The night before my dossier for a senior research fellowship was due, my boyfriend secretly submitted my name for a two-year deployment to the Cerro Chajnantor outpost—a brutal, isolated observatory seventeen thousand feet up in the Andes. When I confronted him, asking why he would do such a thing, he barely looked up from his phone. “Mia was using my laptop yesterday,” he said casually. “She must have clicked it by accident. It was just a harmless little joke.” “A joke? There’s a twenty-four-hour secondary confirmation. All you had to do was click ‘Decline’.” Mia. Mia Warren. She was the new first-year grad student Carter had taken under his wing this semester. Young, pretty, and constantly hovering around him with wide, adoring eyes. He knew exactly how the system worked. If a deployment application wasn’t explicitly declined within twenty-four hours, it automatically bypassed the grace period and went straight to the approval board. I was going to be sent to a frozen wasteland, completely cut off from the world, my academic momentum entirely derailed for two years. To him, my future, my relentless years of grinding, were just material for a cute little prank. The chill that spread through my chest was instantaneous. It didn’t take an hour; it took a single second for my heart to turn to ice. I didn’t say another word to him. I just logged into the portal and hit Confirm. Days later, when Carter saw the finalized deployment orders on my desk, the casual arrogance drained from his face. Panic set in. “That’s the high-altitude outpost! It’s practically a death sentence for your research right now! There was a twenty-four-hour window—why didn’t you decline it?” … When the automated email pinged in my inbox, confirming my deployment to the high-altitude observation station, I froze. Then, a quiet, white-hot fury ignited in my blood. Yesterday, I had given Carter my login specifically so he could submit the final paperwork for my promotion to Senior Research Fellow. My phone buzzed against the desk. A text from a colleague in HR. “Hey Nora, did you hit the wrong button on the portal? You’re queued for the extreme-altitude mission. You have a 24-hour cooling-off period to retract it.” Carter and I had been together for seven years. We were the golden couple of the astrophysics institute. Just three months ago, we had returned from a prestigious exchange program in Europe. Everyone in our circle knew we were planning a wedding next year. We had been looking at condos in Pasadena. My hands were shaking as I dialed his number. “I just got a deployment confirmation for the Cerro Chajnantor outpost. Why?” His voice came through the speaker, lazy and entirely unbothered. “Oh, that. Yesterday Mia came into my office to go over some data sets, and she saw I was compiling your files. She made a comment about how the high-altitude site is desperate for experts in galactic evolution, so she submitted your name as a joke.” He paused, his tone as light as if we were discussing what to order for lunch. “She’s just a first-year. She has this romanticized view of extreme-environment astronomy. She was just playing around, Nora.” “There is a twenty-four-hour retraction window. Why didn’t you cancel it?” Mia Warren. The fast-tracked prodigy Carter had recruited this year. She was fresh-faced, overly sweet, and whenever she looked at Carter, her eyes held an undisguised, breathless hero-worship. Carter knew the protocol better than anyone. He knew that if the application wasn’t manually retracted within twenty-four hours, it entered the formal audit process. Once approved, a deployment to that specific Andean outpost meant a minimum of two years. No reliable internet. Frequent power grid failures. A complete and utter severing from the cutting edge of academic research. “If I hadn’t checked my email in time, this transfer would be legally binding! She used my credentials without my consent, Carter. That’s a massive breach of protocol.” My throat felt tight, the words scraping out. I heard Carter sigh through the receiver, the sound thick with irritation. “God, Nora, since when did you become so uptight?” “It was a joke. Mia was going to tell you today anyway. Even if you missed the email, she would have reminded you by tomorrow at the latest.” “You want to report her to the ethics board? Fine, report me too. I’m the one who gave her access to the terminal.” He hung up. I stood by the window in the institute’s hallway, staring out at the empty, pre-dawn streets of the city. Suddenly, the last seven years felt like looking at a stranger through a distorted lens. All I had to do was click the Decline button at the bottom of the email. One click, and it would be over. But instead, I opened the observatory’s database. I started downloading the high-altitude acclimatization guide, the extreme-cold equipment manuals, the winter survival protocols. My finger hovered over the Decline button. Slowly, deliberately, I moved the mouse away. A knock at the door of the duty room pulled me back. “Dr. Jackson? Someone’s looking for you downstairs.” I found Mia standing in the main lobby, right in front of the showcase of our recent academic posters. She was holding two steaming cups of coffee, and when she saw me, her face broke into a radiant, sunny smile. “Dr. Jackson!” She offered me one of the cups. “I just got off the phone with Dr. Cole. He’s taking the team up to the Mount Lemmon observatory this weekend. Do you think it would be okay if I tagged along?” Her eyes were wide and clear, her tone earnest, as if she were genuinely seeking my blessing. It had been like this for three months. Ever since she joined Carter’s lab, she had mastered the art of wearing the most innocent expression while doing the most provocative things. I took the coffee but didn’t drink it. “What do you think?” Mia tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking down. “I don’t know… Dr. Cole said this observation run is critical. But I was worried you might misunderstand. I know you’re usually his partner for these things…” “Then don’t go.” She blinked, stunned. “You came to ask for my opinion, right?” I set the coffee down on the nearest table. “My opinion is that you shouldn’t go.” The color drained from Mia’s face. Before she could formulate a response, the elevator doors chimed open. Carter stepped out. When he saw us, a deep crease formed between his brows. “Mia, I told you to wait in the car. What are you doing up here?” “I just wanted to ask Dr. Jackson if it was okay… I was so afraid she’d be upset.” Mia’s voice dipped, lacing the perfect amount of vulnerability and hurt into her words. Carter walked over and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be silly. Why would you need to ask her? I don’t need anyone’s permission to bring my own grad student on a trip.” He turned his gaze to me, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and impatience. “Look at how much she cares about your feelings, Nora. And you? Are you really going to hold a grudge over that little deployment joke?” I pointed a finger at Mia, my voice deadly quiet but vibrating with rage. “She cares about my feelings? For the last three months, she’s been bringing you breakfast, leaving sticky notes on your desk right in front of me, fighting to sit next to you in every seminar, and posting those ambiguous, cozy photos of the two of you on her Instagram Story. Who exactly is she performing for?” “I am your girlfriend! She’s trying to edge me out right to my face!” “Every day it’s Dr. Cole this and Dr. Cole that. It makes me sick.” “To my face, I’m Dr. Jackson, but behind my back, she’s praying I disappear so she can monopolize all your academic resources. Isn’t that right?” Mia went completely pale. Carter stared at me as if I were a creature he didn’t recognize. “Have you heard enough of yourself, Nora? When did you become so bitter and paranoid?” “Mia is in my lab! It is my job to mentor her! Why is your mind so entirely in the gutter that you have to twist a perfectly normal mentor-student relationship into something dirty?” “Mia is generous enough not to hold this against you. Apologize to her right now, and we can put this whole ugly mess behind us.” A sharp, humorless laugh escaped my throat. “Are you insane? Apologize to this manipulative little girl? Not a chance in hell.” Carter’s lips pressed into a thin, hard line. “Nora. Do not push my bottom line.” Bottom line. The phrase hit me like a physical blow. Seven years ago, at the Mauna Kea summit, a freak blizzard had nearly torn the roof off our observation dome. He had held me in the freezing dark, his voice muffled against my hair. I’ll protect you for the rest of my life, Nora. You are my bottom line. That line didn’t belong to me anymore. “Then let’s break up,” I said. Carter let out a cold, dismissive scoff. “Fine. We’re done. Just don’t call me crying in the middle of the night when you realize what you threw away.” He turned and guided Mia toward the doors. As they walked away, I heard him murmur to her, “Just ignore her. You’re coming with me this weekend.” Back in my office, the glow of my monitor cut through the dim room. The countdown timer for retracting the deployment application read three hours. I opened a new tab and started pulling up the latest operational reports from the Andes station. Just last week, the extreme cold had caused a catastrophic equipment failure. Two engineers had been forced to hike six miles through a whiteout to reach a communication relay. Another outpost had to abandon half their research parameters because supply drops were delayed by storms. But it was also true that the air up there was thinner, the atmosphere utterly devoid of light pollution. It offered the most pristine view of the cosmos on the planet. The world’s top astrophysicists rotated through that site. If I survived two years there, the data I could collect would guarantee me a tenured professorship anywhere I wanted upon my return. Suddenly, it didn’t seem like a punishment at all. For years, I had molded my career to fit Carter’s timeline. I had wanted stability. I had turned down three different high-altitude fellowships just to stay close to him, to build a life together. I didn’t have to shrink myself anymore. I closed the browser. My phone lit up with a text from my best friend, Sarah. NORA! I just saw the physics department’s group chat. Someone posted a photo of Carter and Mia at the post-seminar drinks. They are practically sitting in each other’s laps! She attached a screenshot. The lighting in the bar was dim, but it was impossible to miss. Carter was sitting in the center of a booth, Mia pressed right up against his side. Someone had commented under the photo: Dr. Cole, you lost the bet! The penalty is hugging the woman closest to you for thirty seconds! In the accompanying short video, amidst the cheers and wolf-whistles, Carter turned and naturally wrapped his arms around Mia, pulling her in. My heart seized for a fraction of a second, and then, mercifully, it went numb. I texted Sarah back: I know. Then I reached for an empty cardboard box and began packing the reference books I would need for the mountains. I had less than a month before departure. Two weeks later, an administrative assistant from Carter’s lab dropped an elegant invitation on my desk. “Dr. Cole is hosting his grant closure banquet tomorrow night at the faculty club. He specifically asked that you attend.” “I don’t have time.” The assistant looked taken aback. “But Dr. Jackson… you co-authored half the papers on this grant.” “I have other plans.” She offered a polite, strained smile. “You get a plus-one. Dr. Cole made a point of saying he really hopes to see you there.” A few junior researchers at the nearby desks glanced over. I took the envelope. The night of the banquet, Mia was stationed at the entrance of the dining hall, wearing a blush-pink cocktail dress and clutching a framed ‘Excellence in Research’ certificate. When she saw me, her eyes lit up, and she hurried over. “Nora! You made it. Today was my formal thesis proposal defense. I was worried it wouldn’t be much of a celebration on its own, so I begged Dr. Cole to combine my little party with his big grant dinner.” I gave her a curt nod. “Congratulations.” “Thank you, Dr. Jackson!” Her smile was blinding. “We saved a seat for you at the head table.” I ignored her and found an empty chair at a table in the far corner of the room. It didn’t take long for Carter to find me. He looked sharp in a tailored charcoal suit, his jaw tight. “Nora. Move to the head table. What are you doing hiding back here?” “It’s quieter.” Carter took a deep breath, reining in his temper. “I let you have your space and give me the silent treatment for two weeks. Haven’t you thrown a big enough tantrum?” “We have sat next to each other at every single celebratory dinner for the last seven years. Are you really going to nuke this over a deployment application that you already canceled?” People at the adjacent tables were starting to stare. An older professor we both respected stepped in to smooth things over. “Come on, Nora. Come sit with us. The chair has been empty all night.” Reluctantly, I moved to the main table. There was an empty seat next to Carter. Before I could pull it out, Mia glided over, sat down effortlessly, and turned to Carter. “Dr. Cole, I was hoping we could finalize the itinerary for the Astronomy Society summit next month. Now that my proposal is approved, you promised you’d introduce me to the big names.” She turned her doe eyes toward me. “Dr. Jackson, you’re coming too, right? The three of us could go together.” I picked up my water glass. Just last year, Carter had promised that the next time the international summit rolled around, he was taking me. You need to network with the heavy hitters, he had said, straightening my lanyard in a hotel lobby. Let the people who say you only get published because of me see what a powerhouse you are on your own. My heart had fluttered then. I had felt so incredibly seen. Now, the coldness in my chest was just as real as that love had been. “The two of you should go,” I said smoothly. “I don’t have the time.” Halfway through the dinner, I slipped out to the terrace to get some air. Carter followed me out, his hand wrapping around my wrist. His palms were rough—calluses built up from years of handling heavy equipment in the cold. “Nora, what exactly is your endgame here?” “Exactly what I said.” I pulled my arm from his grip. He let out a frustrated, biting laugh. “How long are you going to hold this over my head? Is this still about the deployment?” “I talked to Mia. She swore to me she was going to remind you! Even if you never checked your inbox, she would have told you the next day!” I nodded slowly. “Then I suppose I owe her a thank you.” “Stop talking to me in that tone.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a demanding register. “You are coming to the summit with me next month. I promised you I’d take you, and I am keeping my word.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and strode back inside, the hem of his suit jacket slicing through the cool night air. The morning of the summit, at 8:00 AM, I stood by the window of my apartment, looking down at the street. Carter’s SUV was idling at the curb. Mia was leaning against the passenger side door, periodically glancing up toward my floor. I pulled the blinds shut. My phone vibrated. A text from Carter: Come down. This is your last chance. I typed back: I’m packing. I’m not going. You’re prioritizing packing over the most important networking event of the year? If you don’t come today, you’re going to regret it. He drove off with Mia. That afternoon, he posted three times on Instagram. Every single post featured Mia. Taking the newest addition to the lab to see how the titans of the field operate. The absolute wonder in her eyes reminds me of the early days. The kid got overwhelmed after getting praised by Dr. Sterling. Summit wrap-up photo. The new blood needs the exposure. The future belongs to them. The comments from our mutual colleagues started rolling in immediately. Is Dr. Cole acting as a mentor or a boyfriend here? So attentive! Where’s Nora? Did the golden duo finally split? Mia is definitely talented. Carter always had an eye for potential. Sarah screenshotted the whole thread and sent it to me, absolutely fuming. This little bitch is doing this on purpose! You guys might not be married, but everyone in the department knows you’ve been together for seven years. This is disgusting! She is literally stealing your life in broad daylight. Are you seriously not going to do anything? Was it disgusting? No. It was just intensely pathetic. But right on the heels of that thought came a massive, sweeping sense of relief. It only took one first-year grad student to show me exactly what seven years of devotion were worth. The more I had prioritized him, the more entitled he felt to my sacrifices. The retraction deadline for the Andes deployment was gone. There was no undoing it now. I threw myself into the preparations. Surviving at seventeen thousand feet required rigorous work. I stocked up on Diamox for altitude sickness, specialized thermal gear, heavy-duty vitamin supplements, and spent my weekends at the extreme-environment survival training center. Oddly enough, once I embraced the reality of it, I felt like I was breathing fresh air for the first time in years. A few days before my flight, I met Sarah for dinner. I chose a restaurant known for incredibly dense, caloric, heavily spiced stews—something close to the survival rations I’d be eating on the mountain. Sarah looked at me like I was an alien. “Carter’s Instagram is a public shrine to Mia right now, and you have the appetite to try out new cuisines?” “Why shouldn’t I?” I smiled, taking a bite. Work was work, and love was love. For years, I had coddled Carter’s ego and accommodated his moods, but this time, he had crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. The rich, heavy spices and the thick, warming broth were unexpectedly comforting. Walking back to my apartment, I actually found myself humming. Sarah linked her arm through mine, studying my face. “Are you really over it? Because from what I’ve seen online, Carter and Mia have practically been glued together since they got back from the summit.” I didn’t answer. Our path took us past the old brick buildings of our alma mater. I told Sarah I’d catch up with her later and walked alone toward the ivy-covered physics building. The rooftop observatory here was where Carter and I first met. I had been a terrified first-year master’s student; he was already the youngest rising star in the department. That night, my advisor had brutally dressed me down in front of the whole lab for miscalibrating a telescope, and I had hidden up here to cry. He found me, gently guided me to the edge of the roof, and pointed down at the sprawling, glittering lights of the city. Look down there, he had said. One messed-up data set. In the grand scheme of the universe, what does it really matter? From a weeping grad student, I grew into his most trusted co-investigator. We had spent countless nights on this very roof, debating galactic evolution, arguing over observation models, celebrating our breakthroughs. Before every major field deployment, we came here. Carter used to lean against the railing, staring at the distant silhouette of the university’s main telescope dome. Nora, the speed at which you’re progressing is starting to make me sweat, he’d say. I would look at his profile in the moonlight and laugh. Then you’d better keep running, Dr. Cole. Don’t let me leave you in the dust. In our third year together, at the Mauna Kea observatory, a piece of hardware I was responsible for failed, corrupting three days’ worth of irreplaceable data. The review board sat in a semicircle, ready to tear me apart and ship me back to the mainland in disgrace. Carter had stood up, physically placing himself between me and the board. I am the lead investigator on this project, he told them. I take full responsibility. I signed off on Dr. Jackson’s calibration protocols. If anyone is getting penalized, it’s me. He absorbed the entirety of the academic fallout and volunteered to stay an extra month in the freezing isolation of the summit to re-run the numbers. That was the night we crossed the line from colleagues to lovers. Now, with exactly three days left until my flight, the final approval for my deployment cleared my inbox. The elevator hummed as I rode it back down to the street. My phone buzzed. Sarah: Sent you the final checklist for your gear. Take care of yourself out there. I will, I replied. Stepping out of the main gates of the university, an alert from the Andes station flashed on my screen. Extreme wind warning. Ambient temperature -30°F. Mandatory equipment checks required every two hours. Two years. Maybe more. But this time, I was walking into the freezing dark because I chose to. The wind on the rooftop had been biting, whipping the hem of my coat around my legs. I leaned against the brick parapet, watching the city breathe below me. In the distance, the university telescope dome stood resolute; closer by, the lights in the apartment windows blinked out one by one. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was my younger sister, Emma. “Nora…” Her voice was trembling so violently I could barely understand her. “Mom fell. She fell down the basement stairs. Her tibia is shattered, and she broke three ribs… one of them punctured her lung. They’re rushing her into emergency surgery right now. The doctor said with the operation and the ICU deductibles… they need a deposit of forty thousand dollars immediately.” My throat locked up. My mother had raised Emma and me on a threadbare pension. Lately, she had been complaining about a dull ache in her leg, but whenever I begged her to see a specialist, she just brushed it off. Just getting old, sweetie. A heating pad will fix it. “How much do we have to put down right now?” “They need forty thousand to clear the major surgical holds, but the rehab is going to cost way more…” I hung up the phone, gripping the cold iron railing until my knuckles turned white. I made decent money, but two years ago, I had donated heavily to the institute’s new telescope fund. Whatever was left of my paycheck had been dumped into the down payment for the condo Carter and I were supposed to buy. I pulled up my banking app. Available balance: $24,000. I scrolled through my contacts and called Carter. It went to voicemail. I called again. Four times. Not a single answer. Throughout our seven-year relationship, he had always made significantly more money than me, but we kept our finances fiercely independent. I paid the down payment on the condo; he was supposed to cover the renovations. When he didn’t pick up, I swallowed my pride and started calling my old mentors and colleagues. Within an hour, I had managed to borrow another $6,000. I was still $10,000 short. I rushed back to my apartment at 2:00 AM. While waiting for an Uber to the hospital, I opened Instagram. Mia had just posted a new Story. Added to Close Friends. The photo was dimly lit, but the background was unmistakable. It was the heavy mahogany desk in Carter’s home office. Sitting perfectly centered on the wood was a dark blue velvet box. Resting inside was a Montblanc fountain pen, the iconic white star logo gleaming under the desk lamp. The caption read: How incredibly lucky I am to have a mentor who gives everything to his students. Dr. Cole said this is a reward for finishing my first independent data set, and the best birthday present ever. I promise to work twice as hard to be worthy of this trust! The location tag was set to Carter’s apartment complex. The timestamp said it had been posted three hours ago. I stared at the pen. I remembered it perfectly. We had seen it at a luxury academic trade show last year. Carter had lingered over the glass case for ten minutes, murmuring, When I land that Department of Energy grant, I’m buying this for myself. The price tag was $3,500. More than my entire monthly take-home pay. My stomach violently heaved. Finally, I dialed Sarah’s number. She answered, her voice groggy but immediately shifting to alert when she heard my breathing. “How much are you short?” “Ten thousand.” “Send me the hospital’s billing portal link. I’ll cover it. Pay me back whenever. You’re about to leave the country anyway.” “Just focus on your mom, Nora. We’ll figure the rest out.” Carter didn’t call me back until noon the next day. I could hear the dull roar of an airport terminal in the background. He was flying to Chicago for an emergency symposium. “What happened last night? My phone died.” “Mia’s first paper got accepted by a peer-reviewed journal, so we had a little impromptu celebration.” I sat in the hospital cafeteria, staring at the blurry black-and-white image of my mother’s punctured lung on my tablet. “That’s an expensive pen to give a student, isn’t it?” Silence fell over the line. The terminal noise seemed to fade. “Nora, are you seriously policing how I motivate my own grad students now?” “Mia getting published in a core journal in her first year breaks every record our lab has. As her advisor, buying her a pen to encourage her to stay in research—how is that a crime?” Encouraging her was fine. Buying a gift was fine. But doing it in the middle of the night, in his apartment, gifting her the exact luxury item he had sworn to buy for himself to mark his own greatest triumph? That was not fine. I hung up. A moment later, a text from Carter popped up. Did you get the deployment paperwork sorted out with HR? None of your business, I typed back. I wasn’t going to tell him that I was already locked in. Once the final confirmation was stamped for the high-altitude post, only a catastrophic medical emergency could reverse it. Carter sent a voice memo, his voice tight with suppressed anger. “I know you’re just going to cancel it at the last second anyway. We’ve been partners for seven years. A place like that will break you. Stop throwing a tantrum. Do you really think you can survive in this field without me?” “You need to formally apologize to Mia. If you don’t, you can handle your own liaisons with the international committee. I’m not sticking my neck out to introduce you to the board.” We had an agreement. He was going to use his established network to introduce me to the titans of cosmology at the end of the year. I could build the connections myself, eventually, but having him vouch for me would have shaved five years off the process. It didn’t matter anymore. I wasn’t going to be here anyway. I opened his contact card, blocked his personal number, blocked his work number, and routed his email to the trash. I was going to the mountains.

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As long as I could remember, I knew my mother had thrown me away. But Pa always spun a different yarn. He’d tell me she loved me more than anything, that she only left because she had to, and that the moment I was old enough, I needed to go find her. For years, I thought it was just his twisted way of letting me dream of a mother’s warmth. That was until social media found its way deep into our mountain holler. One night, Pa was scrolling on his phone when he let out a sudden, jagged whoop. “Weed, look at this! This is your Ma! Get your things, girl. We’re going to the city to get her back.” I stared at the glowing screen. The woman in the video was striking, her features sharp and elegant, carrying herself with an effortless, old-money grace. For the first time, a seed of doubt took root in my chest. My mother was a Boston socialite? A professor? How could a woman like that have anything to do with our rotting cabin in Black Creek Holler? Still, I packed my meager belongings into a plastic bag and followed Pa onto the long-distance bus heading northeast. … As the rusted bus rattled its way out of the Appalachian foothills, I pressed my face against the smudged glass, greedy for every glimpse. This was the very first time I had ever seen the world beyond the tree line. Beside me, Pa’s voice droned on, thick with chewing tobacco and self-importance. “You see, Weed? Nobody loves you like your Pa does.” “Any other family would’ve sold a useless girl like you off to be married by now.” “Ain’t I good to you? Taking you all the way up to Boston to find the bitch who dumped you.” I kept my head bowed, my dirt-caked fingernails digging so hard into the seams of my jeans that my knuckles turned white. I knew the truth. Pa wasn’t taking me to find a mother’s love. He was using this trip to squeeze more money out of my own flesh. Just a few nights prior, I’d crouched outside the kitchen window, listening to him drink moonshine and strike a bargain with Harlan, the holler’s patriarch. “Twenty grand. Cash. Not a penny less,” Pa had slurred. “Your half-wit boy ain’t ever gonna find a girl who’ll wipe his chin and warm his bed for the rest of his life, ‘cept my Weed. Don’t you worry, Harlan. The girl ain’t never stepped foot out the holler. She ain’t been corrupted by the outside. She’s dumb as a stump and obedient as a dog.” I glanced over at Pa, who had finally snored himself to sleep against the rattling window, and I let a small, bitter smile touch my lips. Pa didn’t know me at all. I wasn’t dumb. And I certainly wasn’t obedient. My first teacher had been the “crazy woman” chained up two cabins down. Crazy Helen, they called her. Everyone in the holler said she’d lost her mind. But I knew better. When the men were out hunting, she would slip me old, crumpled newspapers her captors used for kindling. Through the cracks in the floorboards, she taught me the alphabet. She taught me how to add and subtract. She painted pictures with her words, telling me about a world beyond the mountains—a world of glass skyscrapers, airplanes, and bullet trains. She told me that little girls were meant to be more than just breeding stock. It broke my heart. Last winter, she begged me to help her run. I stole some of Pa’s sleeping pills and laced the meat for the guard dogs. But the mountains were too vast, the snow too deep. They caught her before she reached the highway. They dragged her back to the center of the holler and beat her to death in front of everyone. The frozen ground drank her blood until it was entirely red. Truth be told, only two women had ever made it out of Black Creek. Me, and my mother. But our holler was a graveyard for brilliant women. Besides Helen, there was Donna. She lived in the hog pen behind Harlan’s property. She was the one who taught me where to strike a man to make him drop. She used to stroke my tangled hair, her eyes heavy with a sorrow I couldn’t quite name. “You’re so sharp, Weed. You learn so fast.” It wasn’t until Pa showed me that video that it clicked. I was sharp because I got it from my mother. Thinking of this, I turned my head to study Pa’s sleeping face—his slack jaw, the yellowed teeth, the greasy hair. A familiar, intoxicating urge surged up the back of my throat. It was the urge to reach into my backpack, pull out the packet of rat poison I’d hidden there, and empty it down his snoring throat. Just a few grains. That’s all it would take. He would foam at the mouth and seize up, twitching until his heart stopped, just like the black rats in our barn. My hand slipped into the bag. My fingers brushed the cold, crinkling paper. But slowly, deliberately, I let go. Not because I was afraid. I let go because I needed to see my mother’s face, just once. People like Pa and me, people born from the mud and the rot—we probably both deserved to die. But there was a new girl they’d brought into the holler just three days ago. A beautiful girl with terrified, bird-like eyes. She deserved to live. I was going to save her. The bus drove on, eating up the miles through the night. Eventually, the endless trees gave way to concrete, and we pulled into the massive, echoing cavern of the city terminal. Pa jerked awake, wiping drool from his chin, and dragged me off the bus by my elbow. We stepped out into the crushing wave of Boston commuters. He looked around at the towering buildings and the sea of moving bodies, then snapped his gaze down to me. “Well, Weed? You like all these fancy people? You like the big city?” In a fraction of a second, I shrank into myself, pulling my shoulders to my ears. I put on the pathetic, terrified face of an ignorant hillbilly. I shook my head frantically, letting my voice tremble. “No, Pa… I’m scared.” I whimpered. “There’s too many folks. It’s too loud, it hurts my head. I wanna go back. I wanna go feed the hogs.” Pa stared at me for a long moment before his face split into a wide, rotten grin. “That’s my girl.” He spat on the pristine concrete. “A golden palace ain’t nothing compared to your own dirt floor. Now you remember, we’re just here to fetch your Ma. Once we drag her back, I’m locking her in the root cellar till she gives me a proper son. Then nobody in the holler can call you a motherless stray no more.” He dug out his shattered phone, swiping through the app with a dirty thumb until he found her profile again. On the screen, my mother stood at a university lectern, wearing a sharp, tailored blazer. She was speaking with such poise, radiating a quiet, luminous confidence. It was a version of womanhood I didn’t know existed. The more I watched, the more awestruck I became. She was a respected academic, an elite. The contrast between her world and the sour, unwashed stench radiating off the man beside me was nauseating. But then I clicked on the comment section. “Isn’t Dr. Prescott the one who went missing for a year in her twenties?” “Yeah, she went down south to volunteer in some rural school and got abducted. Took her years to recover mentally when she finally got back.” “It’s a tragedy, honestly. If she hadn’t lost those years to trauma, she’d be tenured by now. I heard she still struggles with the administration.” My heart violently seized. My fingernails bit into the meat of my palms. The old women in the holler always gossiped that my mother abandoned me when I was barely a year old. Which meant… if she hadn’t stayed that extra year just to nurse me, to keep me alive, she could have escaped sooner. She could have soared even higher. Pa, entirely oblivious to the storm raging inside me, yanked my arm. We navigated the labyrinth of the subway system, the stench of our clothes earning us disgusted glares and wide berths from everyone we passed. As we walked, Pa leaned in close, his breath hot and putrid against my ear. “When we find her, you listen to me. You throw yourself right at her. Grab her legs and wail like a stuck pig! You scream, ‘Ma, why did you leave me!’” His eyes gleamed with malicious excitement. “I’ll make a massive scene. I’ll holler for a DNA test right there in the street. These rich city folks, they care about their reputation more than their lives. Once I threaten to drag her name through the mud, she’ll do anything to keep us quiet. She’ll come right back to the holler just to shut us up.” Suddenly, his grip on my arm tightened like a vice. “But if you screw this up, Weed… or if you get any funny ideas about running… when we get back, I’m putting you up for Holler Law.” The blood drained from my face. My body betrayed me with an uncontrollable shudder. Holler Law. The ultimate punishment. When a woman tried to run, the men would strip her naked and throw her in the shed out back. They would take turns for three days and three nights. Aside from Donna, who now dragged herself through the hog pen on shattered legs, no woman had ever survived it. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, keeping my eyes fixed on the pavement. “I hear you, Pa.” By the time Pa had asked enough horrified strangers for directions, the sun had set. We finally stood outside the wrought-iron gates of the prestigious prep school where she taught, but the campus was dark and locked down for the night. Pa hocked a glob of phlegm onto the manicured brick walkway. “Fancy school, my ass. Closing up before dark.” A security guard stepped out of the booth, resting his hand on his belt, and sternly waved us off. Pa tried to put on a greasy smile and step forward, but the guard’s unyielding glare stopped him dead. We weren’t getting in. Pa patted the wad of crumpled bills in his pocket—the money from selling our last breeding sow. He refused to spend a dime on a motel. Instead, we found a dark, damp underpass not far from the campus. Above us, the rhythmic rumble of city traffic pounded like a mechanical heartbeat, headlights bleeding into a river of gold across the wet asphalt. I curled into a tight ball on a bed of discarded newspapers, shivering as the Atlantic wind whipped through my thin jacket. A little ways down the sidewalk, a family was taking an evening stroll. The little girl was dressed in a fluffy pink coat, clutching a pristine porcelain doll. She was riding high on her father’s shoulders, giggling like a princess surveying her kingdom. “Daddy, I want that ice cream!” “You got it, sweetheart,” the father laughed. “Mommy, I don’t want to go to ballet class tomorrow,” she whined. The young mother reached up, affectionately squeezing the girl’s hand, her eyes melting with absolute adoration. “Be a good girl for class, and we’ll go to the aquarium after, okay?” I stared. I couldn’t blink. I couldn’t breathe. So this was what life was like out here. Girls out here didn’t have to haul water. They didn’t get beaten with fire pokers. They could ride on their father’s shoulders and whine about dancing. My mother… she must have grown up just like that. Loved. Sheltered. Radiant. She was meant to be elegant and untouchable. She was never meant to be chained by the neck next to a trough of pig slop, treated worse than an animal. “What the hell are you staring at? Keep your eyes to yourself!” Pa’s harsh bark shattered the quiet moment. He’d caught the desperate longing in my eyes, and for a second, something like guilt flickered across his rugged face before hardening back into resentment. He grunted, digging a crumpled dollar bill from his pocket. He marched over to a corner bodega and returned a minute later, tossing the cheapest, chalkiest lollipop he could find into my lap. “Eat it. Don’t ever say I don’t provide for you.” I peeled the plastic back and put it in my mouth. It tasted like artificial strawberries. But no amount of sugar could wash away the suffocating bitterness coating my throat. Pa lit a cheap, unfiltered cigarette. In the orange glow of the cherry, his face looked monstrous. “You remember this, Weed,” he growled through the smoke. “We’re sleeping in the dirt tonight because of your selfish bitch of a mother. If she hadn’t run off, if she’d just stayed and done her duty to the family, we wouldn’t be begging on the streets.” He took a drag, his eyes narrowing. “Or, if she loved us, she would’ve brought us to the city to live like kings. It’s her fault we’re poor. All her fault.” I kept my head down, rolling the candy around my tongue. On the outside, I nodded meekly. “You’re right, Pa. It’s all Ma’s fault.” But deep in my chest, a quiet, terrifying fire began to burn. You’re pathetic, I thought. Every man in the holler was a parasite feeding off the blood of women. Old Man Higgins built his new cabin by selling his eldest daughter to a miner. Harlan bought his truck by pimping out his terrified wife to the logging crews. They drained the life out of us, stood on our cracked bones, and called us worthless. My mother was a scholar. She belonged under the warm glow of a lecture hall, changing the world. She never should have been forced to wash the mud off this monster’s boots, and she certainly never should have been forced into his bed. Suddenly, a bright, melodic laugh cut through the noise of the traffic. My heart skipped a beat. My head snapped up. Across the street, bathed in the amber glow of a streetlamp, a woman was walking beside a man in a tailored wool coat. She was holding a stack of books against her chest. It was only a profile. It was fifty feet away. But I knew. It was her. Under the city lights, she looked like a painting. Alive. Free. But then, as if feeling the weight of my stare, she paused. She turned her head and looked directly toward the shadows of the underpass. Our eyes met. The beautiful smile vanished from her face in an instant. Her pupils dilated. Even from across the street, I could feel the sheer, unadulterated terror radiating off her. She recognized me. She recognized him. Before I could even process what was happening, she grabbed her companion’s sleeve, her breath catching visibly in the cold air. She spun around on her heel, stumbling over her own feet as she half-ran, half-dragged the man into a dark alleyway, disappearing from sight. She fled like prey spotting a wolf. I pulled my gaze away, my entire body violently shaking. I was vibrating with a chaotic mix of adrenaline, awe, and heartbreak. She was right there. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Why are you shaking?” Pa eyed me suspiciously, squinting into the dark street where I’d just been looking. But the pavement was empty. I bit the side of my tongue so hard the metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth. I used the pain to anchor myself. I pulled my knees to my chest, making myself look small and frail. “Pa… I’m freezing…” I chattered, letting a pathetic sob slip out. “The wind down here… I’m scared.” It was a convincing performance. Pa relaxed, sneering in disgust. He dropped his cigarette and ground it out with the heel of his boot. “Useless little runt. Can’t even handle a breeze. Go to sleep! We gotta be up at dawn to ambush that bitch.” He cursed under his breath, rolling over on the cardboard, turning his back to me. I leaned my head against the freezing concrete pillar, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My mind raced, replaying the image of my mother. She looked so brilliant. So full of life, just like all the other women walking these city streets. Not like the women in the holler, with their dead, milky eyes and hollowed-out souls. If Pa dragged her back… No. Never. Thinking about what I had to do tomorrow made my stomach twist into knots. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness take me. The next morning, I squatted alone on the sidewalk outside the academy’s wrought-iron gates. Students in crisp, pressed uniforms walked past, shooting me curious, disgusted glances. I was wearing an oversized, threadbare jacket, my jeans splattered with mud, my hair a matted nest. I looked like a feral animal dropped into a country club. I didn’t care. I just watched every face that walked through those gates. Minutes bled into hours. The morning bell rang, a sharp, piercing sound. The courtyard emptied. The heavy iron gates slowly rolled shut. My chest caved in. She didn’t come. Panic, cold and suffocating, began to rise in my throat. I couldn’t just sit here. I took a deep breath, pushing myself up from the pavement. I locked eyes with the campus security guard. He was wearing a dark uniform, a badge glinting on his chest, a heavy radio on his hip. According to what Donna had taught me, he was the law. I sprinted toward the gate, slamming my hands against the bars. “Arrest me!” I screamed, my voice tearing through the quiet morning. “Please, arrest me! I killed someone!” The guard jumped back, eyes wide in shock. I closed my eyes, gripping the cold iron, bracing myself for whatever fate had in store for me now. But then, a trembling, fragile voice whispered from just over my shoulder. “…Is that you?” I whipped around. My mother. She was standing right there, not even two feet away, her face pale as a ghost.

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I was the textbook definition of a “velcro girlfriend.” If I could have spent twenty-four hours a day physically fused to my boyfriend’s side, I would have. I was in the middle of my nightly routine—clinging to his neck and begging for one more goodnight kiss—when a flicker of strange, translucent text drifted across my vision like a live stream comment section. [Is this side-character actually brain-dead? Can’t she see the Lead is doing a tactical lean-back?] [For real. He doesn’t even want to touch her.] [He only dated her to keep the “crazy fans” away. She really thinks she’s the love of his life? Delusional.] [Almost there, guys! The real Heroine is about to make her entrance. Our little stage-five clinger is getting the boot any minute now!] I stared at the floating words, my heart dropping into the pit of my stomach. My fingers, which had been laced tightly behind Cade’s neck, slowly began to lose their grip. In the next second, Cade lifted his head. His eyes were dark, shadowed with a touch of the irritation that comes from being interrupted. His voice was a low, honeyed rasp. “Why’d you stop?” … 1 My heart gave a violent squeeze. My eyes darted around the room, unable to meet Cade’s gaze. Under his piercing look—the kind that felt like he was peeling back layers of my skin—I reached down and gripped the silk sheets, whispering, “I’m just… tired.” Cade didn’t say anything. He just watched me for a long beat, probably trying to figure out if I was glitching. After a moment, he rolled over, his back to me. His voice was flat, impossible to read. “Then sleep.” Staring at the broad, cold expanse of his back, I felt like I’d just swallowed a mouthful of ash. It was bitter and suffocating. I sat up and clicked off the lamp. As I lay back down in the dark, the words from that “comment” kept looping in my brain. I shifted toward the very edge of the mattress, leaving a vast, empty canyon of space between us. I did my absolute best to stay as far away from Cade as possible. I didn’t dare press against him like a heat-seeking missile the way I usually did. Maybe if I stop being so much, I thought, he’ll hate me a little less. In the silence, I heard his steady, rhythmic breathing, but my mind was miles away. To be honest, it wasn’t like I hadn’t noticed. I wasn’t that blind. Cade had always been lukewarm. Whenever I tried to get close, I felt that split-second of tension in his frame, a subtle rigidity. But I loved him so much it made me stupid. I wanted to be his shadow, his accessory, his constant. Cade never complained out loud. But looking back, those tiny furrows between his brows, the way his jaw tightened—they were all flashing red lights. He didn’t want this. I’d just been playing dumb. I’d lied and told him I was scared to live alone just so I could move into his place. Then, I’d pushed for more, invading his bedroom until I was a permanent fixture, wrapping my limbs around him every night like an octopus. He hadn’t kicked me out, sure. But his first instinct was always to resist. I’d just been so desperate to be with him that I’d filtered out the truth. Now it seemed the comment was right. The air in the room felt heavy. I tossed and turned until the early hours of the morning, finally drifting into a fitful sleep. 2 When I woke up, I realized I was curled into Cade’s chest, my right arm locked firmly around his waist. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. After a few seconds of frozen realization, my soul nearly left my body. My body had gone into autopilot during the night, seeking him out like a habit I couldn’t break. If he woke up and saw me like this, the annoyance would be written all over his face. Holding my breath, I moved with the agonizing slowness of a glacier, trying to retract my arm. I was inches away from a clean break, almost back to my side of the bed, when a hand clamped firmly around my wrist. I looked up, slamming right into Cade’s deep, bottomless eyes. He’d clearly just woken up; his voice was thick with sleep. “What are you doing?” Panicked, I yanked my hand back and shoved against his chest with both palms, trying to create distance. I stammered out the first excuse I could find. “N-nothing. It’s late. I have to get to work.” Cade didn’t respond. He just watched me with that expressionless mask. Even though I was avoiding his gaze, I could feel the atmospheric pressure in the room dropping. [The Lead is definitely in a bad mood now. Imagine waking up to a human leech every morning.] [God, who wants to be suffocated in their sleep? So annoying.] [She’s a literal adult. Doesn’t she understand boundaries?] [I’d dump her so fast. She’s like sentient Scotch tape.] My eyes dropped to my lap, my lashes trembling. The comments made my face burn with a shame so hot I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. Just as I was about to scramble out of bed, Cade’s low voice rumbled above me. It was impossible to tell if he was amused or angry. “That goodnight kiss you skipped last night. You want to make it up now?” Usually, if he missed a kiss because of a business trip or a late night, I’d be relentless. I’d make him pay it back with interest—ten kisses for every one missed. I was like a loan shark for affection. The first time I’d pulled that, Cade had almost laughed, though it sounded more like a sigh. “Daisy, don’t you think you’re being a bit of a tyrant?” I’d just blinked innocently at him, cupping his face and kissing him until I was satisfied. Maybe because it happened so often, he’d just grown used to it. He’d stopped fighting it. But remembering how he’d flinched away last night, I knew he was just humoring me. He didn’t want this. “No, that’s okay,” I said quickly, waving my hands. I lowered my head, adding in a small, shaky voice, “Actually, we can skip the morning and evening kisses from now on.” Cade stared at me. His gaze turned heavy, almost frighteningly dark. After what felt like an eternity, he spoke coldly, a sharp edge of spite in his tone. “Fine. Suit yourself.” I let out a quiet breath of relief. But at the same time, a dull ache started to throb in my chest. He really did see it as a chore, didn’t he? 3 By the time I finished getting ready, Cade had breakfast on the table. He was faster than me, already finished, sitting across the table and watching me with an unblinking intensity. Feeling his eyes on me, I started shoveling food into my mouth. Cade frowned. “Slow down,” he said curtly. I nodded, my cheeks puffed out like a squirrel, playing the role of the obedient student. Ten minutes later, it was time for the commute. Usually, he’d drive me, but we were running a bit behind today. Those obnoxious comments popped up again, jumping with excitement. [If I remember the script correctly, today is the Big Day. The Leads meet today!] [Yep, the Heroine starts at his company today. She’s a powerhouse, high EQ, and most importantly—she knows how to give a man space!] [Exactly. The Lead actually feels comfortable around her.] [Once he sees what a real woman looks like, he’s going to drop this clingy brat without a second thought.] My eyes dimmed. So today was the day he met his soulmate. My chest felt tight, the air in the room suddenly too thin to breathe. Seeing me standing there like a statue, Cade prompted, “Get in the car.” I didn’t move. “You go ahead. I’ll just take an Uber.” Cade didn’t argue; he simply opened his door, stepped out, and walked over to me. He stood close, his searching gaze making me feel completely exposed. “You’re mad,” he stated. His voice was certain. “Because I dodged that kiss last night, right?” I looked up, forcing a blank expression. “No.” Why be mad? I’d just finally seen the truth through the comment. I was a nuisance. I was just trying to fix it. Cade clearly didn’t buy it. He stepped into my personal space. “Then why won’t you let me drive you?” My eyes flickered away. I couldn’t tell him the real reason, so I went with a half-baked lie. “I just think… we should give each other some space. You know, boundaries.” Cade froze. It was like I’d slapped him. He clearly hadn’t expected those words to come out of my mouth. He didn’t push further. He just gave me one long, searching look. “…Fine. I’ll pick you up after work.” Without waiting for me to agree, he turned, got back in his car, and peeled out of the driveway. I was a mess all day. I couldn’t focus on a single task. The comment kept chiming in, telling me Cade was driving the Heroine home, that he’d forgotten all about me, mocking me for even hoping he’d show up. But I couldn’t help it. My heart was still holding onto a shred of hope as I walked out of the office building. The spot where his car usually sat ten minutes early was empty. I stared at the vacant pavement for a long time. As I was lost in thought, a bright, cheerful voice rang out behind me. “Hey, Daisy? What are you doing standing there? Can’t catch a ride?” “The subway is going to be a nightmare during rush hour. I’ve got my bike—want a lift?” I turned around. It was Nico, a trendy-looking guy who’d joined the team a few days ago. He was high-energy, like a golden retriever in human form. I was about to say no out of habit, but I looked at the darkening sky and thought about Cade driving some other woman home. I nodded. “Sure. Thanks, Nico.” Nico, who was a good head taller than me, easily slid his spare helmet onto my head. “No problem at all.” But the moment the buckle clicked, a sharp, prolonged honk cut through the air. Before I could even process it, Cade was out of his car. He strode over, his face like a thundercloud, and grabbed my hand, interlacing his fingers with mine in a crushing grip. Then, he reached up and plucked the helmet off my head—the helmet I’d been wearing for all of ten seconds. He handed it back to Nico, his tone casual but dripping with territorial aggression. “Hey there.” “I’m Daisy’s boyfriend. Cade.” Nico blinked, then let out a bit of a cocky grin. “Whoa, man. You’re running a little behind for a boyfriend, aren’t you? We’ve been off the clock for ages.” 4 Cade’s eyes narrowed dangerously. The air between the two men was thick with sudden, sharp tension. I gently tugged at Cade’s hand—his grip was starting to hurt. “Cade, let’s just go home.” I waved a quick goodbye to Nico. “See you tomorrow! Drive safe!” The ride home was brutal. Cade’s expression was murderous. He walked so fast toward the car that I had to jog to keep up. Once we were inside, I opened my mouth to explain. But the words died in my throat. I noticed something on the dashboard. A small, incredibly cute plush cat. Cade hated cats. He complained about the hair, the smell, the effort. And that plushie definitely wasn’t there yesterday. [Hehe, such a cute little kitten! The Heroine definitely put that there.] [Look at Daisy’s face. She knows.] [Honestly, she should just bow out now. Save herself the embarrassment of being dumped.] [And she really thinks he was jealous back there? Please. No man wants to look like a cuck in front of his peers. That’s ego, not love.] I blinked slowly, fighting back the sting in my nose. The comment wasn’t lying. He really had driven her home. He even liked her enough to let her put a cat toy—the one thing he claimed to loathe—right in his line of sight. At this rate, the “we need to talk” speech was coming any day now. I sniffled quietly and pressed myself against the passenger door, putting as much distance between us as the car allowed. If we were going to break up, I wanted to leave with some dignity. I didn’t want to be the girl begging for scraps. That night, after eating the dinner Cade prepared in total silence, I waited until he was buried in work in his home office. I moved quietly, like a ghost, packing my essentials and moving them into the guest room. I didn’t bother him. I didn’t pester him to come to bed early. I didn’t ask for a hug. I just took a shower and crawled into the guest bed alone. I tucked the covers tightly around myself. My feet were like blocks of ice. I realized then that I might never have anyone to warm them for me again. Just as I was spiraling into self-pity, there was a knock at the door. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I cracked the door open just a sliver, peeking out like a stray. “Cade? Did you need something?” He didn’t answer. He just stuck his foot in the door frame to keep me from closing it. His eyes were dark, simmering with something that looked like genuine fury. “Why the hell are you in here?” I avoided his eyes, focusing on the pattern of the hardwood floor. “I just… felt like sleeping alone.”

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This was the third time I’d been “welcomed” back into the Mercer empire, and frankly, I was over it. The fire in my gut had burned out, replaced by a cold, practical numbness. When Brianna “tripped” and tumbled down the grand marble staircase, I didn’t wait for the inevitable trial. Before the echoes of her staged sob could even fade, I stepped forward and held out my metaphorical wrists. “I did it. I pushed her. Go ahead, ground me, send me away—whatever makes you feel better.” The silence that followed was thick with the family’s collective disappointment. I heard the familiar whispers: If only Brianna were the one related to us by blood. I didn’t flinch. I just turned on my heel and walked away. I was done fighting. I was done screaming into the void of their favoritism. But the strange thing about the Mercers was that as soon as I stopped caring, they started acting like I was the one hurting them. “Why are you acting like a stranger in your own home?” my mother asked, her eyes rimmed with theatrical red. My oldest brother, Harrison, tightened his jaw, his brow furrowed in that classic ‘stern CEO’ look. “Is this some new tactic to make us feel guilty, Madeline?” Then there was Tyler, the brother who hated me most. He let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “What’s the angle this time, Maddie? What are you plotting?” I wasn’t plotting anything. In the six months since they’d “found” me, I’d been kicked out twice. I’d tasted the bitterness of the gutter and the exhaustion of back-breaking labor. I’d learned my lesson. Why beg for scraps of love from people who didn’t have any to give? Instead, I was going to squeeze this lifestyle for every drop it was worth. The elite education, the high-end tutors, the networking. As for the “Mercer family love”? It wasn’t even worth the price of the air they used to talk about it. 1 This was the third time I’d moved back into the Mercer estate. I had officially entered my “I don’t give a damn” era. When Brianna fell, I intercepted the accusations before they could even leave their mouths. “Yeah, I did it. My fault. Sentence me already.” Harrison, the first one to burst out of his study, froze. He looked at me, then back at the stairs. “Why would I punish you for that? You were on the first floor. Brianna was on the second. You weren’t even near her.” I blinked. Right. I’d spent too long back with my foster parents—the Millers. Life there was a relentless cycle of waking up before dawn, scrubbing floors until midnight, and narrowly escaping being sold off to some local creep after they tried to force me to drop out of school. When you live in survival mode for that long, your reflexes get a little… twitchy. “Oh,” I said, my voice flat and polite. “Muscle memory, I guess. My bad.” Harrison stared at me, speechless. He didn’t launch into his usual lecture about ‘decorum’ or ‘sisterly bonds.’ I figured I’d ruined his rhythm by confessing too fast, so I tried to be helpful. “Do you want to start the lecture over? I can go stand in the corner if it helps the process.” His frown deepened, his lips thinning into a hard line, but he stayed silent. When it became clear he wasn’t going to say anything, I shrugged and turned to leave. That’s when Tyler made his grand entrance. He looked at me, then at Brianna clutching her ankle, and his temper hit boiling point instantly. “Madeline! You’ve been back for five minutes and you’re already bullying her?” He marched toward me, pointing a finger in my face. “Haven’t you learned a damn thing? You want to be tossed out on the street again? Is that it?” I felt the blood drain from my face—a lingering ghost of the old fear. I looked at Harrison, but he averted his eyes, refusing to explain that I hadn’t been near the stairs. Our mother rushed past me, ignoring my existence entirely to scoop Brianna into her arms. I felt a ghost of a smile touch my lips. “You’re right,” I said, my voice devoid of emotion. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been standing near the light. I probably cast a shadow that dazzled her eyes and made the poor, precious girl lose her footing.” Tyler choked on his next insult. “What is wrong with your attitude!” “Go to your room and think about what you’ve done!” My father’s roar echoed from the landing above. “Understood,” I said. No arguing. No crying. No pleading my case. Every time I’d tried to defend myself in the past, it only ended in more pain. My mother looked up, startled by my lack of drama. She looked like she wanted to say something, but Brianna let out a soft, melodic whimper. “Oh, my sweet girl,” Mom cooed, turning back to her. “Where does it hurt? Let Mommy see… Honestly, Madeline, why must you always be so lurking? You know how sensitive Brianna is.” There it was. If people love you, they find reasons to justify your existence. If they don’t, even your silence is a provocation. I didn’t stay to watch the rest of the performance. I went to my room, shut the door, and turned the lock. I lay on my bed, staring at the intricate crown molding on the ceiling. Outside, I could hear the muffled sounds of laughter and pampered concern. I didn’t fit here. I never would. Not when I was screaming for attention, and certainly not now that I was fading into the background. I sat up, wiped a stray thought from my mind, and pulled out my SAT prep books. If you can’t join the circle, stop trying to break the door down. While they were playing ‘Happy Family’ downstairs, I was going to out-study, out-work, and out-hustle every single one of them. You guys enjoy the party; I’m busy building an exit strategy. 2 The first time I stepped into the Mercer mansion, I felt like a glitch in a high-definition movie. I was wearing scuffed sneakers and a faded hoodie, my heart hammering against my ribs. Across from me stood Brianna, draped in soft pink silk, flanked by Harrison and Tyler like she was a royal being guarded by her knights. They didn’t look at me with joy. Especially Tyler. He stepped in front of Brianna, his eyes narrowing as if I were a common thief coming to snatch his favorite toy. Back then, I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I was the one with their blood in my veins. I was the sister they had lost. Brianna was the one who had lived my life, stolen my years of comfort. But no one saw it that way. Brianna was “perfect.” She played the cello, excelled at ballet, and had the kind of effortless grace that only comes from never having been hungry. Who wouldn’t prefer the polished diamond over the jagged rock? Dinner was always a highlight reel of her achievements. “Brianna won first chair!” “Brianna was invited to the debutante planning committee!” “Brianna placed in the top of her class! She’s so gifted.” No one looked at the ugly duckling at the end of the table. Even my mother, who had been so emotional when the DNA test first came back, fell into the rhythm of Brianna-first. She’d serve Brianna’s favorite dishes. She’d laugh at Brianna’s jokes. When they went shopping on Fifth Avenue, she’d gravitate toward colors that suited Brianna’s complexion, not mine. I realized quickly that I couldn’t compete with Brianna’s “charm.” I didn’t have the training or the pedigree. All I had was my brain. So, I studied. I survived on three hours of sleep, adapting to the grueling standards of their private prep school. When finals came, I placed in the top ten. It wasn’t the number one spot I used to hold back in the rural district, but in this cutthroat environment, it was a miracle. Finally, I had something better than Brianna. I remember clutching my report card, my palms sweating. I imagined the pride in my parents’ eyes. I imagined Tyler finally acknowledging that I belonged. But there was no praise. Only an interrogation. It started with a “well-meaning” comment from Brianna: “Madeline is so amazing. Everyone said that physics exam was impossible, and she barely spent a month in our curriculum. It’s almost… unbelievable. People are saying she must have had the answers beforehand.” They didn’t even hesitate. They couldn’t believe the “rural girl” could outsmart their golden child. My father slapped me. My mother pulled Brianna away as if my “dishonesty” were contagious. “Madeline, you can fail,” she whispered, looking heartbroken. “But a Mercer does not cheat.” That was the first time they sent me back to the Millers. For “lack of character.” The second time I was brought back, I learned to keep my mouth shut. Until the night of the Charity Gala. Brianna accused me of stealing a diamond tennis bracelet. I’d seen the trap coming and caught it on my phone—proof that she had slipped it into my bag herself. I thought I’d won. I thought I’d shown them the truth. Instead, my father dragged me into his study. His first words weren’t an apology. They were: “Do you have any idea how much embarrassment you caused this family tonight?” I stared at him, stunned. “Even if Brianna made a mistake, you should have handled it privately. You didn’t have to humiliate her in front of our guests,” he said, rubbing his temples. “But she lied… she tried to frame me…” I stammered. My mother slapped me then. “Madeline, why must you always try to tear her down?” They didn’t look at me with guilt. They looked at me with exhaustion. So, I was exiled a second time. For “not being a team player.” For “failing to see the big picture.” 3 The next morning, I stepped out of the house with my backpack slung over one shoulder. Harrison’s sleek black Audi was idling in the driveway. He and Tyler were already inside. A second later, Brianna darted past me, her hair perfectly curled, and hopped into the back seat. I stopped. Usually, Harrison only drove Brianna. I was supposed to wait for the family driver to take me in the SUV. But Harrison didn’t pull away. I could feel his gaze on me through the tinted glass. I adjusted my bag and stared at the pavement, pretending I didn’t notice. “Harrison, come on! I’m going to be late for rehearsal!” Brianna’s voice drifted out through the cracked window. Harrison grunted, then called out: “Are you getting in or not?” I looked up, meeting his eyes in the side mirror. I glanced at Brianna, who was pouting, and shook my head. “No thanks. I’ll wait for the driver.” When I’d first come back this time, I’d tried to ride with them. That night, Brianna had broken out in a “stress rash,” claiming the car felt “unclean.” The look my parents gave me was enough. They thought I was literally ‘dirty.’ Harrison paused. “Get in. The driver is off today.” I froze. Off? No one told me. I caught sight of Tyler and Brianna in the car, stifling smirks. They’d known. They’d wanted me to stand out here like an idiot waiting for a car that wasn’t coming. The familiar sting of exclusion hit me, but I pushed it down. I was over it. “Actually, I think I’ll take the bus. I could use the walk,” I said with a polite smile. Harrison’s brow furrowed. From the passenger seat, Tyler sneered. “Let her go, Harrison. She’s used to roughing it. Why bother with someone who’d rather be a martyr?” “Hurry up, Harry! I have a solo today!” Brianna whined. Harrison shifted into gear and pulled away. “You shouldn’t waste your breath on someone so ungrateful,” I heard Tyler’s voice fading as the car sped down the long driveway. I caught a snippet of his laugh: “Walking to the bus stop? That’s a three-mile hike down the hill. Let the peasant sweat, haha…” I rolled my eyes. I walked straight to the garage and pulled out the beat-up mountain bike I’d brought back from the Millers. I wasn’t a martyr. I just wasn’t a fool. When I reached the school gates, I hesitated for a second. The elite atmosphere of St. Jude’s Academy always felt like a suffocating cloud of old money. “Well, if it isn’t the ghost of Mercer past!” I didn’t even have to turn around. Nate, the youngest son of the local tech mogul, was leaning against a locker, a smirk playing on his lips. “I heard you got shipped off again. What happened? Did you forget which fork to use?” Beside him, Sophie—the daughter of a jewelry tycoon—shoved him hard. “Shut it, Nate. You’re such a prick.” Sophie was the closest thing I had to a friend. She was blunt, wealthy, and didn’t give a damn about social hierarchies. “Maddie, seriously,” she whispered, leaning in. “Just move into my guest house. My mom has been wanting a second daughter who actually has a brain. That ‘Stepford Sister’ of yours is driving everyone insane.” I laughed, but didn’t commit. “Hey, Maddie! You still taking commissions? I’ve got three essays and a lab report. Name your price.” A rounder guy, Becca, squeezed through the crowd, her eyes practically sparkling. Her family owned a massive restaurant franchise. This was a school for the one percent—kids who were brilliant at networking but hated the actual grunt work of being a student. For them, homework was a chore. For me, it was a revenue stream. The teachers knew I did it. As long as I wasn’t literally taking their exams for them, they turned a blind eye because my work was better than the kids could ever produce. “I’m back in business,” I said, nodding. A small crowd gathered. Some were genuinely curious where I’d been; others were placing bets on how long I’d stay this time. Becca shooed them away. It was funny, really. These spoiled, arrogant rich kids were infinitely more straightforward than my own family. You knew exactly where you stood with them. Becca was especially good to me. When my lunch card was empty and I tried to hide in the library to drink water and suppress the hunger, she’d drag me to the cafeteria and order enough food for five people. One day, I asked her why she bothered. She’d rubbed her chin thoughtfully and said, “I don’t know. Maybe I just have a hero complex? Or maybe you just look like a stray kitten that needs a sandwich.” She grinned. “Besides, my goal in life is to make sure none of my friends are thinner than me. It’s a branding thing.” It was a ridiculous answer. It was perfect. It almost made me cry. 4 For the next week, the “driver” situation didn’t change. The Mercers seemed to have collectively forgotten I needed a way to get to school. I didn’t remind them. I enjoyed the bike ride; it gave me time to clear the mental cobwebs. The only downside was Tyler. Harrison was busy with the firm, so Tyler had taken over driving Brianna. Whenever he saw me on the road, he’d floor the accelerator, intentionally blowing a cloud of exhaust in my face. “Move it, peasant! You’re blocking the view!” he’d yell, while Brianna giggled in the passenger seat. One afternoon, I’d had enough. As Tyler’s SUV slowed down to make the turn into our estate, he leaned out to shout another insult. I didn’t even look at him. As he passed, I uncapped my water bottle and launched the entire contents through his open window. “MADELINE, YOU LITTLE—” I squeezed the rest of the bottle into the car for good measure. The screech of his brakes and Brianna’s high-pitched scream echoed down the road. It was the most satisfying sound I’d heard all year. When I finally reached the house, Brianna was waiting by the front door. She looked smug. “You’re going to get kicked out again, Maddie. Number three? Or is it four? I’ve lost count. You really are a glitch in the system, aren’t you?” I stopped and looked at her, my expression ice-cold. “What are you talking about?” She just laughed and skipped inside. I frowned, noticing Harrison’s car in the driveway. He was leaning against the hood, watching me. “Madeline,” he called out. I looked away, heading for the side entrance. I could feel his mood shifting—the air around him turning heavy and dark. I tried to walk past him, but he stepped into my path. “Don’t give me that look. This family doesn’t owe you anything,” he said, his voice low. “If anything, you owe us for every second of luxury you’ve wasted.” I stopped. “Is that what you wanted to tell me? Or are you just rehearsing for the next time you discard me?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I brushed past him and opened the front door. SLAP. The blow was so sudden my head snapped to the side. My ears rang. The metallic taste of blood bloomed in my mouth. “Down on your knees! Now!” my father bellowed. I slowly turned my head, my vision blurred. The whole family was there. Brianna was wearing a tiny, triumphant smile. Tyler looked like he was watching a premiere of his favorite movie. My mother was silent, her eyes fixed on the floor. “What did I do?” I asked, my voice trembling but even. My father grabbed a glass of water from the side table and hurled it at my feet. Shards of glass grazed my ankle. “You have the nerve to ask? You’re still pretending?” “Dad, you know how she is,” Tyler added, fueling the fire. “She’s a stone. You could throw her in the ocean and she’d never soften. Just get rid of her. She’s a parasite. She’ll never be one of us.” Brianna stepped forward, playing the peacemaker. “Dad, maybe she just doesn’t know better? Growing up in that… environment… she probably has habits she can’t break. Don’t be too hard on her.” Her words were gasoline on the flames. My father’s face was purple with rage. But before he could scream again, there was a loud THUD. I had dropped to my knees. Straight and stiff, right onto the hard marble floor.

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Seven years with Harrison Cole. Seven years that dissolved into nothingness like sugar in hot tea. After the engagement was broken, a routine trip to the hospital handed me a shock: I was three months pregnant. Harrison slammed the medical report onto my desk, his face a mask of glacial indifference. “Ambitious, aren’t we? Trying to trap me with a baby to secure your spot?” I stared at the paperwork, the black ink blurring slightly. I told him the truth: the child wasn’t his. He didn’t believe me. In his world, everyone wanted a piece of him. He insisted on dragging me to the hospital himself, in front of everyone, to force a termination. In a surge of adrenaline and fury, I slapped him across the face. The sound was sharp, shocking the room into silence. With trembling hands, I reached into my bag and pulled out my marriage license. I set it down calmly, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. “Look closely, Harrison. I’m married.” I met his gaze, my voice steady. “I don’t make the same mistake twice.” 1. My morning sickness was brutal in those early months. The car ride was jerky, Harrison driving with an aggressive, jagged rhythm that made my stomach lurch. By the time he pulled over, I was dry heaving, clutching my chest. When I finally caught my breath and looked up, I searched for a shred of empathy in his eyes. I found none. Just a cold, detached scrutiny. He stared at my abdomen with open hostility, as if he wanted to reach inside and tear the life out of me. Seven years. We had grown up together, loved together, and yet here we were—strangers fueled by mutual resentment. A bitter taste, distinct from the bile, spread through my chest. I exhaled slowly, trying to anchor myself. “The baby belongs to my husband,” I said, my voice quiet but firm. “I’m married, Harrison. You don’t need to worry about me clinging to you like a ghost.” I had been raised in the Cole estate, a ward of the family, practically his shadow since childhood. When we crossed the line from friends to lovers at eighteen, fueled by whiskey and youth, I stayed by his side as the dutiful fiancée. But six months ago, she arrived. Layla. The new visionary designer at the firm. Harrison stopped coming home. On our anniversary, he stood me up. Fueled by a mix of worry and rage, I stormed into his office only to find them wrapped in each other’s arms. That night, he didn’t even try to lie. “I never loved you, Cecilia,” he said. “Not for a single moment.” The words were surgical, precise. They cut straight to the bone. We had survived so much together. Seven years of history, erased in a sentence. I was pathetic then. I couldn’t accept it. I clung to him, desperate to find proof that he was lying, that somewhere underneath the ice was the boy who used to hold my hand. I waited outside his office building like a stalker. I used his grandfather’s illness as an excuse to lure him back to the estate. I even snuck into his office disguised as a courier. When I first found out I was pregnant, I was delusional enough to be ecstatic. I told him, “I’m pregnant,” thinking it would fix us. He thought I had bribed a doctor, faking a pregnancy to block his happiness with Layla. Heartbroken and distracted, I was knocked down in the street later that day. I lay in the rain for two hours, and the miscarriage that followed washed away the last of my hope. That was the turning point. I woke up. I agreed to annul the engagement. I took the three million dollar settlement, left the Cole estate, and married my current husband. Looking back, throwing myself against a brick wall until I shattered seems humiliating. It was a chaotic, desperate time. But it’s over now. The basement parking garage was colder than the office upstairs. I shivered and offered Harrison a faint, weary smile. “Relax. I’m not lying to you this time.” “I really am married. Grandfather actually introduced us.” The Coles were complicated, but they valued loyalty. Even though Harrison and I were done, his grandfather, Arthur Cole, had always treated me like blood. He knew I had always dreamed of Zurich, that I had only stayed in the States for Harrison. So, he pulled strings, finding suitable matches for me in Switzerland. I sifted through hundreds of profiles until I found him. My husband. Once I finished this final project, I would be on a plane to Zurich to start a quiet, new life with him. 2. The frost in Harrison’s eyes deepened. As the sole heir to the Cole dynasty, cynicism was his default setting. He didn’t trust me. Why would he? For my entire life, my identity had been ‘The Girl Who Loves Harrison.’ In elementary school, he was the golden boy leading the pledge of allegiance. I loved the way the sun caught his hair. In middle school, he led the basketball team to a state championship, shattering the stereotype that prep school kids were soft. By high school, he was untouchable. Athletic, brilliant, devastatingly handsome. He had every girl in the school in his orbit. Including me. I used to wake up in the middle of the night, giggling at the ceiling, overwhelmed by the thought that this spectacular creature was my future husband. I loved him so much that when he crossed the line that drunken night when we were eighteen, I didn’t push him away. For years, I projected my own feelings onto him, assuming the love was reciprocal. I never realized he saw me as an obligation—a burden his family had strapped to his back. The day I caught him with Layla, he finally exploded. “Cecilia, your parents died saving mine. That’s a tragedy. But why does their sacrifice mean I have to sacrifice myhappiness to pay the debt?” He silenced me. He was right. Why should he? I understood him, but God, it hurt. He had resented our arrangement for years but never said a word. I had been so busy loving him, so busy curating a perfect life for him, that I was deaf to his silence. I realized recently that love doesn’t actually conquer all. Layla just gave him the courage to finally rebel. I had built my confidence, my entire personality, on the foundation of being Harrison’s future wife. When that foundation cracked, I crumbled. I wasn’t Cinderella. After the breakup, I packed my life into boxes overnight and vanished from the estate. I avoided every restaurant, every street, every park we had ever shared. The only tether left was this job—his company invested in the design firm, and I couldn’t hand off the project mid-stream. I just had to endure until the launch. Then, Zurich. I knew my place now. Before the breakup, I had the standing to make a scene. Now? We were familiar strangers. I was a married woman. I had no interest in sabotaging his romance with Miss Layla. “Holden Cross. Sounds… plain.” Harrison was reading the name off the marriage certificate. His voice still had that low, magnetic timbre that used to send shivers down my spine. I used to beg him to read to me with that voice. He rarely did. “Yes. He’s a good man. Humble. Gentle.” Holden was a researcher at a university. He was the antithesis of Harrison. But he loved me. He gave me the kind of quiet, steady devotion Harrison was incapable of. 3. Harrison’s laugh was dark, devoid of humor. “Cecilia, you know how this works. In my eyes, your word is worth nothing.” I let out a dry, self-deprecating chuckle. “I know you don’t love me, Harrison. Why would I waste energy trying to trap you with a baby now? This child belongs to me and my husband. Period.” The air in the garage felt heavy, pressing against my lungs. My lips felt numb. Finally, Harrison spoke. “Tomorrow. We go to the hospital. Amniocentesis. If the DNA proves it’s not mine, I’ll apologize.” It was a concession. The most I would get from him. I nodded and turned toward the elevator. Upstairs, a delivery arrived—ginger tea, ordered by Holden. A sticky note on the cup read: Extra sugar, just how you like it. Warmth bloomed in my chest. I submitted the final project files and walked straight to HR to hand in my resignation. Long-distance marriages are fragile. I needed to be in Zurich. During those three months of madness when I stalked Harrison, I learned everything about him and Layla. They weren’t new. She had been with him during his five years abroad. Back then, their future was hazy. Harrison had a fiancée back home; Layla wasn’t sure about returning to the States. Now, he was blowing up his life to be with her. That’s not a fling. That’s conviction. The next morning at the hospital, Harrison was already there, looking sharp in charcoal wool. Layla stood next to him, a splash of vibrant red in a sterile hallway. I didn’t mind that she had “won.” I just disliked her method—chasing a man she knew was engaged. She looped her arm through his and beamed at me. “Cecilia! You finally made it. We’ve been waiting forever.” I checked my watch. The second hand ticked onto the twelve. 9:00 AM exactly. “The appointment is at nine, Layla. Don’t paint me as late when I’m precise.” Her smile faltered. She looked up at Harrison, eyes wide and pleading. Usually, he would jump to her defense. Today, he was strangely quiet. “Enough. Let’s get the test done,” he said. Layla pouted, shooting daggers at me, but I didn’t engage. I walked into the testing suite. The expedited results would take three days. The next day, after sorting my visa, I went to the Cole estate to say goodbye to Grandfather Arthur. Harrison was there. He frowned, physically blocking the doorway. ” The results aren’t back. You’re in a rush to spin your narrative to the old man?” I almost laughed. “I thought you might have started to believe me. Clearly, I overestimated you.” “You’re a pathological liar, Cecilia. I have no reason to trust you.” Even now, his distrust stung. Like a phantom limb pain—the relationship was gone, but the nerve endings were still raw. “Blocking the door won’t work,” I said, my voice hardening. “I am seeing Grandfather today.” Arthur Cole was the only father figure I had left. I wasn’t leaving the country without a proper goodbye. Harrison didn’t budge. He signaled the housekeeper to take the gift bags from my hands. “I’ll give these to him. You don’t see him until I see that paper.” I didn’t want to cause a scene in the house that raised me. As the housekeeper retreated, I hissed, “I told you, the baby isn’t yours!” “Prove it.” His eyes were obsidian, unreadable and terrifying. He pulled a folded paper from his pocket—the ultrasound from two days ago. He shook it at me. “Fourteen weeks, Cecilia! A fourteen-week fetus. You’ve been married for two months. Tell me, if this child isn’t mine, whose is it?” 4. His voice detonated in my head. I froze, the math paralyzing me for a second. “So,” I whispered, “you still think I’m trying to ruin your life?” “Aren’t you?” Harrison stepped closer, the temperature around him dropping. “I wanted to handle this civilly. I was prepared to compensate you. But you… you just don’t know when to quit.” He looked at me like I was a stranger he’d found trespassing. “We’ve known each other for twenty years, Cecilia. I don’t want to hurt you. Why can’t you just be good? Why can’t we end this quietly?” My chest heaved, tears blurring my vision. “It’s. Not. Yours.” “Harrison, I stopped wanting anything from you a long time ago. Especially your children.” The silence stretched, tense and brittle. He twisted the signet ring on his finger, then ripped the ultrasound photo into confetti, letting the pieces drift to the floor. “I gave you a chance to come clean. But you had the audacity to come here, to Grandfather, looking for a shield.” He grabbed my wrist. “Forget the report. We’re dealing with this now.” Harrison was a man who moved mountains when he decided to. I realized with a jolt of terror that he wasn’t asking. My pupils dilated.

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I am the daughter of the most feared crime lord in the city. Today, at my wedding, I was supposed to finally step out of the shadows and claim my birthright. Instead, my brother told me there was a hit out on me. He said I couldn’t be exposed. My fiancé, playing the part of the concerned lover, stripped me of my custom Vera Wang gown and draped it over my personal assistant, Ivy. My head of security, the man sworn to take a bullet for me, took the Calloway family signet ring from my finger. I trusted them. God, I trusted them with my life. But when the wedding march began, I watched from the wings. I saw Ivy, wearing my dress, with one arm looped through my fiancé’s, while her other hand lingered intimately against the waist of my brother, then my bodyguard. When I stormed out to demand answers, Ivy just smiled—a toxic, victorious little smirk—and ordered them to break my limbs. They threw me into a basement cage. I died screaming in the jaws of starving dogs. My last thought was a vow: You can have the fiancé. But you are not worthy of the crown. … I snapped back to reality just as Ivy let out a shriek. My fist had already connected with her jaw. My fiancé, Preston, stared at me, eyes wide with shock and rage. He backhanded me across the face. “Serena! Who gave you the right to touch Ivy?” My brother, Harrison, looked at Ivy with tears in his eyes, his face twisted in performative anguish. He lunged at me. “You dare strike the future head of the Dominion at her own wedding? By the Code, you will pay for this!” Roman, my head of security, didn’t hesitate. He moved to grapple me, using the techniques I’d paid for him to learn. But he was sloppy. I sidestepped, kicking him square in the chest. He flew backward, crashing into a table, coughing up blood, his eyes filled with disbelief. “Serena… you… you actually hurt me?” I dusted off my cocktail dress—the plain thing they’d forced me into—and dragged a gold Chiavari chair to the center of the stage. I sat down, crossing my legs, looking down at them like the insects they were. “So, you all remember my name is Serena?” I asked, my voice amplified by the silence of the room. “Then have you forgotten that I, Serena Calloway, am the only daughter of Victoria Calloway? The sole heir to the Dominion?” I leaned forward. “And the actual bride at this wedding.” The crowd erupted. Whispers turned into shouts. “What’s going on? If she’s the bride, who is that on the floor?” The guests looked at Ivy, who was still spitting blood. I let out a cold, sharp laugh. In my past life, I pitied Ivy. She played the orphan card so well. My brother Harrison convinced me to take her in, to give her a job as my assistant. It didn’t take long for her to charm the three men closest to me with her doe-eyed innocence. When my mother was hospitalized after an assassination attempt, I was ready to take the reins. But these three… they played on my fears. They told me the Dominion had too many enemies. They said I’d end up like Mom. They convinced me to let Ivy—renamed ‘Ivy Calloway’ for the day—act as a decoy bride to draw out the assassins. I agreed. And on my wedding night, I found them all in bed together. When I confronted them, they threw me into the fighting pits, letting me serve as a punching bag for Ivy until they fed me to the dogs. The phantom pain of tearing flesh flared in my mind. I didn’t hesitate. I walked over and stomped hard on Ivy’s ribs. Crack. “I’m asking you,” I hissed. “Who are you? And who am I?” Ivy screamed, a high-pitched, wailing sound, reaching out desperately for Preston. “Baby, get this psycho out of here! Harrison, save me!” Preston flinched at my aura—I was radiating pure murder—but Ivy’s cry steeled his resolve. He stepped between us, arms spread wide. “Serena, having the Calloway blood means nothing! I can prove Ivy is the true successor!” Harrison was on his knees, cradling Ivy, glaring at me with a hatred that chilled my blood. “Stop this madness! We did this for your own good! Kneel and apologize to Ivy, and maybe I won’t enforce the full weight of the Code against you!” Roman, my bodyguard, wiped the blood from his mouth and pulled a collapsible baton from his jacket. “Forget going back. Kneel now. You’re just a servant acting out. I’ll discipline you myself right here.” I looked at the three men I had loved, protected, and elevated. My hands clenched until the knuckles turned white. “Since you’ve all decided to pledge allegiance to the help,” I said, my voice deadly calm, “don’t blame me for what happens next.” I grabbed Ivy by the back of her stolen dress, lifted her up, and hurled her off the stage into the crowd. “Apologies for the scene,” I announced to the stunned room. “The wedding is canceled. Consider this my coronation.” The guests were paralyzed. “I heard the Dominion had internal strife, but isn’t Serena the only heir? That’s undisputed, right?” “Yeah, but the invitation said Ivy Calloway. Everyone knows Victoria’s daughter is the heir. Who the hell is Serena to crash this?” “She just assaulted the boss. She’s dead meat.” My ex-fiancé and his cohorts heard the murmurs and seemed to regain their confidence. “Serena! What is wrong with you? Get down here!” Preston shouted. “I am Ivy’s husband, Preston. I can testify that Ivy is the star of this wedding and the heir to the Dominion!” “I am Harrison Calloway, the eldest son,” my brother bellowed. “I watched Ivy grow up. I know who my sister is!” “I’m Roman, head of security,” Roman added, standing shoulder to shoulder with them. “Ivy is the heir. I don’t even know who this Serena woman is.” They stood in a wall of testosterone and suits, protecting Ivy, glaring at me. The crowd laughed. “This Serena girl has lost her mind. The Calloway men are handsome, sure, but you can’t just claim them.” “Exactly. The family keeps a low profile, but we know the lineup: Harrison is the son, Preston is the groom, Roman is the muscle. If they say she’s a nobody, she’s a nobody.” “On your knees, Serena! Apologize!” I lifted my chin, looking past the wall of traitors to the entrance, where a man was rushing in. “Arthur,” I called out. “You’ve been my mother’s right hand for twenty years. Surely you recognize her daughter?” The room turned to look. “That’s Arthur Doyle. Victoria’s… companion. Why is he here?” “With this chaos? Victoria is on her deathbed; someone had to come restore order.” Arthur didn’t say a word. He stormed down the aisle, his hard-soled shoes clacking on the marble. He helped Ivy up first, dusting her off with tender care, before turning his cold eyes to me. “You insolent brat. Who gave a servant the courage to strike Ivy?” He gestured to the security team. “Tie her up. I’m taking her back to the estate. The Boss will deal with her personally.” My heart hammered against my ribs. In my last life, I knew the three men were seduced by Ivy. But I didn’t know Arthur—my mother’s most trusted confidant—was in on it too. At his command, the guards rushed me. I stood my ground. I didn’t need weapons. I used the Calloway Combat Style—a brutal, efficient martial art passed down only through the bloodline. I dismantled the first wave of guards in seconds. As the men groaned on the floor, the crowd shifted. “That fighting style… that’s Calloway CQC. Only the direct line is taught that.” “If she’s just a servant, how does she know the moves?” I stared at the men, waiting for the truth to sink in. But then, Ivy, battered and bruising, pulled herself up onto the stage. She took a breath and performed a sequence of the Calloway form. It was sloppy, breathless, but recognizable. While the crowd went silent, Ivy wiped blood from her lip and shouted, “Serena! I pitied your background. I let you hold my water bottle while I trained. And this is how you repay me? By stealing my moves?” I looked at my brother, Harrison, with pure venom. Aside from Mom, only he and I knew that form. He had taught the family secret to an outsider. It was a violation of everything we stood for. “How dare you,” I whispered, grabbing Harrison by the lapels. Harrison didn’t flinch. He looked at Ivy. Ivy reached into her bodice and pulled out an object, holding it high. A heavy, ancient jade seal. “The Dominion Seal was passed to me by Mother herself,” Ivy declared. “Serena, your little play is over.” The sight of the seal silenced the room. “Victoria really must be gone… she gave up the Seal.” “Serena, they have the witness and the evidence. You’re just the help. Get out!” I ground my teeth so hard I tasted iron. In my past life, I hadn’t fought back. I hadn’t realized they had already hollowed out the empire behind my back while Mom lay dying. Rage, hot and blinding, flooded my veins. I lunged for the seal. Roman moved. The pretense was gone. He signaled his personal elite guard, and they swarmed me. I was good. But I was flesh and bone, and there were too many of them. A baton struck the back of my skull. My vision blurred. The world tilted. Roman sneered, planting a kick in my chest that sent me flying off the stage. I hit the floor hard. Ivy, sensing victory, strutted over and raised her heel, aiming to stomp on my face. I caught her foot. I punched upward, driving my fist into the arch of her foot. Ivy, having no real balance or skill, toppled over screaming. Arthur, my mother’s lover, lost his composure. “You little animal! Still fighting? Break her hands!” Roman pulled a switchblade. He had two men pin my right arm to the floor. “Serena,” Roman said, his voice void of the warmth it used to hold. “Today, I’m not just breaking your hands. I’m severing your tendons. You’re going to the pits, a cripple, to be walked on by Ivy for the rest of your miserable life.” Pain exploded in my arm. I saw guests turning away, unable to watch. I spat blood into Roman’s face. “Kill me if you have the guts! Because when my mother gets here, you’re all dead men!” Harrison looked panicked for a split second, glancing at Arthur. Arthur leaned down, whispering in my ear with a voice like dry leaves. “Let me tell you the truth, little girl. Your mother isn’t waking up.” “Stop dreaming of a savior. The Dominion, the money, even your fiancé… they all belong to Ivy now.” He smiled, a cruel twisting of lips. My stomach dropped. That’s why no one came for me last time. They had already murdered my mother. Seeing the horror on my face, the men laughed. I used their distraction. I bucked my hips, throwing off the guard, and lunged at Arthur. My teeth clamped onto his ear. I ripped my head back, tearing a chunk of flesh free. Arthur shrieked. Ivy screamed in sympathy. Harrison grabbed a wine bottle and smashed it over my head. “Are you crazy?! How dare you hurt him!” My head swam, buzzing with concussive force. But through the haze, a question formed. Harrison had always hated Arthur. He called him a gigolo, a usurper standing in our dead father’s place. Why was he protecting him now? Why was he so desperate? Preston was rushing around, dabbing at Arthur’s bleeding head with a napkin. Roman had the knife at my throat. “I’m sorry, Serena,” Roman said. “I didn’t want to kill you. But you keep hurting the people I care about.” I was broken, bleeding, outnumbered. Up in the VIP balcony, someone covered their eyes, waiting for the execution. “ENOUGH!” The voice cracked through the air like a whip. “How did Serena’s wedding turn into a slaughterhouse? Stand down!” My vision cleared enough to see the figure at the door. Tears pricked my eyes. It was Aunt Jo. Josephine Calloway. My mother’s sister, my martial arts master, the woman who raised me alongside Mom. “Aunt Jo…” She marched toward me. When she saw my mangled arm, her face twisted in fury. “You animals! Who did this to her?” Everyone looked at Roman. Roman swallowed hard, stepping forward to take Aunt Jo’s hand. “Aunt Jo, it’s a misunderstanding. Please, calm down, we can explain—” Jo backhanded him so hard he flew into a waiter’s tray. “You did this?” she roared. “You grew up with her! She treated you like family! How could you?” The men went pale. Preston stepped forward, trembling. “Aunt Jo, please. Serena… she had a psychotic break. She attacked Arthur. We had to restrain her.” At the name Arthur, Jo froze. She turned slowly to look at the man clutching the side of his bleeding head. Arthur glared at her, his eyes full of accusation. “Don’t you see I’m bleeding? What are you waiting for? That little bitch tried to kill me!” I blinked, confused. Aunt Jo was a spinster, married to the martial arts. She had no men in her life. Why did Arthur speak to her with such familiarity? Such entitlement? “Aunt Jo!” I screamed. “It’s a lie! It’s a coup! They’re trying to put Ivy on the throne! You have to help me!” Jo’s face went dark. She didn’t look at me. She looked at Arthur, pain and guilt warring in her eyes. “Fine,” she whispered. “I owe you this.” She turned to me. The warmth was gone. “Serena, you are out of control. Daring to ruin Ivy’s wedding? Trying to confuse the Calloway bloodline? Your crimes are unforgivable.” She waved her hand. “Take her away.” The tension in the room broke. The conspirators sighed in relief. I sat there, frozen, unable to process the betrayal. I could understand the others. They were weak, greedy men. But Aunt Jo? My own flesh and blood? The woman who taught me to throw a punch?

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I was just trying to watch a movie. That was it. But the kid behind me wouldn’t quit. He kept kicking the back of my seat, a rhythmic, dull thud that was slowly driving a wedge into my sanity. Then came the smell—stale cheese and sweat—as he propped his bare foot right next to my ear. I snapped. I turned around, my voice tight. “Hey, keep your feet down and sit still.” He didn’t listen. Instead, he grinned, a feral little look in his eyes, and jammed a needle into the side of my neck. It wasn’t a poke. It was a stab. 1 Sharp, white-hot pain flared instantly. I slapped a hand to my neck and pulled it away slick with warm blood. Behind him, his mother just giggled. “Oh, relax,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s just playing with my sewing needle. Boys will be boys. It’s not like it’s poisoned or anything. Don’t be such a drama queen.” That did it. I threw my bucket of popcorn to the floor, ripped out my phone, and blasted the flashlight right into the kid’s face. “Listen to me!” I screamed, my voice tearing through the theater’s darkness. “That kid is holding a high-risk, medical-grade needle! It’s used! It’s filthy! That is HIV-positive blood!” The beam of my flashlight caught the needle in the kid’s hand. A single drop of blood hung from the tip. “Holy sh*t! HIV?” someone yelled. “Run! Don’t let him touch you!” Panic is contagious. In seconds, the theater erupted. People vaulted over seats, screaming, scrambling away from the epicenter of the infection. The room descended into absolute chaos. The woman’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, defensive fury. “What the hell are you saying? HIV?” She stood up, screeching. “You’re cursing my son! I’ll rip your face off!” I took a step back, my phone camera already rolling, locked onto the kid who was now looking confused, still clutching the weapon. “Stay back!” I yelled, addressing the crowd. “Nobody knows if they have more needles! Call 911! Now!” “This is assault with a deadly weapon! They are spreading a biohazard!” “Block the doors! Don’t let them leave!” My hysteria was calculated, and it worked. The fear of contagion is primal. Several large men immediately moved to block the exits, their faces grim. “Yeah, nobody’s going anywhere!” “That is sick! Stabbing people with AIDS needles? You people are monsters!” Suddenly, the house lights flooded on, bathing us all in a harsh, exposing glare. The woman finally realized the gravity of the situation. She saw the rage and terror in the eyes surrounding her and snatched her son into a protective hug. “What are you doing? You’re bullying a mother and child!” she shrieked, though her voice wavered. “It’s not AIDS! It’s… it’s red ink! It’s just red ink!” I stared at her. I looked at her with the cold, dead eyes of someone who has already imagined their own funeral. “Red ink?” I stepped forward. “Okay. Then tell your son to stab himself with it.” The theater went silent. “If he sticks that needle into his own arm right now, I will get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness.” The woman choked. She looked at the jagged, bloody needle, then instinctively shoved her son behind her back. “Why should I? You aren’t touching my son! You’re crazy!” Adrenaline began to crash, replaced by a wave of dizziness. My knees felt weak. Behind the woman’s screeching defenses, the kid finally realized he wasn’t in charge anymore. “Mommy! They’re being mean to me!” he wailed. He threw the needle down. The bloody instrument skittered across the concrete floor, rolling twice before coming to a stop in the middle of the aisle. The crowd recoiled as if the object were radioactive. No one dared to breathe near it. “Don’t cry, baby, don’t cry,” the woman cooed, glaring at me with venomous hatred. “You piece of trash! Scaring a child like that? It’s a tiny scratch! You’re blowing this way out of proportion!” “You want to call the cops? Fine! Call them! I’ll sue you for defamation! I’ll sue you for every penny you have!” She was still posturing. Still pretending she held the cards. 2 But against the tidal wave of public panic, her entitlement meant nothing. It only fueled the fire. “Shut up, lady! Your kid stabbed someone!” “That’s a biohazard! That kills people!” “I saw it! He was kicking the seat and then he attacked her. That kid is a psychopath!” The theater manager burst in, flanked by security guards, sweating profusely. “What is going on? Everyone, please, remain calm!” I kept my hand over the wound on my neck and walked straight up to the manager. I pulled my hand away to show him the blood. “That child used that needle to puncture my carotid artery area. I have reason to believe it is medical waste carrying a high-risk virus,” I said, my voice trembling but my logic razor-sharp. “I am demanding you lock down this theater. Detain them.” “Call the police. Call an ambulance. And get the CDC involved.” The manager looked at the needle on the floor, then at the blood on my neck. All color drained from his face. He knew that if this was mishandled, his theater—and his career—was over. “Cover that object! Don’t touch it!” he barked at security. “And keep those two here. Nobody leaves.” Realizing she was trapped, the woman, Vanessa, dropped to the floor in a full-blown tantrum. “Help! Security is assaulting us!” she screamed, kicking her legs. “Is there no law in this country? You’re bullying a woman and a child! Do you know who my husband is?” “My husband is Conrad Hughes! You touch me and he’ll destroy you!” Conrad Hughes. The manager flinched. The name clearly rang a bell. But the crowd didn’t care about local celebrities. “I don’t care if your husband is the President!” someone shouted. “Attempted murder is attempted murder!” “Record her! Put this on TikTok! Expose them!” Dozens of phones were aimed at her like weapons. Flashes popped. Vanessa panicked, trying to shield her face and swat at the cameras. “Stop filming! You don’t have my permission! Put the phones down!” It was anarchy. I stood off to the side, the burning sensation in my neck spreading. The phantom feeling of a virus coursing through my veins made me shudder. But I had to hold it together. I focused on the needle. It wasn’t a sewing needle. It wasn’t even a standard syringe. The gauge was thick, and the barrel had specific blue graduation lines. It looked industrial. Or experimental. I was a bio-major back in college. I knew lab equipment. That device didn’t belong in a sewing kit. It belonged in a bio-waste bin. She was lying. And judging by the sweat on her brow, she was terrified. Ten minutes later, the sirens wailed outside. Police officers pushed through the crowd. An older officer, Detective Miller, took charge. “Who called it in? What’s the situation?” I stepped forward and gave my statement, keeping it clinical. Miller put on gloves and crouched over the needle. He sealed it in an evidence bag, examining the residue inside the barrel. His brow furrowed. “This isn’t a sewing needle,” Miller said, his voice carrying through the quiet room. “This is a large-bore biopsy or aspiration needle. Veterinary or… specialized use.” His words hit Vanessa like a physical blow. Her “sewing needle” defense evaporated instantly. “Veterinary?” She stammered, sweat beading on her forehead. “No! I… I bought it at a flea market! For crafts!” 3 Her eyes darted around the room. She was crumbling. “We’ll check the prints and run a tox screen on the residue,” Miller said dryly. “Ma’am, you’re coming with us.” Two officers hoisted her up. “I’m not going! You can’t arrest me! My son is a minor!” she shrieked. The kid, Jaxon, seeing his mother restrained, finally broke down into genuine, snot-nosed sobbing. The malicious bravado was gone. I followed the police out. As I passed them, I stopped. I leaned in close to Vanessa, my voice a whisper only she could hear. “Pray,” I said. “Pray that it’s just red ink.” “Because if there is anything in that needle, I will make sure your family rots in a cell.” She looked up at me, eyes filled with pure venom. “You just wait. Conrad is coming. When he gets here, you’ll be begging me to settle.” I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Settle? Lady, if that needle is clean, I’ll eat it. But if it’s dirty? God himself couldn’t save you.” I walked out into the daylight. The sun was blinding, but I felt freezing cold. Bone deep. The ambulance was waiting. As the paramedics cleaned the wound, the smell of antiseptic cleared my head, but my mind was stuck on the needle. Those blue lines. That dark red residue. And the name. Conrad Hughes. If I remembered correctly, he was the CEO of Mercy Hill Medical Group. The biggest private healthcare conglomerate in the state. A hospital tycoon. His son walks around with a specialized puncture needle. His wife acts like she owns the law. This wasn’t just a bratty kid. What was in that needle? A terrifying thought began to take shape in the back of my mind. Maybe I hadn’t just been exposed to a disease. Maybe I had stumbled into something much darker. Something that went deeper than a prick on the neck. The air in the interrogation room at the precinct was thick enough to choke on. I had a bandage on my neck and a preliminary lab report in my hand. I was on PEP—post-exposure prophylaxis. The doctors said the critical window was 72 hours. These 72 hours were my lifeline. Vanessa was sitting opposite me, legs crossed, checking her nails. The kid, Jaxon, was slurping a juice box the cops had given him, staring at me with that same dead-eyed defiance. “Alright, let’s cut the act,” Vanessa said, dropping her Hermès bag onto the metal table with a heavy thud. “You want money. Just say it. Five grand? Is that enough?” “Take the check, sign the NDA and the waiver, and we’re done.” She pulled out a checkbook, her pen hovering, looking at me like I was something she’d scraped off her shoe. I didn’t blink. I just crinkled the medical report in my fist. “Too low? Fine. Ten grand.” “Don’t be greedy, sweetie. That’s probably more than you make in a year serving coffee or whatever you do.” “Take it, buy yourself some vitamins, and stop pretending you’re dying.” She scribbled a number, ripped the check out, and flicked it across the table. 4 The check fluttered through the air and landed on my shoe. I didn’t move. I just stared at the piece of paper. “I don’t want your money,” I said, my voice raspy. “I want the truth. Where did that needle come from? And what was inside it?” Vanessa’s face twitched, masking fear with aggression. “None of your business! I told you, it’s a toy! We found it!” “The cops haven’t found anything yet, so who do you think you are?” “I’m warning you. Don’t push your luck. When my husband gets here, that ten grand is off the table.” As if on cue, the door swung open. A man in a bespoke suit strode in, bringing a cold gust of air with him. He was flanked by two sharp-eyed lawyers carrying briefcases. Conrad Hughes. He radiated power and arrogance. He had the heavy, fleshy face of a man who hasn’t heard the word “no” in decades. “Honey! You’re finally here!” Vanessa immediately switched into victim mode, crying fake tears. “This person is bullying us! They want to put Jaxon in jail! Do something!” Conrad patted her shoulder, his eyes sweeping the room before landing on me. He looked at me with the detached boredom of a man inspecting a pest. “You must be the victim.” He walked over, towering over me. “Listen, kid. Accidents happen. Boys play rough.” “I’ll cover your medical bills. And I’ll add twenty thousand for your ’emotional distress.’” “This ends now.” It wasn’t an offer. It was a command. One of the lawyers immediately slid a settlement agreement across the table. “Sign here. It’s in everyone’s best interest.” Conrad lit a cigarette, completely ignoring the “No Smoking” sign on the wall. The young officer in the corner opened his mouth to object, but Conrad shot him a look that silenced him instantly. Money talks. And here, it was screaming. I looked at this family. The entitlement. The cruelty. The absolute certainty that they could buy their way out of physical assault. The rage inside me burned hotter than the infection fear. “And if I don’t sign?” I looked up, meeting Conrad’s gaze. He paused, smoke curling from his lips. He seemed genuinely surprised I was speaking. He leaned in, exhaling the smoke right into my face. “You don’t sign?” He smiled. A shark’s smile. “Kid, do you know who I am? I run Mercy Hill. I own half the city council.” “I can make sure you never work in this town again. I can make sure you get evicted by the end of the week.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “The police won’t find anything on that needle. Even if they do, it’s just medical waste. A misdemeanor.” “I pay you off, maybe spend an hour in holding. But if you refuse… I promise you, you will regret it for the rest of your miserable life.” A naked threat. He didn’t care if the needle was toxic. He only cared about the inconvenience. To him, my life was a rounding error. My fingernails dug into my palms until they bled. The pain kept me focused. “Big words, Dr. Hughes.” I stood up, picked up the twenty-thousand-dollar check, and ripped it into confetti. I threw the pieces in his face. “Keep the money. Use it to buy your son a conscience. Or a lawyer for the murder trial.” “I don’t believe you own the whole world. And I don’t believe that needle is just trash.” Conrad’s face turned a violent shade of purple. He raised his hand as if to backhand me. “You ungrateful little—” Knock. Knock. The door opened again. A forensic technician in a white coat walked in, holding a report. He looked pale. Terrified, even. “Detective Miller,” the tech said, his voice shaking. “We identified the substance in the needle.”

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My husband, a man who had never known a sick day in his life, was suddenly dying. His grip on my hand was iron-tight, desperate. “When Lila goes, I go too. She’s my soulmate, Nora. You know that. She’s the only thing that ever mattered.” The realization hit me like a physical blow. He wasn’t just dying; he was giving up. He was choosing to follow his dead ex-girlfriend—his “one that got away”—into the grave. Our children were still young. His company’s finances were in shambles. Yet, to him, none of that held a candle to the memory of Lila recent passing. ” In the next life,” he rasped, his eyes losing focus, “I’ll make it up to you. I’m sorry. I failed you.” Cole Prescott took his last breath before his assistant even dared to step into the room. The report, when it came, was the final insult. Cole had liquidated his personal assets. Everything—every cent—had been placed in a trust for Lila’s children. There was nothing left for us. I stared at Cole’s lifeless body on the hospital bed. I looked at the legs under the sheet—legs that had been crushed and paralyzed saving my life years ago—and I couldn’t find a single word to say. His assistant shifted uncomfortably, clutching a file. “Mrs. Prescott… there’s something else. For a long time, your biological parents were looking for you.” My head snapped up. “Ms. Lila intercepted the communications. Mr. Prescott… well, he knew. He let her hide the letters. When your parents passed away, we handled the arrangements. Their house was filled with nothing but photos of you and missing person flyers.” I stared at him, the room spinning. A coppery taste of blood flooded my mouth. The betrayal wasn’t just financial; it was existential. When I opened my eyes again, the sterile white of the hospital was gone. I was back in the smell of bleach and boiled cabbage. The group home. A handsome teenage boy walked in, practically dragging his wealthy parents behind him. He pointed a finger straight at me, his face glowing with excitement. “Her,” he said. “We have to adopt her.” I looked at his familiar, youthful face, and felt nothing but a glacial cold spreading through my chest. Cole Prescott. I didn’t care if this was a second chance. In this life, I wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. 1 “Mom, Dad, if you’re going to give me a sister, it has to be her!” The moment I heard the desperation in his voice, I knew. Cole had come back, too. I thought about his dying promise—I’ll make it up to you. I arched a brow. Well, give the devil his due; he was trying to keep his word. In my past life, I had been ambitious. I was starving, bullied, and desperate to escape the poverty of the state system. I wanted a golden ticket. I had schemed and clawed my way into the Prescotts’ line of sight. I had been so close. But the day before the papers were signed, Cole had walked in holding Lila’s hand. Lila had cried crocodile tears, accusing me of bullying her. She told them I was manipulative, that I seduced the male staff, that I was a pathological liar. And Cole? He believed every word. That day, my American Dream shattered. As Cole led Lila away to her new life of luxury, he turned to the other kids and staff, his voice dripping with disdain: “Nora Bennett is bad news. She’s a curse. Do yourselves a favor and stay away from her.” From that moment on, I fell from purgatory into hell. I endured five more years of abuse in that system. Meanwhile, Lila became the Prescott princess, adored and spoiled. But now, here was Cole, standing in front of me, his eyes pleading. “This time,” he whispered, low enough that only I could hear, “you’re going to be my sister. I’m going to take care of you. You won’t ever have to be jealous of anyone again.” I understood. He was grieving the Nora of the past. Somewhere down the line, in our previous life, he must have found out Lila had lied. He had spent decades regretting that he left me to rot in this place for five years. Mr. and Mrs. Prescott smiled at me. Just like before, there was an instant connection. They liked me. But I didn’t want his charity. I didn’t want his guilt. I opened my mouth to tell them to go to hell. Suddenly, a young girl burst into the room, sobbing hysterically. Her dress was torn, and blood trickled from a shallow cut on her arm. “Lila!” Cole gasped. “Are you… are you okay?” Lila glanced at me, eyes sharp with suspicion, before throwing herself at the Prescotts’ feet. “Please! Are you here to save me? Please take me! I don’t want to die! I’m scared!” She was copying me. In the old timeline, the Director of the home was a monster. I had staged a scene like this to save myself. But Lila? She had never been his target. She was always safe. In the past, seeing her act this way broke me. I had screamed, grabbed her, demanded the truth—which only made the Prescotts think I was unhinged. But now? Cole knew she was lying. He knew she was acting. Yet, looking at her small, trembling form, he couldn’t help it. The old instinct to protect her kicked in. “Who hurt you?” Cole demanded. “I won’t let them get away with it.” Lila couldn’t risk the truth. If she didn’t get adopted, she’d be stuck here with a Director she had just falsely accused. I blinked, stepping forward with a calm I didn’t feel. “It was the Director,” I said, my voice steady. “He likes the pretty ones. And Lila is the prettiest girl here.” “What?” Mr. Prescott’s hands curled into fists. “That animal.” “Oh, you poor thing.” Mrs. Prescott looked heartbroken. Cole stood there, lips pressed into a thin line. I knew him better than I knew myself. I could see the gears turning. He was wavering. “Mom, Dad,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “We have to take Lila.” “Mr. and Mrs. Prescott, you should adopt Lila.” We spoke at the exact same time. 2 “Nora…?” Cole looked at me, stunned. He remembered the old Nora—the one who would have begged, screamed, and fought to get out of this hellhole. But I ignored his complicated, guilt-ridden gaze. I turned to his parents, projecting the image of a mature, thoughtful child. “Mr. and Mrs. Prescott, honestly? I’ve always wanted to know what it feels like to be an only child. I don’t think I’d do well sharing parents. So, thank you, but please take her.” The Prescotts looked surprised, a shadow of regret crossing their faces, but they nodded. When Lila realized she had won, she sidled up to me while the adults were signing papers. She tilted her chin up, a smirk playing on her lips. “I told you, Nora. You can never beat me. I’m going to be a rich girl now.” She leaned closer. “And you? You can rot here. Blame yourself for being too stupid to call out my lie.” She skipped away, triumphant. From the shadows, Cole emerged. He looked like he’d been slapped. He hadn’t realized that even back then, Lila wasn’t the innocent angel he thought she was. Hearing her cruelty firsthand had shaken him. He looked at me, eyes wet, silently begging for comfort. He wanted me to tell him it was okay. I looked right through him and turned to walk away. “Nora, wait,” he stammered, grabbing my arm. “I… Lila is just young. She’s scared. She’ll change.” “Sure,” I said, forcing a smile. “Whatever you say.” “Nora!” Panic edged into his voice. He started digging through his pockets, pulling out a wad of cash. “Take this. Please. I owe you this. Listen, give me two weeks… no, five days. Three days! I’ll come back for you. I’ll find a way to get you out.” “I don’t need it.” “Nora, I promise! Just wait for me!” He didn’t leave because I rejected him; he left because Lila tripped and scraped her knee near the car, screaming in pain. I watched him run to her. Predictable. Thank God I had killed the part of me that loved him long ago. Lila was smart. Before she left, she must have whispered something to the Director. Because this time, the Director didn’t just ignore me. He came for me. Three days passed. Five days. A month. Cole never came. But I didn’t wait. I let the Director break my arm—a calculated sacrifice—so I could hide a camera in his office. I got the footage. I called the police. I called the press. As the police dragged the Director away in handcuffs, his “favorites”—five older boys who were practically his sons—cornered me in the yard. “It was you, wasn’t it, Nora? You traitor.” “We’re going to starve because of you.” “Get her! Kill the snitch!” I curled into a ball, protecting my already broken arm and my head. I had anticipated this. Pain was just the price of freedom. One of the boys picked up a brick, aiming for my skull. Suddenly, a shadow lunged in front of me. The brick connected with a sickening thud. “Argh!” Cole collapsed onto the dirt, blood pouring from his head. 3 “Cole!” My eyes widened. “Are you okay?” Blood streamed down his face, blinding him in one eye. He wiped it away with a trembling hand, looking fragile but smiling like a maniac. “I did it,” he wheezed. “This time, I saved you. Nora, I made it in time.” In the past, his sacrifice would have melted me. But now? The worry vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by a cold void. I remembered the winter in our past life. Our child—our baby—was sick. Because of one of Lila’s fabricated emergencies, Cole had abandoned us in a cabin in the middle of a snowstorm to go to her. He left us without firewood. Without transport. I watched my child freeze to death. I wandered the woods for three days like a zombie carrying a small, cold body. When I was rescued, I broke. I went mad with grief. I tried to destroy Lila. But Cole? He protected her. He always protected her. We spent decades tearing each other apart. Eventually, he lost his legs saving me from a car accident I caused in a blind rage. The proud, golden boy became a cripple. Guilt had forced me to stay. I agreed to call a truce. And how did he use that truce? He sat in his wheelchair, pale and weak, and begged me: “Nora, please. Let Lila go. Do it for my legs.” That was the moment my soul finally left the building. “Fine,” I had said, weeping silently. “I promise.” Now, back in the present, Cole was gripping my hand, desperate for validation. “Nora, I told you I’d protect you.” Before I could answer, I was shoved hard from the side. Smack! Lila slapped me across the face, screaming. “You jinx! Get away from my brother! He’s my brother!” She scrambled to help Cole up. “Lila, stop,” Cole groaned. “Apologize to Nora. Now.” Lila immediately burst into tears. It was her trump card. Cole crumbled. He hated seeing her cry. He softened immediately, shushing her. I dusted off my clothes, ignoring the triumphant glint in Lila’s teary eyes. I turned to leave. “Stop right there!” Lila barked, her spoiled princess persona slipping out. “Who said you could leave? Stay away from us. You’re bad luck.” “Lila!” Cole stepped in front of her as I turned back, shielding her with his body. He always did that. He assumed I was the threat. He always forgot that I was the one standing alone, while she had an army. I looked at him and rattled off a string of names and numbers. Lila looked confused. “What is that? Gibberish?” But Cole went pale. Those were the dates and account numbers marking the beginning of the Prescott family’s financial ruin. In the last life, I had saved his family’s company. It took me years to find the mole and the bad investments. “Nora, you…” “Thanks for taking the brick,” I said flatly. “But we’re even now. I don’t owe you anything, Cole. Stay away from me.” Cole stood there, mouth open, looking like I’d just ripped his heart out. He couldn’t process it. He couldn’t understand why the Nora who had loved him across time and space now looked at him like he was a stranger. 4 The government took over the facility. The living conditions improved overnight. The Director went to prison five years earlier than in the original timeline. I had saved myself—and everyone else—five years of torture. The other kids, sensing the shift in power, started circling me, trying to get on my good side. The Director’s cronies became the pariahs. I watched it happen with satisfaction. I always believed in karma. A month later, Cole rushed to find me. He looked disheveled. He told me Lila had been “sick” and he’d been too busy nursing her to visit. He hung his head, apologizing profusely. It was his signature move: abandon me for her, then offer me crumbs of affection later. Like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey. “Nora, good news. I found a private school for you, and a family willing to foster you.” “No thank you,” I said, polite and distant. The state had already arranged for us to attend the local public high school. Unfortunately, fate has a sick sense of humor. I ended up in the same homeroom as Lila. It took less than three days for the rumors to start. The whole grade was whispering that I had “seduced the forty-year-old Director.” Boys snapped my bra straps in the halls. Girls looked at me like I was contagious. They started calling me “The Community Bike.” I knew this was Lila. I checked the calendar. My biological parents—the Westcotts—should be landing soon. Emboldened by the imminent arrival of my cavalry, I didn’t hold back. During a break, Lila smashed a pencil case into the back of my head. “Hey, Community Bike!” she shrieked. “Nice new shirt. Which man did you sleep with to get that one?” Laughter rippled through the classroom. “Yeah, slut.” “Disgusting.” I stood up slowly. I walked over to Lila’s desk. She smirked, waiting for me to cry. Instead, I grabbed a handful of her hair and slammed her face into the mop bucket sitting by the cleaning cart. “Agh! Let go! Let go of me!” “Your mouth is filthy,” I snarled, holding her down. “I figure you need to rinse it out.” “Lila, we both came from the same gutter. The Director wanted you first. I protected you. And this is how you repay me? You ungrateful little parasite.” “No… blub… no!” Every time she opened her mouth to scream, grey water rushed in. I raised my voice, addressing the room. I started listing facts. I listed the specific lies she’d told about the other girls. I revealed how she’d bullied the previous teacher into quitting. The class went silent. The laughter died. People started exchanging looks. The dots were connecting. “Nora! Get your hands off her!” A body slammed into me from behind. I lost my balance and hit the floor hard. My left arm—the one barely healed—cracked. I gasped, white-hot pain blinding me. Cole stood over me, helping a sputtering, wet Lila to her feet. When he saw me clutching my arm, his face crumpled with regret. “Brother!” Lila sobbed, clinging to him. “Make her leave! Get her expelled! She’s crazy!” “Okay,” Cole whispered, stroking her hair. “I promise. I’ll handle it.” I let out a dry, bitter laugh. “There it is. You never change, Cole. You’re pathetic.” Cole couldn’t meet my eyes. “Nora, you started it. Violence isn’t the answer. I’ll… I’ll make it up to you later.” “You won’t have to,” I said. Suddenly, the homeroom teacher burst in, beaming, completely oblivious to the tension. “Nora! Nora Bennett! Your parents are here! Your biological parents! They’re taking you to Europe!”

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The apocalypse didn’t arrive with a bang. It arrived with a suffocating, unnatural heat that turned the sky the color of a bruised plum. My husband, Max, is a “regressor.” Or at least, he thinks he is. He woke up before dawn today, gasping for air, clutching his chest as if he’d just felt his own heart stop. He looked at me with eyes full of a frantic, ugly greed and told me the world was ending. He told me to go out and spend every cent we had on supplies. “Jade, the car is packed to the roof. Can you come out and help me move this stuff?” I called out to him from the driveway. The heat index was already hitting a hundred and forty degrees. The air felt like breathing liquid lead. … I had spent the morning at the wholesale club with our daughter, Hope. We bought everything: canned protein, gallons of water, medical kits, batteries. The SUV was sagging under the weight of it all. When I called Max for help, his voice over the line was a jagged edge of impatience and mockery. “It’s just a few boxes, Jade. Stop being so pathetic,” he snapped. “The world is falling apart today. The temperature is only going to climb, and resources are going to vanish. If you don’t want to die on the pavement, get that shit inside now!” Hearing those familiar, biting words, I didn’t cry. I smiled. I looked at Hope, who was clutching her stuffed rabbit, her face flushed red from the heat. Together, we didn’t move the supplies into our house. We moved them into the villa next door—the one I had secretly bought a month ago. “Mommy,” Hope whispered, “we only left a little bit for Daddy. Won’t he be mad?” I stroked her damp hair, my heart aching with a fierce, protective love. “No, baby. Because that’s all Daddy needs for himself.” I tucked her into the reinforced safety of the new house and told her not to come out, no matter what. Then, I took the meager scraps I’d set aside and brought them to Max. Max thought he had the ultimate advantage. He thought he was the only one who had lived through the end once before. He had no idea that I was a regressor, too. In my previous life, when the frost and the monsters came, Max didn’t protect us. He brought his mistress, Chloe, into our home. They barricaded themselves in, stole the supplies I had nearly died to collect, and threw me out into the street. I died screaming, watching through the glass as the shadows tore me apart, piece by piece. Even after death, my soul lingered, a silent, grieving ghost. I saw them. I saw Max lock our daughter in a dark crawl space under the stairs so he could satisfy his lust with Chloe on our sofa without being disturbed. I watched them celebrate their survival with my wine, only to die in agony when the “apocalypse” took a turn they didn’t expect. And Hope… my sweet, brave girl. She starved to death in that dark hole, her last breaths spent whispering for me to come home. She died thinking I had abandoned her. The rage of a thousand lifetimes burned in my spirit. When I opened my eyes again and saw the familiar floral wallpaper of our bedroom, I realized I had been sent back. I had returned one month before the collapse. A full thirty days before Max “awakened.” This time, I wasn’t just a wife or a victim. I was the architect of his ruin. I found the deed to our villa. It was my pre-marital property, a gift from my parents. I listed it on a private platform for an emergency sale. To keep Max from noticing, I stipulated in the contract that the official handover wouldn’t happen until after the date the “apocalypse” was supposed to end. Then, I took every cent of our savings and bought the house next door. I hired three construction crews, paying them triple to work through the night. I reinforced the walls with steel, installed a military-grade filtration system, and turned it into a fortress. Every dollar I spent was masked as “lifestyle expenses.” I wiped my phone daily. When Max finally “woke up” and told me the end was nigh, I played the part of the dutiful, panicked wife. I “spent” the last of our liquid cash exactly as he ordered. Max rummaged through the few bags I brought him, his face darkening with fury. “That’s it? Are you transitionally stupid? Do you want us all to starve?” He snatched my phone, pulling up my banking apps. When he saw the zeros in every account, his eyes rolled back in frustration. “Where is the money, Jade? You’re hiding it, aren’t you? You’re holding out on me!” I shrunk back, trembling, letting him toss the house. He found nothing. Chloe, his “secretary,” was already there, perched on our expensive rug. She saw the predatory lending apps I’d conveniently left on the home screen and purred, leaning into Max’s side. “Max, honey, why use your own money at this point? Just borrow. Borrow as much as you can. Once the world ends, debt is just a four-letter word that doesn’t matter anymore.” Max’s eyes lit up. He grabbed his phone and started clicking. Chloe had been Max’s shadow for years. Every “business trip” was just a cover for their trysts. She was all sugar and sighs, the kind of woman who knew exactly how to make a man feel like a king while she bled him dry. Max lived for it. The moment Max “realized” the end was coming, his first instinct wasn’t to secure his daughter. It was to call Chloe. “Jade, it’s going to be a hard road ahead,” he told me with a straight face. “I’m bringing Chloe here to help. You wouldn’t want to be selfish, would you?” In the last life, I had screamed. I had fought. Max had beaten me until my ribs cracked, then tied me to the gate outside for three hours to “get used to the cold” while the first wave of monsters circled. I had been forced to agree. Once Chloe moved in, I became the help. Hope became her personal footstool. But if I threw them out then, Max would have killed me. I had to endure. And in the end, he still locked me out to watch the “show” of me being eaten. I remember his face as I died. It wasn’t even hateful. It was indifferent. Cold. This time, I didn’t stop Chloe from moving in. She was a catalyst. She was the one who would whisper in his ear, pushing him to commit more crimes, to dig his own grave deeper. I wanted to watch them fall. They spent the day frantically messaging friends for “emergency loans,” maxing out every credit card, and eventually moving on to the dark-web lenders—the kind of people who don’t care about the apocalypse because they are the apocalypse. I watched them, silent and invisible. Because I knew something Max didn’t. In my time as a ghost, I learned the truth. This “apocalypse” wasn’t the end of the world. It was a three-day atmospheric anomaly caused by a passing celestial event. In seventy-two hours, the sun would stabilize. The monsters—hallucinations caused by toxic spores in the air—would dissipate. Order would be restored. And the debt collectors would come knocking. The heat was unbearable. Max refused to leave the air conditioning. He handed me the “borrowed” cash and told me to go get more supplies, while he ordered a five-course feast from a high-end steakhouse that was still doing deliveries. While I was “shopping,” a courier arrived at the villa. Lobsters, wagyu beef, vintage wine. Fifty thousand dollars on a single meal. “Once the world ends, this money is just toilet paper,” Max boasted to Chloe, waving his hand like a titan of industry. “Let’s live like gods while we can!” I watched them through the hidden cameras I’d installed, a cold smile touching my lips. I didn’t leave them with nothing. I bought exactly three days’ worth of basic rice, beans, and water. Enough so they wouldn’t die of hunger before the law returned. I spent the rest of his “loan” money on a non-refundable deposit for a million-dollar armored survival vehicle, scheduled for delivery in exactly three days. I could already see the look on his face when the truck arrived just as the police did. When I got back, Max greeted me with a stinging slap across the face. “Where the hell have you been? You were gone for hours and you come back with this?” He pointed at the modest grocery bags. “You’re skimming, aren’t you?” I dropped to my knees, playing the broken woman. I pulled out the receipt for the armored truck. “Max, I thought… I thought we needed a way to get out safely. For you and Chloe. It’s a fortress on wheels.” His anger vanished, replaced by a smug, oily grin. He grabbed the receipt, pulled Chloe onto his lap, and squeezed her. “See, baby? I told you she was useful for something. In two days, I’m taking you out for a joyride through the wasteland.” Chloe looked at me, her eyes filled with the same venom I remembered from the night I died. Max’s gaze turned sharp and predatory. “Now that the logistics are handled,” Max whispered, “you aren’t really necessary anymore, are you, Jade?” “Honey, our supplies are so limited,” he continued, his voice mock-sympathetic. “There’s barely enough for me and Chloe. You understand, right? Someone has to make a sacrifice.” Night fell like a heavy shroud. Outside, the “monsters”—the spore-driven hallucinations—began to wail. Thump. Thump-thump. The sound of something heavy hitting the porch. “MOMMY! HELP ME!” Hope’s scream shattered the silence. I lunged for the window. There, in the middle of the yard, was a wooden stake. My daughter—who should have been safe in the house next door—was tied to it, her face pale with terror. The hallucinations were swarming the fence. To anyone breathing the air, they looked like rotting corpses with jagged teeth. I tried to bolt for the door, but Max grabbed me by the hair, slamming me against the glass. He held my head there, forcing me to watch. “Don’t be so dramatic, Jade,” he hissed. “I’ve never actually seen what they do to kids. Consider this a scientific observation.” I fought, I screamed, I begged. Chloe stepped up and backhanded me. “Shut up. It’s just an experiment. You’re so sensitive.” I knew this was her idea. Max was cruel, but Chloe was sadistic. She grabbed my chin, forcing my eyes open. “Look, Jade. Watch closely. We don’t know how strong those things are. Your daughter is the perfect test subject. Maybe they don’t even like the taste of children. Maybe she’ll be fine.” The rage finally broke the dam. I didn’t beg anymore. I twisted my head and bit down on Chloe’s finger with everything I had. She shrieked, clawing at my face. Max let go of me in the chaos, and I bolted for the kitchen. I had planned to play the long game, but they had touched my child. In the last life, Max had locked Hope in the dark while he played house with Chloe. She had died apologizing for being a “bad girl” because she thought her crying was why I was locked out. I wouldn’t let her die again. Not for them. Max charged into the kitchen, his face purple with rage. I grabbed a heavy blender and smashed it into his temple. He staggered, blood blooming across his skin. CRASH. The front gate gave way. “Oh, look,” Chloe laughed, oblivious to the blood. “The show is starting. I wonder if they’ll start with her feet or her throat?” I grabbed a butcher knife, my vision tunneling. “Max, I will kill you. I will carve you into pieces.” “You’re crazy!” Max yelled, backing away as I slashed at him, catching his leg. Outside, Hope’s screams reached a fever pitch. The hallucinations were pressing against the stake. My heart was shattering. Then, Max did something that froze my blood. He kicked open the cellar door. “Look, you bitch! Look at what I have!” The cellar was overflowing. Crates of water, mountain-dried food, medical supplies. It was the entire hoard I had hidden in the house next door. My mind reeled. How? I had locked that house. I had the only key. “Did you really think you were the only one who could play this game?” Max laughed. “I’ll tell you why I have your stuff. It’s because I—” I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I gripped the knife and charged out the front door, into the toxic air. Max and Chloe slammed the door behind me, locking the deadbolts. A mother’s strength isn’t a metaphor. It’s a physical force. I cut through the “monsters”—which were nothing but panicked stray dogs and shadows in the mist—and reached my daughter. I hacked through the ropes, gathered her into my arms, and ran. When we reached the house next door, I was covered in scratches and sweat. The storage room was empty, save for a few cases of water I had hidden in a false wall. I patched my wounds, my hands shaking. I looked out the top floor window. On the roof of our old villa, Max was standing with a megaphone. He held up two fingers, a hideous grin on his face. “Jade! You didn’t think I’d let you win, did you? I’ve lived this twice! I’m a double-regressor! And here’s the best part… the apocalypse isn’t ending in three days this time. It’s forever!”

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My thin sweater was soaked through minutes ago. My knees were pressed against the freezing concrete, and a biting numbness crawled from the cracks in the pavement straight into my marrow. I gripped my phone so hard my knuckles turned a ghostly white. “Dean, please… my mother is hemorrhaging. The doctors say I have to sign the papers now, but they need the deposit, and you have the card—” My voice was shredded by the howling wind, barely a melody of desperation. There was a long, heavy silence on the other end. Then came his sharp, impatient snap. “Elena, can’t you grow up for once? Valerie just had an acute allergic reaction. She’s in the ER, and she has no one but me!” “But my mother is dying!” I finally screamed, the sound tearing from my throat. The screech of brakes suddenly sliced through the curtain of rain, followed instantly by the sickening crunch of metal on bone. I felt a massive, violent force slam into my back. My body took flight, weightless and broken, like a kite with a severed string. Before my consciousness sank into the black, I saw a car—Dean’s car—speeding past. In the passenger seat, Valerie’s pale face was pressed against the window. For a fleeting second, I thought I saw a ghost of a smile dancing on her lips. 1. I woke up three days later. The sharp, sterile sting of antiseptic made me cough violently, every hack feeling like a knife in my chest. Sunlight was streaming across the linoleum floor, but it couldn’t touch the winter in my heart. I tried to move my fingers. A white-hot flash of pain shot through my left arm—it was encased in a thick, heavy cast, a literal weight anchoring me to the bed. “You’re awake?” A nurse walked in, her voice softening with pity. “You’re lucky. Just a fractured arm and some deep lacerations.” “My mother…” I croaked, my throat feeling like it was full of glass. The nurse’s small smile vanished. “I’m so sorry. Your mother… she didn’t make it through the night. She passed yesterday.” Passed. The word hit me like a physical blow. I sat there, jaw slack, but no sound came out. Instead, the tears came first, hot and silent, soaking into the thin hospital pillow. My throat felt constricted, as if an invisible hand were squeezing the life out of me. The door swung open, and Dean walked in. He was wearing a crisp, tailored suit, his hair perfectly styled. He looked untouched—as if the storm, my mother’s death, and the moment I was sent flying through the air had happened in a different universe. “If you’re awake, get up,” he said, his brow furrowed in a cold scowl. “Valerie is still recovering, and I need to get back to her.” I slowly looked up at him. I knew my eyes must have been a roadmap of broken red veins. I looked at this man—the man I had loved for five years—and he felt like a complete stranger. “Dean,” I whispered, my voice sounding like sandpaper. “My mom is gone.” He paused for a fraction of a second, but his mask of indifference didn’t slip. “I heard. Handle the arrangements yourself. I don’t have time.” He stopped, then added as if stating a mundane fact, “And don’t expect Valerie at the funeral. She’s allergic to lilies and pollen. It’s not a good environment for her.” In that moment, my heart didn’t just break; it fossilized. I looked at him and started to laugh. It was a jagged, desperate sound that echoed off the sterile walls until it turned into something haunting. “Dean,” I said, the laughter dying as my eyes went hollow. “I want a divorce.” He froze, then let out a sharp, mocking huff. “What game is this? Threatening me with a divorce? It won’t work, Elena.” “I’m not threatening you.” My voice was terrifyingly calm. “From this day on, whether you or Valerie live or die is none of my business.” He looked into my empty eyes, and for a moment, his Adam’s apple bobbed. A flicker of panic crossed his face, but he crushed it instantly. “Fine. You want it? You got it.” He turned on his heel and slammed the door, leaving without a backward glance. the moment the latch clicked, I curled into a ball, and the sob I had been strangling finally shattered my chest. The woman in the next bed handed me a box of tissues with a heavy sigh. “Honey, let him go. He’s not worth the air you breathe.” I took the tissues, my vision a blurred mess of salt and grief. My entire world was spinning, collapsing into dust. 2. The funeral was small. I used the last of my savings to hire a modest service. I didn’t call any friends or family. I just stood there in a black dress, my left arm still in a sling, holding an umbrella with my one good hand as I watched the urn being lowered into the earth. The rain started again—a light drizzle this time, but it carried a bone-deep chill. I stood by the headstone until my clothes were damp, then slowly turned away. Every step in my heels through the mud felt like walking on broken glass. When I returned to the house we had shared, the “home” that never felt like mine, it was already half-empty. Dean’s things were gone. He had moved out with clinical efficiency, as if he had never lived there at all. On the coffee table sat the signed divorce papers, weighted down by a set of car keys. Hanging from the keychain was a small, hand-stitched leather charm I’d made for him years ago. The edges were frayed and faded to a dull grey. I didn’t touch them. I went straight to the bedroom and pulled a dusty trunk from the back of the closet. Inside were my old art supplies from before the marriage. The easel was covered in a thick layer of dust; the tubes of oil paint were rusted shut. I ran my fingers over a well-worn sable brush, remembering how my mother used to say, “Elena, when you hold a brush, your eyes catch the stars.” I sank to the floor, surrounded by these mummified dreams, and cried again. The five years I’d spent with Dean had been a slow execution, a thousand tiny cuts stripping away my pride and my soul. In our first year, I spent all day making a complex Coq au Vin for his birthday. I sat by the candlelight until the sauce congealed and the fire in the hearth turned to ash. He came home at 2:00 AM smelling of expensive bourbon, his tie loose, saying Valerie was feeling depressed and needed a drink. “She lost her parents young, Elena. She’s sensitive. Be the bigger person,” he’d said, not even glancing at the cold feast on the table before disappearing into his study for the night. I sat there and ate the cold, salty chicken in the dark until dawn. In the second year, I was rushed to the hospital with a ruptured appendix. When I called him, he said he was at a gallery opening with Valerie. “She finally has the courage to show her work. Just have the nurse help you with the consent forms.” I lay on the gurney, the last thing I heard before the anesthesia took me was the nurses whispering about the husband who couldn’t be bothered to show up. In the third year, our anniversary. He’d made a reservation, but his phone rang just as we were leaving. “Valerie twisted her ankle. I have to take her to urgent care.” He grabbed his coat and left, never noticing the velvet box I was hiding behind my back—a pair of custom cufflinks I’d saved three months of salary for, engraved with his initials. I went to the restaurant alone, ordered his favorite steak, and sat across from an empty chair for two hours. In the fourth year, my mother had her first stroke. I spent my days at the hospital and my nights cooking for him, but he came home later and later. “Valerie is prepping for a solo show. She’s spiraling. I need to be there.” One night, I called him at 3:00 AM. Valerie answered, her voice syrupy and sweet: “Elena, Dom is asleep. He’s just so exhausted…” I hung up and watched the soup I’d kept warm on the stove turn to sludge. And in the fifth year—just last month—Valerie decided she wanted a cat. Dean threw away the rare orchids my mother had given me because “cats have sensitivities.” Those orchids were the only thing my mother had left from her own wedding. I spent the night clutching the wilted stems, while in the next room, I heard him over FaceTime, tenderly asking Valerie if she preferred a Persian or a Ragdoll. “Mom,” I choked out, wiping the dust off my easel. “I’m going to paint again.” As I packed, I found the first necklace Dean had ever bought me. He’d knelt on one knee and promised me the moon. Now, two of the crystals were missing, and the chain was tarnished. I tossed it into the trash without a second thought. It was just a piece of rotting history. 3. A week after moving into a small studio apartment, my phone buzzed with an unknown number. I stared at the screen for a long time. In the last five years, the only people who called me were Dean or the utility companies. “Is this Elena Vance?” a warm, cultured male voice asked. “Speaking. Who is this?” “This is Julian Henderson, Director of the City Museum of Fine Arts. I came across your old application for an exhibition grant. I was struck by the portfolio you attached. I’d love to discuss a potential showcase.” I froze. I had almost forgotten that application. It was a relic from my life before Dean, a dream my mother had nurtured. After I married him, I’d locked my brushes away to be a “supportive wife.” I’d sent that application three years ago on a whim during a particularly lonely night. “Are you free tomorrow at ten?” Mr. Henderson asked. “Yes,” I breathed. “I’ll be there.” I hung up and looked at the canvas on my balcony—a half-finished piece titled After the Rain. It was a street scene, water pooling on cobblestones, reflecting a bruised, grey sky. For the first time in years, a tiny spark of hope flickered in my chest. I called my best friend, Sarah. When I told her about the gallery, she practically screamed through the phone. “Elena, I knew it! You were a prodigy! You won awards before that man sucked the life out of you!” I laughed with her, but my eyes were wet. How had I let myself forget who I was? 4. The next day, I wore a simple cornflower blue dress, carefully shielding my cast as I walked into the museum. Mr. Henderson was a man with silver hair and a kind, perceptive smile. As he walked me through the halls, he couldn’t stop praising my work. “There’s a raw honesty in your pieces, Elena. Especially the one titled The Wait. You’ve captured the architecture of loneliness perfectly.” The Wait was a piece I’d painted in secret—a woman sitting in a cavernous living room, staring at a table of cold food, while the world outside was pitch black. It was the autobiography of my marriage. “Thank you for the opportunity,” I said, my palms damp. “You earned it,” he said, gesturing to a man standing nearby. “I’d like you to meet Sebastian Thorne. He’s our primary benefactor and a great lover of the arts.” A man in a camel-colored overcoat turned toward me. He was striking, with a quiet, scholarly elegance and eyes that felt as warm as spring sunlight. “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Vance. I’m Sebastian.” “Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm and dry—unlike Dean’s hands, which always felt strangely cold. “I was particularly moved by your Rainy Night,” Sebastian said, his voice sincere. “The brushwork on the raindrops… it feels like they’re trying to tell a story.” It had been so long since someone looked at my work—at me—with that much focus. With Dean, my art was “cute hobbyism.” He used to say, “Women doing art is fine, but don’t let it distract you from the house.” A wave of warmth rose in my chest. I looked down. “I just paint what I feel.” “Authenticity is the only thing that lasts,” Sebastian smiled. “I’m looking forward to your show.” Over the next few weeks, Sebastian became a regular fixture at my studio. He wasn’t demanding like Dean; he would just sit quietly in the corner with a book, occasionally bringing me a thermos of warm tea. Once, when I was painting late into the night, I looked up to find him washing my paint-stained brushes. He was doing it clumsily but with immense care, soap bubbles clinging to his expensive sleeves like tiny clouds. “Sebastian, you don’t have to do that,” I said, feeling flustered. He wiped his hands and laughed. “You just focus on the canvas. And please, call me Seb.” The studio window faced an old oak tree. Every time Seb visited, he brought a small bouquet—sometimes daisies, sometimes jasmine. Never anything flashy, just fresh and fragrant. He told me, “Art needs light, but it also needs a little color.” I realized he wasn’t just talking about the room. He was talking about the light returning to my soul. 5. Two weeks before the opening, I was at a high-end grocery store picking up supplies when I ran into Dean and Valerie. The produce aisle was crowded. Valerie was draped in Dean’s black cashmere overcoat, leaning into him as they picked out strawberries. I recognized the coat—I’d bought it for his birthday last year. He’d called it “too old-fashioned” and never wore it once. When Valerie saw me, her eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. She raised her voice just enough for the surrounding shoppers to hear. “Dom, look at these berries! Aren’t they exactly like the ones Elena said she was allergic to?” Dean followed her gaze. His brow instantly knit into a scowl. “What are you doing here?” I tried to push my cart past them, but he stepped in my way. “How’s the arm?” He looked at the faint scarring on my left limb, his tone harsh, as if he were inspecting a piece of lost property that had been returned damaged. “None of your business,” I said, my voice cold. “Elena,” Valerie said, suddenly grabbing my arm. Her nails dug into my skin. “I’m so sorry about… you know, the hospital. I didn’t mean to keep Dom away from your mom. I really couldn’t breathe that day…” Her voice trembled with fake tears, drawing looks from the people around us. Dean immediately pulled her behind him, shielding her like a precious treasure. He glared at me. “Elena, Valerie’s health is fragile. Don’t you dare start with her.” The blood rushed to my head. Seeing him play the knight in shining armor for a woman who was clearly weaponizing her “frailty” made the last five years feel like a cruel joke. “Dean,” I said, every word a frozen shard. “Are you actually blind, or just stupid?” His face went pale, then flushed a deep, angry red. Valerie peeked from behind his shoulder, a tiny, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She looked like a cat that had finally caught the canary. That night, I locked myself in the studio and didn’t sleep. For the first time, Dean’s face appeared on my canvas—distorted by the rain, positioned next to Valerie’s poisonous smile. I layered the paint on, thick and heavy, like scabs over a wound that refused to heal. When Seb brought me breakfast at dawn, he stood before the painting in silence for a long time. Then, he said softly, “It’s over now.” He didn’t ask what happened. He just made me a cup of honey tea. I wiped my tears and picked up the brush again. He was right. It was over. I wouldn’t let them stain my canvas ever again. The day before the opening, my phone lit up. A text from Dean: Regretting it yet? I stared at those three words. He was testing me—waiting for me to crawl back, convinced I couldn’t survive without his shadow. I replied: I’ve never felt better. Goodbye, Dean. I turned the phone off. Tomorrow was a new beginning.

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