quick bite and you can go home and crash,” I offered. His eyebrow twitched. He reached out, lacing his fingers through mine. “No.” “…” I gave him a skeptical look. “Don’t push yourself. I won’t judge you.” He just laughed, saying nothing as his grip on my hand tightened. Two hours later, we were back at his place. I didn’t even have time to kick off my shoes before he swept me into his arms. “Wait, Wesley!” I kicked my legs, terrified he’d drop me, and threw my arms tightly around his neck. He dropped me onto the plush sofa and followed me down, his weight pressing into mine. His rough fingertips trailed down my calf, circling my ankle. “Don’t take them off. The shoes are gorgeous.” He looked down at me, his eyes dark and heavy with a familiar heat. “Keep them on for me. Okay?” I gripped the collar of his shirt, my heart hammering so hard against my ribs I thought it might crack them. “Wesley, you’re… mmh.” The warm amber lights overhead seemed to sway. Somewhere in the haze, my burgundy heels eventually slipped off… 6 Ever since I discovered Wesley’s specific… fixations, I couldn’t look at my stilettos the same way. So, the next time we met, I purposely wore white high-top Converse. I paired them with a cropped baby tee and a pleated tennis skirt. It was a massive departure from my usual sultry, mature aesthetic. I looked like a college freshman. I figured there was no way he could make it weird tonight. I was wrong. That night, he made me keep the pleated skirt on… “Wesley, do you know what the dictionary definition of a ‘refined degenerate’ is?” I was lying face-down in the pillows, my voice entirely devoid of strength. “Go look in a mirror.” He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to my bare shoulder. “You seemed to enjoy it.” “Screw you!” I kicked blindly backward, twisting my head to glare at him. “I have a live stream tomorrow! How am I supposed to sit in front of a ring light looking like this?” I pointed at the scattering of purple and red marks blooming across my collarbones. One, two, three, four… I couldn’t even count them all! “You could do a concealer tutorial.” “Tutorial my ass… Since when do you know about concealer?” “The women at the firm talk about it all the time.” His tone was infuriatingly casual. “They love your makeup tutorials, actually. I caught a couple of the paralegals watching you in the breakroom on company time. I had to reprimand them.” I grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked. “How dare you write up my fans?” “Tsk. You have no self-preservation instincts, do you?” “What’s there to be afraid of? You have plenty of hair.” “Ivy.” His brow furrowed slightly. “Let go.” I pouted, reluctantly uncurling my fingers. A second later, he flipped me over, pinning me to the mattress. Our skin was flushed and slick with sweat. My heart shot into my throat. His mouth descended on mine. I turned my face away just in time. “Counselor Pierce, you’re not exactly in your twenties anymore. Don’t you think you should pace yourself?” He looked down at me, a dangerous storm brewing in those dark depths. “Is that so?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, lethal register. “Not in my twenties anymore?” “…I’m just speaking the truth.” I paid the price for my honesty shortly after. Right as my mind was turning to absolute static, he leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear. “Ivy, do you like me?” Later, when I remembered those words, I brushed them off as the delirious ramblings of a man lost in the heat of the moment. I wasn’t narcissistic enough to think he was actually falling for me. And I had absolutely no intention of falling for him. Feelings were messy. Feelings ruined everything. 7 I always thought of myself as someone with an ironclad will. I didn’t want emotional attachments; I just wanted the physical high. But three months in, the tectonic plates of my mindset began to shift. It started on a Tuesday night. Wesley had cooked a massive candlelit dinner for us. I’d had a little too much wine. I remembered stepping over the rose petals he’d scattered on the floor, dragging him down onto the couch with me. But that night, we didn’t do anything. We just lay there together, wrapped in a blanket, and fell asleep to the sound of the rain beating against the glass. At two in the morning, I woke up in a groggy haze. I wanted a glass of water, but I was too lazy to get up. I nudged Wesley’s ribs with my elbow. He woke up with a quiet groan. His eyes were heavy with sleep. Without a word, he pulled me closer and pressed a slow, soft kiss to my mouth. “You’re such a handful,” he murmured, his voice thick and rough from sleep. It was a complaint, but the way he said it was drowning in absolute indulgence. Every trace of my exhaustion vanished. I lay there frozen, my fingertips lightly touching my lips. It was the simplest, quietest touch. There was no lust in it. No heat. And yet, it made my heart flutter in a way I couldn’t ignore. 8 “Ivy, this one has incredible prospects…” “Mom. I’m not going.” I massaged my temples, my patience wearing dangerously thin. “Can you please stop setting me up?” My mother sighed heavily. “I’m only trying to look out for you. A woman needs to settle down early.” “You settled down early. You had me at twenty-three. And what happened?” I let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Dad cheated on you. You married husband number two, then husband number three. Are you happy now?” Silence crackled over the line. I exhaled a long, shaky breath. “Stop worrying about my love life. How are things on your end?” “Fine.” “Do you want me to hire a housekeeper to help out?” “No, don’t waste your money.” “Has that bastard tried to come around?” My mother let out a very faint, “…no.” Then, abruptly, she pivoted. “About the blind date…” “Mom, I have to go. Work.” I spat out an excuse and ended the call. I checked the time. I still had plenty of a buffer. I sat at my vanity, taking my time to blend my eyeshadow and curl my hair into loose, effortless waves. Before I was even finished, my phone lit up with a call from Wesley. “Ivy, I’m downstairs.” His voice was as smooth and intoxicating as ever. “Wait, I’m coming down right now,” I said quickly, panic setting in. “No rush. Take your time.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m not going anywhere, you little idiot.” The words were like a feather brushing lightly against my ribs. I looked at myself in the mirror, my cheeks flushed crimson. We’d been doing this for five months now. It wasn’t a short amount of time. But he still managed to fluster me with zero effort. “You’re the idiot,” I mumbled, and hung up. I grabbed my purse, scooped up the gift bag I’d prepared, and ran out the door. Today was Wesley’s birthday. He was taking the lawyers from his firm out for dinner. Originally, I’d planned to take him out separately once he was done. But he insisted I come with him. He refused to take no for an answer. This wasn’t the first time he’d tried to pull me into his real life. Last month, he won a massive corporate settlement and the firm threw him a party. He’d asked me to be his plus-one, and I declined, saying it wasn’t “appropriate” for our arrangement. But it was his birthday. I didn’t have the heart to say no. In the car ride over, I kept checking my compact mirror, nervously touching up my smudge-proof lipstick. Wesley noticed my anxiety and let out an amused sigh. “Relax. My colleagues don’t bite.” I turned my face away, refusing to look at his teasing eyes. “Who says I’m nervous? Hilarious. “I’m just here to be arm candy. “And besides, some of my followers might be in there. A girl has to maintain her brand image.” Wesley laughed—a low, rumbling sound—and lightly ran his thumb across the back of my hand. “Ivy, how are you so cute?” “?” 9 We were dining at a high-end French bistro. Wesley and I had been here once before. The ambiance was stunning. Just before we reached the private dining room, I slipped my hand out of his. He shot me a look. He clearly wanted to say something. Before he could, the heavy oak door swung open. A woman stepped out. She froze when she saw me, her eyes going wide before she let out a high-pitched squeal. “Oh my god! You’re Wild Ivy!” Wild Ivy was my username on Instagram and TikTok. Wesley frowned. “I literally just told her you guys don’t bite.” The woman bounced excitedly over to me. “Ivy, hi! I’m Becca, Mr. Pierce’s paralegal. I am absolutely obsessed with your videos. I literally bought the setting spray you reviewed last week.” “You are so much prettier in person! Your skin is insane.” “When we were talking about you the other day, Mr. Pierce casually mentioned he was bringing you to dinner tonight.” “We literally thought he was lying to sound cool.” “I can’t believe you’re actually here! How do you guys even know each other?” “Can I get your Insta? Or your number?” Wesley clicked his tongue. “Becca, you are embarrassing…” I smiled, pulling out my phone. “Here, scan my QR code.” Wesley: “…” After we connected on Instagram, Becca practically dragged me into the private room. Once the initial round of introductions settled, the conversation started flowing. “So, Ivy, how did you and our boss meet?”

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It was the Labor Day weekend rush when my car got rear-ended just before the toll plaza. When I went to the police precinct on Monday to sort out the paperwork, the entitled jerk who hit me didn’t even bother to apologize. Instead, he whistled at the Porsche crest on my steering wheel. “Hey, gorgeous. Sugar daddy buy this for you? Give me your number. I’ll cover the repairs, and maybe we can grab dinner tonight. My treat.” He reached out, his fingers brushing toward my cheek, but before he could touch me, a large, calloused hand clamped around his wrist like a vice. With a sharp click, a pair of silver handcuffs slammed onto the metal desk. Lieutenant Willie, sharp in his tailored dress blues, stared him down with a gaze that could freeze water. “Hit-and-run coupled with sexual harassment. You can have your dinner in a holding cell.” The guy’s knees practically buckled. Willie turned to me. When he spoke, his voice softened, carrying an almost pleading tone. “Are you okay? Did he scare you? Wait until my shift ends—I’ll drive you home.” The nearby officers stared, their jaws practically dropping. After all, Lieutenant Willie was famously cold, a man who kept everyone at arm’s length. I pulled a wet wipe from my bag, meticulously cleaning the sleeve where the man’s fingers had brushed against my coat. I didn’t even look up. “Thank you, Lieutenant, but my husband is already on his way to pick me up.” Willie’s face went entirely bloodless. I suppose he’d forgotten. Three years ago, he was the one who pushed me down a flight of stairs, causing the miscarriage that ended our baby’s life, before telling me to get the hell out of his. 1 The air in the precinct lobby seemed to freeze solid. Willie’s towering frame went rigid. He stared at my hands as I wiped my sleeve, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic breaths. “Paula. What did you just say?” I tossed the used wipe into the nearby trash can. “You’re too young to be losing your hearing, Lieutenant.” I finally met his eyes, my gaze perfectly flat. “I said, my husband is on his way.” His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the veins tracing hard, angry lines over his knuckles. He took a step toward me, reaching out. “Paula, stop this. Please.” His voice was a tight whisper. “I know you’re still angry about what happened three years ago. But making up a marriage just to hurt me? It’s childish.” I took a step back, effortlessly slipping out of his reach. The sheer arrogance of him—believing with absolute certainty that I was still desperately in love with him—turned my stomach. Three years apart, and his ego hadn’t shrunk an inch. Before I could tell him exactly where to go, a soft, delicate voice drifted from around the corner. “Willie, honey, I warmed up your tea for your stomach.” Una stepped into the lobby, holding a stainless steel thermos. She was wearing an oversized police patrol jacket over her shoulders—Willie’s jacket, obviously—which made her look impossibly small and fragile. When she saw me, her steps faltered. A flicker of genuine panic crossed her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a thin, triumphant smile. “Paula? Oh my gosh, what are you doing here?” She hurried over to Willie, her hand wrapping naturally, possessively around his forearm. “It’s been three years. How have you been?” I stared coldly at her hand on his sleeve. Three years ago, those same hands had clutched at Willie’s collar, painting her as the ultimate victim. And because she looked so helpless, Willie had lost his mind. With bloodshot eyes, he had shoved me backward. We were in our second year of marriage. I was three months pregnant. As the warm, terrifying rush of blood ran down my legs, he was already lifting a “fainting” Una into his arms, racing toward the ambulance without looking back. The woman named Paula died on that cold hardwood floor that night. “I’m here to file an accident report,” I said, my voice empty of any feeling. “It has nothing to do with either of you.” Una glanced out the window at the gleaming black Porsche parked in the precinct lot. She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, wow. A Porsche. Paula, you used to save up for months just to buy a nice handbag. What kind of job did you get after you and Willie split? How can you afford something like that now?” She blinked her wide, innocent eyes, but her voice was pitched perfectly to carry across the quiet lobby. The desk officers began whispering among themselves, their glances shifting from me to each other. Even Brad—the guy who had rear-ended me—smirked, sensing a vulnerability he could exploit. “Told you so,” Brad sneered. “A girl that young driving a hundred-thousand-dollar car? Definitely riding some old guy’s wallet.” Willie snapped his head toward him, his eyes murderous. “Say one more word, and I’ll make sure you spend the next five years in county jail.” Brad shrunk back, instantly silencing himself. Willie turned back to me, his brow heavily furrowed. He took in my tailored silk dress, then looked out at the luxury car. “Paula, what have you been doing with your life these past three years?” His voice was thick with a self-righteous sort of grief. “You used to have so much pride. Why are you throwing your dignity away just to spite me?” A bitter laugh escaped my throat. I pulled the police report from my clutch. “My money is clean, Willie. If your mind is too filthy to imagine a woman earning her own living, I suggest you get professional help.” I turned to take the paperwork to the claims desk, but Una suddenly let go of Willie’s arm and blocked my path. Her eyes were already rimmed with red, tears spilling down her cheeks on cue. “Paula, please don’t be mad at Willie. He’s just worried about you. What happened back then… it was my fault. I shouldn’t have let my heart condition get in the way. If you still hate me, you can hit me, you can scream at me. But please, don’t ruin your life with some old married man just to get back at him.” She sobbed softly, putting on a masterful performance of a concerned sister trying to save a fallen woman. The murmurs in the lobby grew louder. The stares felt like a hundred tiny, poison-tipped needles pricking at my back. 2 I watched her performance with an empty expression. She had perfected this routine years ago. Back then, all it took was a single tear for Willie to abandon all logic and take her side. I raised my hand, intending to push past her shoulder. But Willie was already moving. He lunged forward, throwing his arm in front of Una, shielding her from me. “Paula, what are you doing?” he barked, his eyes filled with defensive hostility. “Una has a congenital heart defect. She can’t handle stress. You already hurt her once—are you trying to repeat what happened three years ago?” Looking at his fierce, protective stance, a cold wave of absurdity washed over me. Three years ago. Una had come to our apartment while Willie was on shift, smirking, telling me how he had spent the previous night holding her hand at the hospital. I did nothing but tell her to get out. She had immediately collapsed onto the hardwood floor, clutching her chest, pretending to gasp for air. When Willie burst through the door, he didn’t even look at me. He just shoved me out of his way to get to her. I went flying backward, tumbling down the steep wooden steps. He never gave me a chance to explain. He had already pronounced me guilty. “Willie, if you aren’t using your eyes, you should donate them,” I said, staring at his protective huddle. “I didn’t even touch her. What are you screaming for?” Una shrank behind his back, her fingers clutching the hem of his uniform. “Willie, don’t blame Paula. She was just moving her hand. My heart is fine… please don’t fight with her because of me.” Her soft-spoken act made me look like an unhinged harpy. Willie’s expression softened as he spoke to her, but when he turned back to me, his face hardened with deep disappointment. “You’ve changed, Paula. You used to be stubborn, but you were never this cruel. Look at you now—dripping in designer clothes, bitter, cold. Where is the girl I fell in love with?” He was trying to use his moral high ground to crush me. I didn’t even want to argue. I moved to walk around them. At that moment, the glass doors of the precinct burst open. A heavy-set woman in her mid-fifties stormed in like a heat-seeking missile. It was Brad’s mother. The moment she saw Brad standing by the desk, she rushed over, wailing and clutching his face. Brad, seeing his backup arrive, immediately pointed a finger at me. “Ma, that’s her. The bitch in the Porsche. She’s demanding I pay for everything, and she’s got this cop trying to lock me up.” The woman spun around, her eyes locking onto me with pure venom. She marched over, thrusting a manicured finger directly in my face. “You’re the little home-wrecker bullying my son? You think because you drive a Porsche you’re special? God knows how many men you had to sleep with to buy that car! Drop the charges right now, or I’ll tear that fake face of yours off!” She lunged at me, clawing. I stepped back quickly, her nails narrowly missing my cheek. Two desk officers rushed forward to pull her back. The lobby dissolved into chaos. I was backed into the corner near a filing cabinet, my jaw clenched. Willie stepped between me and the shouting woman. “Ma’am, watch your language. This is a police station, not a circus.” His voice was firm, finally displaying a sliver of his authority. But the woman didn’t care. Seeing his uniform, she threw herself onto the floor and began to wail. “Police brutality! The cops are taking the side of a high-class whore over tax-paying citizens!” Her shrieks echoed off the tiled walls. Una, seeing her cue, suddenly clutched her chest, leaning heavily against the drywall. “Willie… my chest. It hurts… I can’t breathe…” Instantly, Willie’s attention snapped away from the screaming woman. He grabbed Una by the shoulders, panic written all over his face. “Una? Do you have your inhaler? Your pills?” Una shook her head weakly, looking at the crying mother and son with watery eyes. “Willie, they look so desperate. Paula has so much money… the repair bill is nothing to her. Why is she doing this to them? Why is she ruining their lives?” Though her voice was weak, it carried clearly across the room. The mother on the floor picked up on it instantly. “See? Even the officer’s family knows what’s right!” Willie looked from a distressed Una to me, trapped in the corner. He let out a long, heavy sigh and walked over to me. “Paula, please. Just apologize to them and drop the claim. Una needs a quiet environment. If this keeps up, she’s going to have an attack.” 3 I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Willie wanted me to apologize to a man who had hit my car and sexually harassed me? All so his darling, fragile “little sister” could have a quiet room to recover in? I stared at him, feeling a wave of physical nausea. “Willie, are you out of your mind?” My voice shook, but I kept it sharp. “I’m the one who got hit. I’m the one who was harassed. I’m the one being screamed at by his mother. And you, a police officer, are telling me to apologize to the people who did this?” My knuckles turned white as I gripped my bag. Willie’s frown deepened. He stepped closer, dropping his voice so only I could hear. “Paula, I know you’ve been wronged here. But these people are trash. If you keep fighting them, you’re the one who’ll end up looking bad. I’ll write you a personal check for the repairs. Just let it go, okay? Stop making a scene.” That condescending tone—like he was doing me a favor—was the final match thrown onto a lifetime of dry tinder. He had always been like this. Every time Una targeted me, he would tell me to take the high road, to be the bigger person. Because I was his wife, I was expected to swallow every insult to feed his savior complex. “Keep your charity to yourself,” I said, shoving his reaching hand away. “They are paying for every cent of damage. And I’m not apologizing to anyone.” I turned to leave. The air in this room felt toxic. But as I went to pass Una, her knees buckled again. She went limp, falling directly toward me. I tried to dodge, but her hands clamped onto my purse strap with surprising, desperate strength. With a loud rip, my bag was torn from my grip and crashed to the floor. Lipsticks, keys, and a deep blue velvet box spilled across the linoleum. The brass latch on the box popped open. A flawless pink diamond ring rolled out, catching the harsh fluorescent lights of the precinct. Gideon had bought it at a private auction in London. It was one of a kind. Una hit the floor hard, landing directly on top of my things. “Ow!” she squealed, scrambling to sit up. As she scrambled, the sharp metal heel of her boot ground directly into the face of the pink diamond. The sound of metal scratching stone made my heart stop. I pushed her aside with a force I didn’t know I possessed, dropping to my knees. I scooped up the ring. The once-perfect, brilliant surface of the diamond now had a jagged, deep scratch running across the face, and the platinum band was slightly warped. Gideon had placed this on my finger. I rarely wore it, terrified of losing it. I had only tucked it safely into my bag today because of the accident. My hands shook as I squeezed it in my palm. I stood up, staring down at Una. Sensing the sheer rage in my eyes, Una shrank back, tears streaming down her face. “Paula, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to, I just got dizzy… please don’t look at me like you want to kill me. You’re scaring me.” Willie immediately stepped in front of her, pulling her into his arms. He looked at the warped ring in my hand, a flicker of shock crossing his eyes. Even a novice could tell that stone was worth a fortune. But he quickly masked it, pulling his wallet out and slamming a black credit card onto the desk. “It’s just a ring, Paula. Una apologized. Are you going to keep badgering her until she collapses? There’s fifty grand on this card. Go buy yourself a better one.” The absolute arrogance of his gesture felt like a blunt knife sawing at my chest. I looked at the card on the table and let out a cold laugh. “You think your petty cash can fix this, Willie? You couldn’t afford this ring in ten lifetimes.” I pulled out my phone and dialed Gideon’s private number. It rang twice before he picked up. His deep, velvet voice filled my ear, instantly soothing. “Hey, sweetheart. Are you finished?” “Gideon,” I said, my voice cracking despite my best efforts. “Someone broke my wedding ring. And they’re telling me it doesn’t matter.” The line went dead silent for a beat. Then, I heard a cold, quiet chuckle that made my spine tingle. “Stay right where you are,” Gideon said. “I’d like to see who in Chicago thinks they can touch my wife’s things and get away with it.” 4 I hung up the phone. Carefully placing the damaged pink diamond back into the velvet box, I slipped it into my coat pocket. Willie watched the soft, familiar tone I had used with Gideon, his face turning an ugly shade of gray. A bitter, mocking laugh escaped his lips as he took a step toward me. “Paula. Are you seriously playing make-believe now? You hired some actor to pretend to be your husband just to get a rise out of me?” He reached out, trying to grab the box from my pocket. I was ready. I slapped his hand away, stepping back. “Don’t touch me with your filthy hands.” Una watched this from the floor, a tiny spark of excitement dancing in her eyes. She scrambled up and grabbed Willie’s sleeve, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy. “Willie, please don’t be mad at Paula. Maybe she… maybe she really hit hard times after the divorce. That’s why she’s doing this… selling herself to some old businessman. Don’t you have friends in the Vice division? Maybe they can help her get out of that life.” Every word was designed to paint me as a high-class call girl. Brad’s mother joined in instantly, barking a laugh. “I knew it! A cheap streetwalker. Officer, you should lock her up for soliciting! She’s a public nuisance!” Willie’s face was dark. He stared at me, a dangerous mix of possessiveness and jealousy burning in his eyes. “Paula, you’re coming with me.” He grabbed my wrist. His grip was so tight my bones practically clicked under the pressure. “We are going somewhere quiet, and you are going to tell me exactly what you’ve been doing these past three years. If you need money, I’ll give it to you. Just stop humiliating yourself in public.” He began dragging me toward the exit. The sheer, arrogant force of it was exactly like three years ago, when he had tried to force me onto my knees to apologize to Una. I struggled, my heels screeching against the polished tile floor. “Let go of me, Willie! My husband is coming! This is kidnapping!” I grabbed the doorframe with my free hand, the wood scraping under my nails. But Willie didn’t care. He was entirely trapped in his own delusions, convinced I had ruined my life just to hurt him. “You’re getting in the car, Paula.” He dragged me out into the gravel parking lot. But just as he opened the door of his unmarked Ford patrol sedan, a deafening engine roar shattered the afternoon quiet. A sleek, custom black Rolls-Royce Phantom tore into the precinct lot. The driver swung the massive car around, the tires screaming and kicking up a cloud of grey dust and white smoke. The Rolls-Royce came to a halt inches from Willie’s patrol car, completely blocking him in. The desk officers and half the people in the lobby ran outside to see what was happening. The heavy rear door of the Rolls-Royce clicked open. A pair of immaculate, hand-crafted leather shoes stepped onto the gravel. Gideon stepped out of the car. He was wearing a charcoal, bespoke three-piece suit that clung perfectly to his broad shoulders. He was tall, striking, with sharp features and a quiet, terrifying gravity that only came from holding immense power. The midday sun caught the hard lines of his jaw. Gideon Blackstone. The undisputed king of Chicago’s financial elite. His dark, piercing eyes swept over the crowd and locked onto Willie’s hand, which was still gripping my bruised wrist. The temperature in the parking lot seemed to drop thirty degrees. Gideon walked toward us, his strides slow, deliberate, and heavy. With every step he took, the air grew tighter. Willie froze, seemingly paralyzed by the raw, dangerous aura radiating from the man. His grip on my wrist loosened slightly. Gideon stopped directly in front of us, looking down at Willie like he was looking at dust on his shoe. He parted his lips, his voice a low, lethal rumble that echoed across the concrete lot: “Let go of my wife.”

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I was born frail, a delicate glass doll, yet I lived a life of unimaginable indulgence. My bedroom was a climate-controlled sanctuary, always kept at a precise seventy-two degrees with perfect humidity. Organic ingredients were flown in daily from organic farms across Europe and South America. I had a rotating team of dozens of world-class private physicians, all dedicated to monitoring my breath, my pulse, my sleep. They coddled me so thoroughly that I hadn’t so much as caught a cold in over a decade. But it wasn’t out of pure paternal love. It was because I was the Davenport family’s living talisman. I held their luck in my hands. When I was happy, Davenport Enterprises flourished, securing record-breaking mergers and soaring profits. When I was distressed, the family’s fortunes plummeted like a stone. For fifteen years, my joy kept us at the absolute pinnacle of Wall Street, our stock price untouchable. Until my father brought Hailey home and announced she was his biological daughter—the real heiress. The moment my father left for an international summit, Hailey made her move. She threw my belongings out into the corridor, her eyes wild with a strange, vindictive triumph. “The real daughter is back,” she sneered, tossing my silk pillows at my feet. “Why is an imposter like you still breathing my air? Get the hell out.” An icy draft rushed into my warm sanctuary, and I sneezed. Before I could even gasp, Hailey shoved me. Hard. The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind me. I stood bare-footed on the snow-covered terrace, wearing nothing but a thin silk nightgown. Across the country, on the trading floors of New York, the Davenport stock—stable for over a decade—shuddered. …… 1 Within seconds, a dozen maids rushed out, panic painting their faces as they draped me in cashmere coats and slipped lined boots onto my freezing feet. “Miss Beatrice, please, put this on! You can’t catch a chill!” They bundled me up as quickly as they could, but a dull, throbbing ache was already blooming behind my temples. In Manhattan, the Davenport market value began a steep, sickening nosedive, threatening to strip us of our top spot on the S&P 500. The head housekeeper tried to guide me back inside, but Hailey blocked the doorway, her arms crossed defiantly. “I am the lady of this house now!” Hailey barked, her voice shrill. “I order all of you to get back inside and leave Beatrice alone!” Mrs. Higgins, the lead housekeeper, practically begged her. “Miss Hailey, please, stop this. Mr. Davenport gave strict orders that Miss Beatrice must be cared for at all costs. If she loses even a single hair, your father will ruin us. We’ll never work in this city again!” Hailey didn’t budge. “Why are you so terrified? My father only pampered her because he thought she was his blood. But she’s not. She’s a nobody. I’m throwing out a parasite, and my father won’t say a word. If any of you dare to help her, you’re fired!” She stepped aside, wearing a smug, expectant grin, waiting for the staff to abandon me. She had no idea. She didn’t understand that my pampering wasn’t born of sentimentality, but of survival. My body and the Davenport fortune were bound by a thread of pure gold—one thrived only when the other did. To keep the empire safe, my father would have willingly worshiped me on bended knee. To prevent corporate sabotage or kidnapping, my father had kept this secret entirely to himself and his most trusted advisor. Looking at the terrified, torn expressions of the housekeepers caught in the middle, I tried to warn her, keeping my voice soft but steady. “Hailey, don’t take your anger out on them. Let me back inside. I have a weak constitution. If I fall ill, the consequences for the family will be catastrophic.” But Hailey merely sneered, her eyes glittering with spite. “Look at you, playing the fragile victim the moment Dad’s back is turned. Who are you trying to fool? I’m not letting you back in, and you’re not going to freeze to death from a little fresh air. And ‘catastrophic for the family’? This empire was built on my father’s sweat, not yours. Have you no shame, leech?” The biting wind cut through my coat, and my face went pale. The staff knew all too well what happened when my comfort was compromised. Seeing my deteriorating state and terrified of my father’s wrath, they ignored Hailey’s threats. Pushing past her, they swarmed around me, ushering me back into my climate-controlled bedroom. The medical team on standby immediately rushed in, checking my vitals, while the chef hurried up with a steaming mug of spiced ginger tea to warm me from the inside out. Seeing me treated like royalty once again, Hailey snapped. She marched over, slapped the mug out of the chef’s hands, and shoved the doctors away. “Have you all lost your minds? I am the real heiress! I told you to leave her, and you ignore me? Do you all want to end up on the streets?” She lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of my hair, and began dragging me toward the door. “I am throwing this parasite out today, and I dare any of you to stop me!” No one dared lay a hand on Hailey in her blind, violent rage. My scalp stung with sharp, blinding pain as she yanked me. I could feel warm beads of blood beginning to well up. Desperate to save the Davenport legacy from crumbling, I struggled against her grip. “Hailey, let go of me! I don’t want to fight you for Father’s affection. I don’t even care about the heiress title. But I am hurt. If you don’t let them treat me, you will regret this!” Hailey didn’t even pause. “Who are you trying to scare? You never stood a chance against me anyway. Why would I regret throwing out a useless piece of trash?” I stopped fighting. It was her own choice to burn the Davenport empire to the ground. I had warned her. I only wondered if she would still hold that arrogant, remorseless look on her face when the family was drowning in billions of dollars of debt. Just as Hailey dragged me to the grand foyer, the massive front doors swung open. My father’s chief of staff, Fletcher, had returned. 2 Hailey’s face lit up with a brilliant, eager smile. “Fletcher! You’re back! Where is Dad? Did he miss me so much he cut his conference short?” She had no idea that in less than an hour, Davenport stock had plummeted straight out of the top ten. My father, trapped in high-stakes negotiations, had frantically ordered his chief of staff to board the private jet and fly back immediately. Fletcher took one look at me—bleeding, disheveled, and being dragged by my hair—and his face went deathly pale. “Miss Hailey! What on earth are you doing? Let go of Miss Beatrice this instant!” Hailey gave my hair another vicious yank, tearing a clump from my scalp. “What ‘Miss Beatrice’? She’s nothing but a lazy, spoiled fraud! This house doesn’t need dead weight. I’m kicking her out so Dad doesn’t have to look at her ugly face!” Cold sweat poured down my forehead as I fought back the trembling in my voice. “Did Father return? Fletcher, pull Hailey off me… let the doctors treat me. Please, hurry!” Fletcher lunged forward, physically wrenching me away from Hailey’s grasp. I was burning up with a sudden, feverish heat, my scalp slick with blood. Fletcher completely panicked. He turned to the paralyzed medical team and screamed, “Are you all useless? Can’t you see Miss Beatrice is bleeding? Treat her! Now! Use whatever it takes to heal her immediately!” Fletcher’s voice carried the absolute weight of my father’s authority. The doctors didn’t dare waste another second. They moved with practiced, frantic precision, starting an IV and tending to my head. Fletcher knelt beside me, his voice shaking as he tried to soothe me. “Please hang in there, Miss Beatrice. Mr. Davenport is on his way. He’ll be back soon. Don’t be sad, please. He will make this right. I promise you.” I closed my eyes, forcing my breathing to slow, doing everything in my power to stabilize my emotions to halt the financial hemorrhage of our family empire. But Hailey suddenly shrieked like a wild animal. “Make what right? Why are you coddling her? She’s a fake! I’m the real Davenport heiress! I am!” When the doctors ignored her, continuing their treatment, Hailey grabbed a silver paring knife from the fruit platter on the sideboard, brandishing it wildly. “Get away from her! If any of you touch Beatrice, I’ll gut you!” She drove the medical team back, her eyes wild as she advanced on me, the knife pointed directly at my chest. “You aren’t his daughter. You have no right to steal his love from me. Get out of my house!” As the blade drew closer, Fletcher threw himself in front of me, shielding my body with his own. “Miss Hailey, stop this madness! Don’t you understand? Miss Beatrice is the very lifeblood of this family!” Hailey took his desperate plea as a challenge. Without hesitation, she plunged the blade directly into Fletcher’s shoulder. “You think I won’t do it? I’ll show you exactly who my father’s true golden child is!” Blood immediately blossomed across Fletcher’s tailored suit. Hailey let out a cruel, triumphant laugh. “You’re just a glorified servant. How dare a servant talk back to his master? This is what you get!” The maids and doctors shrank back, utterly terrified by her psychotic behavior. No one dared to move. Unsatisfied, Hailey raised the bloodied knife once more. “Still want to protect her? Let me teach you a lesson about who you actually answer to in this house!” At that exact second, the phone in my hand finally connected. My father’s face appeared on the screen, his expression dark, his voice trembling with a terrifying, suppressed rage. “Hailey Davenport! I told you to take care of your sister. Is this how you do it?” “Go to your room and wait for me. When I get back, you and I are going to have a very long conversation.” Before Hailey could even stammer an excuse, my father disconnected the call. Fletcher let out a weak, ragged sigh of relief. “Miss Hailey… Mr. Davenport is furious. I suggest you start preparing your explanation.” Hailey’s face twisted in rage, her teeth grinding so hard I could hear them click. “Fine. I’ll make sure to give her the absolute best care. I’m sure Dad will be thrilled.” 3 Hailey slammed me down onto the leather sofa. “You’re so fragile, dear sister. You must be freezing after your little trip outside. How about some hot ginger broth? I’ll brew it for you myself.” Fletcher, pale and bleeding, stumbled toward me. “Miss Hailey, please. Stop tormenting her. She can barely sit upright!” I mustered every ounce of my remaining strength, my voice cold as ice. “Father told you to go to your room. Are you going to defy him too?” Hailey let out a sharp scoff. “He’s my father, not yours. Of course I listen to him. And I’m going to take excellent care of you.” She swept up the spilled ginger broth from the floor, scooping the liquid alongside the jagged shards of the broken porcelain bowl directly into a fresh metal basin. She thrust the dark, menacing mixture right into my face. “Weren’t you cold? Here’s your warm drink. Drink up!” Fletcher tried to knock the basin away. “That’s not fit for a human! Miss Hailey, if you keep this up, Mr. Davenport will throw you out of this house the second he returns!” Hailey kicked Fletcher squarely in his freshly bleeding shoulder wound. “The maids don’t know their place, and neither do you. I am the mistress of this estate. Who gave you the right to stand in my way? Have you not had enough of a lesson?” Fletcher groaned in agony, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed onto the floor, unconscious. My heart burned with a white-hot fury. “Hailey! Fletcher has been Father’s right hand for a decade. He is a respected member of this household. How dare you mutilate him?” Hailey tilted her head, her lips curling into a mocking smile. “Oh, Beatrice, I really underestimated you. Not only are you good at playing the victim, but you’re a consummate actress.” She pinched my jaw, forcing my mouth open. “Too bad your little performance won’t save you from me. Since you love drama so much, let’s see how you perform after drinking this!” She poured the mixture down my throat. The liquid, laced with microscopic shards of broken porcelain, scraped down my esophagus. It felt like fire and razor blades tearing me apart from the inside. My body convulsed, and I violently gagged, vomiting the fluid back up. The dark broth, heavily stained with bright crimson blood, splattered across the polished marble floor. Hailey stepped back with a look of pure disgust. “Repulsive.” She turned her gaze toward the trembling maids who stood paralyzed in the corner. “The broth was clearly too rich for my fragile sister. She’s burning up.” “Go fetch a bucket of ice water. Let’s help her cool down.” I was in too much pain to speak. I could only glare at the maids, pleading with my eyes. The staff hesitated, caught in agonizing indecision. Hailey let out a cold laugh. “What, feeling sorry for her? Have you forgotten the ridiculous rules you had to endure just to keep her comfortable?” “I recall that just last month, because the thermostat was set a single degree too high, my father docked half your monthly wages!” My body was indeed so weak that a single degree could trigger a fever. But my father also knew how demanding my care was. To compensate, their salaries were ten times the industry standard, and they worked in shifts of twenty, making the labor incredibly light. They had practically clawed each other’s eyes out to secure a position in this house. Yet, one of the maids turned her back on me, her expression hardening as she went to fetch a bucket of ice water. I could no longer hold back my rage, tearing away whatever polite facade remained. “Hailey, without me, Davenport Enterprises wouldn’t exist. If you do this to me, even if you are his biological daughter, Father will destroy you!” To my father, the legacy of Davenport was worth more than his own soul. He would never tolerate anyone who threatened to dismantle it. My response was a torrential downpour of freezing, ice-choked water over my head. Hailey burst into wild, arrogant laughter. “Have you lost your mind from the fever? What does this company have to do with you? I am my father’s only flesh and blood. What could he possibly do to me?” She scanned the room, looking at the other maids and the silent doctors. “How much resentment have you all built up because of her? Don’t you want a little payback?” “Beatrice clearly isn’t thinking straight. Why don’t we throw a few more buckets of ice water on her to wake her up? If anything happens, I’ll take full responsibility!” 4 The first maid to douse me with water stepped forward, a vicious gleam of excitement in her eyes. “Beatrice, I have tolerated your demanding attitude for far too long. I have never seen anyone so ridiculously fragile in my entire life!” “You brought this on yourself. You deserve every bit of this!” Hailey clapped her hands in delight. “Perfect! Remember, everyone—I am the only true mistress of this house. Only those who obey me get to keep their jobs!” She casually pulled out her phone and wired a hundred thousand dollars to the maid’s account. Seeing the immediate windfall, the other maids lost all hesitation. They rushed to the kitchens, hauling out bucket after bucket of ice water. They shouted insults, dumping the freezing water over me. “You fake! Even an endangered panda isn’t as high-maintenance as you. Now that you’re no longer the heiress, we don’t have to put up with your nonsense!” Not wanting to be left out, one of the private physicians stepped forward, brandishing a syringe. “Because of your low pain tolerance, I had to pull all-nighters for two months straight practicing my injection technique. No one else complains about pain, so why do you? You dramatic little princess—let’s see how much you like this!” He jabbed the needle into my skin over and over. Hailey laughed so hard she had to hold her stomach. “Aren’t you the ‘lifeblood’ of this family? Why hasn’t Dad rushed to save you yet?” “Wake up! He wanted rid of you a long time ago. Either get out of this house, or learn to bow your head to me!” My eyelids grew heavy. I could no longer feel the biting cold; I could only feel my life force slowly, steadily slipping away. The voices around me began to fade into static. Slap! A stinging blow to my cheek snapped me back to consciousness. Hailey’s venomous face hovered inches from mine. “I’m talking to you! Are you deaf?” “Still stubborn, are we? I’ll make sure you understand exactly who rules this house!” I forced the words through my swollen, trembling lips. “Hailey… this house has room for only one of us. It’s either you, or me.” Hailey grabbed my hair and slammed my forehead against the marble floor. “What are you muttering under your breath? How dare you threaten me!” Blood trickled down my forehead, blurring my vision. My skin turned a dull, lifeless grey. The doctor suddenly looked panicked. “Miss Hailey… stop. She isn’t looking good. I think she might actually be dying.” Hailey stomped her heel onto my face, grinding it down. “She was just cursing at me a second ago! She’s an actress. She knows exactly how to fake it!” I stared unblinkingly at the grand foyer doors. Father… if you don’t get here soon, the Davenport luck is going to run out forever. Across the state, Davenport factories suddenly shuddered to a halt due to unexplained power grid failures. Multi-million dollar contracts were abruptly terminated by long-term partners citing sudden corporate restructuring. An anonymous whistleblower filed a devastating lawsuit, threatening to bring the entire empire to its knees. Seeing my silence, Hailey raised the silver paring knife once more. “Playing dead? Get up!” I couldn’t move an inch. I could only watch as the cold blade descended toward my chest. The tip of the knife was inches from my skin. Finally, the heavy double doors flew open. My father burst into the room, his coat unbuttoned, his face pale and drenched in sweat. I mustered every drop of strength left in my fading consciousness. My eyes locked onto his, filled with a cold, unforgiving lethalness. “Father… Hailey cannot coexist with me.” “Do you want Hailey? Or do you want your empire?”

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Wright brought the third heavily pregnant woman into my firm, expecting me to draft a deed of gift for her. His friends stood in the corner, placing bets on exactly how many seconds it would take for me to lose my mind and trash the office. But I didn’t say a word, even as the thick stack of papers slid out of the printer, warm and final. “Wright, man, this is the third one,” Tyler muttered, casting a wary look in my direction. “Are you sure she isn’t quietly plotting to ruin you?” Wright pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice dropping into that deep, authoritative register he used when he wanted to sound magnanimous. “Maeve’s health is too fragile. She can’t handle the physical toll of pregnancy. This baby will be legally registered under her name the moment it’s born. Her position as my wife is never going to change.” I didn’t let my expression waver. I simply slid the stamped, legally binding documents across the mahogany desk, offering the standard professional disclaimer. “Everything is signed and sealed. The agreement is active and fully enforceable by law.” Wright took the paperwork, a brief, almost imperceptible frown crossing his handsome face. He hesitated, then slid a second document toward me—a voluntary divorce agreement. His tone softened. “Sign this. It’s just a formality, Maeve,” he murmured. “Hailey is strong. Once she gives birth and we legally adopt the baby, the family won’t be able to hold your infertility against you anymore. Your place at my side is secure. I’m only doing this to protect you.” I had played my part in this twisted theater twice before. But this time, I didn’t hesitate. I picked up the pen and signed my name on the dotted line. Then, with deliberate slowness, I slipped on the massive pink diamond engagement ring Drew, the golden heir of the city’s most powerful empire, had given me just nights before. Wright had seemingly forgotten a tiny, inconvenient medical truth: he was completely sterile. If I wanted to be a mother, all I needed was a man with working anatomy. Why did he think I would cling to the hollow title of his wife, just to raise a bastard child spawned from another man’s affair? … Hailey stroked her round, heavily swollen belly, letting out a soft, theatrical sigh. “Wright… is Maeve mad? Look, she even bought her own ring just to make a point.” Wright’s eyes locked onto my left hand. His brows drew together, a flash of genuine irritation crossing his features. “Maeve, enough,” he snapped. “Do you really think buying some cheap piece of glass is going to make me change my mind?” I didn’t argue. I simply pushed the signed divorce agreement back to him. “It’s done. I’ll see you at the courthouse tomorrow morning at nine.” The room fell dead silent for a fraction of a second, before Tyler and the rest of Wright’s entourage burst into mocking laughter. “Come on, Maeve, you’ve been playing this hard-to-get game for three years now. Aren’t you tired of it?” “Seriously. Wright just wants an heir. You can’t give him one, and now you’re trying to stop anyone else from doing it? Don’t be so bitter.” Wright rubbed his temples, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Maeve, stop throwing a tantrum. Hailey is carrying twins. The doctor said the pregnancy is high-risk. She needs peace and quiet.” Hailey leaned back into Wright’s chest, her eyes welling with crocodile tears. “Wright, I just don’t want our babies to be born hidden away in some dark corner of the city.” She peeked up at me, acting timid. “Maeve… would you mind letting us use your penthouse downtown? The security is incredible, and it’s so close to the medical center.” That penthouse was the only thing my parents had left me before they died in a sudden car crash. It was my sanctuary. “That is my personal property. It wasn’t part of our marriage.” Hailey flinched, pulling back as if I had struck her. Giant tears rolled down her cheeks. “Maeve, please don’t be angry. I was only thinking of the babies. If you don’t want us there, that’s fine. I’ll just pack my bags and raise them in some cheap motel out in the country.” Wright wrapped his arms tightly around her, turning on me with cold, uncompromising authority. “Maeve, don’t be petty. The place is sitting empty anyway. Pack your things tonight. Hailey moves in tomorrow.” I stared at the man I had loved for nearly a decade. For the first time, I realized how utterly pathetic I had been. “Wright, are you illiterate or just stupid? It’s my house.” Wright’s face darkened, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Maeve, it’s just a house. Once the babies are born, you can have it back. Right now, Hailey is pregnant. You need to think about the bigger picture.” Tyler chimed in from the couch. “Yeah, Maeve. Hailey’s carrying the next generation of the family line. You can’t even spare a roof over her head?” I kept my eyes on Wright. “And if I refuse?” Wright let out a dry, humorless chuckle and pulled out his phone. “Let’s not forget who your firm’s largest retainer is, Maeve. You’re a smart woman. Don’t make me pull the corporate contracts.” For his mistress, he was willing to destroy the career I had poured my soul into. I stared at the absolute confidence in his eyes and felt a sudden, liberating laugh bubble up in my chest. “Fine. I’ll pack.” Wright blinked, taken aback by how easily I’d folded. A smug smirk touched his lips, and his tone softened with patronizing approval. “Good. See? When you’re reasonable, everything works out. Spend tonight at the family estate. I’ll have my assistant help Hailey move into the penthouse tomorrow.” I stood up, grabbing my coat. My gaze swept over the miserable crowd. “I’ll be out tonight. But Wright? I hope you remember this moment when the bill comes due.” Wright just laughed. “Don’t throw a fit, Maeve. It’s temporary. The house is still yours.” Hailey tilted her chin up, flashing me a quiet, venomous smile of victory. I didn’t look back as I walked out, letting the door click shut behind me. Through the heavy wood, I could hear Tyler’s muffled voice laughing. “Wright always knows how to pull her leash! Man, once these twins are born, you’ll be a father of three!” A father of three. I truly hoped he’d keep that same joyful energy when he found out whose name was actually on the birth certificates. The storm hit the city late that night, rain lashing violently against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. I packed light. In truth, there wasn’t much to take. I didn’t touch a single thing Wright had bought me. I only packed my parents’ framed portrait and my five-year-old Ragdoll cat, Casper. Casper seemed to sense my quiet anger, nudging his soft head against my hand and licking my knuckles. The electronic lock chimed, and Wright stepped inside, shaking the rain from his coat. When his eyes fell on the suitcases lined up by the door, his brow furrowed. “Are you really doing this? Maeve, I told you to go to the estate. Why are you packing up everything you own?” I smoothed down my final coat, zipped the suitcase, and stood up. “We signed the divorce papers, Wright. Why would I sleep under your family’s roof? Save your energy. You have twins to worry about.” He marched over, slamming his hand down on the top of my suitcase. “Stop being so dramatic! I told you the divorce is just a show for the board. Why are you pushing this? You’re a woman on your own. If you walk away from me, from the family, where do you think you’re going to go?” There was a sickening certainty in his eyes. He truly believed I was helpless without him. I reached down, firmly removing his hand from my bag. “Where I go is none of your business anymore.” His jaw clenched, but before he could snap, his phone buzzed. Hailey’s name flashed across the screen. He answered immediately, and her trembling, soft voice filled the quiet room. “Wright, where are you? I’m scared… the thunder is so loud, and my stomach hurts. What if something is wrong with the babies?” His face softened instantly into frantic concern. “Don’t panic, Hailey. I’m on my way.” He hung up and glared at me, his tenderness vanishing. “You better pray those babies are fine, Maeve. If anything happens to them because of your stubbornness, I’ll destroy you.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and rushed back out into the pouring rain. I watched the door swing shut, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. I remembered the night I lay bleeding out on an operating table from an ectopic pregnancy. Where had Wright been then? He’d been across town, helping his very first mistress pick out decor for her baby shower. I closed my eyes, forcing the toxic memory back into the dark corner of my mind. I grabbed Casper’s carrier, pulled my suitcase behind me, and walked out of the apartment forever. The next morning, I stood outside the courthouse at exactly nine. I waited. Hour after hour slipped by, but Wright never showed. I tried calling, but my calls went straight to voicemail. It was only when the office doors closed for the evening that my phone finally rang. It wasn’t Wright; it was Tyler. “Do you have a single shred of humanity left, Maeve?” Tyler hissed. “Hailey almost miscarried last night. Wright spent the entire night by her hospital bed, and you’re standing at the courthouse trying to force a divorce? Are you trying to kill his kids?” My voice was flat, empty of any anger. “If he’s busy, we’ll reschedule. Tell him to have his lawyer prepare the breach-of-contract penalty.” I hung up before he could reply and headed straight to my office. The moment I walked through the doors of my firm, the heavy silence hit me. Becca, my junior associate, ran up to me, her eyes red and tearful. “Maeve, we have a major problem. Wright’s legal department just sent over an official termination letter. They’re pulling out of every single retainer agreement. Worse, they’re blacklisting us. They let every major developer in the city know that doing business with us means war with Wright’s family.” My boots clicked to a halt on the hardwood floor. My expression hardened. This was Wright’s classic play: crush me financially until I crawled back on my knees. I sat at my desk and opened my laptop. My inbox was flooded with cancellations from clients I had spent years networking to win over. Right on cue, my phone vibrated. A text from Wright: Apologize to Hailey, promise to fall back into line, and I’ll restore the firm’s contracts. Don’t push my patience, Maeve. A soft laugh escaped my lips. He truly believed he held all the cards. I didn’t bother typing a reply. I blocked his number, then pulled up a contact I hadn’t touched in months. The call connected on the second ring. A deep, smooth voice drifted through the line. “Let me guess. Wright finally made his final mistake?” I stared out at the city skyline. “Drew. You were right. I’m dropping Wright’s accounts. But I need a favor.” Drew let out a low, amused chuckle. “Maeve, for you, I’d burn down the entire city block by block. Tell me what you need.” My grip tightened on the phone. “I want Wright’s family holdings squeezed. I want their credit dry and their capital frozen within thirty days.” For the next week, Wright went completely silent. He was undoubtedly waiting for me to hit rock bottom, expecting me to beg for his mercy once the bills started piling up. What he didn’t realize was that I had already quietly liquidated my shares in the firm for a massive payout. By the time he thought I was starving, I had already stepped into my new role as the chief legal counsel for Drew’s multinational corporate division. Late one Tuesday afternoon, right after wrapping up a board meeting at Drew’s headquarters, my phone rang. It was the emergency vet clinic. “Maeve, it’s about Casper. You need to get here immediately.” Panic seized my chest. I sped across the city, my heart hammering against my ribs. When I burst through the clinic doors, I was escorted into the back. Casper was lying on the sterile table, his pure white fur soaked in deep crimson. He was barely drawing breath. The vet, his hands covered in blood, looked up with a grim expression. “I’m so sorry, Maeve. He suffered severe blunt force trauma. His internal organs are ruptured. We’re doing everything we can, but…” My mind went completely blank. Casper had been a birthday gift from my parents before they died. He was the last piece of home I had left. With trembling fingers, I touched his bloodied, soft fur. Casper forced his eyes open, looking up at me with a faint, tired meow, and then he stopped breathing. “Who did this?” My voice was barely a whisper, cold and hollow. The vet sighed, turning a laptop screen toward me. “A woman dropped him off in an alley nearby. Our security cameras caught her.” On the footage, Hailey stood in the alleyway wearing dark sunglasses, an iron golf club slung over her shoulder. Her driver dragged Casper’s carrier out of her trunk and dumped him onto the pavement. Without a second of hesitation, Hailey swung the club, striking my cat again and again. She kept swinging until Casper stopped moving. Then, she nudged his small body with the toe of her designer heel. “Stupid animal thought it could scratch me,” her voice drifted clearly through the audio feed. “Throw it in the trash. Don’t let Wright see it.” I stared at the screen, my fingernails digging so deeply into my palms that they drew blood. I pulled out my phone and dialed the police. Thirty minutes later, two police officers accompanied me back to the penthouse I had built. When the door opened, I saw Hailey curled up on my custom-designed sofa, nestled in Wright’s lap. At the sight of the uniforms, she let out a theatrical shriek and scrambled behind Wright. “Wright! What’s happening? I’m scared…” Wright stood up, shielding her, his glare icy as he locked eyes with me. “Maeve, what kind of sick stunt is this? Bringing cops to my home? Have you completely lost your mind?” I stood perfectly still. “Hailey is under investigation for animal cruelty and felony property damage. I’m pressing charges.” Wright blinked, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Are you seriously doing all this over that stupid cat? Maeve, you are genuinely pathetic. It’s an animal. It died. I’ll buy you ten more! Hailey is pregnant; she cannot handle this kind of stress. Take your cops and get the hell out of my house.” I looked at the man I had spent years of my life with, and felt absolutely nothing but disgust. “Casper was the last thing my parents left me. He didn’t do anything to her. Why did she have to beat him to death?” Hailey peeked out from behind him, sobbing softly. “Maeve, please don’t lie. That beast went wild. It tried to claw my belly. I was only protecting Wright’s children. Is a filthy animal really worth more to you than our babies?” Wright’s expression hardened into pure malice. Before the officers could react, he stepped forward and swung his arm. Slap. The force of his palm across my face echoed through the foyer. My head snapped back, a sharp ringing filling my ears as warm blood trickled down my chin. Wright pointed a shaking finger at my face, shouting, “You malicious, bitter bitch! Just because you’re sterile, you try to use a wild animal to kill my heirs? Let me make this clear, Maeve: if anything happens to Hailey’s babies, I will personally ruin you.” The officers immediately tackled him, pinning his arms behind his back. “Sir! Step back! Assaulting someone in front of law enforcement is a felony. Calm down!” Wright didn’t even flinch. He sneered, casually adjusting his expensive cuffs. “Arrest me? Your captain dines at my private club. I was putting my hysterical wife in her place.” He turned his murderous gaze back to me. “Maeve, this is your last chance. Drop the charges and get on your knees and apologize to Hailey. Or I swear to God, I will run you out of this city by morning.” I slowly reached up, wiping the blood from my lip, staring at the two of them. Strangely, the anger washed away, leaving only a cold, crystalline silence. “Wright, that slap officially paid off whatever debt I owed you. You want heirs so badly? Then I wish you all the joy in the world with your beautiful, perfect family.” I turned back to the officers. “I’ve forwarded the security footage to the precinct. Let’s let the legal system handle this.” Without another glance, I walked out of the penthouse. Behind me, Wright’s voice cracked with rage. “Maeve! Get back here! You walk out that door, and you are dead to this family!” Three days later, the ballroom at the Waldorf Astoria was packed. Wright had spared no expense, throwing a multi-million dollar baby shower that was, in reality, a high-society coming-out party for Hailey to cement her status as the future matriarch of his empire. The room was drowning in thousands of imported red roses. When I stepped inside, a quiet murmur rippled through the crowd. “Is that Maeve? What is she doing here?” “I heard Wright’s filing for divorce because of the mistress.” “So sad. If you can’t produce an heir, you’re easily replaced.” I ignored the whispers, walking straight into the heart of the ballroom. Wright spotted me immediately, his face darkening. He marched over and caught my elbow, his voice a low hiss. “Who invited you? I told you to stay put and reflect on your behavior. This is a massive night for my family. Don’t ruin it.” I smiled, a cool, polite expression. “You sent an invitation, Wright. As your soon-to-be ex-wife, how could I miss such a celebration?” He pulled away with a grunt. “Just keep your head down and watch. And stay away from Hailey.” Before I could reply, the main doors opened. Hailey stepped in, draped in a custom white silk gown that clung to her belly. Dazzling around her neck was the Heart of the Ocean sapphire necklace—a piece Wright had won at an auction, promising it to me for our upcoming anniversary. Hailey glided over, deliberately shifting to highlight her stomach. “Maeve, you made it,” she purred. “I’m so sorry, this gown is just so tight. The twins are practically kicking up a storm tonight.” She let out a dainty laugh, her eyes shining with malice. “Oh, and Wright insisted I wear this necklace. He said it suited my skin tone much better. You don’t mind, do you?” I looked at the glittering blue stone on her chest, then back to her face. “Why would I mind?” I murmured. “After all, trash belongs with garbage.” Hailey’s face drained of color. “Who are you calling trash?!” She raised her hand, aiming a slap at my face. I caught her wrist mid-air, squeezing hard before shoving her back. She gasped, losing her balance on her heels and stumbling backward straight into Wright, who had rushed over. “Wright! She attacked me! She’s trying to kill the babies!” Hailey sobbed, burying her face in his chest. Wright went white with fury. “Maeve, you’ve gone too far!” He turned to the crowd of onlookers, raising his voice so it carried across the entire room. “Everyone, since we’re all here, I’d like to make an official announcement. My marriage to Maeve is over. As of today, Hailey is my future wife. And the children she is carrying are the sole, rightful heirs to the empire!” A collective gasp echoed through the ballroom. All eyes turned to me, heavy with judgment and pity. I stood my ground, a slow, brilliant smile spreading across my face. I reached into my clutch, pulled out a thick envelope, and threw the documents straight at Wright’s face. “Take a good look, Wright. Read every single page.” The papers scattered across the floor. On the very top sheet, printed in bold ink with the official seal of the city’s premier medical board, was a diagnostic report. Name: Wright. Diagnosis: Congenital Azoospermia. Incurable Sterility.

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I held my daughter close, her breathing gone ragged, and knelt in the snow, pounding on the door like a man possessed. On the video doorbell screen, my wife Susan was raising a glass with her high school sweetheart. “Susan! Nora can’t breathe! Open the door and give me her medication!” Susan let out a cold laugh, her voice cutting like frostbitten air. “Ethan, are you seriously pulling this act just for that little bastard of yours?” “She’s your own daughter! She’s only five years old!” Susan’s first love chuckled from beside her. “Babe, I heard that little side-piece of his has asthma too. Runs in the family, I guess.” Susan’s eyes went cold in an instant. “Ethan, if you love playing the victim so much, then take your little bastard and freeze to death out there!” The next second, the second-floor window swung open. A basin of ice water came crashing down, and the moment it hit my daughter, it turned to frost on her skin. Nora convulsed in my arms. She looked up at the window one last time, and in a voice barely above a breath, she called out, “Mommy…”

The ice water soaked through my collar and down my spine, freezing solid almost instantly. Nora shuddered violently in my arms. The sharp, desperate wheeze that had been her breathing was suddenly cut off, like something invisible had reached down and squeezed her throat shut. Her whole body went rigid. Her tiny hands locked onto my collar, knuckles white. “Nora! Nora, don’t be scared, Daddy’s here!” I threw my body around her like a shield, trying to melt the shell of ice forming over her with whatever warmth I had left. From the second-floor window came the sound of Susan laughing, free and unbothered. “Wow, Oscar-worthy performance. What a waste of talent.” She swirled a glass of red wine, looking down at me from above like I was a dog sprawled in the snow. Jason stood beside her, one arm around her waist, watching the whole thing with a grin. “Babe, look at him shaking. Someone who didn’t know better might actually think he was freezing.” “That water had ice cubes in it. Figured these two needed cooling down before they started embarrassing themselves.” I looked up, the corners of my eyes burning, every blood vessel ready to burst. “Susan! Are you even human? That is your biological daughter!” “Nora’s asthma is real. Her inhaler is on the living room table. Please, just throw it down to me!” “Whatever you want from me, I’ll do it. Just give me the medication!” In that moment, dignity, pride, every last shred of my self-respect — I threw it all away without a second thought. All I needed was for my daughter to live. Susan took a slow sip of wine, her expression dripping with contempt. “Biological daughter? Ethan, you have a lot of nerve.” “If your people hadn’t forced my father’s hand back then, do you think I would’ve ever married a deadbeat like you?” “That child has your worthless blood in her. She makes me sick just looking at her.” Jason leaned in close to Susan’s ear, his voice deliberately loud enough to carry. “Babe, forget about him, today’s my birthday. Don’t let this trash ruin the mood.” “Although, with the snow coming down this hard, if something actually happened…” Susan let out a short, cold huff and turned back into the room, returning with something in her hand. It was Nora’s asthma inhaler. Hope ignited in my chest. I shuffled forward on my knees, reaching out. “Give it to me! Susan, please, give it to me!” Susan dangled the inhaler between her fingers, a slow, cruel smile spreading across her face. “Want it?” “Then beg.” “Bark like a dog. Give me two good ones, and I’ll think about it.” In my arms, Nora’s breathing was fading. Her lips had gone from blue to nearly black. Her eyes were half open, pupils losing focus — but she was still instinctively curling into my chest. The will to survive. My heart felt like it was being sliced apart, piece by piece. I ground my teeth until my jaw ached. A low, broken sound tore out of my throat. “Woof. Woof.” For my daughter, I would give up everything. Susan and Jason exploded into laughter. Jason doubled over, pointing at me. “Babe, look at him, he literally sounds like a dog!” “Well, if he’s a dog, he should go fetch.” Susan flicked her wrist. The inhaler traced an arc through the air. It didn’t come to me. She hurled it straight into the garbage can in the corner of the yard — the one overflowing with filth. “Go get it. If you find it, it’s yours.” “Though with snow this deep, by the time you dig it out, I’d say that little bastard of yours will be stone cold.” “Ha!” The window slammed shut. Cutting off the warm light and laughter inside. Leaving only the howling wind, the endless snow, and me. “Nora, hang on. Daddy’s getting the medicine, Daddy’s going right now!” I set her down in the corner of the wall where it was slightly less exposed, pulled off my soaked, half-frozen jacket, and draped it over her. Then I crawled toward the garbage can on all fours. The snow was thick. Every inch forward felt like dragging myself over broken glass. But I couldn’t feel the pain. My mind had only one word in it: Medicine. Medicine. Finally, I toppled the garbage can. Reeking kitchen waste spilled across the snow in a wet, filthy mess. I tore through it with my bare hands, glass slicing open my fingers, blood running hot into the cold. There. The blue inhaler. I snatched it up and scrambled back to Nora, half-crawling, half-falling. “Nora, I’ve got the medicine! Open your mouth!” With shaking hands, I pressed the inhaler between her lips and pushed down. Once. Twice. Three times. Nothing came out. Just a hollow hiss. I went still. In the dim glow of the streetlight, I read the label. It was last month’s empty canister. Susan had lied to me. She’d done it on purpose. From the very beginning, she never intended to let Nora live.

Despair swallowed me whole, like a black hole opening beneath my feet. I gripped the empty inhaler, my fingernails digging into the plastic hard enough to crack it. “Susan!!!” I screamed into the sky, a sound so raw and broken it didn’t even sound human. In my arms, Nora had stopped convulsing. She’d gone soft and still. That terrible silence was more terrifying than the desperate gasping had been. “Nora? Nora, don’t scare Daddy!” My hands shook as I checked her breathing. Almost nothing. Her warmth was draining away fast, like a piece of metal cooling after the heat is cut. I couldn’t just stay here. This was a private hillside neighborhood. The snowstorm had cut off the road. An ambulance couldn’t get up here. The only way out was inside. Heat. An oxygen bag. The real medication. I scooped Nora up and threw myself at the front door. “Bang. Bang. Bang.” I used my body. My head. My fists. I slammed against that heavy wooden door with everything I had. “Susan! Open up! That was an empty canister!” “Nora’s not going to make it! Please, just let me in!” “You don’t even have to let me in — just let Nora in! I’ll stay out here! I won’t set foot in your house!” Blood ran down from my forehead and into my eyes. I couldn’t feel it. The video doorbell flickered on again. On the screen, Susan was cutting a steak, her movements calm and composed. Jason sat across from her, casually twirling a fresh blue inhaler between his fingers. Nora’s real medication. “So annoying.” Susan furrowed her brow, looking thoroughly inconvenienced. “Ethan, are you done? It’s the middle of the night and you’re out there wailing like a ghost. We’re trying to eat.” I pressed my face against the camera lens. My blood smeared across the glass. “Susan, that was an empty one! If you want to hurt someone, come after me. Leave Nora out of it!” “Give me the medication! Unlock the door!” Jason held up the inhaler and gave it a little wave at the camera. “Oh wow, looks like we grabbed the wrong one earlier.” “Babe, he seems pretty desperate. Maybe we should… give it to him?” He wore a saint’s smile, but his eyes were full of amusement. Susan sliced off a piece of rare steak and chewed it slowly. “Give it to him? Why?” “He barked like garbage before. No sincerity whatsoever.” “Want to come inside? Fine.” She set down her knife and fork and dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Get in the dog cage.” “Stay in there for one full hour without coming out, and I’ll have someone bring the medication to you.” In the corner of the yard sat a large iron cage. It was the kennel for Susan’s two Tibetan Mastiffs. Those dogs only ever listened to Susan. They had never treated me as their owner — just shown me teeth. Right now, both of them were in the cage, barking furiously at me and Nora. Saliva dripped from their fangs and hit the snow, steaming in the cold. “Not going to do it?” Susan’s voice dropped. “Then freeze to death out there.” “Honestly, that little bastard dying would be a gift. One less person to split the inheritance with later.” “You have three seconds.” “Three.” “Two.” I looked down at my daughter. Her face was white as paper. Frost had gathered on her eyelashes. She looked like a shattered porcelain doll. I had no choice. “I’ll do it!” “I’ll do it — don’t cut the feed! Don’t cut it!” I carried Nora and stumbled toward the kennel. The two Mastiffs saw me coming and lunged at the iron bars, unleashing a roar that rattled the whole cage. I set Nora down in the most sheltered corner outside the cage and peeled off my last layer — my sweater — and wrapped it around her. I had nothing left but a thin dress shirt. “Be good, baby. Daddy’s just going to put on a little show for Mommy, and then she’ll give you your medicine.” I pressed my lips to my daughter’s ice-cold forehead. Then I pulled open the iron door and climbed inside. Both Mastiffs launched themselves at me instantly. Their teeth sank through my arm, tearing at my flesh. The pain was blinding. I bit down on my lip and made no sound. I couldn’t scream. If I screamed, Susan would be displeased. If she was displeased, she wouldn’t give me the medication. I curled into a corner thick with filth and let the dogs tear at me. My blood soaked red into the snow. On the video doorbell screen, Susan and Jason were laughing so hard they could barely breathe. “Incredible! This is incredible!” Jason clapped like he was watching a gladiator fight. “Babe, look at this pathetic creature. Even the dogs don’t respect him.” Susan sipped her wine, her eyes bright with satisfaction. “This is what happens when you cross me.” “Ethan, you used to be so proud, didn’t you? Tell me — how exactly did you force me into this marriage?” “Now I’m going to grind you into the dirt. You will never, ever get back up.” The seconds crawled by. Every one of them felt like a year. My vision was going dark. Blood loss and cold were pulling me under. But I kept my eyes locked on Nora through the bars. As long as she was still alive, I could hold on. Finally, the hour was up. “Susan… time’s… up…” I turned toward the camera and pushed the last of my strength into my voice. “The medicine…” Susan yawned, like she’d nearly dozed off. “Oh, I got so caught up watching I lost track of time.” “Fine. Since you’ve been such a good boy.” “Jason, go. Take him the medicine.” Jason stood, grabbed the inhaler, and walked out onto the second-floor balcony. I dragged myself out of the cage, crawling on ruined legs, and pulled myself to the spot beneath the balcony. “Ready to catch?” Jason smiled and let go. The inhaler dropped straight down. I reached up with both hands. And then, in the split second before it landed — a basin of foot-washing water came pouring off the balcony. The force of it knocked the inhaler sideways, sending it crashing into the stone several feet away. The blue plastic shattered. The medication inside spilled across the snow and was swallowed up in seconds. Jason covered his mouth in mock surprise. “Oh no. Butterfingers.” “What do we do now? The medicine’s gone.” “Ethan, looks like even God doesn’t want to save that little bastard of yours.”

That sound — plastic shattering on stone — went off like a thunderclap inside my skull. I stared at the dark stain spreading through the snow where the medication had been. That was Nora’s last chance. Gone. All of it, gone. “No — !” A sound ripped out of me that I didn’t recognize, raw and animal and broken. I clawed at the ground with both hands, trying to scrape up the snow that had swallowed the liquid. Even a little. Even one drop. I cupped a handful of dirty, contaminated snow and crawled back to Nora on my knees. “Take it, baby, come on, the medicine…” I tried to press the snow to her lips. But her teeth were clenched shut. Nothing was getting through. Her body had gone completely cold. No movement at all. That silence hit me like a blade driven through my chest and twisted. “No… no…” My hands shook as I reached for her pulse. Nothing. I checked her breathing. Nothing. I pressed my ear to her chest. Nothing. My entire world collapsed in that moment. On the second-floor balcony, Susan and Jason were still laughing. “Look at him trying to feed her snow. Ha!” “Father-daughter bond, truly moving stuff.” Susan leaned lazily against the railing, a slim cigarette held between her fingers. “Ethan, drop the act.” “You’ve had your fun. Now take your little bastard and get off my property.” “You’re ruining the vibe.” I raised my head slowly. No tears on my face. Just blood, and melted snow. My eyes were empty, hollow as a dried-out well, fixed on Susan without blinking. Something in that look made her pause mid-laugh. She frowned, almost involuntarily. “What is that look?” “What, you want to kill me?” “Think you’ve got what it takes? You worthless piece of nothing.” I didn’t answer. I just reached down, gently, carefully, and lifted Nora into my arms. She was so light. Light as a feather. Five years old, and she barely weighed forty-five pounds. Because Susan always said girls needed to watch their figures. Don’t eat too much. Because Susan always said asthma was a rich girl’s condition. Skip a few meals, it’ll clear up. I pressed my face against Nora’s cold, still cheek. “Rest now, baby.” “Daddy’s taking you home.” “It’s too cold here. And the people are too ugly inside.” I held my daughter and turned and walked into the storm. Behind me, I heard Jason’s voice. “Babe, he’s actually leaving.” “That kid… you don’t think she actually…?” Susan made a dismissive sound. “Die? It’s not that easy to die.” “It’s all a performance. He’s trying to make me feel guilty.” “Tomorrow morning he’ll be right back on his knees at the front door begging for forgiveness.” “Forget him. Let’s keep drinking.” “Oh, and post that video from earlier to your Instagram. Caption it something like: ‘Abusive ex stages breakdown to steal custody money.’ Let everyone see exactly what kind of man he is.” I kept walking through the storm, listening to every word. Each one landed like a nail driven into bone. I wasn’t angry anymore. I mean it. Anger is cheap. It’s a feeling for the living. For the dead, there’s no need for anger. I carried Nora. One step at a time. Out of the neighborhood. Out of the place I used to think was home. My phone buzzed in my pocket. My assistant calling. I picked up. My voice came out quieter than I expected. Steadier than it had any right to be. “Yeah.” “Boss! You finally picked up! About the company—” “Never mind that.” I cut him off. “Initiate the Judgment protocol.” Silence on the other end. A full five seconds. “Boss, are you sure? Once it starts, the Sullivan family is finished. Everything you’ve built over the past five years—” “I said initiate it.” I looked down at my daughter’s face, still and pale in my arms, and a slow, cold smile formed at the corner of my mouth. “And get me a coffin.” “Best quality wood you can find.” “Also, contact every media outlet in the city.” “Three days from now, I’m going to deliver Susan a gift she’ll never forget.”

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